Iraqi Vote Renews a Respect for Civic Duty

Nov. 2, 2004. Election day in Orange County. Now that I think about it, it seems like yesterday, mainly because of one stress-inducing moment after another. Brother, the stuff we put up with just to vote.

It was the Bush-Kerry presidential decision, of course, but the thought crossed my mind at various points to take an electoral powder. In a state of 30-some million people, my vote always strikes me as inconsequential. And all those propositions and local races? Enough to give a guy a headache. Still, my show-up record at the polls is very good, so I intended to soldier on, always mindful of the personal sacrifices I make to cast my ballot.

Last year was especially tough. For starters, I had a column due the next day and no clear-cut idea what to write about. Fearing my Tuesday workday might stretch out, I went to the polls around 8:30 a.m., but my normal polling site had been changed, and I was too rushed to check out the new site.

I got to the office around 9 and decided to go find a first-time voter to interview. For no particular reason, I picked the city of Orange and headed to a polling site. I hung around for a while, with no success. Frustration mounting, I got the bright idea to head over to Chapman University where I found a delightful college student who gave me a good interview.

Back to the office, I frittered away some time before finishing the column in the late afternoon. Hmm, still time to vote. What I really wanted to do was get home and watch TV commentary, but I did my duty and went to the polling site.

What a hassle. Once there, it wasn’t immediately clear that you started in one line, then went to a second line to await your turn. Wasted a few minutes on that one. Then, there was the problem of figuring out the newfangled voting machines. Not to mention that it had gotten kind of chilly standing outside the polling place.

The whole thing took 45 minutes or so. I trundled on home, self-satisfied for overcoming all the day’s obstacles just to cast a measly vote.

This all came back to me while reading the Monday coverage of Sunday’s Iraqi election. And, perhaps even more compellingly, looking at the cavalcade of photographs that, all by themselves, told the story of the incredible courage of Iraqi people who voted.

Like the front-page photo showing the long line of voters, being frisked one at a time, under armed guard. Or the one that caught the man holding his aging mother in his arms as she dropped her ballot into the box.

Or the photo of Iraqis dancing around their flag on election day with all the merriment associated with a wedding reception.

Or the headline that read, in part: “I Kissed the Ballot Box.”

Or the caption that quoted a voter saying, “Today is a day of celebration that makes me forget the sons that I lost.”

I thought back to last Nov. 2. If memory serves, I was unworried that anyone in line was a suicide bomber. Or that, as I walked to and from the polling site, a sniper would shoot me. I knew I wouldn’t be frisked. I knew I didn’t have to walk for hours just to vote, because roads were closed as a precaution.

And I knew I wouldn’t cry with joy after marking my ballot.

This isn’t meant as a political column. I don’t know if democracy will take hold in Iraq or the Middle East. I come neither to praise George Bush nor to chastise him.

I’m simply adding my name to those in America and around the world who recognize courage when they see it and who can, with more gusto than usual, be thankful for the strange intoxicating power of casting a free vote.

The next time I do that -- probably next year -- I’ll take a moment to remember the unknown number of Iraqis who risked it all to vote in 2005. The people who danced and cried on election day.

I’ll never match their passion, but I promise not to say a word about what a drag it is to cast a vote.