Dream, dream, we're coming out of the night.
Let's close our eyes and dream of the light.
Dream of new tomorrows, from the rubble of today.
Dream of things that we can do,
To build a better way.
This is a true story. Everything in this story is true except for the parts that haven't happened yet.
There was once a very old man who had lots of grandchildren. He loved to tell stories. And at night the children would come and beg him for a story. He would gather them up in his lap and ask, "Which story do you want to hear?"
"Tell us grandpa," they would all shout, "the one about the war that never started." And then Grandpa began.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a young man who went on a trip to the Bible lands. He visited Lebanon, Egypt and Jordan. He crossed over the Jordan River into Palestine and Israel. He visited refugee camps and Holocaust museums and stayed in people's homes. He even got sick and spent a couple of nights in a Jerusalem hospital.
One afternoon on the trip, he met an American volunteer working in Beit Jala, at a Palestinian boys' school. He was so impressed with how this American could speak Arabic. It just flowed. He felt a deep stirring in his tummy. He wanted to come back. He wanted to go to Beit Jala. He wanted to learn Arabic.
When he returned to the United States, he applied immediately to the volunteer agency. On the form where it said, "Where do you want to serve?" he wrote by the line for preference 1: Beit Jala; preference 2: Beit Jala; preference 3: Beit Jala. He mailed off the application. And then he waited. Three months later the agency called. "We are closing the position in Beit Jala. We cannot send you to the Middle East. Too dangerous. Too much fighting. Too many problems at the school." But the agency had other suggestions. "We can send you to a horse farm in Poland or to a university student housing project in Belgium."
The young man went out that night and looked up at the stars. Perplexed and confused, he called into the sky "Why, God? Why not Beit Jala?" But he did not hear any answer.
So he chose Belgium and he learned French. And lived with Africans, Arabs, Asians and Latin Americans. And late at night around a chessboard he learned about the world. After three years he went to Spain and learned Spanish. He visited people who were in jail because they did not want a military dictatorship. He walked all over Spain seeking people's stories about the war and their desire for peace. And he learned about struggle.
In the midst of the rain that's falling,
Midst of the storm a calling.
Midst of the dark, dark of the night,
A dream of the light.
After about five years he came home to finish college. He got a degree, but more importantly he got fifth-degree burns being swept off his feet by the most beautiful, vivacious, olive-skinned, A-1 choice of a young woman he had ever expected to meet, and there she was right there in Hesston, Kan.
They got married and went back to Spain, then on to Central America. They got into all kinds of good trouble and got chased around. But in the end they helped hundreds of new friends end a war in Nicaragua. The young man learned about suffering and commitment. He learned peace might be possible. They came home to teach young people about this idea, and that is how the young man came to be at a community church in Harrisonburg, Va.
One Sunday at church a man with a funny walk and crooked glasses stood up and said, "I have a dream that I am going to teach the world to speak languages through computers. And our world will be better for it." The young man smiled. He liked languages. He told the man with the crooked glasses it was a good idea.
Time went on. The young man and his wife had children. They grew up. The children played basketball. They sang in choirs. Actually, the young man was not so young any more. He had some gray hair and his belly started to flop over his belt. He traveled to a lot of places where people were fighting. He had a weird job nobody could explain.
When his son was asked by a teacher at school, "What exactly is your daddy doing in Somalia?" His son replied, "My dad has gone there to tell them to put their guns away and eat their food." That is what he did, this not-so-young man.
Then one day he was flying on a plane to Tajikistan and he picked up the airline magazine. And right there on the back cover he saw an advertisement for the computer language program straight from the friend at church with the funny walk and the crooked glasses. His finger went across all the languages until it stopped at Arabic. Then he thought about Beit Jala. And his stomach stirred.
When he got home, he looked up his friend with the crooked glasses. "Listen," the not-so-young man said, "I saw your advertisement in the magazine. I have just come back from Tajikistan and nobody there speaks any English, and they really need to see your program. And... I want to learn Arabic. I have a laptop with a DVD. And I want to learn Arabic." His friend with crooked glasses gave him an Arabic language CD.
It happened in the sunlight of the day.
Filled with fear that would not go away.
A rising pile of rubble in the haze.
And I couldn't even find the strength to pray.
No, I couldn't even find the strength to pray.
On his very next trip, headed for Colombia and Guatemala, the not-so-young man took along the new Arabic-language CD. On the plane he put on his earphones, fired up the laptop and started his first lesson.
"Walad!" "Kalb!" He would repeat the words as the pictures on the DVD flashed by. He noticed his seatmate on the plane looking at him as if he were an oddball.
"I am learning Arabic," he said, a bit embarrassed. "Walad wa kalb. The dog and the boy," he said in Arabic, pointing at the screen.
Then it happened. Before he could return from his trip, some men hijacked and crashed airplanes into New York City and Washington, like a knife in the heart of America. It was horrible. It made the not-so-young man sick to his stomach. And angry and sad.
Late one night, stuck in Guatemala, he went out on to the hotel rooftop and looked up at the stars. Perplexed and confused, he shouted into the sky, "Why God? Why now? Why so many innocent people?" But he did not hear any answer.
The not-so-young man wished he were home with his family. But it could not be. No planes were flying. Everyone was afraid. He listened to the news reporters. They said the hijackers were Arabs. They found Arabic manuals and books in the rented cars.
The not-so-young man felt his stomach stir. He sat all alone in his hotel room, took out the Arabic-language CD and looked at it. "What should I do?" he wondered. They were pulling people off the airplanes with Arabic connections. He sat for a long time.
Then he pulled out the only compact-disc jewel box he had in his luggage. It was from his daughter's high school choir. The title said, "I Can Tell the World." He put her CD in his computer and listened to track 3: "Now is the Cool of the Day."
Ah, the music felt good. He looked at his Arabic-language CD. He looked at the high school choir CD jewel box. Then the not-so-young man smiled and said out loud, "That's it!"
He put the Arabic-language disc from his friend with the crooked glasses into his daughter's high school choir CD box, walked to a post office and mailed it home.
A week later the not-so-young man spoke at a church retreat and told his community his story, all about Beit Jala, learning Arabic, the computer language CD and the high school choir. Then the next week he told the same story to 500 school teachers at a big conference. And then next week he told the story at his daughter's high school. Each time he ended with the same idea.
"You see," said the not-so-young man, "just like the high school choir CD box 'I Can Tell the World' nestled its loving arms around the Arabic CD, so too can we wrap our arms around those we are told to hate. We have to find a way to understand each other in this world, and I have a proposal," he said.
"With financial support from churches and the computer language program, we will make available free Arabic language CDs to all American high schools so they can learn Arabic, with two conditions: First, that each school agrees to find and develop a relationship with a sister high school in an Arabic-speaking country. And second, each high school must convince one other high school in the United States to do the same."
Of course the not-so-young man had not consulted with his friend with the crooked glasses who owned the computer language program, but he figured his proposal might have greater moral persuasion if it had the whole community behind the idea.
And behind it they came.
His daughter's high school got so enthused, they started an after-school Arabic club. Over 60 kids signed up for free Arabic CDs and started lessons. They invited local Arabic speakers into their classes. They found their way to a sister school, one in Jordan and one in Syria. And their United Nations club convinced two other high schools to join them. But more importantly a local newspaper published an article about their efforts. Once it got on to the news wires, Good Morning America called and interviewed a couple of the kids and the choir even sang on national TV. Within a month the idea spread.
The man with the crooked glasses said he gave away 5,000 Arabic CDs and a whole bunch of English ones to the Middle East.
Exchange programs jumped up all over the place. Soon there were hundreds of high schools all over America learning Arabic and writing e-mails to new friends in the Middle East who were learning English. It was no longer an idea. It had become a movement.
Fear turned into anger from that day.
"Revenge," it could be heard along the way.
Somewhere in the night a soft voice would say,
"Hold fast and dream about the light of day."
The whole thing got so big that it finally reached Washington, the national security advisers and even the President's Cabinet. It seemed this movement had better connections in the Middle East and Central Asia than anyone else in the country. There were pen pals everywhere, and some were even going for visits. The national security advisors were curious and just had to know more. They invited the leaders of this movement to Washington. They were surprised when three teenagers showed up.
The advisors did not waste any time. "How in the world do you propose we achieve peace?" they demanded.
"Walad!" said one. "Kalb!" said another. "The boy and the dog," smiled the third.
"What kind of answer is that?" A security adviser could hardly believe his ears.
"Learn Arabic," the teenagers responded. "And remember Abe Lincoln!"
The Grandpa paused, the last words still hanging in the air. The children watched his face carefully until one of them could wait no longer. "But Grandpa," she burst out, "what about Abe Lincoln?"
"Well," Grandpa responded, "Ole Abe Lincoln once said that the only way to truly get rid of an enemy is to make him your friend."
"And so did that war ever start, Grandpa?" another one asked, looking at the old man.
"Oh, the war started," said the Grandpa. "But the amazing thing was that the second and third wars never did. Too many children grew up speaking Arabic. And I guess maybe they just finally understood what President Lincoln meant."
All was quiet again. Then one of the children asked, "Did the young man ever get back to Beit Jala?"
The grandpa thought for a while and then shook his head. "He never went back to Beit Jala. But you know, Beit Jala never left his heart."
Late that night, when all the children had gone off to bed, the grandpa went outside and looked up at the stars for a long time.
Then he just whispered, "Wow, God. Wow!"
Some dreaming has been done since that day.
Singing, telling stories 'bout some day.
We shall overcome, they used to play.
Building new tomorrows from the rubble of today.
Building new tomorrows from today.
Dr. Lederach, founder of EMU's Conflict Transformation Program, is currently professor of international peacebuilding at the Joan Kroc Institute of International Peace Studies at Notre Dame University. He continues part time at EMU as a distinguished scholar.
Dr. Herm Weaver, whose lyrics appear in italics, is assistant professor of psychology at EMU. His avocations include singing and songwriting. He is also a former pastor and roofer.
