The possible circumstances that can develop in our lives at a moment's notice test our adaptability; furthermore, one does not realize at the moment how an occurrence may affect one's life on a personal level.

Recently, when my wife, Rhonda, and I were traveling in California, an unusual and historic scenario challenged our navigation skills, provoked our fascination and raised sensitive questions about our social responsibility and that of our native country.

The event to which I refer was the Los Angeles Grand March of 2006-a massive protest against the controversial immigration restrictions being considered, an event for which half a million people assembled to express the heartfelt indignity of Mexican Americans (and their supporters), many of the Mexican Americans likely the undocumented. 

Three days prior to this major protest that has subsequently fostered others, we had been guests at a newly constructed, spectacular and enormous luxury home of a friend, an ambitious doctor/entrepreneur who himself had carved a gross portion of the American dream, his Pasadena home perched the highest above the Rose Bowl, the expansive views including the San Bernardino mountains to the northeast, Catalina Island to the south and the famous skyline of Los Angeles 13 miles to the west. Considering the social context of a demonstration of largely the common populace, the stark contrast between our luxury quarters during this grand protest and the very modest, humble dwellings of the hard-working Mexicans of Los Angeles subsequently induced reflections regarding the "haves" and "have-nots" of this world, imposing an illogical but nagging sense of guilt by mere association to the extreme extravagance of this Pasadena castle. The peculiar contemplation points to the first of several questions: Do we understand th
e true costs of our own prosperity to others-socially, economically, politically and psychologically, despite the legitimacy of material reward for hard work and self-discipline?

What we first hypothesized was a very large Saturday morning First Communion celebration or a parade of folks walking to the bus en route to Chavez Ravine for a Dodger game was in fact the assembly phase of the momentous protest!

The common people had communicated among themselves as mysteriously as dolphins to carry out this event, and their manner was every bit as graceful as they flowed from all directions toward Olympic and Broadway. However, the sheer mass of the thousands upon thousands also created a chaotic scene that resembled the aftermath of an earthquake in which the masses are driven from their homes. The intrusive pounding of helicopter blades, the amplified voices on crackling loud speakers, the constant punctuating of horns amid unprecedented traffic and other city noises created audio havoc. We felt our energy level rise in sync with the adrenaline surge of Angelinos. 

Streets were useless upon accessing them, the traffic caused as much by the drivers' rubbernecking as by the hordes of jaywalkers. Vehicle operators, taken aback, for the most part yielded reverently to the crowds; horns blared more in support than out of frustration. The majority of the marchers manifested the unmistakable vigor of blue-collar workers accustomed to exercise and hard work. A substantial segment of the labor force of southern California had other things on their minds this Saturday, March 25. We were shaken but intrigued.

We could only imagine the influence these marchers had upon the southern California economy over the decades; we also surmised that only by the grace of the angels had this protest remained entirely peaceful, the visceral always difficult to contain. The obvious conclusion was that Los Angeles, the city of The Angels, had been appropriately named, for it had been built by Latinos for what was likely a song. And on this day, in this place, their behavior had been angelic, their march profound.

Perhaps the greatest coincidence of our trip was discovering the circumstances of a young man with no other name than Miguel. 

Watching and chatting with laborers who happened to be completing a retaining-wall project at my friend's house early that Saturday morning (prior to our 13-mile trip estimated to take about 40 minutes on a weekend),

I met one of the construction workers devoted to his task of edging a strip of stamped concrete. He was Miguel, a young father of three, his wife and babies some 2,900 miles away-from the campos outside of San Miguel de Allende! His black eyes sparkled as we spoke of his family. He would see these loved ones but once a year, but he called when he could afford it, his budget limited because of the relatively substantial amount of dollars he sent home to his family. Miguel and I conversed about the beauty of San Miguel, our special connection, as we looked incredulously at one another, pondering the astronomical chances of meeting when and where and as we did.

Having left from Pasadena to Los Angeles to conduct our business at 11am, we were now witnessing the inevitable frustration of those delayed in what was probably the worst traffic jam of their lives; it was 1:30pm, and we were crossing 5th Street and Broadway, and our destination was 9th Street. We later heard of the personal nightmares suffered by those in traffic, including the trouble of missing important appointments and plane reservations.

Considering, however, the magnitude of the march and the bottlenecking of traffic all over the city, most folks suffered mere inconveniences. Although law enforcement had wisely chosen a low-profile presence, medical emergency personnel could be summoned by traffic police who had given up the obviously futile task of controlling the unpredicted pedestrian masses. The frequent sounds of whirling helicopter blades announced more the enthusiastic presence of the media than the delayed presence of police officials caught flat-footed by the immense turnout.

Why were Rhonda and I now subdued, our exhilaration reduced? Had the emotional intensity absorbed our adrenaline, leaving our dispositions flat? Or, had a newly found sympathy taken seed in our hearts, quieting our spirits? Were we beginning to understand some basic principles at the core of the immigration controversy that were previously obscured by propaganda, politics and denial? 

We were nearing the 2 o'clock hour and weaved into a private parking spot reserved specifically for customers of the furniture store that owned the parking spots. How we arrived as closely as we did to our destination was a great accomplishment, considering that traffic, in many cases, had been diverted into nearly circular patterns that prevented drivers from getting from point A to point B. Incredibly, the store was open for business, and the kind parking attendant, who was a distinguished-looking male Hispanic, exuded the spirit of Maya Angelou's "caged bird," dutifully performing his assigned task. His manner somehow matched the pride and modesty of the marchers coupled with an understanding that this phenomenal protest (reminiscent of the peaceful, elegant King marches of the sixties) had been inevitable. We merely looked at one another, each lifting both hands, palms upward; my gesture was a question, his, the obvious resignation to the mystery of what was to have been.

Then, the final question flooded my thought process: Why did it take so many years for this issue to be addressed by our lawmakers? Had we enabled these folks labeled "trespassers" and "outlaws" in becoming comfortable in crossing our borders through our decades of complacency? Did we in truth have a part in contributing to the illegal border crossings? What recourse now existed for these half-million souls? Seasoned citizens understand that most politicians act only when the action is expedient in serving self-interest, and I had become keenly aware that the security concerns of the post-September 11 era could serve to launch an unrelated agenda. 

With our destination on 9th Street only two blocks away and the afternoon passing quickly, one would think that our effort to walk directly to our appointment would be both foremost and immediate. Having left the shell of our borrowed automobile, however, we now possessed only our skin to separate our inner selves from the outer experience. Any urge to beeline to our target was mysteriously absent. 

Our merge onto the broad sidewalk was subtle. The final convergence into the March of 2006 was anything but overt. We fused naturally, like music into air. We marched for two and a half city blocks, our spirits rising with each step. But even as I yelled out, "Viva, Mexico," I knew that our participation was not because of our being caught up emotionally in the moment-not a mere temporary joining of hearts. In fact, we had been forever changed. 

In closing, the Grand March of 2006 was not orchestrated by the ACLU. I can report that this demonstration was the real deal, with husbands and wives and children arm in arm. Will our senators in Washington be up to the task of grappling successfully with what may very well prove to be one of the most important issues of our history? If the United States Congress can find a way to balance the serious security issues of this complex time with the human side so vividly brought to light in the Los Angeles March of 2006, the deteriorating respect for US leadership could grow in leaps and bounds when the world requires leadership so desperately. 


Jay Vlasak is a retired California high school principal from the Bay Area.

Bush's hemispheric chickens come home to roost
By John Barham

Arriving in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in 1978, I soon discovered that I had much to learn about a culture with which I had little familiarity. Accordingly, I quickly enrolled in Arabic classes and in my spare time absorbed as much of the history of the Arabian Peninsula as possible. Because most of my colleagues at the university where I was a member of the faculty were Muslims, I also devoted a good deal of time to the study of Islam.

In fairly short order, I was able to distinguish between the theologies of Sunnites and Shiites and even began to understand the niceties of thought that separated the various schools of Islam, such as Hanbali and Malaki. I also came to understand the impact on the Arabian Peninsula of the fiery 18th-century puritanical preacher Abdul-Wahab.

My Saudi Arabian sojourn began in October 1978, which corresponded to the Islamic month and year of Dhul-Qaidah, 1398. The Muslim calendar is a lunar calendar, I would learn, and began with the flight of the prophet Mohammed to Medina in 622 A.D.

As I met more and more Muslims at the university, I was struck by what I considered, from the standpoint of my Western-oriented mind, the rigidity of their thinking. I came to the conclusion that the society in which I was living circumscribed my behavior in ways that many of my friends in the United States would have difficulty understanding. For example, there were no public cinemas and no nightclubs, and alcoholic beverages were officially banned. During the five periods of daily prayer, all stores, banks and public offices were closed. Women were prohibited from driving, and men and women who were not related could not publicly socialize. And, on occasion, I actually witnessed the mutawain, or religious police, forcibly herding the faithful to prayer at the nearest mosque.

Eventually, I came to the realization that I could be living in Calvin's Geneva, or perhaps even in Torquemada's Spain. After all, the Kingdom was (and is) an absolute monarchy and resembles a theocracy, inasmuch as it spends vast sums in placating the Sunni religious establishment. And, then, it dawned on me that I was indeed, by the Islamic calendar, living at the end of the 14th century.

Despite the achievements of the caliphates of Baghdad and Damascus and the intellectual and artistic feats of Cordoba and Granada, I came to the realization that Islam had never experienced a Renaissance, a Reformation or an Enlightenment. Therefore, working and living in the environment in which I found myself, I would have to adjust my thinking and not expect the individuals with whom I came into contact to share my Western views on democracy, multiculturalism, toleration, diversity and openness.

Some 20 years later, I saw the United States, based on false notions pertaining to weapons of mass destruction and terrorism, invade a Middle Eastern country ruled by a pitiless and ruthless dictator. Surely, I thought to myself, the administration must have advisors with backgrounds in the Middle East who will remonstrate with policy makers and enlighten them on how Iraq was artificially cobbled together by the Brits and how its various ethnic groups and religious sects would probably not be good prospects for revivalist-type appeals on behalf of democracy. 

Now, three years after the invasion of Iraq, the United States is burdened by an 8-trillion-dollar deficit, and its military is stuck in a cauldron of increasing violence and political instability that has the potential to upset what equilibrium there remains in a region of the world not noted for its stability. The folly of neoconservative ethnocentrism has resulted in a fixation on Iraq and Afghanistan and the neglect by American diplomacy of much of the rest of the world, and this is especially true for Latin America.

It is undeniable that anti-American sentiment is on the rise throughout Latin America. Despite early declarations during the first term of the Bush administration on the importance of the region, events in Iraq and Afghanistan have so overwhelmingly occupied the State Department that relations between Uncle Sam and Latin America have become their most embittered in years. This, in turn, has brought on a string of leftist regimes from Venezuela, Argentina, Bolivia and Uruguay to Chile and Brazil. And recent developments demonstrate that this is a regional trend that is growing. 

During April, it is a distinct possibility that Ollanta Humala, a former military officer who led a coup attempt in 2000, will come to power in Peru. Humala, an anti-American populist who flails away in his campaign rhetoric at "the globalization that has not benefited Peru," sounds very much like Hugo Chavez of Venezuela.

In Nicaragua, Daniel Ortega, leader of the Sandinistas and once the bête noir of the Reagan administration, is poised for a return engagement as president. It is scarcely imaginable that the man who lived through CIA schemes and survived Contra attacks in the late 1980s and early 1990s could be returned to power in the first decade of the 21st century.

In Mexico, as I pointed out in previous columns, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, a populist and leftist in his own right, is now leading all candidates in the run-up to the election for the Mexican presidency, which will take place on July 2.

What all of this results in is a tremendous failure for the Bush administration, which has, for all practical purposes, squandered away good will for the United States in Latin America. However, owing to the great amount of media attention going to the Middle East, this is a story with which the American public is largely unfamiliar. 

During the 20th century, numerous regimes in Latin America were either politically impaired or overthrown through the direct or indirect participation of the United States. Such actions have been likened to putting a wheel in motion at the top of a hill and then watching its progress. The movement of the wheel, of course, will be unpredictable. And so it is with extreme political actions such as golpes and coups d'état. Past actions, combined with recent bungling and neglect, may very well bring unanticipated dire consequences. With the proliferation of left-leaning populist regimes in Latin America, it would seem that George Bush's chickens are coming home to roost, and the numbers in the flock are steadily increasing.

John Barham, who has been visiting San Miguel de Allende for more than 18 years, has been a dean, provost and an associate professor of history in colleges and universities in Alabama, Missouri, Texas, New York and Saudi Arabia. He is presently superintendent of the University of Missouri Forest and is eagerly anticipating his imminent retirement in San Miguel.