THE
HUNTING TRIP - DON'T TREAD ON US
On
weekends, the Americans would form parties to hunt the wild
boar that were destroying many villagers' crops. As a party
would arrive in a remote village, the more curious peasants
would crowd up behind the truck carrying the American hunters.
The
sight of those peasants in the poorer villages was often depressing.
Many of the villages were only a few miles off the highways
which connected the larger cities, but they were hundreds
of years behind the cities in economic and cultural development.
When the rains came, the mud spread like wall-to-wall carpeting
in the streets throughout the villages.
As
usual, on this trip, the sight of the ragged, destitute villagers
drew comments from one or another American. A young airman
proclaimed: "Look at them; they are like a bunch of animals.
What have they got to live for? They might just as well be
dead."
What can anyone say against those comments? They seemed true
enough.
I
sat in chagrined silence, but this day, in response to those
familiar words, the old sergeant drawled out his answer between
spits of tobacco juice. He said, "You better believe
they got something to live for, Jack. If you doubt it, let
me see you jump down there and try to kill one of them with
your hunting knife. They'll fight you like no one ever heard
of. I have fought beside them in heavy combat, and I don't
know either, why they seem to value their lives so much. Maybe
it's them women in them pantaloons, or maybe it's them dirty-faced
kids; whatever it is, they seem to value their lives just
as much as we do ours, even with all of our money. In fact,
both in combat and in freezing prison camps, they hung in
there after a lot of Americans was yelling quit."
After
the grizzled sergeant spoke, all the whispering stopped on
the truck; everything went silent. I still recall hearing
the villagers' campfire crack in the sudden stillness of the
early morning dusk; I heard the old sergeant suck and spit.
I am sure my mouth dropped open. I was both embarrassed and
excited. I thought to myself: Good God, he is talking
about the equality of life and all of these rich Americans
are buying it.
I
stashed my rifle in the truck cab and lost interest in the
hunt. I stayed close to the sergeant so I could talk with
him during the
stakeout. Two of my questions brought forth additional deep
feelings and insights.
He
told (or lectured) me that while we were looking down on those
peasants and insulting them, it really embarrassed him because
even though the villagers didn't speak any English, they understood
exactly what we were saying. They could tell from our tone,
and had given him almost exact translations on previous occasions
when he had stayed with them overnight. He added, "You
know, when we are making fun of them, they are looking back
up at us there on the truck and saying, `Laugh, you bastards
in your fancy clothes, but we don't care how sweet you smell,
or how rich you are, or where you come from. We value our
lives and the lives of our loved ones just as much as you
do yours. And if you don't give us that, you have got to go."'
I
asked the sergeant how we could prove a belief in
equality despite our striking differences in wealth. He answered
easily: "You got to be able to jump down off the truck
into the sheep manure, go over there into that village of
mud huts, walk down those narrow streets, and pick the dirtiest,
stinkin'est village-peasant that you meet; and as you walk
past him, you got to be able to make him know, just with your
eyes, that you know that he is a man who hurts like
we do, and hopes like we do, and wants for his kids just like
we all do. That's how you got to be able to do it.
Nothin' else ain't going to work."
I
didn't shoot any pork that trip; I didn't try. I sat scratching
out notes with a broken pen on what the sergeant was saying.
I kept thinking about his equality-of-life concept
and wondering out loud if Jefferson had also sensed this hard-core,
basic life-defense meaning. I persuaded our interpreter to
help me interview several of the villagers. One thing was
sure: the more I got the peasants to level with me, the more
strongly I realized that it was their meaning. Basically,
they all said independently, We are the friendliest people
in the world; but no one can tread on us.
Notice
emphatically that this life-value, as it was expressed by
that old sergeant and those uneducated peasants, is not a
selfish "me" value. The value was always stated
in terms of me-and-my-loved-ones or me-and-my-group.
Functionally, this means it is a self-and-species value. Some
of our original American flags, that spoke appropriately for
an entire colony said, Don't tread on me.
One
day on a wild-boar hunting trip, far out on the Anatolian
Plateau, a group of U.S. airmen started laughing about a small
group of Turkish or Kurdish peasants. The latter had gathered
out behind our truck in which a dozen or so of us hunters
were seated up in the bed of the truck on the sideboard bench-seats.
The peasants were trying to get hired as bush-beaters. They
were, indeed, a motley sight in their abject destitution including
a child with a huge sore on her face and flies a- pestering.
"Look
at them," said one of the young Americans. ''They have
nothing to live for; they might just as well be dead."
An
old tobacco-chewing, Tennessee sergeant, after a huge disgusting,
splattering spit, challenged the airman with words that stopped
the group's mockery: "If you really think they don't
value their lives as much as you do yours, let me see you
take your hunting knife & try kill one. Try one of them
carrying those corn knives. Or try to kill one of their children."
The
embarrassed airman actually choked while trying to take back
his words.
The
sergeant, satisfied, explained his challenge: "I don't
know either what makes 'em value their lives so much. Maybe
it's them women or maybe it's them kids. But whatever it is,
I seen 'em in combat & I seen 'em in the Korean prison
camps. And they hung in there after a lot of Americans was
yelling quit. So while we are making fun of them up here in
this truck, they are looking back at us & saying, 'Laugh
you bastards in your fancy clothes. But we don't care how
sweet you smell or where you come from. We still value our
lives & the lives of our loved ones just as much as you
do yours. And if you don't give us that, you have got to go,
or else someday we will put bombs in your messkits.'"
Every
previously obvious Ugly American on the truck seemed to chime
into agreement with him. That was the fact that shocked me.
I
asked the sergeant how we could prove our respect for their
equality even if we felt it.
He
answered easily: "Well Mister, you have got to be able
to jump down there into that sheep manure in them fancy boots,
and go over there into that village of mud huts, and walk
down them nary streets, and as you walk past the dirtiest,
stinkinist peasant, you got to be able to look him in the
face and make him know just with your eyes that you know that
he is a man who hurts like we do, and hopes like we do, and
wants for his kids just like we do. That's how you got to
be able to do it. There ain't no other way. If we kaint do
that, we lose."
Then
Compared to Now. Frankly, I think the guidelines from that
old sergeant's wisdom, mainly, won that Cold War for us, or
at least avoided the predicted loss. Without him, I think
Professor Kissinger probably had it right. We were failing
completely in the installation of the preventive "fast-strike"
missiles in the Mediterranean. There was serious whispering
about kicking us out of several countries (as has now happened
in the Philippines, Spain, and to a degree, Okinawa). Without
hundreds of thousands of our ugly Americans being turned around,
rapidly, to some attractiveness, much more serious sabotage
against us, if not Vietnam-type insurgency, was a good bet.
The situation was considerably worse than our current domestic
fears of racial strife, militia street wars, and terrorism.
Above
from
Ten
Values - Secrets for Building Institutional and Global Harmony
http://www.lifevalues.com/ten_values_1.htm
