Tuesday, October 19th, 2004

Supporting the Troops

A few weeks back, I saw a photo someone posted on the Internet with the comment: “The look on this soldier’s face says it all.”

The photograph was of an American soldier, probably in his 40s, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. In his arms, he held an Iraqi boy, about 5-6 years old; the boy was covered in blood, his eyes closed. The soldier looks straight ahead, his tortured eyes facing the camera but not focused on anything. I can’t begin to describe the look on that man’s face. Behind him, other soldiers are going about the business of war.

I was trying to describe the look on that soldier’s face, and I realized that I can’t describe what that man is going through, I can only barely imagine it. And I hadn’t imagined it, until I saw that picture. I read about the 29 soldiers who came back and commited suicide, and I have to wonder how many people are really conscious of the psychological and spiritual cost of this (or any war). That picture stuck in the back of my mind, until I woke up at 3 am a few nights ago, weeping. I couldn’t get back to sleep until I wrote this down:

I try to imagine what you might be feeling,

What it is I see in your eyes:

Pain? Loss? Guilt? Sorrow?

All of these? Or is it…nothing?

Numbness.

Disbelief.

Confusion.

Does it matter to you whose gunpowder did this?

Or in this moment, is there no Them?

Is Death the only enemy, with

Blood

War

Horror

As faithful, fearsome allies?

He no longer cares for sides,

Of this much I’m certain,

But would it help you to know?

Did you try to explain it as you held him,

Try to tell him why this had to be?

How we thought his leader

Might try to hurt us

Someday

Maybe?

How he’s free, now, liberated,

And the world is safer?

Or did you just hold him

And let him babble out his last breaths

In a language you don’t understand?

I wonder whom you’re thinking of

Sitting there, holding him,

Who flashes before you eyes?

Child?

Grandchild?

Sibling?

Cousin?

Or maybe he reminds you of

That bratty kid from three doors down

Who always leaves his tricycle on your lawn?

And when you come home–

Please, God, make it soon!–

Will you be able to leave him there?

Will you be able to lay down this burden

To reach out your arms

And hug your loved ones tightly?

Or will there always be

A bleeding boy between you?

I want to understand

To empathize.

I try, but there is too much there–

Or too little–

It overwhelms me,

And I lack your strength

Your courage.

Is it easier, I wonder,

To take aim and pull a trigger,

To fire back when fired upon

Than to sit down in the desert sand

And clutch a child to your chest

And calm his final, fearful moments?

I can’t know.

I can’t imagine.

I can only pray that you come home,

Pick up your raveled threads of life

And weave them into some small fraction

Some reflection

Of the peace you brought this boy.

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