Foreign Policies

Yesterday I rented a copy of "Platoon," (c. 1986) the intensely moving anti-war, Oliver Stone-written-and-directed Vietnam War flick.

As you may recall, the story is set in Southeast Asia in 1967-1968. Our hero, played by Charlie Sheen, is a US Army volunteer, a private soldier, a grunt, who hails from the privileged classes no less, who decided that he should put his own life on the line in defense of democratic principles, rather than let that burden fall completely on the backs of the working poor, whose ranks in the infantry far outweigh any other demographic group.

The most harrowing scene is set in a Vietnamese village of some 1,000 years -- after three US comrades are killed on the village outskirts by Viet Cong: two by booby trap within the VC network of bunkers, underground tunnels, etc., one grunt is captured and tortured, the Platoon sets out to search the nearby village for the enemy. They are so incensed over the deaths of their comrades that they run amok there, slaughtering suspected VC sympathizers, seemingly at random, whose innocence or guilt is merely a matter of uninformed and instant opinion. The net effect of this action, parodoxically, is to further alienate the people of the country the soldiers have sworn to defend from aggressors. At the end of the search and destroy mission, the village is reduced to flaming embers as the village men, tied and humiliated, are led off for interrogation. In other words, the army has destroyed the village in order to save it.

It's a very powerful film and is food for thought.

This morning, I set off to close down my organic garden plot on South Street. We community gardeners are honor-bound to keep the garden plots as weed-free as we can. I pulled the dead stumps of non-producing tomato plants (don't get me started), the healthy-but-finished green pepper plants, the dried and dead string beans and the finished oregano, then set out to eradicate the plentiful weeds, using gloved hands within the plot, and later, gloved hands plus a solution of vinegar and water for the weeds growing outside the plot, filling the cracks of the brick walkways.

When you are on your knees pulling weeds, you are aware, as a helicopter pilot may be, of the teeming insect street life existing just below you. I watched, fascinated, as crowds of ants and troglodytes scrambled for cover as weeds were suddenly removed (defoliation in 'Nam parlance) and they became exposed to the harsh light of day. I admit that when I spied a centipede, I instantly dispatched it with extreme prejudice, remembering instantly an episode of fifteen summers vintage where one of my two daughters was frightened by a beast like this, who wandered haplessly into their bedroom.

Apart from that one instance, I tried very hard not to hurt any other insect in the bug village below.

However... I happened to notice a CRICKET (!) that emerged from this uprooted jungle and was proceeding to new cover. Then, I did it. I didn't mean to hurt it-- I wanted to help it. I wanted it to move to a better place, for sure, but first, i wanted to observe it, even if just for a second.

My rawhide gloves were not made for a surgeon's light touch, and I noticed that after I picked up the cricket and put it down "safely".... I had accidentally REMOVED ONE OF ITS LEGS !! and it was now moving horribly, haltingly, lamely.... I couldn't leave it like that. A bird would have it in a moment or two.

I did what I had to do. I destroyed it... after trying to save it.

I wonder if George W. Bush ever does any gardening.