It was summer. Temperatures were high and war was in the air. People said they were upset with politicians who refused to heed the cries for peace. Battlefields far from home became burial grounds. The public noted too many people had died, perhaps unnecessarily. Americans publicly announced, its time to bring our young home. End the combat was the common cry. Yet, it seemed the Administration did not intend to declare a cease-fire. Some feared a superpower might appear weak. A pullout would indicate that we had surrendered. As Americans safe at home pondered policy, soldiers still fell on foreign fields. Families struggled to come to terms with what it means to be a patriot. Moms and Dads of military personnel may have wrestled with the idea of what it means to win a war more so than the average American did. The year was 1969.
Imagine a world where all inhabitants did not fear strangers for everyone was familiar with the other. When races and religions are integrated, not solely by means of a physical proximity, but also through empathy, tranquility is inevitable. If we teach and do not preach, we may achieve world peace.
Instruction is possibly the prerequisite to unity.
As Mother's Day approaches Moms throughout this country cry. Many parents cannot be physically close to their sons or daughters. Telephone calls will not come. Children may desperately wish to speak with mother; however, when "in country," on the battle field, a conversation with Mommy is not possible.
Some guardians are quite near to their children. Perhaps, they hold on more tightly, for the caregiver knows the tot has no other parent to turn to. So many American lads and lasses have one parent in Iraq, in Afghanistan, somewhere far, far, far away from home. Our troops hearts may be with toddlers and teens left behind in the States. Yet, the hands of a service Mom or Dad are often nowhere to be seen or felt by their babies. The children of military men and women clutch photographs, and dream of the day when Mom or Dad will return home.
In the Middle East, young and old also mourn. Many Moms, Dads, sons, and daughters do not have family to cuddle with. Celebrations are reminders of loss. In a war-torn nation, countless are orphaned. Males and females are frequently widowed. People live and then violently, they pass.
He was a beautiful bouncing baby boy. He was born to two parents that love him dearly. Even before his birth, indeed, prior to conception, this little fellow was the apple of his parent's eyes. His biological beginning was carefully calculated. As the seeds of life developed into a bright-eyed baby, the people he now knows as Mom and Dad thought of little else but Maxwell. The soon to be proud Papa and Momma anxiously anticipated the day they could hold this bundle of joy. Each of his parents was eager to meet and greet the small, sweet face of the guy that they would call Max. Maximum value, supreme significance, marvelously magnificent, all this was and would be their son. After Max was delivered and during any political season, such as this, Mom and Dad feel certain Max is issue number one.
Many Americans may wish to believe that if Arizona Senator John McCain were elected, he would ensure that this nation remains engaged in battle for eons. The conventional wisdom is Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton will "bring the troops home." Citizens, mostly Independents and Democrats, may blame the Republicans for conflicts that seem endless by design. Of course, when war is in question, countless Americans contemplate the current conflicts. Nearly everyone with some exceptions, places the onus on President George W. Bush, Vice President Richard B. Cheney, former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, or any of the other Neoconservatives in the Cabinet. Yet, these individuals and groups are not the only creators of combat. Any man or woman who believes, at times, war is the best, last, or the only option is culpable. Citizens throughout the globe have accepted the notion wars will always be. Hence fighting is, forever.
He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it.
He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it. ~ Martin Luther King, Junior
Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. ~ Martin Luther King, Junior.
Days from now America will commemorate an anniversary. On April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King Junior was brutally assassinated. Citizens will recall the wisdom of a man who lived for peace and yet, fell victim to violence. Homage will be bestowed. The American people will praise the preacher, the teacher, and the man who taught us all to speak of what remained tacit for too long. In the United States of America, all men are not equal. As a country, we do not treat people well. Nor do government officials lead us to the promised light of world harmony.
In the first 90 days of 2008 the United States reports 103 troop deaths in Iraq. Since the invasion we have commemorated the 5th anniversary we have commemorated 5 years and more than 4000 soldiers lost. Today we hear of costs near $12 billion per month and estimates of $3 trillion overall before all is said and done.
Meanwhile our mainstream media continues to play down the ongoing failure with barely a mention any more of the deaths let alone stories of the families and friends left behind. The death count also fails to reflect the numbers of US contractors killed in country. No mention is made of the many thousands of life altering injuries such as limbs or eyes lost. Nor do we hear much of the many minds broken beyond repair. Suicides related to service time are also not counted and often not mentioned. Coalition losses are not counted in the total. The Iraqi losses count many thousands more, yet those are dismissed often without a thought. Every death rends the fabric of humanity a bit more.
Their names and faces are known. Yet, these servicemen and women remain invisible for most Americans. Their families suffer, and have for years. When the troops were abroad, relatives worried. Now that these four thousand are gone from Earth forever, the persons that love them still wish to bring them back. Semper fidelis, always faithful and forlorn.
A mail entered my electronic inbox. The title was "Five years later in Iraq." As the anniversary of American led attacks in the Middle East approached, and passed, many messages referenced the subject. The correspondence from Cathy struck me. This communication was a personal plea. As the mother of a former American soldier, Cathy shared her sorrow. She spoke of hope, and told readers of her son. Cathy, Mom, also mentioned why she would support Barack Obama in 2008.
To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,
and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
They say life is cyclical. Peace prospers in a era. Epochs are filled with tales of war. Currently, in the United States, this is the political season. Issues are the topic of import. While at times, it seems rumors rule during the ritual run for the presidency, mostly, people want to speak of what affects their everyday life. Some say, "It is the economy, stu***." Others declare military defense and homeland security are the subjects we must speak about. A few say, we must secure our boarders. This theme ties the two aforementioned together. Jobs and terrorism are the greatest concern. Then there are those who inquire, "What happened to talk of the Iraq war?"
For most of my life I have been a dreamer. As a child I sat many a fine hour on a creek bank with a cork floating on the water (often with no bait on the hook) and dreamed of other times and other places. In those years science fiction was a staple of reading. Television was young and barely available. Entertainment was found by one's self or not found at all for the most part.
In years past I dreamed of a better life for myself and my family. In those days the dream was more about myself than for other people. As life has continued in time the dream has come to encompass the people around me and now extends to the nation and around the entire globe. Today I dream of a world in which peace, justice, and prosperity are the rule of the day.
Be it 3 Ante Meridian or 2 Post Meridian, a person proud to be a fighter will see enemies on every avenue. An individual who believes, if we are to bring about peace, we must communicate with those who do not share our values, will act on the courage of his or her convictions. A defensive stance, or a diplomatic demeanor, in a time of crisis will make a difference.
The mind is a very personal part of each one of us. We all carry our memories, our personality, and the very heart of our being in our mind. Wartime touches that special piece of who and what we are in ways that are sometimes difficult to ascertain without the lens of history. Every war affects those who fight in different ways and yet all share some similarities. Every individual has a story of their personal stuff. I have pondered this subject once before here. This time at the risk of repeating what may have already been said I offer the following story. Follow up the street, around the corner, and across the field for another rendering from the possum's personal tales.
It has long been said, "war is the last [best] option." Human beings, in an attempt to appear rational, reason that of course, diplomacy is preferred. Man-kind [sic] says he will do all in his power to pursue peace. Once domestic tranquility is achieved, two-legged mammals will do what they must to preserve harmony. Then this logical creature claims he must defend himself against all enemies. He will fight for what is right. Man forgets; what is ethically essential to gain and retain peace is the principle, "War must never be an option."
Eddie Adams won a Pulitzer Prize for this 1968 photo showing a South Vietnamese officer executing a Viet Cong prisoner on a street in Saigon. Associated Press.
Forty years have past. Life is essentially the same. Even though technologically, throughout the planet, we have been transformed, or at least realize we have the capacity to change. However, traditions remain intact. Humans do not wish to separate themselves from what they know. The familiar is extremely comfortable. , for generations, globally, we were familiar with poverty, pollution, and war. These have been our friends, or the follies we love to hate, perhaps, since the beginning of time.
Each day you and I work towards peace. On occasion we stand in protest. At times, amongst a throng of individuals we march. We demonstrate and proclaim global harmony is possible. Some of us research before we rant. Numerous read. Millions reflect in isolation, then, share their thoughts with a few like-minded souls. Thousands write. People reach out. Individuals invite discussion. Yet, it seems only one or two respond.
For quite some time now I have been feeling like a lost soul wandering in the wilderness. Life has changed over the past few years from what I believed we as a nation had become in past times. I grew up in small town America where everyone in town knew everyone else. People in need in those days were often looked after by a neighbor or a friend. The government stood as a last safety net for those who fell through the social cracks. The general feeling was one of respect for one another and of well wishing toward one another.
Weeks ago, as I stood my post in support of peace, our soldiers, and all civilians worldwide, a young fellow stopped and asked me how could I do as I did. The fellow declared my actions treasonous, disrespectful of the troops. I replied. I have family who served, and one about to enter the fray. The man, visibly irritated, yelled as he pointed to other protesters. "What about them?" he said. I began to explain how one of the women has a son stationed in Iraq, another . . . my voice trailed off as he waved in disgust. Then, the inquisitive chap left.
Millions of Americans awoke to the news; Benazir Bhutto was killed in an attack. The daughter of a former Prime Minister, and twice Prime Minister herself, Bhutto, months ago returned to her homeland, after a self-imposed eight year exile.
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