Active Remembrance: When the Desert Silence Finds a Voice

Phoenix, Arizona — I am a storyteller. I love telling stories. But long before I began finding my own, I fell in love with reading and hearing them. As a former journalist, I’m accustomed to finding the story, but sometimes, the story finds you.

This was the case on a beautiful Sunday morning in Phoenix, well before the sun came up. What was supposed to be an early morning hike along the scenic Papago Park trails turned into one of the most impactful experiences I’ve had in quite some time

As if waiting for the first ray from the sun to peak across the Sonoran Desert landscape, a chorus of howls from the coyotes at the nearby Phoenix Zoo broke the silence and echoed through the valley. The sound was both haunting and captivating. But as the echoes faded, a different sound emerged from beyond a small bluff—a low, rhythmic murmur.

I set my camera bag down on a picnic table and listened. The murmuring voices became clearer; it was a group of people praying. These people, I later learned, were from wear blue: run to remember, a national running community dedicated to honoring the service and sacrifice of the American military.

As the sun began to bleed into the sky, I saw them: the flag bearers lined up between miles 10 and 11 of the half marathon. Each flag honored a service member who died as a result of combat-related injuries—both physical and mental. Placards with the pictures and names of the fallen were positioned along the street, their smiling faces in uniform representing dreams they once hoped to fulfill.

I walked past the names: SSG Ryan O’Hara, CPT Rebecca Lobach, CW2 Andrew Eaves, Lt. Serena Wileman, and LCDR Lyndsey Evans. I saw SGT Cade Wolfe, who at 24 could have passed for “Goose” in Top Gun, and SGT Andrew Southard, a shoo-in for “Maverick”. Every face represented a life cut short.

Suddenly, my focus on landscape photography vanished. I didn’t want pictures of the desert; I wanted to hear the stories of the people standing in it.

That is how I met Raiden. He is 14 years old, the same number of years since his father, SSG Jason Prokop, died. Raiden never had the opportunity to truly meet his father, yet here he was, carefully holding Jason’s flag. When asked what he would say to his father today, he didn’t hesitate.

“I would ask him if he’s proud of me,” Raiden said. He is determined to follow in his father’s footsteps and enlist in the military, too.

Nearby stood Tammy Pulaski, a Gold Star mother who lost her son, SPC Jeremiah Pulaski, to suicide several years ago. Beside her was Chanta Vasquez, remembering her own son, SPC Gianni Vasquez. As the National Secretary for American Gold Star Mothers, Inc., Chanta knows this sisterhood is one no mother ever wants to join.

“When you join this group of mothers, you’re so thankful that you have them to support you,” Vasquez said.

As the desert sun finally cleared the peaks, the “active remembrance” was in full motion. I watched Chanta and Tammy stand in solidarity, their flags held high as the runners streamed past. It struck me then that while the sun rises every morning regardless of our grief, it is people like these who ensure that the light reaches those still navigating the shadows.

Raiden’s question—if his father is proud—found its answer in the very air around us. It was written in the snap of the flags and the unwavering presence of a community that refuses to let these names fade into the desert silence.

I had come to Papago Park to find a landscape, but I found something much more enduring: the tireless, flag-bearing architects of hope.

---

Dial the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 if you or someone you know is need of emotional support.

---

El Paso, Texas native Phillip D. Cortez is the author of I’ll Be the Moon - A Migrant Child’s Story. He and his wife are the parents of four kids, each possessing the incredible ability to ask for something the moment the game comes back from commercial.

---

Get this and more by subscribing to my Substack channel! :)