I have been against the IRAQ war from the beginning, not for the usual KMA reasons . . . I learned early on to hate killing, not because it’s wrong, but because it seems so senseless. I know it comes from somewhere deep within, baggage I bear from childhood.
I remember . . . I remember sitting each night at the dinning room table waiting for the numbers . . . Oh how I hated the numbers. I still hate the numbers, it’s still so senseless. And each evening I listened so attentively to Chet Brinkley and Dan Rather, their words ricocheting off my walls, being drowned in a sea of blades fanning the damp air of some god-forsaken Delta. And I watched war torn Americans carry those dark rubber sleeping bags, bulging, lifeless lumps, unnaturally slumped. And I couldn’t explain what I saw, what I felt . . . Nothing could explain the hopeless faces and the sweat drained bodies of the walking dead.
And today I see it once more . . . But I know, I know it well enough to call it by name . . . Fear. Fear is the burden I carry . . . Fear we’ll build another Vietnam Wall, call it IRAQ, making it somehow righteous . . . What’s right about a boy losing his life before he can legally drink a beer or children losing their fathers, their mothers, or parents losing their sons and daughters?
And I was ashamed that no one was there to greet those flag draped crates. I was ashamed, that we have failed to care for so many of the walking zombies. I was ashamed when one of the chosen candidates stumbled and tripped over his words, searching for something to say to a parent of a fallen son . . . Then I turned the channel and I wept.
Dan Hanosh
. . . Brave Men Never Die
They Live in the Hearts
and minds of others.
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Warriors and Wars Political The Brave Few
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