By Victoria Koch

As an aging human, I have been trying daily to increase my gratitude and to look for miracle moments and joyous awakenings. Nature — Oregon’s majestic trees and mountains, the rolling ocean waves, the V-shape of a flock of geese flying over my house upon an amazing white clouded blue sky — has become my savior. 

I know I have been procrastinating in writing this essay about grief. It is a topic that has been tearing at my heart.

I am a widow. Ten years ago I lost my most dearly beloved husband to cancer. He was only 65 and an extremely good man, father and compassionate “mensch.” I have come to realize grief is a wave that comes and goes but never really goes away. And I understand death is a part of life, but when it comes too early or is caused by the wrong historic circumstances, I begin to wonder why. 

My father also died at 65 from an accidental fall from our childhood house roof while cleaning the gutters. I know every person on this Earth has and will experience the death of a parent, a child, a sister, a brother, friends and other family members. That grief is a given part of living. But let’s take a step back and see what has happened and is happening in our world history.

Yes, I have lived through the ’60s, the Vietnam War and the many American assassinations, the beginning of school and other senseless shootings, and I naively thought maybe by the time I grow old, there would be no more wars. Being raised with an overprotective, dominant father didn’t help. I escaped on the Education Abroad program to Germany in 1968 while the invasion of Prague was still continuing, and later I returned to Germany to teach Mittelschule English while it was still West and East Germany. 

Visiting East Berlin on my own pulled on my heartstrings as I met and became friends with an East German family. The World War II war-torn buildings were still in sight, and food came mostly in cans. My new friends could walk me to Checkpoint Charlie, where I was allowed to cross back to the West, but they could only wave me goodbye. And when the young man in this family had to join the Russian military, we could no longer exchange letters. 

The “Red Scare” was the language used to describe the terror and authoritarianism in Russia. Russia and communism were to be feared; Russian people were not to be trusted. On a Women’s Journey for Peace in the mid ’80s, while Mikhail Gorbachev was in power and Vladimir Putin was scheming to take over behind the scenes, I joined this group of Eugene women on a trip that finally helped me politically grow up! 

Broken into smaller groups, it was arranged for us to have dinners in several different Russian homes. On our journeys during the day, I observed how the lower class women waited in different lines to get bread or fruit or vegetables. The Russian elite had their special stores which we as tourists could visit. These stores were full of food, souvenir items, etc. Wandering into the lower class stores, the shelves were often empty or sparsely stocked. Though we brought each family special presents, I felt terribly guilty having dinner with our Russian families for all the waiting and searching for food they must have gone through.  

From the very beginning of our trip, starting with the city then called Leningrad, I cried in my hotel room every night. We visited larger cities and in each city we were welcomed by what might be called a mayor. All the officials were wonderfully kind to us. I continued to cry every evening. 

I noticed that no matter one’s age, everyone had to have a job. Older women were sweeping the streets; I randomly entered a photo exhibition on Tverskoi Boulevard, and the cloak room monitor was also an older woman. As I was about to pick up my jacket, this older woman motioned me in for a cup of tea. She had simple English and I had only a few Russian words, but we managed to communicate. She turned out to be a retired architecture professor. We gave each other hugs and small gifts from our countries. She will always be with me. 

The grief and tears from these earlier years now flood me in the present as I watch our dear America fall into a similar authoritarian trap. Billionaires are getting their taxes cut while the working class are having their much needed services cut. The downright cruelty to our Latino immigrants, migrants and asylum seekers is tearing my heart to shreds. 

Similar to Russian gulags and European concentration camps, ICE is rounding up many who are here legally, who have visas, who are hard workers and not criminals. Some immigrants are being detained in our “detention centers” with horrible treatment. Visiting the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site during my first year abroad, I wonder if these detention centers are America’s present-day concentration camps?

I have written many viewpoint columns in the Weekly on my experiences as an asylum-seeker sponsor. My asylees are now on their own, working more than full time. They walked from their home country to legally enter our country over six years ago. Oregon Community Asylum Network’s asylum seekers and South/Central American immigrants give more than they receive from our country.  

 I grieve as we all need to grieve. Our country has become downright cruel and inhumane. Much needed migrants who have been here for years are being sent back to countries that are not always their original homes. Families are being separated. Even young children are grabbed by ICE.

Six years ago, when I accompanied my asylum seeker to their first ICE check-in, we watched a young Latino mother and her three children crying in a corner of the room. ICE had arrested her husband and the children’s father to send him back home because they discovered he had illegally crossed the border to join his family. He was checking in, following protocol. For all those with any heart, American grief over our current inhumane actions is overpowering. 

While writing this essay, universal grief was brought home to me one morning as I recently walked to my yoga class. A lone woman stood in the middle of a sidewalk block crying, sobbing, screaming out her grief. She kept uncontrollably sobbing as my “mother instincts” to rescue her anxiously rose. I stopped, not sure I could help, and thankfully found another caring human with professional streetwise credentials. 

If our current grief hasn’t been enough, we are now involved in an illegal, life-costing war in Iran. I hear asylum seekers and immigrant children and their families crying; I hear sobbing in Iran and all over the Middle East; I hear American children crying because they are hungry and/or homeless. We, too, must cry on our streets, knowing what our government is doing is just plain cruel and wrong. Where do we go from here? 

We who are privileged and have enough must continue to sob and rage and shout on our streets, knowing what our government is doing is plain wrong! We must each find a compassionate way to give of ourselves and our resources. We must stand up and continue to speak, write, sing and care for all of humanity. 

Victoria Koch is a retired teacher, writer, gardener and lover of the positive human spirit.