Activist Dreams

3-13-03: A Relief Worker in Amaz

I'm part of a team of relief workers in a middle-eastern country. I arrive on the scene of some kind of massacre in a refugee camp — many inhabitants of the camp were killed in some kind of poison gas attack. My role in the relief work is to talk to as many people as I can to find out what happened and what they think needs to be done. Officials from many countries are interested in this work. I encounter an official from the Egyptian foreign ministry, and I invite him to our next group meeting. He is very cordial, but I know his politeness and bonhommie covers a dislike of me and my group and hostility towards the work we are doing.

There is enormous disagreement about what needs to be done. Survivors of the attack and other and their sympathizers want the attack site converted into a memorial park for the dead victims. Other people want to put this terrible experience behind us all, forget it and move on. My group tends to be sympathetic with the refugees.

My work is to spend time alone with the person I'm meeting, interviewing them. An interview is arranged with a survivor of the attack, who turns out to be an American who had been living with the refugees in their camp at the time. For some reason it is very important that he be gotten out of the country without any government officials knowing that he is in fact an American. After he tells me his story, I arrange to have him smuggled out of the camp in the trunk of a car.

I continue my interviewing work, talking to everyone — people in the camp, government officials, other people in my team, reporters, local farmers, and so on. The head of our project, a middle-aged woman psychologist from Luxembourg, arrives in her car, a Deusenberg. She wants to me to show her around the camp. I escort her around, pointing things out, telling her what has been happening, what the team has been doing.

We encounter one of our teammates, a clean-cut American named Charles. The project head asks me if I had been able to spend time with Charles, clearly intending to arrange it if I hadn't. (Charles is quite busy and notoriously difficult to schedule time with.) "Oh, yes," I tell her, "Charles and I had a very good talk."

"Really?" she says. "How long did you have to wait to see him?"

"All my life," I answer.

3-17-03: The Activist as Action Hero

My dream last night came in three parts.

The first part is largely unremembered, but in it a young man went to Seattle to do something important. All I remember is seeing an advertisement for the Seattle football team, promoting community support after the team was trounced by the Detroit team in a seven-game stand. I saw this billboard while driving across the Aurora Avenue Bridge.

In the second part of the dream, the young man had been arrested, through some kind of treachery, and was facing a hearing before the city council to determine his fate — he might be put to death. I made my way into the council chamber to see what I could do to salvage the situation.

It transpired that the charges against him were based on lies and slanders passed about by a councilwoman, a blonde woman named Ortran. I denounced her as a liar and revealed the charges to be a fabrication. The young man was almost free to go except for one detail.

Another councilmember asked, "But what can we do about the threat of something-or-other?" (the pretext under which the young man was arrested).

I answered, "I'm sure you can rely on Ms. Ortran to stalwartly defend against that." There was some irony in my statement, but also an acknowledgment that Ortran had a genuine and important role to play.

In the third part of the dream, I was leaving the council chambers, noticing the city police officers standing guard on corners, relaxed now that the civic crisis was over.

Suddenly their radios crackle and they come to full nervous alert! There's a hostage situation developing on the other side of the building.

I race around the building and make my way through the crowd.

Ortran has taken a policewoman hostage. Holding the officer with one hand, with the other she holds the barrel of a high-powered sniper's rivle to the officer's throat. If anyone makes a move, Ortran will kill her.

The police are helpless. It's a standoff. Ortran demands that the young man be brought out to her, presumably so she can kill him.

I whisper to the policeman in front of me, "Give me your gun! Give me your gun!" He pulls it stealthily out of its holster and passes it back to me.

Concealed by the crowd, I have a chance of getting one shot off at Ortran. It has to count, in order to save the policewoman's life.

I get a chance at a clean shot and let it pass. Then another. I am afraid that the pistol I am holding isn't accurate at this range. I could fire and miss (or hit a bystander) and Ortran will kill the officer.

It has to be done — but while I steel my resolve and wait for the next clear shot, I awaken.