I’m pretty cynical about a lot of “activism”. Too much of it either has poorly formed demands or hasn’t identified the decision-maker it’s trying to influence. Actions with core objectives like “let’s run through the streets and tell yuppies to die” may be exhiliarating but leave me empty afterward. Maybe it’s because friends were doing it, because Gandhi is so frickin’ cool, or because I wanted to shed some pounds before Burning Man, but I joined up on the Troops Home Fast on July 19th. I went for seven days, taking the opportunity to do a Master Cleanse, and didn’t eat anything until the 26th. I didn’t tell my mom until Day 5, knowing it would scare her.

Day 1, I was hungry. Hunger beyond any typical hunger, but never hopping the fence from a dull throbbing into the territory of pain.

Day 2 was very hot and I drank all the lemonade I had packed for work by 11:30. I ran home, only to discover I was out of a key ingredient. After a swift visit to the nearby grocer, I had assembled all of the necessary players. I drank one cup and passed out from exhaustion on the dining room table. I woke up an hour later and finished the bottle.

Day 3, I packed more lemonade. In fact, I discovered a juicer in our cupboard which made the lemonade manufacturing terribly easy. As I was told, I began to burn toxins and became irritable and impatient, every task seemed overly complicated.

Just in time, Day 4 rolled around and the living was easy. Hunger had become another emotion, like “angry” or “horny”, that I realized I could resolve in a variety of ways. That night I had a mint tea and even opening the package sent my taste buds soaring. Sparkles of flavor seemed to hang in the air. When it finally reached my lips, heaven.

Day 5 was practically a joke. The whole “paying for food all the time” thing seemed like a con.

Day 6 and Day 7 rolled together. I could keep going if I had to. People around the office, noting that I probably would make my goal of a week, began to enjoy subtly teasing me at this point. “Hey Stan, let’s get some Thai Iced Tea!” or “Hey Stan, we’re all going out for drinks after work.” For the record, I did go out for drinks, but stuck to my lemonade all evening.

My first meal was vegetable soup, at midnight. I ate it slowly and deliberately. Each vegetable seemed to shout its name as it slid across my tongue. It was remarkably complex. The next morning, a fruit cup delivered a similar experience. A single piece of banana tasted like a variety of different things, at once both earthy and sweet. Salads, a slice of nine-grain bread, a cookie. A secret new world of flavor had been awoken. I would eat them all slowly and deliberately, and break into a smile as I felt my body breaking them down into raw materials, becoming part of me.

As I was learning the difference between feeling “no longer hungry” and “full”, the fast was having an effect abroad. The Iraqi Parliament agreed to meet with the fasters and discuss the Reconciliation plan, if they’d call off their fast. There’s a long way to go, but unlike those actions I described above, I have spent a week empty only to feel exhiliarated afterward.