Notes from Otherground

It was an extremely cold day, but it wasn't the wind that was giving me the chills. As I climbed onto an electrical box on the side of the street, I felt like a young kid sitting on his father's shoulders straining to see the parade as it goes by. This wasn't just a parade though, it was much more than that. It was a million people with a single voice.

A million people. The number "one million" means so little to us in a day where athletes sign hundred-million dollar contracts, in a world that has more than six billion people.

Joseph Stalin once said that one death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic. But I was there, and seeing one million people was the most awe-inspiring sight of my entire life.

Back to those chills. The world hasn't been this scared since the Cuban Missile Crisis of the 1950s, back in a day when duck-and-cover videos, teaching American school children what to do in case of a nuclear attack, were shown in every classroom throughout the States. The world cringed back then, waiting for the moment when someone pushed the button. But nothing happened.

The Crisis was averted, and the Cold War eventually ended. Happiness and security returned to America and to the world. Until now. We live in a world today scarier than ever before. In the '50s you knew where your enemy was - across the Pacific, above China - the USSR was a tangible place.

Today we have no clue. Sure, we know al-Qaeda is the enemy, but can you tell me where they are? The world is afraid. There is nothing scarier than not knowing what's going to happen. Every day I wake up and check CNN.com, to check on the world, to see what's happened, to see if we're okay.

I'm living in North London right now while I study here, a mere 10 minute drive from where the terrorists who had Ricin were arrested a number of weeks ago. I'm scared. We're all scared. The one million people I saw on Saturday were scared too. But all these people came anyway. They marched with one voice, against a war they believe is wrong. History was made in the cold, dreary city of London on Saturday, Feb. 15. The largest protest in the history of Great Britain was held that day, where people from all of the United Kingdom descended on its capital city to say "No" to this proposed war.

Those chills hit me because I was suddenly hit with the realization of the world we live in today. I'm really scared. Within a number of weeks bombs could be dropping in the Middle East, American troops - members of which you or I may know - will be streaming across the desert. Countless people will die. People will be killed because they happened to lose the birth lottery - they were born in a country with an evil Saddam Hussein as its president, not an evil George Bush.

And if, or more likely when, this war comes, they will pay the price for losing that lottery. I stood in a pub last night, drinking a pint of Guinness, watching a silent TV in the corner of this two-story drinking hole. On it were images from the protests around the world this past Saturday. Millions across the planet are against this war. It's sad that it takes something as horrible as a war to unite so many people, but there they were.

This war is wrong. Yes, Saddam is evil. But we haven't done everything we can do. He has oppressed his people for too long, yes, but what could be more oppressive than our bombs and missiles murdering innocent Iraqi children?

We're all scared, but killing innocent men, women, and children halfway across the earth won't erase that feeling of fear. What it will do, however, is inflame hatred against America more than ever. Killing Saddam and his people won't get rid of Al-Qaeda, but it may add more members to its rank.

On Valentine's Day Colin Powell went before the UN and espoused more of his lust for war - for hatred and killing. On the day after the day of love, I saw true love. One million people marched down the streets of London to show their love for the innocent Iraqi - their fellow citizens of this world. And I marched with them.

Kevin Hoskins is a guest columnist for The Heights and a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences.