Dust blows in every crevice, grit sifts into your boots, through every piece of clothing next to your skin, your lips, your nostrils, cakes around the rim of your protective goggles. Who wants this god-forsaken country? Why the hell fight over this?
The rifle slung over your shoulder, the tension in each step because it could be your last if you trigger a land mine, the profane chatter of your buddies, however, assure you: it’s real. This dust is fought for. Somebody calls it home.
Just not you.
And the interstate north of town, the A&W where every car in the county ends up after Friday night ball games, the green fields of corn and soybeans, the white steeple church where you learned Bible verses by heart for bookmarks, the smile of your sweetheart, the tears of your Dad, and Mom’s Sunday roast beef and mashed potatoes-all shimmer, a mirage beyond your fingertips.
You think sometimes you’ll never get home again. But you deep six that thought. You’re gonna make it. Death, dismemberment, is somebody else’s fate, not yours.
You’re gonna make it.
Maybe the hardest thing, though, is how most people back home don’t notice you’re here, so very far from home. Preoccupied with the price of gas, the mortgage, the race for the White House, what Brittany Spears is going through, they scarcely even realize you’re putting your life on the line every damn minute for them.
Brian Williams announces five, ten more Americans killed in the war (not to mention uncounted Iraqis, Afghanis). “Honey, what do you want to drink with supper?” somebody asks.
Far from home.
Far from hearts that beat a little faster when the national anthem is played, that believe in what this country stands for-freedom-believe enough to give their life for the guy fighting beside them.
The big debate, WMD, how many 100s of billions of dollars spent-it costs the arm and leg of one amputee, the life of one who planned to go to college or work in a factory or raise kids. That’s what it costs, ten thousand times over. The big debate is irrelevant out here where the dust blows into every hole, and longing for home wells up in every silence.
Far from home is where you discover the high cost of the war, one heart at a time.
Yet, in each beating heart here is home. Such courage, devotion, and steel of commitment no matter what is the very best any human being is capable of.
Photo by Mary Fran
My first child had his morning feeding during the Today Show’s daily news of Viet Nam where his father was. Every day, the body count! And as we waited at the airport for our soldier’s return, our stroller decked out with welcome signs and balloons, no one came over to ask about him, or thank or congratulate him.
By contrast, a friend’s son who just arrived from Iraq said he was overcome with the thanks that poured out. So I guess war is war. There’s a certain amount of out-of-sight, out-of-mind about it, and a reluctance in me to feel the despair that comes up when I think about our young men and women over there. I am certainly proud of them, and I pray for them, and I want them all home.
Thank you for this. I’ve said all along. There is only ONE issue this election year. The war. What does the rest matter? What is the candidates position on this war. What does he or she think about whether we should be there, should ever have been there, and how will we get home.
You and I remember the other “long war,” and a main difference was the draft in that war. The anger was different then – focused on those doing the fighting rather than those who ordered it.
Well said, good friend.
thanks for your insights. Wren, I wish that Pres. Bush, VP Cheney and the rest had to be on the front lines of any war they prosecute until it’s over. RLP, there is only ONE issue as far as I’m concerned. If we must fight a war, then it ought to be all out. If not all out, then not at all. And in this case, clearly not at all. 9-11 could be viewed as a crime rather than an act of war, esp. since no country was clearly implicated. Hollie, if there were a draft today, they’d be burning down the White House.
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