Burying Our Dead

On Monday, our small town buried one of its young men. He was killed (I know now) in Jalalabad, Afganistan by a suicide bomber.

Our town completely shut down for this funeral, a show of support for both the family of the soldier and for the USA. Most if not all of the businesses closed for the event. Even Walmart closed its supercenter, so that the associates could attend. Some businesses passed out American flags to the few who didn't already have one. The main street was closed, and many hundreds, probably thousands, stood silently in the gentle rain with their flags in one hand and the other over their hearts in salute, as the procession passed.

The procession included a seemingly endless showing of motorcycles - the Patriot Riders - who came to drown out the Phelpses, who had threatend to bring their message of hate to the funeral. The Phelpses didn't show, but most of our county did.

War is a ghastly thing, attacking some families in the most terrible of possible manners, the loss of their brave young man at the beginning of his life, now the end of it.

The death of our soldier was prompted by hatred. In this case it is a twisted religious hatred, from which the entire world needs protection. This young man opted to participate in that protection. What is protected, ironically is the right to freedom of hate speech that is used by some to condemn the very soldier that is protecting that right.

Hate speech is twisted. It is a sign of insanity. And it doesn't matter which end of the political or religious spectrum originates it, it is destructive, devisive, and sows the seeds of chaos.

Many who showed up to support this family in their grief did not know the soldier or his family. But they showed up to support the family in their grief, and to support the cause for which their son, brother, and grandson died: the war against hatred, the war to preserve the freedom of peaceful dissent, and all the other freedoms we use daily.

The rain and the sunglasses I wore even in the rain served to cover up the wetness on my face which the event produced. I was proud of my community's support; I was grieved that it had to happen; I was angry at the possibility of protestors adding to the grief. It was a tough day.