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Spilling Red

By Emily Sanner

What an amazing experience it was to be. A small-town girl in an ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps) program described as CULP (Cultural Understanding and Language Program). Yes, the Army and their damn acronyms. I hardly learned the ones I needed to know, let alone them all, before I was even getting out.

But anyway, I was selected to be a Cadet in the CULP Program; my trip was to Mozambique. Mozambique is south of Tanzania, North of South Africa, West of Madagascar, and East of Zimbabwe and Zambia. We would travel there for three weeks, and the "mission" was to include a variety of social and military learning (training with their cadets in physical training and security programs), humanitarian opportunities (in which we did visit an orphanage, but sadly only once which felt very useless in the end), and cultural exchanges, in which we did work with various youth "English language" programs in the capital city.

I got quite sick for 3 days, to the point I had to sit everything out each day and couldn't even get myself out of bed. I rarely get sick, but this was something either from the food my body was not used to or the malaria medicine we were taking every day that was already set to give us nightmares and cold sweats regularly. I did mend eventually and we had a really incredible ceremony with the Mozambican Defense Force. An officer from their force led us cadets, in rank, into their sacred temple in Maputo, the capital city. A torch was lit, and praises and commitments called for the harmony and unity of both nations. I'm just a green camo pawn in this weird sim experience, but without knowing, thinking this must be cool. It is really a beautiful thing for two nations to come together in harmony, not fighting, just sharing space inside a temple and honoring beautiful principles together.

This is not taught to the Americans as the standard but as something that must be fought for. So then everything becomes a fight. Peace isn't just accepted in America; it must be earned and violently fought for and can only be claimed for a small and exclusive population. Peace is a mystery to so many people.

The day after the ceremony, we would travel by van and motorcycle escort a few towns over, towards the coast, to meet with the higher echelons of the Mozambican Defense Force. To this day, I don't know what the meetings were about or what was said, as they were all held in Portuguese, the native language of Mozambique, because of their colonization by Portugal until 1975. My leader also spoke Portuguese by pure luck. Hence, as an Army Reserve Captain, she translated between their general and our highest leader on the ground—a Major.

The eight other cadets and I piled into a giant white, 15-passenger van, motorcyclist escorts who were Mozambican police equivalents leading us in the front and following us in the rear, at least 2 in each direction. I already knew this commute would be like the others here so far: rough, fast, and unlike any joy ride you take here in America. The sirens blaring on the motorcycles, to alert pedestrians and villagers who were simply going about their day-to-day lives that we, the United States Army (Cadets, mind you) in all its glory, were coming through. That alone made me feel a little weird, but by that point in the trip, I had started getting used to it, not accepting it, just used to it. Desensitized in a way that is just as the Army tends to do.

During that commute to the Mozambican Defense Force Cadet Academy, where we would be teaching the Cadets English lessons and about the structure of our Army, even though it was very similar to theirs. I remember this trip feeling extra bumpy compared to others as if we were late and flying through the streets despite it being midday and everyone in the city of Maputo being out in the markets and streets. We were headed slightly outside of the city, and I remember the colorful tent canopies around us, the sun shining in a blue sky with maybe a few puffy clouds, each selling a different textile below; the children playing everywhere, and the small girl we ran over in the road. The blood spilled from her in the street as I stared for as long as I could as we drove away. We didn't stop. Why didn't we stop? My mouth agape, I turn to my Captain, an actual Army Captain, the young lady who spoke Portuguese and had led us college kids very well on this trip. We lock eyes. She shakes her head and looks down at her hands. I do the same. Nobody else in the van says anything.

Why didn't we stop? Because America assumes it is the greatest nation in the world, they're immune. Immune from being held responsible for their crimes against humanity. Immune from all accountability. They assert themselves wherever they please and wherever they need.

Another thing I remember from that trip is being in the Grand Plaza Hotel in Mozambique as a college kid and staring down from my balcony at huts that lacked running water, sewage, and electricity and families that lacked stable income and opportunities. As fun and "cultural" as the trip was supposed to be, it was truthfully overcome with guilt, shame, anxiety, and doubt. Doubt for my future in this sadistic organization that could just turn a blind eye to blood spilling from a little girl they had injured. But that precious little being who was probably learning to read was not a human to them, to the organization of the military, and by proxy, it had to be the same for the men and women who served in it. And that, my friends, was me.

It was a devastating wave of feelings to take in all at once while in a foreign country.

The following week, we traveled to a southern region in Mozambique called Nampula. I remember on the way down there in an even smaller van and a much bumpier road, but less populated, we were stopped by some armed militiamen. We were never sure where they were from or who they were a part of. They did end up letting us go after searching our van and ourselves outside of it. They did not take any of our belongings and let us continue after my Captain negotiated in Portuguese terms I could not understand. It was another scary encounter where I felt my whiteness an intrusion in a place I, as a human, was welcome in, but as a part of this cult of the Army, I was not. Was this my destiny for the next 7 years of my contract? Barging in on nations and communities where I did have no functional place? What is teaching English in one day? Visiting an orphanage and meeting the kids in just one day in another? What are these encounters but for the white supremacist military? For the photos that show we do humanitarian missions, even if they do not impact the communities? For the photos of us training with other nation's militaries to show our peacefulness and cooperation, while at the same time we fight with China for each part of Africa as if it is nothing but land and resources to be taken. We see the world as subject to exploitation backed by the US war machine.

While it was supposed to be a peaceful mission for us to be in Mozambique as Cadets, we still set the tone for the United States to reign supreme. We still robbed life as if it was worth nothing while homing in on nothing but the target, the end goal of colonization and resource control of another rich landscape. This narrative and attitude will perpetuate until leaders at all levels assume risk and stand up for what is right and take accountability for the wrongdoings of the American Empire or refuse the orders that hold America in its most corrupt form, standing. May we all step back from the ranks that hold us hostage to a vicious force and a brainwashed perspective of the world. May we all genuinely serve and protect our communities in other, more sustainable, practical ways.

May we let love win so that we don't anymore, spill red.

Emily Sanner is a 28-year-old Army veteran from Hadley, Pennsylvania, who is currently active in her Pittsburgh community, organizing against the war machine.