The promise to make their stories heard

Photographs and stories of ordinary Iraqis were shown in Philadelphia's Independence Park as part of the American Friends Service Committee's traveling Eyes Wide Open exhibit July 1-4, 2006. The photographic display, titled "Dreams & Nightmares: Life and Death in Iraq," was the work of Linda Panetta, a Philadelphia-based human rights activist, photographer and frequent NCR contributor who visited Iraq in 2003 and 2004. The following is her reflection on the exhibit, the people she met there and her ministry for peace.

In Philadelphia, visitors and residents alike expect to see the flag waving and the spirited patriotism that are always part of Fourth of July celebrations. But in 2006, many were surprised while they walked through Independence Park to see an open-air exhibit of 8-foot-tall photos dedicated to showing the daily life of Iraqis, including the deadly toll of war on their lives.

The exhibit, organized by the American Friends Service Committee and 9-11 Families for a Peaceful Tomorrow, was visible from Independence Hall as well as the Liberty Bell Pavilion and drew scores of curious pedestrians en route to one of the many events taking place in the area. The vivid life-sized images of joyful and hope-filled Iraqis drew contagious smiles from people passing by, until they looked more closely at the stories and accompanying images of Iraqis killed and others traumatized by the war. Some people tearfully gazed at the exhibit, while others made boisterous comments, expressing support for the war, or opposition to it and, especially, to President Bush.

Included in the exhibit were more than 125 boots tagged with the names of soldiers from Pennsylvania who have died in Iraq. In 2005, the Eyes Wide Open Exhibit in Philadelphia had boots representing all U.S. casualties, but with over 2,500 dead, there are now too many fatalities for the limited exhibit space.

Several Iraq veterans came to find the names of buddies who had been killed; others came to pay their respects to loved ones. One man, who went by the name "Thomas Jefferson," was taken aback by the display of boots. A wounded veteran of Desert Storm, he kept uttering, "Why ... Why ... Why? They shouldn't be there! What's wrong with Bush?" He said he was strolling through the park along the path that leads to Market Street when he came across the exhibit.

"I was homeless for five years after returning from the war in 1991," he said. "Look at me. This is all that's left of me!" Pointing to his head with a trigger finger, he fought back the tears as he explained the trauma he has endured since the war. He leaned forward in his wheelchair and motioned toward his back, explaining where a bullet had struck him while he was laying down land mines. He has had two strokes and a heart attack--and he is only 34 years old.

My conversation with Thomas was interrupted by a woman who said it is the politicians who must take all responsibility for the war. I gently reminded her that every bullet fired and bomb dropped, and each body bag that is unzipped and filled with another young man or woman has every taxpayer's name on it. And although we may feel helpless at times, perhaps most of the time, everyone has a voice and it is our responsibility to use it to try to stop the bloodshed. She nodded and made her way to the literature table.

The second day of the exhibit Thomas had returned; he said he wanted to thank us. He pleaded with me for answers--struggling to understand how the war could still be going on. Long periods of silence would follow his reflections on the horrors he witnessed while fighting in Iraq. He came and went throughout the afternoon; at times I could see him off in the distance on the other side of the park, going up and down the path while gazing at the boots.

Rarely did he look at the faces of the Iraqis. But in the midst of one of our conversations he unexpectedly exclaimed, "I wouldn't have hesitated killing them you know!" Though a bit startled, I told him, "I believe that if you had returned to Iraq with me as a friend, they would have welcomed you as a brother." He snapped, "How would you know?!" I said, "Because they welcomed me as a friend and a sister."

I told him that I had taken many of the photos in the exhibit. He listened intently to my stories and experiences in Iraq, and after a while he smiled and apologized for his preconceived notions. Watching the anger and hatred of this stricken veteran melt into a tolerant and curious pose was just one of the many gifts that the exhibit offered.

During the planning of the Philadelphia exhibit I had received an e-mail from the pastor of a church in Santa Cruz, Calif. He had seen my photos exhibited at a Bruce Cockburn concert in San Francisco the previous year, and he requested 16 photos from six countries that would be blown up to 9-foot banners "to create a faithful setting for North American worship in the 21st century, an undeniable reminder of the world we live in and work in and vote in and act in and worship in."