{"id":34602,"date":"2024-10-04T11:54:32","date_gmt":"2024-10-04T09:54:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=34602"},"modified":"2024-10-04T11:54:32","modified_gmt":"2024-10-04T09:54:32","slug":"the-spark-of-your-story-ode-to-aaron-bushnell","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/the-spark-of-your-story-ode-to-aaron-bushnell\/","title":{"rendered":"The Spark of Your Story, Ode to Aaron Bushnell"},"content":{"rendered":"<h5>On February 25, 2024, Aaron Bushnell, a 25-year-old active serviceman of the United States Air Force, died after setting himself on fire outside the front gate of the Embassy of Israel in Washington, D.C., in opposition to his government&#8217;s aid to Israel in the ongoing genocide.<\/h5>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h4><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Samina Najmi<\/span><\/h4>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: left; padding-left: 80px;\"><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You owe me this witness.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/i><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I owe you flames.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/i><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u2014Kazim Ali<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0Our stories say water is the ultimate cleanser. It purifies; it redeems. It allows us to be born again, as from our very first, womb waters.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0Water that beckons: the seduction of submergence, the hopeful re-emergence.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0But, Aaron, you chose fire.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0Barely older than my children. Fresh-faced like my students, some of whom attend classes dressed in fatigues like yours. Hair, the color of soft flames flickering in a fireplace. And spring-green eyes. A smile so open, it holds nothing back.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nAaron, you held nothing, but nothing, back.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When an event shakes our world, we feel compelled to pinpoint our own location at the time. We remember where we were when it happened\u2014JFK\u2019s assassination, 9\/11, COVID-19 shelter-in-place orders. How blithely we were going about our day when, unbeknownst to us, distant but connected, everything shifted. A marvel, how each of us inhabits such separate realities. And now and then these realities collide, combust, go up in smoke. <\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Where was I, Aaron, when you set yourself ablaze? I calculate the time difference\u2014your Sunday afternoon, my Sunday night on February 25, 2024\u2014and know that I sat in a hotel room in Islamabad, savoring family photographs of a fleeting week, an hour to go before my departure for the airport. And seven hours later, when you gave us your last breath, I was suspended above the earth, somewhere between Islamabad and Doha, Qatar, blurring date lines and time zones on the long skyroad home to California. Oblivious of how the world had slid.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nYou outside the Israeli embassy in Washington, D.C., on that Sunday afternoon.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Two years ago, I landed in Fresno to news that my home was on fire. A fire I didn\u2019t choose; a fire that cleansed nothing. It destroyed and displaced, though it spared life\u2014a lifetime to sift through the ashes.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This time, I arrive home to news of you aflame. A faraway fire, yet so close it chokes. Fire that consumes the known and familiar. A bonfire of the stories we tell to coax conscience to sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Memory-ash of a body that was mostly water, birthed from the mother-water a mere twenty-five years ago.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A Massachusetts baby, like my two.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Aaron, you were an aspiring software engineer. But you might have been in my English class. How well you understood the power of the story you were telling, the power of the symbol, of contexts and settings that give our actions meaning. An active duty pilot protesting his government\u2019s complicity in genocide in a time-honored fashion. A soldier laying down his life in his own definition of patriotism. A sacrificial body, buying back its country\u2019s conscience.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Your body, a text. <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Read it<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, you said.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You knew nothing else would make us see.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And even in the moment, you had reluctant readers. The story you were telling was not legible to the Secret Service officer who responded in the only language he knew: a gun pointed at you while you lay on the ground, afire. Ironic and absurd. All poetry lost.<\/span><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<figure id=\"attachment_34643\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-34643\" style=\"width: 1000px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-34643\" src=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Aaron-Bushnell-courtesy-Shaun-King-FB.jpg\" alt=\"Aaron Bushnell courtesy Shaun King FB\" width=\"1000\" height=\"563\" srcset=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Aaron-Bushnell-courtesy-Shaun-King-FB.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Aaron-Bushnell-courtesy-Shaun-King-FB-300x169.jpg 300w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Aaron-Bushnell-courtesy-Shaun-King-FB-768x432.jpg 768w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/Aaron-Bushnell-courtesy-Shaun-King-FB-600x338.jpg 600w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\" \/><figcaption id=\"caption-attachment-34643\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Aaron Bushnell (courtesy Shaun King, Facebook).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<hr \/>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But you knew not to trust your readers to interpret what you narrated with your body. Even before you livestreamed your last act\u2014<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u2014you made a Facebook post to say we needn\u2019t wonder what we would have done to protest slavery or Jim Crow because we\u2019re doing it right now. And in your message to alternative media, how eloquently you articulated your reasons for doing what you were about to do. Your words weren\u2019t widely read in the country you served, but I found them in an Indian news outlet online. A series of statements beginning: <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I am doing this because . . . <\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The complicity of the government, the media, the world. The complicity of you and me. A series of statements\u2014rhythmic, incantatory\u2014the final four sentences reinscribing your life:<\/span><\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 40px;\"><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I am doing this because I am a human being, and I cannot remain silent in the face of injustice. I am doing this because I am a soldier and I cannot remain loyal to a government that betrays its own values and principles. I am doing this because I am a martyr and I cannot remain alive in a world that kills the innocent and protects the guilty.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/i><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0I am doing this because I am Aaron Bushnell, and this is my final act of protest.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You shouted <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Free Palestine!<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> again and again. A fiery refrain, hoarse with the heat of your conviction, before the flames snuffed out your voice.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You knew nothing else would make us listen.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A seer, a storyteller.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And then our media, if it covers the news at all, spins a story about your mental health. NPR footnotes the news with \u201cIf you or someone you know . . .\u201d and shares the number of the suicide hotline. We\u2019re told of your isolated, fundamentalist upbringing. Your implied unhinging. A traumatic response to that early domestic trauma or this political one.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Perhaps.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But in the words of your friend, you were not ill. In the words of your friend, it\u2019s we who are ill, to stomach the carnage we enable and not feel moved to question it.<br \/>\nSuicide for genocide.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nSuicide, the great Abrahamic taboo. One<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> commits<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> it as a crime or a sin. And yet there have always been other ways to read it.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As honor: not just the Romans and World War II Kamikazes, but all the crusades and jihads, past and present, down to the everyday recruitment of college students to the military. All the hunger strikes through the ages. Even the mother who starves herself so her child may eat. When faith frames the narrative and love lifts it above the literal, we read the death-wish as a life-wish.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Self-immolation as sati in South Asia\u2019s past, when many a Hindu widow leapt into her husband\u2019s funeral pyre, wifely glory in grief.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Kurdish women in the present, burning for the opposite: the right to live free.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">American men, to protest our scorchings of the earth.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nSelf-immolation as political protest, birthed at the intersection of urgency and despair. In the Buddhist tradition of Thich Quan Duc and Nhat Chi Mai, who set themselves on fire in Saigon in 1963, self-immolation is not suicide, but the highest form of sacrifice. Eighty-two-year-old Quaker Alice Herz read it that way in Detroit, Michigan, and burned at a curbside to protest the Vietnam War. Vietnam to Tibet, and Tunisia\u2014where, in the embering days of 2010, Mohamed Bouazizi ignited the Arab Spring. Students, alight with passionate protest, self-immolating in Prague and New Delhi and La Jolla, California.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nAt the University of California, San Diego, my daughter points to the plaque in the ground outside her first-year dorm in Revelle Plaza: <\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">&#8220;In honor of George Winne Jr. who immolated himself in Revelle Plaza in protest of the Vietnam war in 1970. He held a sign that read &#8216;In the name of God, end the war.'&#8221;<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nA global tradition of violent nonviolent resistance.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Aaron, since your death, I, who never knew you, seek your life.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Your username, LillyAnarKitty. Your reasons for choosing it, yours alone. That\u2019s who you were on social media, where you liked the poem \u201cThe Empire Raised Me\u201d by Anansi\u2019s Library and planned to recite it when you retired from the air force in a few months. Its haunting lines: \u201c<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And I was raised a soldier\/ Now the muzzle is at my back\/ The boots are at my door\/ The guns are all racked.\u201d<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Your embrace of anarchist philosophy against vertical power structures.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Your joy in robotics, like my son\u2019s.<br \/>\n<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Lord of the Rings<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> and Marvel and karaoke.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Your care for the homeless in San Antonio and Akron.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You loved a cat named Luna. You remembered your responsibility, bequeathed her to your neighbor. Or was that Pumpkin you left with your friend Erin, the one with a following on TikTok? Or then again, was it Sugar, white as her name, who looks up into your face as you crouch down to pet her in a tender photograph on X?<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nForgive me for slamming my laptop shut when you appeared on the screen, smiling, in that green and black rugby shirt with horizontal stripes\u2014identical to the one my boy liked so much, I bought it for him in two sizes. To see him smile in it a little longer.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nYou were a young white American who cared about the powerless. About what we are doing in Palestine. Palestine-Falasteen, <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">a moral litmus test for the world<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, as Black activist Angela Davis has said. Angela Davis, who never got her PhD from the University of California, San Diego, because the FBI confiscated her work the same year that George Winne, Jr. self-immolated in Revelle Plaza.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nYou left all your savings to the Palestine Children\u2019s Relief Fund.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><br \/>\nYou made a wish for your ashes: <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If a time comes when Palestinians regain control of their land, and if the people native to the land would be open to the possibility, I would love for my ashes to be scattered in a free Palestine.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A deep blue sign with white letters appears in Jericho-Ariha, in the Occupied West Bank. A street named after you.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Aaron Bushnell Street, linked to the main street in Jericho, Gateway to Palestine\u2014among the longest continuously inhabited cities in the world.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Jericho city council member Amani Rayan tells Al Jazeera: <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I felt that he was family<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Someone who\u2019s so close to us, who shares our deep pain. . . . This is the ultimate sacrifice at a time when no one seems to see us.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mayor Abdul Karim Sidr wants to bring your family to Jericho to see for themselves how your name lives on in the hearts of an ancient people.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Aaron Bushnell<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A kid, a prophet.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the Lord said to Moses, \u201cAaron, your brother, will be your prophet<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">.\u201d<br \/>\n<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Haroon <\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">in the Quran\u2014my father\u2019s name.<br \/>\n<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Aaron-Haroon<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, the Priest. The Anointed One, the one who spoke for Moses when Moses couldn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Let all the stories speak to me.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The phoenix rising from the flames.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Agni, god of fire. With his two faces, benevolent and malevolent, mediating between the earth and heavens.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Let it be true that a single sacrifice can pay for our collective sins. Wash us<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">clean.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Baptism of fire or water, restore us to our moral bones.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Write us our redemption arc.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But how to make the story add up? To call it a fair exchange? And accept<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">this barter as a bargain: Aaron\u2019s one life for all of ours.<br \/>\n<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Ask the mother who birthed that son.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You raised your boy well<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, I want to tell her<\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">.<br \/>\n<\/span><\/i><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Too well<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, she might reply.<\/span><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Honoring the memory of US serviceman Aaron Bushnell, who died for truth and justice in protest of US aid to Israel.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":678,"featured_media":34642,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[12,3864],"tags":[3425,3818,3865],"coauthors":[3866],"class_list":["post-34602","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-essay","category-tmr-45-from-here-one-year-on","tag-aaron-bushnell","tag-genocide-in-gaza","tag-jim-crow","entry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.8 (Yoast SEO v27.3) - 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