Dear readers; my nephew, Morton Gilmore, is one of the volunteer human shields who left London for Iraq on a double-decker bus a month ago. He is keeping a scrupulous diary of his trip and his observations. I received the first bundle of papers in the mail two days ago and have excerpted them here. TW.
Jan. 25th. 8:00 am. We?re off! The TJP (truth, justice, peace) Convoy has just pulled out of downtown London bound for Iraq. Spirits are very high after our leader, Ken O?Keefe, gave a brief pep talk on how we?re the vanguard of the world anti-war movement and led us in singing a verse and two choruses of ?Give Peace a Chance?. I have never been involved in anything before in my life that seemed so right! History will hold our struggle against George W. Bush and his quest for oil and empire in the highest regard possible. On to Lille and Paris!
11:30 am. The first test of our resolve has come. Apparently there is no way to drive from England to France. Ken was sure there was a bridge somewhere, but we?ve spent 45 minutes driving up and down the shoreline of the English Channel and have seen nothing. We?re keeping our spirits up by singing ?Give Peace a Chance? and checking the local phonebook for a ferry service.
Jan. 27th. 10:00 am. Trouble in Paris. Ken O?Keefe is a man of fierce determination when it comes to peace in the world. To this end, he has renounced his American citizenship, torn up and burned all his identification papers and proudly declares himself to be a citizen of the world. He even carries a small, laminated card with words to that effect. The gendarmes who stopped the convoy just outside of Paris, however, are not used to such enlightened thinking and after laughing and scoffing at his card, forced Ken to swallow his left shoe ? with his foot still in it! We in the busses were horrified by this barbaric action and displayed our outrage by singing, ?Give Peace a Chance? in a higher register than ever before. I must admit I?m wishing I hadn?t torn up my own identification papers now, but since I haven?t burned them, I?m going to scour the bus for some Scotch Tape.
10:15 am. I think that girl in the third row likes me; she?s always looking back at me.
Jan. 28th. 4:30 pm. Amsterdam is a lovely place in the wintertime. We picked up two volunteers named Bjork and Bzurk. Ken ? who has recovered nicely from his horrific treatment at the hands of the French police ? is happy to have them as we lost one volunteer, a Welsh accordion player named Pratt, when he was arrested in Brussels for pointing at a horse.
As Ken was explaining to the two of them how our cause was just and right, how our actions were going to lay bare the hypocrisy and racism of the Bush administrations war policy ? which Ken always likens to ?being a racist hypocrite? ? Bjork asked if this wasn?t the bus that went to Madame Tussaud?s Scenerama. When told that it wasn?t, they asked to be dropped off at the next corner.
Jan 29th. 5:00 pm. Frankfort. What a hassle! The border guards in Germany are just as unenlightened as in France. They laughed at Ken?s ?Citizen of the World? card and then decided ? with the aid of a nearby puddle ? to see how long Ken could sing Act I of Die Fledermaus without coming up for air. I had been able to tape my passport back up again ? using an old Mother Jones magazine to fill in missing pieces ? although my name came out ?Morton Compost? and my photograph consisted of the bottom half of my face and the top half of Nelson Mandela?s. Because of my ingenuity, I was able to escape Ken?s fate, and the guards let me off with a warning and a broken nose.
Jan 31st. 9:00 pm. Slovenia. We?re making up for lost time now thanks to Kens brilliant plan of hiding himself in the dirty laundry duffel bag when we pass through a border. My appreciation for the lyrical beauty of ?Give Peace a Chance? is beginning to wane after singing it for the umpteenth, millionth, ka-zillionth time. We lost another volunteer, a Canadian poet and wrecker-driver named Dumphy, when he threw himself in front of an oncoming toboggan rather than sing it again.
I finally got up the nerve to talk to that girl who?d been looking at me the whole trip. She told me she?d been staring at me because my hair reminded her of alfalfa. Being a vegan, I figured she meant that my hair looked like a field of waving wheat and I returned to my seat, pleased, and told the old man sitting across from me what she had said. He laughed and told me that what she meant was my hair reminded her of ?Alfalfa? from the old ?Our Gang? comedies, to which he concurred and then laughed some more.
-Date and time unknown: I?m not sure if we?re still in Slovenia or in Thessalonika, like it makes a ----ing bit of difference. These old, Soviet bloc countries all look alike. We lost one of the busses when it went over the side of a mountain. Funny thing was, it broke from the rest of the convoy, took several side roads at high speeds to get up to the top of the mountain, then went over. Bathing has been nonexistent since Munich and the smell of old reefers, incense and patchouli oil is driving me nuts! Ken seems to be a bit on edge too, as he divides his time between composing his manifesto and doing the Charleston. Some woman tried to strike up a chorus of ?Give Peace a Chance?, but was prevented by several people shushing her and another woman whipping her with a belt.
-Date and time unknown: Text unintelligible.
-Date and time unknown: Baghdad! Finally! We arrived at noon and were warmly greeted at the palace by Saddam?s personal pastry chef. He explained that Hussein himself would?ve greeted us, but was being fitted for a Panama hat and some moccasins, but he assured us - as he shackled us together ? that Saddam was very happy to welcome us to his country.
-Date and time unknown: I finally feel part of a vast, peace movement now, and I have a very important job. Currently, I am chained to a light pole outside a large building with a crudely painted sign that reads, ?Old People Hospital?. The fact that I have seen more anti-aircraft weaponry than old people inside the building gave me pause, but as my personal guide told me, with his rifle-butt on my windpipe, it?s really none of my business.