On the Fall of Kabul

In the spring of 1975 I was backpacking through Europe with my cousin Sam. We each had books. I was reading Report to Greco by Nikos Kazantazakis. I bought it in Athens and read it on the ferry to Crete where we rode motorcycles over the mountains and slept under olive trees and in fields with goats.

Sam read Etruscan Places by D.H. Lawrence so it was natural that after several days in Rome he wanted to visit the ancient tombs, so we did. We took a bus and I remember a long walk up the hill to the ancient town of Tarquinia. The old town was eerily quiet as we roamed the streets. No wonder. It was May Day. Shops were locked and the tombs were closed. We found an old cafe in which to sit and have a glass of wine. 

The afternoon was warm. The late afternoon sun beamed through beads hanging in the arched doorway leading to the cobbled street. A cat lay on the dusty floor basking in the sunlight. Outside, crowds began to gather and then fast racing bicyles flashed by, the crowd cheering as they approached the finish line. May Day in Tarquinia.

The next day Sam wanted to go back to see the tombs, but I didn't want to spend another day riding in buses so I stayed in Rome. After an espresso, I took my pastry and newspaper and wandered up on the Palatine hill overlooking the Roman Forum where I sat down to eat and catch up on the news.

The front page was filled with the news from Saigon. The famous photograph of the helicopter dangling helpless Vietnamese as it took off the US Embassy was emblazoned over the fold. As my eyes gazed on the ruins of the Rome, I read of the fall of Saigon.

The Vietnam War had occupied over half my life. As a young boy, I remembered being puzzled by fighting and booby traps in rice paddies in the Buzz Sawyer comic strip. An uncle had written news stories from Vietnam for the Saturday Evening Post. My godfather had studied Vietnamese and been stationed in Saigon in the early sixties. 

In high school civics class we debated continued involvement in the war. Like most kids my age I was brought up in the patriotic, post war Fifties. We played war and fought imaginary battles with the Nazis and the Japanese. We were taught about the Declaration of Independence and that all men were free and equal.

Eventually that bubble began to crack. Civil Rights was the first stone. I remember being shocked when men at my church wore campaign buttons for the gubernatorial candidate whom I knew to be a racist. I remember sit ins. I remember the March on Washington. I remember the Birmingham bombings. I remember black and white water fountains. The color of the paint let you know which was which.

I was one of the few in that civics class who volunteered to debate against the war. And soon the arguments began to make sense. The debate was national. Ali chose not to serve and was jailed. Dr. King came out against the war. In 1967 I wore a McCarthy button to church and felt the wrath and scorn.

In Austin I was an antiwar activist and marched and protested. 

The War in Vietnam was a large part of my life. It tore the United States apart in ways from which it has not healed. 

These were my thoughts as i sat on the Palatine Hill overlooking the ruins of Rome.

And these were my thoughts today as I watched the news from Afghanistan unfold on the screen in my living room.