Compass roses — drawn on the sidewalk in front of the White House and in front of a storefront mosque in DC; on Wall Street near where the World Trade Center stood and on 125th Street in Harlem; by the Grand Canyon and by the river Jordan; in front of the US mission to the UN and in front of the Iraqi mission. Each compass rose is different, yet they all point in the same directions. They will fade away, but they will still be true. Compass roses — in subways and elevators — where people are not cognizant that they are on “land” or part of the “Earth.”

Draw your own compass roses. Copy designs you have seen — of compass roses, or patterns that are like compass roses. Or could be. Or make up your own. Draw them outside. Draw them where people can see them. Draw them where no one can see them. Draw them here, draw them there. Think of the East, the West, the South the North. Think of what is in each direction. Think of where you are and what you can do to connect with people around our globe.

Visit Compass roses

April 05, 2004

Dear Friends:
Many of our friends are doing last minute tasks to get ready to report to prison Tuesday. If you know any of them, I encourage you to send them your love and support at this time. Last year, in the middle of the night, I was unable to sleep as some of you began your first night in prison. After beating up my pillow and bed, I got up and wrote this poem. With you, my friends, I share it. Keep our friends in your spirits.
Peace and love,
Bill Quigley

Yesterday My Friend Chose Prison
Dedicated to the SOA prisoners of conscience

By John Farrell

“Forgive us, Monsignor, for we have elected your assassins once again… ” read the top part of the banner hanging from the stage outside of the Cathedral of San Salvador during the Mass commemorating the 24th anniversary of the murder of Monsignor Oscar Romero. This Mass came on the heels of the ARENA party’s victory in El Salvador’s presidential elections. The ARENA party, which staunchly supports US economic and political policy in Central America, has won all four presidential elections since the signing of the peace accords in 1991.

In contrast to the banner, the words of Bishop Rosa Chavez’s sermon that night struck a more hopeful note. “It is true that people voted out of fear in these elections,” Chavez explained, “but if we can create hope in the midst of fear then the spirit of Monsignor Romero will truly be with us today.”

Before his assassination in 1980, Romero said that if he were killed, he would rise again in the Salvadoran people. During the long years of war, disappearances, mass murder and political repression that followed, people kept Romero’s promise in their hearts; they will have to continue to do so to meet the challenges of the years to come.

By Kathy Kelly

Six years ago, in February 1998, I traveled to Iraq with a British Voices in the Wilderness team. The US was threatening another massive bombardment. We decided to go to Fallujah in hopes of better understanding the perspective of people whose marketplace had been bombed, in 1991, by a smart bomb that went astray. The blast instantly killed 150 people and wounded hundreds. By the time of our visit, many more had suffered and died during nearly eight years of brutally punitive economic sanctions.

At Fallujah’s main market, we began distributing a leaflet about why we were violating the economic sanctions. Throngs of people pressed toward each of us, eager for leaflets. Separated from my companions and surrounded by people shouting at me as they grabbed leaflets, I began to wonder if this could turn into an ugly scene. One man who spoke English stood in front of me, his eyes blazing. “You Americans! You Europeans!” he shouted. “You come to my home. I show you water you not even give your animals to drink and this is all what we have. And now you want again to kill our children. You cannot kill my son. My son, he was killed in al harb Bush (the first Bush war).”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “I’m so very sorry.” Then his demeanor suddenly changed. “Ah, Madame,” he said, his tone softening, “You are too tired. You come with me, I get you tea.” He helped me maneuver through the crowd until we reached a falafel stand where he served me tea, insisting that I find my friends and bring them to his home for a meal. Since 1996, gracious hospitality characterized nearly every encounter I and other Voices travelers to Iraq experienced.

In 1999, I returned to the Fallujah marketplace, this time with our friend Ahmed, a US citizen, born in the Sinai, who translated for us as we encountered a very similar scene. I spotted a child staring at me. He seemed about 11 years of age, quite poor, extremely intense. “Ahmed, please,” I asked, “ask this young man what he is thinking.” The young boy squared his shoulders and said, “I am a scholar of the faith.” Ahmed posed my question again. This time the answer was direct. “Tell her that I am thinking about how I will become a fighter pilot when I grow up,” said the boy, whose gaze never swerved from mine, “so that I can bomb the United States.” Then Ahmed said, “Kathy, look, pay attention to this man,” pointing to an elderly, balding fellow with huge jowls and white whiskers who had observed my encounter with the youngster. Large tears rolled down his cheeks.

Jerome Zawada, OFM #04995-045
FPC Oxford, P.O. Box 1085
Oxford, WI, 53952