War's bitter fruit

Neo-conservative handiwork

Last weekend at the Oregon Democratic convention, John Bradach won election to be a national delegate in Denver this August. John supports Barack Obama and is an ardent and impassioned opponent of the war.

A few weeks ago, John Bradach was one of my choices for delegate representing the 3rd Congressional district, but his run was unsuccessful there. I'm glad he was elected as a delegate-at-large at the state convention.

The reason I supported John at the earlier convention was largely because of the story he told during his allotted speaking time between the first and second ballot. John told the story of how he was working at his law office in the Lloyd district on July 2, 2003, when his wife Cathy called to tell him that three marines were trying to locate his sister, Lynn Bradach. Lynn had a 21-year-old son, Travis, serving in Iraq. Cathy was worried that Travis had been hurt.

But John knew. "Marines don't come to tell you someone has been hurt," he told her. "Travis is gone."

And, in fact, Travis John-Nall was killed by a land mine on July 2, 2003. He was 21 years old.

Travis John-Nall

This tragedy is being played out hundreds of thousands of times, here and in Iraq. These are the bitter fruits of war. And I deeply resent the people who instigated it, who supported it, and who continue to try to justify it. They were so full of bravura and fervor and blood-lust, and so very far away from any real physical danger. I have small hope that any human justice will be served them.

We'll just have to trust in karma, which, I sometimes manage to believe never fails. And we'll just have to nurse these wounds that have been inflicted on us by this cursed war, knowing that they can never heal.



Travis John
by my friend, Kate Power, from Artichoke Music

Under a foreign sky,
My fate awaits me
There but for God go I;
Do not forsake me.
I am a boy, full of promise,
Full of freedom
And now the joy
Is dead and done
I am gone...

Before the western sea,
My home was in the valley.
There with my family
I took to manhood early.
I was the one
My brother called,
My mother looked to me,
Her fine, strong son;
And now the joy
Is dead and done
I am gone...

Finding my way to go,
The call that I should answer
My country's own hero,
Like music to the dancer.
I am a boy, full of promise,
Full of freedom
And now the joy
Is dead and done
I am gone...

Under a weeping willow tree
You planted roses.
There in my memory
Where my eternal ghost is.
I was a boy, full of promise
Full of freedom;
And now the joy
Is dead and done
I am gone...