notes of a non-combatant

fighting for peace

Rain was tapping away at the roof when I tossed the hefty blankets aside and rolled out from under their warmth. After slipping into the old, worn sweatpants, I slowly made my way down the stairs with every effort to avoid letting the floorboards moan under my weight. In this old cottage where every noise can be heard from every room, I didn’t want to wake my two friends still sleeping soundly in the next room. I slid my feet into the cheap pair of sandals and headed out the back door through the rain.

The flip flops tapped against my heels among the lush, wet, ankle-deep grass. Birds hopped from the feeder and up into the air, darting off in different directions upon hearing my approach. I walked over to the twine cord that held a solid portion of my possessions: two damp pairs of jeans, two t-shirts with sporadic wet spots, three cold pairs of wool socks, and three almost-dry pairs of boxers. The clothes-line was along the edge of the shadow of a large canopy, an old barn roof built atop stilts that shielded my clothes from the light drizzle falling upon the surrounding bog. After putting the pins back on the line, I tossed all the clothes over a forearm and jogged out of the chilly morning air and back into the cottage.

The house is late in the process of being refurbished, mostly complete and entirely livable, but small parts of the ceiling remain unfinished. With all the charm of a hundred-year-old stone cottage out among the vast Irish countryside, I might think I was in paradise. If nothing else, it’s hard to stay tense or unsettled with the world in a place so comforting.

After piling the clothes on the back of a wooden chair, I tapped on the switches for two electric radiators and began laying the clothing across the heaters, expediting the drying process in anticipation of leaving the cottage later this evening. I heard the staircase sighing under the weight of footsteps and Grace turned the corner. Three bottles of wine and a few sips of whiskey had kept her and Kevin up late, and after two tablets to take away the headache, they also took her back to bed. I was glad to know that my friends were at last stirring from bed, so I could begin making a bit of noise without the guilt of having woke them.

With my hands in the hot water, scouring remnants of last night’s lovely dinner from the blue and white floral patterned plates, I had nothing but peace and quiet to contemplate in. Several times a day, there are comments or entire conversations regarding Palestine and the military occupation, and about having lived there as a foreigner. Grace and I shared similar experiences, and are now both integrating back into our home lives, with her staying back in Ireland to continue work and myself still traveling before returning back to the Middle East. With the context of our similar backgrounds, I thoroughly enjoy her company and our conversations, and the time I have to contemplate what it all means.

The dried cheese sauce parted ways with the dishes easier than I would have expected, breaking off and cruising through the water pooled in the basin. Dishes were scoured, rinsed, scrubbed with soap, and then rinsed again in the otherwise still water of the large metal sink. After meeting with the dishcloth, the plates were stacked and put away in the cabinet. Simple tasks made up of basic processes, with outcomes building towards the future. A clean, organized home gives way to comfortable, happy people who are able to enjoy this cozy cottage in the quaint, lovely countryside.

The occasional flashbacks would run through my mind, the stark contrast between this peaceful life and that of Palestine or elsewhere, where similar household tasks are done under the strain and stress of a helpless reality. With the situation looming over everyday life, people are constantly unsure of whether the peaceful atmosphere of home could possibly persevere when pitted against the artillery and munitions of war, genocide, or other military action. The understanding that peace is not necessarily in the stillness of the air, or the lack of crumbling or collapsed buildings- it is crucial to understand that peace, or a lack thereof, is present in the hearts and minds of regular people. Peace is being able to wash dishes without worrying whether your family is safe, without your heart pounding in fear of attack.

Before laying the damp dishcloth to dry across the clean counter top, I remembered a phrase that has been tossed around as justification for military action. I have heard of people who believe that it is possible to “fight for peace,” as though the destruction of possible evil is not still an act of utter destruction. Other phrases that I remember hearing followed in my head, the analogy that warring for peace is the equivalent of “fucking for virginity,” but I put the dishcloth down for a moment to contemplate the comparison. Virginity is lost once and by definition never to be had again; could this be in contrast with peace, which can be found again once the storm has passed? I tossed the question around in my head while I stacked a few dishes. Peace, simply put, is like the ceramic plates I was washing, for if I dropped one, it would never be whole again. Shattered portions, if in large enough pieces, could be glued together and made whole again, but it will forever be obvious that they are only remnants being held together. A mind that has been shattered by war can heal to become whole again, but not without the cracks and fractures that remain.

Upon finishing the dishes, I stacked my dry laundry and tidied up the kitchen, done for the day with my fairly mundane tasks. In the quaint countryside of central Ireland, I can lay my head down in peace, much like the piles of dishes in their quiet cabinet. Relishing in the stillness of the air and the calm in our hearts, I can take the time to let the fractures in my mind heal for a bit, wishing it could be so the whole world over.

One of the most peaceful benches in all of Europe, at Tanglewood cottage.