Clocks. Keep. Ticking.

On War and Conflict.

Photo by Javad Esmaeili on Unsplash

This week I struggled with focusing on content that’s Bali-specific because so much is occurring worldwide. I’ve written about why I stayed in Bali but I haven’t said much about why I left America. This week, I can’t forget.

Most of my life, I’ve struggled to feel safe. I grew up with emotionally immature, unkind parents, when I was not being ignored by them. I learned to answer my own questions in order to remain safe.

I taught myself how to cook, bake, bathe and pay bills. I was not really prepared for parenthood, or adult life when that time came.

My first husband was not safe. I didn’t know that until I was locked in. Nine months into our marriage, five months pregnant with the baby we agree to have was when he hit me for the first time.

He was in the United States military, and we were stationed far from both of our homes. Neither of us had friends or family nearby. My income and health care was tied to my marriage.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, two commercial airplanes struck the New York Twin Towers. A tower collapsed then a nearby building. I didn’t know steel skyscrapers could collapse like that.

I was terrified and confused. I thought the fear might put me into labor.

More airplanes crashed into the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania. That is the official story.

The comedian, George Carlin, used to say, “Don’t believe anything until it’s been officially denied.”

The military base with the hospital I would deliver in went into lockdown for several days. I didn’t go into labor that day, thankfully. Terror is stressful on civilians, anywhere, everywhere.

The immediate news broadcasted politicians dramatically discussing new phrases like weapons of mass destruction. They repeated the phrase so many times it became shortened to WMDs.

I recall Colin Powell holding vials of anthrax, allegedly, on the floor of Congress. He said Saddam Hussein had biological weapons hidden all over Iraq and we must “preventatively bomb them” before they hurt an American.

They talked about how bad the Taliban treated women in Afghanistan, and how we needed to “liberate” the people and “bring democracy”.

The news also said that nineteen of the terrorists who used airplanes as weapons were from Saudi Arabia. Everything felt performative and hurried and weird. Nothing really made sense. There was so much fear in the air.

I was worried at the speed of this, the length of the seemingly upcoming wars, and what sort of world my daughter was going to grow up in.

My family raised me, firstly, as a Catholic and then, as a Pentecostal Christian. That was confusing going from Roman Catholic to evangelical Protestantism, but I was a child, and I had no say.

As a teen, I wasn’t fully aligned with either religion, so I argued with my mother when she forced me to dress a particular way and attend church. I suspected my mother didn’t buy it either. She secretly did things she told me Christians did not do.

One day, I was so angry because she would not let me wear makeup or pants. She said the Bible said I mustn’t wear makeup or “men’s clothes”. Something about prostitution and a “Jezebel spirit”.

I told her there are many interpretations of the Bible and I don’t agree with this one. I could practice spirituality while wearing pants or makeup. She told me it wasn’t for me to decide. I was wrong. I was not an authority.

Authority. Not an authority. Then and now, I viewed myself as an honest, kind, and fair person. I struggle with blindly accepting authority. Especially when those authority figures, past and present, around the globe, continue to get caught in lies.

Somewhere halfway across the world, I told her, was a Muslim teenage girl. She was arguing with her mother about what she wanted to wear, and how she wanted to wear makeup. Maybe she didn’t want to wear the hijab.

On the other side of the world, that mother was telling her teenage daughter they must do what their holy book says, as interpreted by their authorities.

How did she know the Islamic holy book was wrong and the Bible right? I told her she only knows because of her birthplace and culture. That is everyone’s answer. Her parents and her government told her what to believe just as parents do in Iran.

Insert any other religion and region here.

All I wanted to do was express my personality and discover my unique identity. I didn’t want to be ruled by old men in robes and suits.

What I got was a hard slap across the face. She didn’t like teenage reason. I was not allowed to question what she claimed to know. She called it disrespect. I called it logic.

Historically, many authorities called it heresy.

I moved out the week I turned eighteen. My mind remained curious and independent. I did my own sort of means testing for what friends, dates, family, and government told me. So many of them lied or were, at the very least, misinformed.

More than anything, I began to learn how to hear and trust my intuition. Living in my truth was not a very popular place to live.

Around 2022, I began to see writing on the wall. Things in the America were not getting better, and I foresaw instability and loss. My pattern recognition told me that I needed to leave within a few years, or I might be hurt or get stuck. At the very least, I might be neglected during a time of need.

I wanted community. I wanted a tribe, or a village to be there for me. I was tired of pulling myself up by bootstraps that were on the brink of snapping.

I had always been interested in living abroad but decided to make some trips to see where I could see myself. I fell in love with Thailand and decided to relocate to Asia.

Where, I wasn’t exactly sure, but I started in Vietnam and ended in Bali.

Now I see the world engaged in the beginning of a World War.

Indonesia is considered one of the safest places in the earth for that scenario. It’s neutral. It’s an archipelago of tens of thousands of islands with hundreds of millions of people, so it’s not easy to invade.

There are also significant natural resources here. Fresh produce, animals, fresh water, minerals and energy.

I know I’m lucky to have ended up here at this time in history. I had the privilege of having a choice. Still, I am uneasy. I feel sad for the damage and deaths inflicted now and into the future.

Meanwhile, tonight, there is a mother in America arguing with her daughter while there is a mother in Iran arguing with her daughter.

They are still fighting about what is right. They are still fighting about what their regional authority dictates about what the teenager should believe, what she should wear, and what she should see or say. These children are the future citizens and leaders.

At the same time, old men in clean clothes with microphones and official documents, men of authority, are making decisions. Some of their decisions make bombs and missiles fall. They fall on airports or on elementary schools where boys and girls are told what to believe.

I imagine this is how people felt in the other world wars too. Here we are, still living. Some of us, at least. We are the history now. We will be the ancestors.

Some disagree and try to fight. They can see the insanity and the repetition. Many obey. Many of us are silent.

Despite the cultural and regional differences, we share almost entirely the same human DNA. We all just want to feel safe.

When will this ever end? Clocks. Keep. Ticking.

Celeste A Vale, Bali

March 6th, 2026