In
the Shadow of Rachel Corrie
In Ruckus [Vol. 7,
Iss. 4, February 2004]
I never met Rachel. Indeed, the first time
I ever heard of her was on the day of her death. Today, her name
evokes instant recognition with anyone even mildly involved with
human rights. Rachel died under an Israeli bulldozer in Palestine.
We hear about deaths every day. 20 000 people
die in an earthquake in Iran - Wow! Thats
a lot, eh!?. Seven more US soldiers down in Iraq Hey,
are we over the September 11 total yet? (Like faceless statistics?
Check out http://www.iraqbodycount.net). I have nothing more to
say about how and why Rachel died. I want to talk a little, instead,
about how she lived.
Rachel grew up nearby: in the acclaimed hippie
hangout of Olympia, Washington. I decided to go there and try to
fit a personality to the pretty and determined face Id seen
on pro-Palestinian posters all over the U-District.
Needing to wake up and pull myself together,
I decide I might as well do some interviews outside and inside Rachels
favorite coffee shop. (Not a Starbucks. Rachel hated Starbucks.
Ruckus hates Starbucks). The Evergreen girl? Ive
heard of her
I didnt know her personally,
but
. Most people in Olympia have heard of Rachel. Yet,
I was surprised at how few people on the streets knew more than
just the bare details. Ignorance and complacency: one of Rachels
greatest exasperations, and one she shares with activists worldwide.
Her death seems to have switched depressingly few people on to the
Palestinian-Israeli conflict, even in her hometown.
Hanging around the Capitol Building, pretending
to do the tourist thing, my mind filled with thoughts about Rachel.
Theres a large statue with the inscription:
Greater Love
Hath No Man Than This
That A Man
Down His Life
For His Friends
What made Rachel care? What is it that makes
people look through the bullshit, through the constant barrage of
SUV ads and FOX-NEWS and CNN and compulsory pledges of allegiance
at school?
Is it family? Driving through fields of green
to Rachels house. A great place to grow up, I think to myself.
The kind of place where parents still forget to lock their doors
when taking their kids for short hikes through the nearby mountains.
I spend some time listening to the unconcerned chatter of water
birds in a nearby estuary from the veranda, as Rachel did many times.
Checking out photos of Rachel growing up.
Playing naked on the beach. Pink ballerina. Wrestling with her older
brother. On top of the World Trade Center with her dad, wind blowing
through her hair.
Interviewing her parents. My eyes catch the
titles of books and journals on Palestine on the glass coffee table.
Books that werent lying there a year ago.
It takes me less than 5 minutes to get emotional.
Anyway, theyve had too many professional interviews already.
Forget professionalism. Crying together with her mother whilst looking
over the last photos ever taken of Rachel. Walking back to the car
from her house, having trouble walking straight. Im not cut
out for this job. Ill stick to stories on countries, not people,
I tell myself.
At Rachels old school. A project by
eleven-year old Rachel in 5th grade makes me smile for the first
time in a while: "I want to be a lawyer, a dancer, an actress,
a mother, a wife, a children's author, a distance runner, a poet,
a pianist, a pet store owner, an astronaut, an environmental and
humanitarian activist, a psychiatrist, a ballet teacher, and the
first woman president."
Driving back through the foggy streets of
downtown Olympia. Students of Rachels age playing guitar and
singing out of the back of VW busses in parking lots which smell
of weed rather than exhaust fumes.
Rachel had a good life. A warm and tight
family. She knew she didnt need to ask permission to go to
Palestine, and could always count on support from back home. Not
everyone in Gaza or the West Bank has a return ticket.
Understand - Rachel didnt want to die.
She was no suicide bomber. She was a 23-year-old girl who cared
about life and people, and would let her mother pay for expensive
sushi once in a while. Top marks in school. Serious about life and
the things she believed in, but able to let loose with those who
knew her. A listener. Unlike the IDF (Israeli Defense Force) bulldoze-operator,
she was not just following orders. A hero? If thats
what you make of her. Its what she makes of you that matters.
Now perhaps more than ever.
Activism does not mean starting your life
from scratch. Activism means thinking about stuff that matters.
"I think it is a good idea for us
all to drop everything and devote our lives to making this stop.
I don't think it's an extremist thing to do anymore. I still really
want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make
comics for my co-workers. But I also want this to stop." -
Rachel Corrie
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