BETWEEN UNIFORMS AND WORDS: Struggle for democratic soul, shaped by 1971
NINETEEN seventy-one arrived, not as a year, but as a violation, a savage tear in the thin skin of what we dared call life. I was a child, a splinter of a being, four years old, yet the tremors of that brutal rending still reverberate in the hollow spaces of my bones. They call it the Liberation War, a tidy phrase for a messy, monstrous thing. It was the air we choked on, thick with...