Last night I participated in one of hundreds of vigils that were held across the nation to honor the soldiers who have died in Iraq. We've reached the magic number - 2000. Of course, that doesn't count the ones who are mortally wounded and flown out just to die before reaching more advanced medical facilities. Or the ones who come home to die. Or who come home to years of agonizing treatment - physical or mental - for the injuries they've suffered. Or even the "collateral damage" to the families whose loved ones are lost or crippled or forever absent from them on an emotional level.

Each of those 2000 is like a pebble dropped in a pond. The concentric ripples of pain and loss spread from the epicenter of disaster, and they cross, and they recross, and they set up a low-level turbulence that distorts the normally mirror-like surface until there are not 2000 depressions in the surface that create spots on that which is reflected but rather a chaotic turmoil in which it is impossible to see a coordinated image at all.

It's just a number. But we made it an important number. Over the months, the war has lost the emotional impact it had in the beginning. A vet spoke of how odd it was to be there in the spring and realize that the world series was more important to most Americans than the human drama around him 24/7. Such denial is inconceivable. The vigil was called on 24 hours notice for 6:30 last night. As I walked to the square at 6:20, I noticed the TV trucks and thought, "Good! They're awake."

We gathered at a fountain in the cool dusky evening. At first, I saw maybe a dozen people, but by the time I set up my altar of seven candles next to someone else's pair of old boots and turned around, there were almost 40. The arc of candle-bearing sympathizers formed, and there were 50. By my last count, there were more than 60. SC DoP Campaign (me) was represented, as were Charleston Peace, Thinking People (local coordinators), Iraq Veterans Against the War, and perhaps other organizations of whom I was not aware. Several were holding pages from the New York Times with the pictures of the 2000. Our local press had not called that much attention to the event.

The TV cameras panned, did close-ups, zoomed in and out, photographed placards, faces, docile dogs, altar displays. The police were less conspicuous; they were few in number and stood outside the arc and maintained a respectful silent stillness. I sat next to my altar at one end of the arc with my stack of placards (peace sign, name, rank, age, town, cause of death, date of death) facing the group and pulled off the front one and put it to the back. After about 10 seconds, I did it again. I went through the whole stack, then walked around the back of the fountain to the other side of the arc and repeated the process. Then I went back to my original position and did it again. And again. And again. As I did this sort of manual slide show, I slowly scanned the faces and made eye contact with those who invited it. From time to time, someone would step out of the arc to take a starter from one of the altars to relight a candle, or someone new would join us by going to the center to get a cup and a candle and then join the arc.

A woman approached me who had lost a grown child and asked to hold one of the names. I flipped through the stack and she took Melissa. After the vigil, a young woman approached me to examine Jonathan's placard more closely. He was the nephew of an acquaintance; he was killed in combat in spring of '04, and she hadn't even known. I connected with three or four people from the propeace community with whom I was already acquainted.

I also spoke to others - strangers - who approached me as a leader - because of the placards, I guess. I talked to them about the DoP Campaign and gave out flyers and business cards. I told them about the weekly walking vigil we're starting in November every Saturday at 11:00 at that same place, and they said they'd come. Three young women said they'd be there later in the month; they were on the way to Arkansas to help pack supplies for disaster relief. "These people have big hearts," I thought. "They just didn't know."

Why should they know? They don't hunger for contact, for information, the way I do. They have lives - they are students, parents, career people - and they pay intelligent attention only to what is put before them. The New York Times puts it before them. While I was in DC, I noticed that the Washington Post puts it before them. The Charleston Post & Courier does not.

It was supposed to be a solemn occasion, but I came away positively jubilant. The people are awake. Even the media are awake. I don't watch TV, but two people saw me on the news - one last night and one this morning. Perhaps our homeless veterans (1/3 of the population of our downtown homeless shelter) don't need to die in the streets after all. The discontent is there. The compassion is there. May I have the strength to give focus and purpose to all that energy through the SC DoP Campaign!