Back when we were still in the middle of the great cartoon controversy of 2006, I saw a great image: it was a picture of a Syrian mother stomping on a Danish flag; I could tell she was a mother because she had her two-year-old in tow. And, I could tell that she was the mother (and not the babysitter, or the aunt, or the preschool teacher) because, when I say she had her toddler “in tow”, I mean that in the most literal sense: she was pulling this kid along the top of the flag like she was trying to pull a ‘56 Chevy out of a ditch. It was a still photo, but I’m guessing, judging by the level of grief and resistance on the boy’s face, and the level of determination and frustration on the mother’s face, that this kid’s feet hadn’t touched the ground since they left the house that morning. In fact, if, by some strange turn of events, this kid ever ends up someday running for President of Denmark (or Prime Minister, or Great Dane–whatever they call it there), I’ll bet he ends up using the Bill Clinton defense to justify his “youthful flag-stomping experimentation”: “Yes, I tried Danish flag-stomping once, but, you know, my feet never actually touched it.”
The photo also didn’t show whether there were any other flags being stomped on at the same venue, but frankly I would be quite surprised to find out that there wasn’t in fact, a virtual hootenanny of flag stomping going on that day. Think about it: what busy mother would take a two-year-old all the way downtown just to stomp on one lousy flag? Like mothers everywhere, this one was probably in the midst of a grand multitask, and that Danish flag was probably the third or fourth in a long line of flags they had traipsed across that morning before they got to the rest of their chores. If you looked at the picture closely enough you could almost see the mother’s lips forming the words, “Ok, stomp on Israeli, American, and Danish flags (check, check, check); now I just have to go by the store–we’re out of falafel and yogurt (must remember to get the one with Blue’s Clues on the box this time), pick up Abdullah from football practice–was it my turn to bring the snacks?–and, oh yeah, see if the dry cleaner was able to get that stain out of my new hijab–I should never have worn it to the protest in the first place, those effigy burnings can get so messy…”
Strangely enough, I find this picture to be very comforting. While it’s true that it reminds me yet again of the vast divide separating those of us who value freedom of speech over religious piety, it also–when I see that all-too-familiar harassed look in that other mother’s eyes–reminds me of all that we have in common. What mother has never dragged her unwilling and ungrateful children to some cultural “event” (whether you define “cultural event” as a flag-burning or viewing the remains of King Tut is up to you), only to have them act like they are being asked to walk over hot coals? And, as a corollary to this, what mother hasn’t thereafter given up on “culture” altogether, only to be chastised for it in later years? I can just hear that little Syrian boy complaining ten years from now:
Boy: “You never take me anywhere.”
Mother: “What are you talking about? What about that time we went to stomp on the Danish flag? Don’t you remember? You started acting all crazy and running around, and the next thing I knew you were over in the corner trying to stomp on the Syrian flag–oh it was so embarrassing”–
Boy: “Why were we stomping on the Danish flag?”
Mother (still thinking about her humiliation): “Hmm? Oh, who knows? We were always stomping on some flag back then; it was the fad…”
And as his mother launches into her verbal stroll down memory lane, the boy will roll his eyes and go back to playing his Game Boy. Just, I am sure, like our kids will do.