Was it worth it?

It's been 5 years. Almost hard to imagine it was that long ago. I remember it very well. I had a white T-shirt with the words "I won't be happy until I kill again" printed all in black bolded capital lettering across the front. Under it I drew an American flag. The red permanent marker I used to draw the stripes bled some into the white cloth. It wasn't intended, but it made the flag appear to be soaked with blood. It went perfect with the bucket of blood I planned to carry.

It wasn't really blood. I mean who would be able to get a gallon of blood? It was tomato soup. Still, it was red, and a relatively close consistency. It was blood to anyone else.

I went downtown in Chico, the small northern California town I lived in while in college. There were large protests going on a few hours away in San Francisco, and I had thought about going there. But I figured there were enough people protesting there. There weren't enough up here.

I walked past the little shops and restaurants that lined the main drag, pulling a soaked sponge out of my bucket and squeezing it onto the sidewalk. Puddles of blood marked my trail. Parents and little kids alike gave me puzzled looks as to what I was doing, and what I was spilling out. Nobody seemed to realize what was about to hit them.

I met up with a group of about 50 protesters. I somewhat knew about 15 of them from school. We had planned to meet downtown on the day the invasion started, and start our protest march. It was good to see that more people showed up than I had expected. They were already there at the city park, waving flags and holding signs. A bullhorn echoing statements reflecting our anger.

This wasn't an organized protest. We didn't know when the war was going to start, and we couldn't get permits from the city to march on its streets. But we could no more plan this protest than we could stop it.

We hit the streets about 6 blocks down from the heart of the main downtown area. We marched on the sidewalks, shouting and yelling for anyone who might be within earshot. People gave us some dirty looks. Some honked and waved in support. I was surprised about 2 blocks down to realize that more people were actually joining us. By about the 4th block, our line of protesters stretched for nearly 2 blocks. More college kids had joined our ranks. But there were also middle-age folk, who looked to have just come out of one of those shops or restaurants we were passing.

And then we reached the main intersection. By this time a few police officers in cars or on motorcycle had joined our march. Well, not joining it per se, but walking with us to make sure no laws were being broken, and nobody was jumping out into the street. Chico's main drag consisted of 2 one-way streets going in opposite directions. We started our march heading up the street going in to town. That was the busiest one.

Our plan was to reach this intersection, and then cross over the other street and march back down. And maybe do this circuit a couple of times. But as a few of the more vocal protesters started across the street, some redneck guy in an old beat-up Ford pickup truck started honking and trying to drive through the line of protesters. This started a commotion and would change the course of the day for all of us.

It started with one guy. He was in front of the truck as it tried to push its way through the crowd. As we all ran in front of the truck to make sure it didn't move, he sat down. And then a girl that was marching by his side sat down next to him. And then two more joined him. Right in the middle of the crosswalk.

Then I sat down.

The police who were not far, came and saw what was going on. They directed the man in the truck and the numerous cars behind him down a side street. They told us what we were doing was illegal and we needed to get up. But we were strong. We didn't move.

We were sitting some 30 people deep. All spread out across the street. The police moved a block down from us and started diverting traffic. So we took over the whole intersection. A group of us sat down in the middle while many more danced and shouted around us. Word was quickly spreading of what was happening, and it seemed like within no time the crowd around us ballooned. The police didn't know what to do.

This lasted about 30 minutes. During which time the police had started increasing their ranks. They had brought out the riot cops, with shields and face masks, forming a line across one side of the intersection. A group of the commanding officers sat kitty-corner to them putting their heads together while looking at us, figuring out their strategy. All around us, the streets and sidewalks were filled with people.

"What you are doing is illegal, and you need to clear this intersection," shouted the commander after walking up to us. "If you do not leave, you will be arrested."

With that he turned and walked back to his cabal. The lady who ran the local Peace & Justice center, who helped organize this march, went to the police officers to talk to them. We didn't budge.

Again the police officer addressed us, this time from his position on the sidewalk with the help of a bullhorn. "If you do not want to be arrested, you need to move to the sidewalks. Anyone blocking the street or in the crosswalk will be arrested."

With that pronouncement, our strength splintered. The people dancing and marching around all started moving to the sidewalk. Half our group of sitters began standing up, curious if anyone would be willing to get arrested. "I don't want to get arrested," I told the guy sitting next to me as I slowly stood up and started making my way to safety.

The thoughts going through my head were fear of the unknown. How would an arrest look on my record? What impact would this have on my future career or life in general? What would happen to us? Was it worth it?

I glanced at another girl who was walking away. "I want to be a school teacher. I can't get arrested here today." I nodded that I understood. I tried to think of my excuse to respond, but I couldn't. The only excuse I had was fear.

So I stopped.

I turned around and went back and retook my place in the circle. "Fuck it," I said with a grin to the guy next to me. I couldn't let fear be my excuse. Everyone was scared, from the people sitting here, to the people protesting in San Francisco and across the country. The US soldiers invading Iraq and the Iraqi people were all fearful. But we all had to face our fears, and do what we needed to.

The police in riot gear encircled us. A school bus had been parked in one of the side streets. Then a group of three officers approached one of the girls with us. They riot-cuffed her hands, and walked her off to the bus. Then the guy next to her. They dragged him off. The Peace & Justice lady shouted to us, "Don't resist or they'll add that to the charges against you. Get up and walk to the bus."

One by one they came for us. When it was my turn, I smiled. I wasn't scared or fearful. I was proud. This needed to be done, and I was proud that I was strong enough to do it. The riot-cuffs hurt, and the police were anything but gentle. But it was all worth it.

After the last of us were on the bus, we departed to cheers and shouts from our supporters in the streets. We each had about 8 hours of dealing with asshole cops and following strict rules ahead of us at the county jail. But as I looked around at my fellow protesters I saw only proud faces. There was no fear or regret. We knew the sacrifice we made today was small compared to what was happening half a world away. And we each hoped, and I think KNEW, that what we had done would be something we could be proud to say we did.

And here we are 5 years later. Over 60% of US Citizens now feel this war was a mistake and we shouldn't have gone in. We were right. It was a mistake that should never have been made. And although we were right, there's no pride in knowing it. Even though we were right, nearly 4000 US Soldiers, and tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians have paid the ultimate price for this mistake. There can be no pride in that.

UPDATE: So today we take to the streets again. And I see the same fears and pride in pictures of protesters being arrested. They are right. We are right. We must fight on.