|
(I wrote this as an op-ed in March of 2003, but of course there were no newspapers that cared to run it. Perhaps it will have some meaning for you, as you ponder, for the last time until next year, the meaning of Memorial Day.)
Redstone ----------------------------- As George W. Bush prepares to let slip the dog of war, I wonder if he, or indeed any significant percentage of the American people who profess support for an invasion of Iraq, truly understand what war is.
Of course, among any country’s population, there can only be a few who genuinely understand the nature of war. However, even those without direct experience can gain some understanding with only a small amount of reading and study (though only if they care to, and few Americans do).
This understanding is almost universally lacking among Americans today, primarily because of the way the 1991 Gulf War was presented. We were shown a war that resembled nothing more than it resembled a video game. No blood, no mud, no bodies, just an unending stream of video images of impersonal "smart" weapons homing in on seemingly empty structures, along with the admittedly impressive shots of rocket batteries sending their payloads arcing magnificently toward the horizon.
Mr. President, my fellow Americans: That is not what war really is, as much as the U.S. Government would like for you to believe so. War is not glory, nor is it an adventure, nor is it something to be entered into lightly.
This is what war is:
War is watching an eighteen-year-old boy calling for his mamma as he tries to stuff his guts back into his belly, just before he bleeds out and dies.
War is hearing a young mother wailing over the body of her dead baby girl as she shrieks at you, asking you why your people did this.
War is stumbling over a leg lying alone on the field, the laces of the boot on its foot still neatly tied.
War is a smell that you cannot ever adequately describe, nor ever forget.
War is the copper taste of old pennies in your mouth as the bullet fragments rip through your muscles and smack into the bones underneath like the whack of a ball-peen hammer, and you realize instantly that this is a bad one; the one you're not going to be able to walk away from.
War is body bags, lined up in neat rows by the cargo planes, every one of them connected to a grieving family at the end of the flight.
War is a nightmare shared by the families of those who die, and those who live out their lives so badly damaged that they sometimes wish they had been lucky enough to die.
War is death.
War is pain.
War is final, and, once started, the damage it causes cannot be undone.
War is not a game.
Mr. President, my fellow Americans: do you understand now? --------------------------------------- ©2003, R. T. Redstone
|