This reflection by Craig Wiesner, a Jewish-American air force veteran, was delivered in Memorial Church, Stanford on November 11th, 2004 as part of the Envisioning an End to War interfaith service.

THE LUXURY OF CHOICE

Good evening. My name is Craig Wiesner. I'm fortunate that during my Air Force days, the only time I fired a weapon was during Basic Training. Given my performance, I believe the entire world is quite fortunate that the Air Force never allowed a weapon to find its way into my hands again.

While stationed in South Korea in the 80's, I was part of an organization now known as Air Force Intelligence. Please, no jokes about oxymorons. These days, I think the word "intelligence" in and of itself has become an oxymoron.

As a linguist, I was expected to study the culture of the enemy, North Korea, to help me better interpret what could sometimes be vague bits of data. That was difficult, given that the North was an isolated hermit kingdom and in my eight years of service, I do not believe I ever truly got to know this "enemy."

After leaving the Air Force, I fell in love with a Presbyterian. Now Presbyterians presented a culture nearly as mysterious to this New York Jew as North Korea's. I spent a lot of time at First Presbyterian Church Palo Alto, among wonderful people dedicated to peace, social justice, liberation theology and inclusion. I learned a lot from those Presbyterians. I learned that during my time in Korea, other Americans were not-so-secretly fighting wars in Central America. Six years ago, my partner and I sat in a candle-lit, tiny, brick house, as a Salvadoran family spoke of torture and murder, having been labeled as our enemy. Yet their love, forgiveness and hospitality told me that for the rest of my life I should be somewhat suspicious when anyone was labeled as my enemy.

Two years ago, I sat amidst the rubble of Afghanistan, and listened to the stories of a small boy, whose arms and legs were maimed by a cluster bomb and a girl whose house had been struck by a bunker bomb, killing her mother, her sisters, her brothers, her cousins and her aunt and uncle. Yet the stories of Afghans who had been terrorized and killed by the Taliban also became part of my story, part of the lens through which I read today's headlines.

I go to these places because I believe my duty as an American citizen is every bit as sacred as the duty carried out by our military. I have the luxury to judge the rightness or wrongness of our wars and the moral responsibility to make my feelings known. I can choose to put myself in harm's way to learn the truth, or stay safely at home. Our soldiers don't have that luxury. They do what they're told, trying their best to believe they're defending our freedom, our very lives.

This evening they are killing and dying in our names. Yet we'll turn on our TV tonight and the Peterson trial will be the top story. Veterans Day for most of our neighbors and friends means a day off from school or work, or a one-day sale at Mervyns. For others it is a reminder of wars past, an empty chair at the kitchen table, a lonely bed. For most, it goes by unnoticed.

For me, it is a day when I thank God that I never had to fire another round after I left San Antonio, and I pray that we find a way to send more Americans to sit on the floor and share stories in places like El Salvador, Afghanistan, North Korea, Iran and Iraq, so that we don't have to send soldiers into a nightmare that begins with the very first round they fire, and only ends at that last woeful note of a bugle, playing taps.

Thank you.