CPTnet
22 August 2007
FORT FRANCES, ON: Reflections on the end of WWII

[Note: The following is an adaptation of a reflection, "The Cloud and the
Silence," written by CPT Director Emeritus, Gene Stoltzfus. The original is
available at http://www.gstoltzfus.blogspot.com/]

I was five years old on August 15, 1945 when the Japanese surrendered and
World War II ended. The news came to our farmhouse in Northeastern Ohio in
mid-afternoon by telephone or radio. As soon as my mother heard, she told
me to go to the barn and tell Dad because he would be very happy.

I ran to the barn full of energy because I was the bearer of good news. I
found Dad and said, "Mom said I should tell you that it has been announced
that the war is over." I remember the joy that came over my Father's face
and his first words: "Oh, I am so glad." In the distance, we could hear
explosions and Dad said, "I think that is the sound of celebrations." I
asked him what a celebration was. He said, "People are happy that the war
is over." I asked him who won the war. Dad said, "I think nobody won the
war." I was confused. The noise of explosions or firecrackers continued in
the distance.

The end of the war meant the end of a difficult era in which my Father gave
leadership and encouragement to those in our church who had refused to enter
military service. These efforts did not always bring respect from some of
our townspeople who saw the war as a just struggle against enemies and
tyranny.

A year later, when I was a first grader at the Aurora Elementary School, the
effects of that pacifist position came home to me in the school bathroom.
Two very big high school boys cornered me into a toilet stall and began
yelling at me that I was a yellow belly, a term I didn't understand although
I did check my belly to see if it was a different color from other people's
bellies. They yelled and swore at me that my people did not go to war and
shouted other insults. The power differential between us was overwhelming
and I responded with impeccable silence in what must have been my first
public expression of passive resistance. Finally, they left with the
warning that I would be beat up. I stayed in the toilet stall until I could
stop crying uncontrollably, whereupon I crept very quietly back to my
classroom and didn't tell anyone about the incident until I got home that
night.

Now fast forward to August 5, 2007 when I joined a group in Duluth who set
out on a walking vigil to remember Hiroshima. As we walked along the Lake
Superior bicycle path, some people greeted us with warm smiles. Others had
blank looks. One very large white man passed us and said with a booming
voice, "You people will never get it will you." For some reason his words
took my mind back to that day long ago in the toilet stall where I was
driven against my child's will into the defense of silence.