It’s time for a new metaphor for war
Tuesday, June 3, 2008 12:38 PM CDT
Connie Schultz
Those who support the war in Iraq — and their numbers continue to dwindle — sometimes use a worn-out metaphor to justify the cost of war.
“You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet,” they tell me. By “eggs,” of course, they mean the men and women in the U.S. military who have died in Iraq.
The first time I heard this trope was in the weeks leading up to the U.S. invasion, which I opposed. I’ve heard it many times since, but it never loses its sting, this suggestion that some human lives are expendable ingredients in a recipe for disaster. Every time, I try to imagine how it would feel if someone I love were dismissed as easily discarded. And every time, I quickly try to move on.
The more distance we wedge between ourselves and the war the easier it is to pretend it’s someone else’s sacrifice to bear. I am as guilty as the next. For all my hand-wringing over this war, I am not forced to worry for even a moment that a member of my family could die there. That makes every minute of my every day far different from those who do.
In late April, I wrote a column about a soldier’s funeral in Cincinnati. In response, a reader suggested that I visit the Web site of the Department of Defense and sign up for e-mail alerts that would let me know whenever another American has died in this war. It struck me as a way to force myself to think about what I want to forget most of the time. What I had not anticipated is how it would feel to be on the receiving end of this news over and over.
Most of the time, I carry a BlackBerry with me. Any e-mail sent to me at The Plain Dealer or to my personal account automatically forwards to this hand-held bad habit, which vibrates with each new message. On May 1, I was wrapping up a happy evening at a local library event when my BlackBerry buzzed. Heading for my car, I pulled it out and read the subject line of the latest e-mail: “DOD Identifies Marine Casualty.”
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So many in this country have no idea what the death count is, and that includes people paying attention. None of us really know how many have lost their lives in service to this nation deployed into Iraq or Afghanistan. Sure, we can track what the DOD reports. We can add in the news reports from bases scattered over the globe and from hometown news releases, but still we really don't know.
When Vietnam veterans came back to their cities and towns after their "duty" was over, they blended back into the civilized world of "peace" and American life. They did what generations before them have done since the beginning of time. They returned home. Back to family, friends, responsibilities, back to where the future was ahead of them and the past was supposed to be left behind in the jungles of Vietnam, but that didn't quite turn out the way they were told it would.
We see their faces at monuments during Memorial Day and Veterans Day revealing a part of them remained in Vietnam. It was their innocence. The idea they were raised with that people live with a sense of life enough that they know they can walk out their front door without fearing being killed or faced with having to kill another human, instilled by the commandment "thou shall not kill" at the base of their conscience. They lived out their days worrying about what the rest of us worry about, bills to pay, jobs to keep, relationships to build or end, neighbors they like and the ones they just can't get along with, family members they loved to spend time with and the ones who drove them nuts. Everyday "normal" problems when a car won't start and needs to be repaired when the bank account is tapped out or the plumber has to be called for something they tired to fix on their own. Physical problems like broken bones, cuts, the flu and operations. Family member's weddings and funerals, birthday parties for their kids, cookouts, graduations. This is what "normal" life was supposed to be like.
They were sent to Vietnam. For the majority it was one year out of their life. The idea, if they survived in one piece, they could just pick up where they left off, drove them from one day to the next counting down the time left they needed to survive. They spent the days with tedious duties, chores and monotony suddenly exploding them back into the reality of war. Trying to kill the enemy one second and saving the life of a buddy the next. Watchful for those who are trying to kill them and watchful for the backs of their friends wondering if it would be their day to die. Yet the days fade, one more gone, this many left to live, this many friends gone, this many friends wounded, this many new ones arrived, this many went home.
Endless nights of ears refusing to rest from alert, muscles that refused to relax after the exhaustion from the fight as they wondered what they got right, what they got wrong and what else they could have done. Memories of events there turned to events back home, wondering what their wives were doing, what the kids were doing, why their brother-in-law was such a jerk as they finally find some sleep, drifting off in the blissful silence until the dreams begin. Dreams provided from the demons of destruction's bloody battles.
Countdown done and going home, but going home to what? Going back to all they left, looking a little thinner, a little older but still the same person who left the comfort of their home and family. Heading back to the rose bush and picket fence outlining what was their's. No more rice paddies and huts for them. No more words that sounded like noise instead of means of communication. No more machine guns, wet feet, dirty clothes and sleeping with bugs. No more terrible food and thirst that never seemed to be quenched. Burgers on the grill, hot dogs, steaks in their belly, clean body covered with clean, normal clothes they got to decide once more what they wanted to wear and a bed with crisp air dried sheets. Simple pleasures they never really thought much about until they no longer had them.
This is the way they thought they'd come home but they did not notice the piece of them they left behind and the strange hijacker of their spirit filling the whole claiming more and more of the man they used to be until that man no longer lived taking for themselves what the enemy failed to obtain with a bullet or a bomb.
Their stories will never be added to the full accounting of the price of war. We made a good attempt at collecting their numbers but too many more will never be added, stories never told by families wondering what more they could have done, what they got right and what they got wrong.
Wars are never cut and dry, over and done, when the peace papers are signed and delivered. They rage on in the minds of those who put their bodies on the line for a grand vision of success, defeating an enemy that refused to surrender until the last breath was exhaled. Wounds of the mind claiming those who did not go and did not know what price they would have to pay for loving someone who did.
It's all being repeated in cities and towns all across this nation as flags are folded with care and presented to the family from this "grateful nation" who will never know the man to be buried there. Never know the story of how their life was lived and ended. Never knowing that one more name needed to be added to the accounting of the price of war.
Senior Chaplain Kathie Costos
Namguardianangel@aol.com www.Namguardianangel.orgwww.Woundedtimes.blogspot.com"The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional to how they perceive veterans of early wars were treated and appreciated by our nation." - George Washington
