History Of The Peace Train
“The History of the Peace Train” documentary is based on the dream of one man, Jeremy Seligson. The story began in his youth and has carried on till old age.
It all began on one of those halcyon days when the sky is completely blue and curving over green, wooded hills. Three seven-year-old boys were progressing in single file between the rails of a train track near Silver Spring, Maryland. They jumped from tarry tie to tie along the way to the unknown, for they had never gone this way before. An hour or so later, they arrived at a shanty town, a collection of shacks on either side of the tracks. None had any idea that such a place existed so close to suburbia. They had never seen poverty before.
An old African-American appeared under the archway of a green hedge and said, “Boys, this place is called Toby Town. Would you like to step in here and see our wishing well?” One of the boys did venture inside with the kindly white-haired man.
Some yards back and completely surrounded by tall hedges was a rectangular cistern, deep with clear sparkling water. “Throw in a coin and make a wish,” he said. The boy dug into his overalls and pulled out a shiny penny. He stood at the edge of the cistern, which was wider than he was long. For some moments of silence, he concentrated and sought out a wish. Then he tossed the coin in the air. It landed, floating momentarily, Abraham Lincoln’s face up. Then it sank in a curve until about halfway down. It curved in the opposite direction and finally settled on the clean, white bottom.
What did the little boy wish for? Jeremy can’t remember now – too long ago. He does remember wishing though. Perhaps glancing up at the fine blue of that day, reflected in the water with my own image, he wished only for joy, the sweet, quiet joy and reaffirmation of the wonderful possibilities of life that, thanks to the man, he already had. He never went back to that spot, and shortly, with the expansion of the suburbs, it was wiped entirely off the map.
Of course, Jeremy and family returned home following the course of the same railroad tracks. This single file pilgrimage was my first experience of belonging to a Peace Train. It would leave me an optimist for the rest of my life. Even though my mother had died a few years before, he knew that there was magic and goodness on Earth.
The first job he had out of college was for Peace. In 1972, toward the end of the Vietnam War, he joined the Peace Corps and was employed in the Ministry of Land Reform for the Government of Haile Selassie. One agreement he worked on would allow nomads following the cycle of rains to cross unimpeded over the borders of Kenya and Somalia while grazing their herds. This yearly route was also a sort of Peace Train.
Later, he rode a train from Bombay to Mathura, India on a pilgrimage to visit the Birthplace of Lord Krishna, as he was also seeking the source of spiritual peace. Seats were full when he got on with a ticket, then seated boys in rags beckoned to him and other standing passengers to sell them back the seats we had already paid for. He refused and sat on my bag. When the train started, the poor boys scrambled out of the windows.
In Mathura, he crossed the holy Yamuna River by rowboat and returned with other pedestrians over the high railroad bridge, which was open to the air on both sides. It was single file along a narrow space beside of the tracks, through which one could see huge fish and great turtles swimming below. Hopefully a train wouldn’t be coming until each of us got over. A tricky moment came when he met a woman carrying a bundle on her head coming from the other direction. He clung to a pole while she inched around me.
A year later, he would ride a train over the bridge on the way south to visit various holy sites and saints on the same search for Peace. He lay on a 3rd class sleeper bunk waiting the sun, a red ball in the sky, bouncing over the horizon, travelling along with us.
“The History of the Peace Train” documentary is based on the dream of one man, Jeremy Seligson. The story began in his youth and has carried on till old age.
It all began on one of those halcyon days when the sky is completely blue and curving over green, wooded hills. Three seven-year-old boys were progressing in single file between the rails of a train track near Silver Spring, Maryland. They jumped from tarry tie to tie along the way to the unknown, for they had never gone this way before. An hour or so later, they arrived at a shanty town, a collection of shacks on either side of the tracks. None had any idea that such a place existed so close to suburbia. They had never seen poverty before.
An old African-American appeared under the archway of a green hedge and said, “Boys, this place is called Toby Town. Would you like to step in here and see our wishing well?” One of the boys did venture inside with the kindly white-haired man.
Some yards back and completely surrounded by tall hedges was a rectangular cistern, deep with clear sparkling water. “Throw in a coin and make a wish,” he said. The boy dug into his overalls and pulled out a shiny penny. He stood at the edge of the cistern, which was wider than he was long. For some moments of silence, he concentrated and sought out a wish. Then he tossed the coin in the air. It landed, floating momentarily, Abraham Lincoln’s face up. Then it sank in a curve until about halfway down. It curved in the opposite direction and finally settled on the clean, white bottom.
What did the little boy wish for? Jeremy can’t remember now – too long ago. He does remember wishing though. Perhaps glancing up at the fine blue of that day, reflected in the water with my own image, he wished only for joy, the sweet, quiet joy and reaffirmation of the wonderful possibilities of life that, thanks to the man, he already had. He never went back to that spot, and shortly, with the expansion of the suburbs, it was wiped entirely off the map.
Of course, Jeremy and family returned home following the course of the same railroad tracks. This single file pilgrimage was my first experience of belonging to a Peace Train. It would leave me an optimist for the rest of my life. Even though my mother had died a few years before, he knew that there was magic and goodness on Earth.
The first job he had out of college was for Peace. In 1972, toward the end of the Vietnam War, he joined the Peace Corps and was employed in the Ministry of Land Reform for the Government of Haile Selassie. One agreement he worked on would allow nomads following the cycle of rains to cross unimpeded over the borders of Kenya and Somalia while grazing their herds. This yearly route was also a sort of Peace Train.
Later, he rode a train from Bombay to Mathura, India on a pilgrimage to visit the Birthplace of Lord Krishna, as he was also seeking the source of spiritual peace. Seats were full when he got on with a ticket, then seated boys in rags beckoned to him and other standing passengers to sell them back the seats we had already paid for. He refused and sat on my bag. When the train started, the poor boys scrambled out of the windows.
In Mathura, he crossed the holy Yamuna River by rowboat and returned with other pedestrians over the high railroad bridge, which was open to the air on both sides. It was single file along a narrow space beside of the tracks, through which one could see huge fish and great turtles swimming below. Hopefully a train wouldn’t be coming until each of us got over. A tricky moment came when he met a woman carrying a bundle on her head coming from the other direction. He clung to a pole while she inched around me.
A year later, he would ride a train over the bridge on the way south to visit various holy sites and saints on the same search for Peace. He lay on a 3rd class sleeper bunk waiting the sun, a red ball in the sky, bouncing over the horizon, travelling along with us.