House on Fire

My house is on fire.

Tomorrow, I must find a reason

Today, I must find a hose.

Returning from a full day of filming north of Moscow, USSR, our crew of American and Soviet filmmakers turned off the main road to a rest area to have our dinner.  It was growing dark and food availability was unpredictable, so we always carried something with us.  This was 37 years ago, two years before the fall of the Soviet Union.  The translator, Victor, and I walked together toward the trash bins, and he surprised me by throwing his bags and cups toward the container.  Everything landed well short of the bins and added to the already large mess scattered about.   “Why did you do that?” I asked, “Doesn’t everything belong to everyone here?”  Victor leaned close to me and said, “No, nothing belongs to anyone.”

This long-ago memory—one of the first of so many softly startling perception changes from those days—returned abruptly three days ago. I was talking with a close friend about the unfolding tragedy of the California fires.  I grew up in Southern California, and could recognize familiar places in the videos of the destroyed property. The magnitude of the destruction and the human suffering left me powerless and sick.  I told my friend of this, and his reply, after a pause, made me truly ill.  He spit out his proclamation that that’s what you get when you have the sort of leadership California’s got.  He launched into the specifics of the truth he had chosen to support.  When I asked him what the individual person might do for the people there—their loss and suffering—as well as with regard to the larger national situation, he said that they “get what they deserve.”  It was at this point that I returned once again to a Moscow road stop and Victor’s words.  Some common theme existed here, and I wanted to find the connection.  I began by looking into the flames that surround Los Angeles. 

Here I see the smoke and fire combine in a toxic swirl of fear and anger, accusation and blame, deception, lies and greed, hopelessness, fear, and a final, desperate paralysis that affects the entire nation.  I see this single state wrapped in the air we all breathe.  We look for those to blame, we rally around promises, we consider only news that neatly confirms our established sense of right, and of wrong.  We can look deeper into how this happens, and why, in future papers.  For now, I suggest only that this is the atmosphere that exists almost everywhere just now, and it is choking us to a halt.  I see, too, my friend’s comment as his withdrawal into a comfortable, sadly self-righteous inaction.  Again, I ask what one person is to do, and wait for an answer.

My thoughts take me next to the consequences of inaction, to a recent trip to Munich and the Dachau concentration camp.  I again walk the city tour of the birthplace of the Nazi Party.  I stand on the exact spot where Hitler stood, so proud and stern, just short years before he began a war that took the lives of some 50 million people.  I travel the short distance to Dachau camp, and stand where bodies were heaped; I read the words the commandant spoke to new arrivals: “Here you will have no hope.  Here there will be no laughter.  Only the devil laughs here, and I am the devil.”

On the train home from Munich I sat at a small table with two middle-aged German women.  They were going to a concert, and over coffee and pastries we became friendly.  I asked them about the attitude in the country.  One lady looked over her shoulder and leaned toward me, “Here we have those who wish to be governed…to be told what to do.”  She lowered her voice and leaned closer, “They want a Hitler… a little Hitler.” 

I consider inaction now, along with anger and blame.  I think of people who see their land as a trash can, and I see fire.  How does all this fit?  To this mix a final image emerges: a table of 12 people who took the time to sit with me a few years ago and in doing so contributed possibly the final piece to this puzzle.  I did not know then how this kindness would one day prove to be the key to such a simple, if illusive, awareness.

The event was an Officers Candidate School reunion, held at Fort Knox, Kentucky.  Some 60 classes of perhaps 85 candidates each had graduated from Armor OCS through the late sixties.  This reunion was attended by many of these now-old soldiers.  I found it to be an excellent opportunity to gather a few of these officers together—some with their wives—to discuss the state of the nation they had sworn to protect against all enemies.  I was there along with two of my classmates, both with strong political positions that were different from my own, but we laughed our way through this.  The schedule was full, but we managed to gather a select group of officers and wives together for a one-hour discussion.  I had no idea what would come from this short time we would spend together.

I asked these individuals how they felt about the direction our country was taking, and what part they might play in this.  I told them I would simply moderate the discussion, to keep us focused on what was going on, and what they were doing or intended to do.  The talk was lively, yet both courteous and respectful.  The emotions were high, as many of these men had committed much of their lives to the service of their country.  

We had each taken the same oath to protect our Constitution, an oath we were never released from.  I was deeply impressed by the seriousness of these men, and the profound contribution of the wives.  Yet what struck me the most, by far the most, was the way each person listened, and considered, what his fellow officer or officer’s wife had to say.  Heads nodded as people thought over what had just been said.  This was so unexpected, so unlike anything I had experienced in any group setting where politics were discussed, that I had to wonder why.  What was the difference here?  I realized later, listening to the recodings, that it was because we all had gone through the identical six months of very difficult training; that we all had shared the same oath to our country; and that each of us had earned a membership that did not cost us a cent, but that we paid a high price to obtain.  And because of this shared membership, we listened to what our brothers, and sisters, had to say.

When I consider these events: the roadside rest area and Victor’s surprising words, the fearful and unyielding attitude of my close friend and how this hopelessness is rampant across our nation, the price of inaction, and the respect and tolerance that follows the realization that we are part of something far greater than the sum of our differences, when I consider these, a simple solution appears.  And that is to face problems and listen for answers, viable answers that go to a fix, rather than any personal gain.  In other words, to work toward accomplishing a mission, rather than to benefit from inaction and blame.  If we realize that our nation belongs to us, that we are one people, that we may offer the respect and tolerance we would receive as we seek to remedy the ills of our country, if we accomplish just these things we will have come a long way toward doing something we could do nothing about.

As for the part of the individual?  We each are but a small percentage of a large nation, yet no less a part than any other person.  We are limited only by what we tell ourselves.  Borrowing from “For a Dancer” by Jackson Browne, “Don’t let the uncertainty turn you around, go on and make a joyful sound.”  Anything we do, any action we take that results in a smile, will go a long way toward making a change.  It also goes a long way in changing the way we feel.

Stanley W. Odle

The Homeland Project Forum

24 January 2024