Ienotheisa
29-09-2004, 05:13
The Reading of the Names
Faculty Against War reads the names of Victims of the Iraq War.
September 28-29
Northrop Plaza is well lit at night. To the north is the Northrop Auditorium. The American and Minnesotan flags hang limply from their poles at the corners of the building. To the east and west are Morrel and Johnston halls, both with bright floodlights. Too bright.
A full moon rises between Morrel Hall and Tate Laboratories, adding nothing to the oppressive artificial lighting. Did they choose this night for the full moon? Without the lights, the scene would be perfect.
South is Northrop Mall, more appropriately shadowed. It stretches a few hundred meters to Washington Avenue and Coffman Memorial Union, beyond.
I arrive shortly before nine at night. They have only reached mid-July, after eight hours and fifty minutes of reading. They read slowly, each name hanging emotionally in the air. The age, gender and nationality of each victim follows, day by day, soldiers then civilians. I quickly, mercifully, lose count.
The speak from a stage, facing the auditorium. A curtain of black paper, printed with the names of the dead in the manner of the Vietnam memorial, hangs from the platform. It is cold outside.
Only a few people watch. It is late, but they still pass, some lingering for a while, listening. There is no sound but the city, and the voice reading the names. Each name is clearly read, filled with emotion. The readers have changed every few minutes, but each voice seems near to tears. I feel cold.
Though my fingers grow stiff as I scrawl notes, I realize the feeling is more emotional than anything. I am angry. This is not a promotion of any candidate, though. It is a memorial.
Candles burn about the base of the podium. They will continue to read the names of the dead all night. They will not stop until noon the next day, a full twenty-four hours. The night will only grow cooler, the voices more tired and more emotional. I regret that I cannot stay.
October 16, 2003. Five civilians deaths reported. It is nine-thirty.
Faculty Against War reads the names of Victims of the Iraq War.
September 28-29
Northrop Plaza is well lit at night. To the north is the Northrop Auditorium. The American and Minnesotan flags hang limply from their poles at the corners of the building. To the east and west are Morrel and Johnston halls, both with bright floodlights. Too bright.
A full moon rises between Morrel Hall and Tate Laboratories, adding nothing to the oppressive artificial lighting. Did they choose this night for the full moon? Without the lights, the scene would be perfect.
South is Northrop Mall, more appropriately shadowed. It stretches a few hundred meters to Washington Avenue and Coffman Memorial Union, beyond.
I arrive shortly before nine at night. They have only reached mid-July, after eight hours and fifty minutes of reading. They read slowly, each name hanging emotionally in the air. The age, gender and nationality of each victim follows, day by day, soldiers then civilians. I quickly, mercifully, lose count.
The speak from a stage, facing the auditorium. A curtain of black paper, printed with the names of the dead in the manner of the Vietnam memorial, hangs from the platform. It is cold outside.
Only a few people watch. It is late, but they still pass, some lingering for a while, listening. There is no sound but the city, and the voice reading the names. Each name is clearly read, filled with emotion. The readers have changed every few minutes, but each voice seems near to tears. I feel cold.
Though my fingers grow stiff as I scrawl notes, I realize the feeling is more emotional than anything. I am angry. This is not a promotion of any candidate, though. It is a memorial.
Candles burn about the base of the podium. They will continue to read the names of the dead all night. They will not stop until noon the next day, a full twenty-four hours. The night will only grow cooler, the voices more tired and more emotional. I regret that I cannot stay.
October 16, 2003. Five civilians deaths reported. It is nine-thirty.