Meet Kyle Wesolowski, Conscientious Objector

"The whole
idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence
of all these living beings, which are all part of one another, and all
involved in one another." -Thomas Merton

Specialist
Kyle Wesolowski is eagerly awaiting the return on his Conscientious
Objector packet, which he submitted last fall after writing three drafts.
"The writing process was really rigorous," he explains. But Kyle
isn't twiddling his thumbs while his command debates: when he isn't
handing out flyers to JROTC recruits or planning demonstrations, he's
creating what he calls an "activist veterans' commune" at his
house outside Killeen, Texas. Kyle lives with other anti-war activists,
and explains: "We have a spare room, and I want a new activist visiting
every month, supporting local GI organizing and working on their own
projects."

Kyle is stationed
at Ft. Hood, the nation's largest military base, near Killeen, Texas,
a historic site of resistance: from 1968-1972, Killeen was home to the
Oleo Strut, a legendary GI coffeehouse, which played a large part in
GI & veteran anti-war movement. Continuing that tradition is Under
the Hood Cafe. In addition to its role as an open community center,
Under the Hood offers support services for soldiers, including counseling
referrals, legal advice, and GI rights information. The cafe-and
its supporters-are supporting Kyle, who is only one among many active-duty
GIs showing tremendous courage in resisting in diverse ways the US-led
War on Terror in Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Yemen, and other countries.¹

Kyle's transformation
from willing soldier to war resister might seem strange-mystical even.
These transformation stories require rupture points, when reality is
exposed and lies become evident: consider the dramatic story of anti-war
Vietnam veteran Ron Kovic as portrayed in Oliver Stone's Born on
the Fourth of July). However, these popular narratives frequently
obscure more complicated realities. Many GIs and veteran resisters may
not have been sold completely on the US military to begin, but any hesitancy
could be outweighed by financial need, compelling military rhetoric,
or another reason. Indeed, what is frequently referred to as a process
of transformation when a soldier becomes anti-war might be more
accurately called a process of confirmation.

While deployed
in Iraq, Kyle picked up an introductory book on Buddhism at a chaplain's
office at his operating base and was struck by what he read. Reflecting
on his experiences in the field, he uses a beautiful metaphor to explain
his realization: "The story of the Buddha really brought it home for
me: even though soldiers aren't that well-paid, we're still much
better off than the Iraqis, and sitting on top of that MRAP, I felt
like a prince looking out at people suffering. That was all I saw. People
dying, people starving."

His comparison
is astute, with a key embellishment: the Buddha-to-be was disturbed
by the existence of suffering outside the confines of his protective
palace (i.e. the suffering that exists in the world "out there"),
but Kyle-going even further-recognized his complicity in
the suffering he witnessed every day. He quickly realized one of the
key concepts of Buddhism: interdependence. No matter what kind of "us
vs. them" rhetoric he was exposed to, or how much he was told to "kill,
kill, kill," he felt inextricably connected to those at the end of
his gun. In Buddhist terms, we are all responsible for one another,
tied up together in existence.

That also goes
for those of us whose experience of war is primarily mediated by images
and stories: although we perceive the suffering of Iraqis to be a phenomenon
that exists "over there," you and I carry that suffering around
within us, 8,000 miles away from the war. The Buddha realized this truth
(i.e. was enlightened) sitting under the Bodhi tree. Kyle's realization
was expedited by the horror of his situation.

Like a lot
of young people in the jarring & uncertain political climate after
9/11, Kyle felt compelled to join the military to defend the world in
which he lived. Previously involved in the punk community and a vegetarian,
he hardly fit the stereotype of a military recruit-which says more
about the media's representation of the military than the reality
of it. In the 5^th grade, he told kids in the lunch line that
he was an atheist and took hell for it. The perpetuation of one-dimensional
portrayals of our military disregards the stories of folks like Kyle,
folks who find themselves in ethically complex situations,
eventually risking all they have to do the right thing.

The key moments
for Kyle were all anomalies, moments when the narratives were ruptured,
when he confronted the reality of his situation beyond the denial and
repression of military culture. One of the most significant anomalies
for Kyle occurred during the last few months of his tour, when his unit
was sent down to the southern suburbs of Mosul: Kyle's platoon lived
at a combat out-post and, like all residences, someone had to take out
the trash. The trouble came in that the trash contained a lot of edible
food (mirroring US waste patterns). Kyle recollects that a good portion
of the food was sealed in cellophane packaging, or in unopened boxes.
There were whole loafs of bread, bruised but edible fruits and vegetables,
and other food. Disposal comprised of dousing the trash (i.e. food)
in JP8 fuel and setting it on fire.

As Kyle witnessed
on his first trash detail, Iraqi children came from all over to try
to salvage what food they could. The first time it happened, Kyle's
platoon wasn't sure how to handle the situation, and allowed the children
to take what was left after the fire had decimated much of it-but
after the incident, they were given strict orders to bar children from
taking food from the garbage.

"It was like
something from the Twilight Zone," he relates. "The children were
starving. They knew that the food was coming out, and they'd come
from the desert hills a kilometer away." He related the story:

They would
get closer and closer and as the distance between us shorten their cries
got louder. We would push them back and intimidate them as they screamed
and cried for the perfectly good packaged food goods that us soldiers
deemed unworthy for our stomachs but edible food nonetheless. I hated
doing the trash detail with a passion and seeing the poor children suffer.
Our own American tax money burned in a fire pit, while Iraqi children-who
we were supposed to be helping-were begging for our trash.

The humanitarian
situation in Iraq is a mess. Where Kyle was stationed, some areas were
lucky to have power for two hours per day, there was raw sewage running
through the streets, and clean water had to be hauled around. This is
a reality of occupied Iraq, which may be seeing less combat than in
the early years of the war, but is populated by what Kyle calls an "abandoned
population."

Kyle's new
feelings were personally and socially alienating, and put him increasingly
at odds with his command. Even his friends noted a difference, interrogating
him on the field: "What, are you a Buddhist now?" He would lie and
say no.

This radical
perspective crystallized and became outright refusal after Kyle made
a connection with two young Iraqis girls in the town of Hurriyah, where
his platoon regularly patrolled. "They were the sweetest little girls,"
he says. Every time they went through Hurriyah, Kyle would find the
girls to talk or goof around-all while sitting in his vehicle. He
didn't want to get out because he was armed: the senseless violence
represented by the weapon would have been too much. It wasn't worth
risking; as Kyle admits, "those girls were all that was keeping me
sane."

One day, while
another platoon was in Hurriyah on patrol, a truck started barreling
down the road toward the US military's convoys. The platoon used "the
proper escalation of force": after failing to make contact, they took
a warning shot at the speeding vehicle. But it didn't stop, and so
soldiers shot into the vehicle. Two bullets went through the truck;
one struck a young girl on the road. Although the soldiers offered to
take the girl to a US hospital, the community distrustfully refused,
and she died.

When Kyle heard
the story, as part of his command stating that they wouldn't be patrolling
Hurriyah for a period of time (US military protocol)-he was horrified:
Was the girl who was killed one of those he knew?
He was in anguish for days, and finally admitted the depth of the suffering
he was going through as a soldier. The event marked a complete spiritual
rupture. By the time he found out that the girl wasn't one of those
he knew, it didn't matter anymore: his ability to fight had collapsed;
he was done.

Kyle went to
his command and told them he could not kill another human being. He
was suffering severe depression, and said that he was suicidal. He was
brought into a Combat Housing Unit, where those at the meeting proceeded
to yell at him for his weakness and insubordination, then stripped him
of his weapons and ammunition. The next day, Kyle's command asked
him if he was "willing to do [his] job," an admittedly tricky question.
"I just can't kill anybody," Kyle responded. They repeated, "That's
not what we're asking you. Are you willing to do your job?" Kyle
said yes, but his consent was hollow. "I would have been killed, because
I wouldn't kill," he explains. "They were willing to put their
own troops in danger. It sickened me."

Confused and
depressed, Kyle went on leave. Before he left, he went to talk to the
chaplain on base and explained his situation. Back at Ft. Hood, Kyle
had a rough few months before deciding to get himself together. He started
a Buddhist meditation practice (he even shaved his head-one
of the few things GIs and monks have in common). He re-adopted vegetarianism
and started taking care of his health: previously a long-distance runner,
he picked it up again.

One fateful
day, he was driving through Killeen when he saw a black flag streaking
across the sky. "It was about the last place you'd expect to see
that! I almost crashed my car," he relates. "I spun around and drove
towards it. I had to see what it was about." The black flag was being
flown at an anti-war protest organized by Under the Hood. Kyle introduced
himself to the folks at the demonstration. Soon enough, he was writing
his Conscious Objector packet.

In an official
statement, Kyle described the system of informal punishments meted out
to him because of his objection:

[...] My
experience of physical threats, religious persecution, and general abuse
seems to speak of a system that appears to be broken. This is evidenced
by my exhaustion of all of the Army avenues as stated above to resolve
my issues: (1) speaking to my chain of command on several occasions,
(2) the article 138 process, and (3) an IG complaint. Having taken these
measures with no avail (and given my unit's decision to send me out
on field exercises) it appears that I have no other recourse but to
now refuse all duties that prepare myself for war or aid in any way
shape or form to other soldiers in conditioning them to go to war. Therefore,
in compliance with Army regulations, I refuse to take part in any field
exercises that go against my core values as a Buddhist such as but not
limited to: handling of ammunition and weapons under any circumstances,
maintenance of any army vehicles, taking part in any classes in army
job education as these activities prepare either myself or others for
war. Participation in such activities is perpetuation of war, which
is an objection of my conscience.

Kyle-like
the many other active-duty and veteran resisters-cannot be silenced,
and reflects, "Even as I'm waiting on the answer [regarding my CO
status], it's therapeutic to do actions." He sees the Ft. Hood/Killen
area-not Washington-as the frontline for ending war. "I'm sick
of the DC protests . . . It needs to happen here, in the conservative
heartland." He hopes that the activist residency he is creating will
support this kind of work. Regarding the house, Kyle hopes that veterans
will be interested in coming down for a month, especially disabled vets
who may be able to take a month off (though he welcomes civilians).
The planning process is nearly complete, and by February, there should
be kickoff events happening to celebrate the opening of the residency.
In addition to the myriad projects mentioned, Kyle is in the process
of reorganizing IVAW Chapter 38 at Ft. Hood.

And Kyle's
Buddhist practice continues, giving him the solace he needs while doing
such brave and uncompromising work.

He invites
anyone interested in participating in the work-particularly the activist's
residency-to contact him. His email is KyletheCO[at]gmail.