Traditionally, it has been my belief that an all volunteer, or professional, military is a good thing. I believed it was a form of kidnapping to take a young person and forcibly interrupt their lives by mandatory military service. After all, if a person is not inclined to be a soldier, then they shouldn't be forced to serve. I am now having second thoughts.
Our nation finds itself embroiled in the longest war it has ever fought and nobody seems inclined to end it. Is it possible that war has become too easy for us? As a people have we become detached from the horror of the wars we fight? We take comfort in the fact that everybody maimed and killed in overseas military operations made a conscious choice to go. As a people our conscience is clear. War has become tolerable and accepted. The pain has been removed and all that's left is the glory. We cheer, we pay tribute, we pontificate but, with the exception of a few volunteer soldiers, we don't fight. We don't share the burdens. We have become little more then spectators, watching the sanitized version of the war given to us by main stream media and not having to tolerate any of the hardship.
Unfortunately, war still costs. Spend a few minutes at a VA hospital and you can really get a feel for the cost of war. Amputations, traumatic brain injury and PTSD are just a few of the life long disability soldiers suffer. Flag draped coffins return home from Asia and the Middle East in a staedy stream. The numbers of civilian dead continue to climb. Suicide bombings, drone strikes, stray bullets and out and out massacres have killed hundreds of thousands in this conflict. Families are torn apart, economies destroyed, mass displacement of populations, crops ruined, rampant starvation and disease, as well as repression and corruption that seems to be the brother and sister of all wars.
If one is not moved by human tragedy then there is always the expense. Since 2001, as a nation, we have spent in excess of one trillion dollars on this war.. California's share of that is $140 billion. The San Francisco Bay Area (my home) has paid $38 billion of that(cost of war.org). For that same money we could have built 2714 hospitals (Reed Construction Data) or provided a years education for 572 thousand kids (CA Dept of Ed). Then there are fire stations, police officers, drug treatment programs, public transportation and all manner of vital public services that are neglected for this war. The next time you step over a homeless peson, muttering to himself in the gutter, remember that it is probable that he is an untreated psychotic with nowhere to go for help. Our public mental health system has been dismantled in the name of cost cutting, yet "defense" budgets continue to increase.
Of course, war brings economic benefits. War contractors, weapons manufacturers and government vendors reap huge profits. War is one of the most efficient means of moving money (our money) from the public sector to the private. Instead of badly needed public utilities and services, these funds wind up lining the pockets of the corporate elite. Government, at every level, abdicates it's responsibility to administer public funds for the public good. Instaed, they siphon it into the coffers of the weathy. Martin Luther King once said that every bomb that explodes in South East Asia also explodes on the streets of the inner city. That is true now as it ever was, only the location of the war has changed.
The sting of war has been removed and we are separated from it. It is fought in far away places, generally by people we don't know so it becomes acceptable. We can talk about sacrifice and service to country but very few of us are actually sacrificing or serving. Since there is no pain, then there is no motivation to end it.
Perhaps if we returned to conscription and a wider cross section of the population was forced to share the pain, then maybe, as a nation, we would not be so quick to go to war and tolerate endless conflict for the sake of national security concerns that are dubious at best. Maybe there would be motivation to find peaceful means of business and policy. Maybe if we all had to share the pain, we would go to greater lengths to prevent it. We have learned to take war lightly and it is far too horrible to do that.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
On Creating a Culture of Revolution
"No revolutionary movement is complete without it's poetical expression. If such a movement has caught the imagination of the masses, they will seek vent in song for the aspirations, the fears, the hopes, the loves and the hatreds engendered by the struggle. Until the movement is marked by the joyous, defiant singing of revolutionary songs, it lacks one of the most distinctive marks of a revolutionary movement. It is the dogma of a few, not the faith of the multitude."
James Connoly,
1907.
It has become fairly obvious to anyone who concerns themselves with such things, that the main stream media in the US has been neutralized as a force for change. 95% per cent of the media in this country is owned and controlled by one of five multinational corporations who are primarily concerned with profit at the expense keeping the electorate informed. These two goals are often at loggerheads and a multinational can always be counted upon to favor the bottom line. If you control the medium, then you control the agenda. That is why the conservative right in the Form of Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh as well as a host of wanna-be's get wide exposure almost anytime of the day or night with not even the most feeble voice in rebuttal. If a reporter of conscience decides to rise up out of the bog, then the cry of "Liberal Media Bias" is sounded throughout the realm. The truly ironic part is that there is no liberal media. Any small peep of a voice is drown in a sea of corporate funded competition. So whats a good lefty Liberal to do?
We have lost the language. There has been a mildly Orwellian effort to eliminate or discredit certain words in our language. Words like "struggle" and "revolution" have been relegated to the dust bin of verbal history as linguistic relics of a bygone age. The word "liberal" has been vilified to the point that it is now an effective hit tool in political campaigns. Although individuals have spoken out, as a movement we have sat on our hands and let this happen.
It is clear that there must be an artistic, linguistic and spiritual revolution before there can be political and social change. We must take back the vocabulary of revolution and make it comprehensible for working people and instill a sense of community and belonging. We must realize, as a culture that we are more then the some of our parts and of our material desires.
We can start by working to convince people that the working class is not dead. Just because we don't work in factories anymore doesn't mean that we are no longer blue collar. American workers are amongst the most productive and hard working in the world. We take shorter vacations and work longer hours then anybody else in the industrialized world. We are also among the most undeserved in terms of social assistance. Benefits are constantly under attack and the health care system is completely dysfunctional. Child care is prohibitively expensive if it is available at all. Public transportation and education are always the first vitims of the budget ax. War and prisons are the last. Our kids are recruited heavily for military service then are criminally neglected when they come back. If that isn't "working class" then I don't know what is. We carry the weight and we get a smaller and smaller slice of the economic pie. A quick look at the ever widening gap between rich and poor bears this out. CEOs are rewarded for failure and hourly workers are used brutally until they are laid off without even so much as a goodbye kiss.
Another challenge is the perception that success is based on material wealth. This is a very convenient paradigm for business interests but is not sustainable and is killing the planet and deadening the spirit. Materialism is addictive as any drug. The more we get, the more we want. As with any addiction, we develop tunnel vision. The pursuit of the next "fix" overides all else. Where addiciton lives, wisdom dies. Unfortunately, the more we want, the bigger the profits of huge corporations so they spend huge sums of money and hire armies of marketing and PR specialists to encourage this voracious appetite for "stuff". We are herded into subdivisions in huge automobiles and isolate in front of television or anyone of a myriad of other electronic devices. We are bombarded by a constant stream of messages that order us to consume as much and as fast as possible. We miss the joy of a hawk on the wing or the smile of a child or the feel of a lovers hair because we are engrossed in "Dancing With The Stars" and wondering how we will make the payments on our SUVs. People and community are the greatest joys that creation has to offer and we have forgotten that.
This begs the question: How do we fight such a formidable propaganda machine? The answer is that we don't fight, we create. Never has the artist been more important to the struggle. We have lost control of the story and we must strive to get it back. Art is the institutional memory of a movement and the artist is it's keeper. It is through the "Poetical Expression" that Connolly espouses that the culture of revolution is created. As progressives, I think it is pretty safe to say that we will never get airtime on Fox and frankly, not much more then lip service from PBS. (which the right is trying to kill anyway). The good news is that if we create the art, it will get out. It will be seen and read by somebody who may share it with somebody else.
We heal through art and that includes the artist as well. Through art, we fight despair. Through the creation of beauty we promote peace. Through the promotion of peace, we create compassion. If we have compassion, as a culture, then the rest falls into place. History is full of examples of this. The greatest victory the "Right" has achieved for itself is to equate compassion with weakness in the minds of people. If we have compassion for each other and we have sincere love for all beings, then the need for material wealth disappears. If we take and use only what we need, we can devote the rest of our time and energy to spiritual growth and health.
Without a doubt, this is swimming up stream. We all have challenges to face in this area. We are preconditioned by years of corporate propaganda to want, want, want, regardless of need. I as much as anybody. This is a struggle that cannot be won alone. We need each other, as artists, as citizens and as a community. Art is communication and is easily within our grasp to use. Poetry, writing, painting, sculpture, music, anything that creates beauty lets us "Smile on our bother and everybody gets together to try and love one another right now". Being a hippie is not naivete but an expression of hope.
Peace.
James Connoly,
1907.
It has become fairly obvious to anyone who concerns themselves with such things, that the main stream media in the US has been neutralized as a force for change. 95% per cent of the media in this country is owned and controlled by one of five multinational corporations who are primarily concerned with profit at the expense keeping the electorate informed. These two goals are often at loggerheads and a multinational can always be counted upon to favor the bottom line. If you control the medium, then you control the agenda. That is why the conservative right in the Form of Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh as well as a host of wanna-be's get wide exposure almost anytime of the day or night with not even the most feeble voice in rebuttal. If a reporter of conscience decides to rise up out of the bog, then the cry of "Liberal Media Bias" is sounded throughout the realm. The truly ironic part is that there is no liberal media. Any small peep of a voice is drown in a sea of corporate funded competition. So whats a good lefty Liberal to do?
We have lost the language. There has been a mildly Orwellian effort to eliminate or discredit certain words in our language. Words like "struggle" and "revolution" have been relegated to the dust bin of verbal history as linguistic relics of a bygone age. The word "liberal" has been vilified to the point that it is now an effective hit tool in political campaigns. Although individuals have spoken out, as a movement we have sat on our hands and let this happen.
It is clear that there must be an artistic, linguistic and spiritual revolution before there can be political and social change. We must take back the vocabulary of revolution and make it comprehensible for working people and instill a sense of community and belonging. We must realize, as a culture that we are more then the some of our parts and of our material desires.
We can start by working to convince people that the working class is not dead. Just because we don't work in factories anymore doesn't mean that we are no longer blue collar. American workers are amongst the most productive and hard working in the world. We take shorter vacations and work longer hours then anybody else in the industrialized world. We are also among the most undeserved in terms of social assistance. Benefits are constantly under attack and the health care system is completely dysfunctional. Child care is prohibitively expensive if it is available at all. Public transportation and education are always the first vitims of the budget ax. War and prisons are the last. Our kids are recruited heavily for military service then are criminally neglected when they come back. If that isn't "working class" then I don't know what is. We carry the weight and we get a smaller and smaller slice of the economic pie. A quick look at the ever widening gap between rich and poor bears this out. CEOs are rewarded for failure and hourly workers are used brutally until they are laid off without even so much as a goodbye kiss.
Another challenge is the perception that success is based on material wealth. This is a very convenient paradigm for business interests but is not sustainable and is killing the planet and deadening the spirit. Materialism is addictive as any drug. The more we get, the more we want. As with any addiction, we develop tunnel vision. The pursuit of the next "fix" overides all else. Where addiciton lives, wisdom dies. Unfortunately, the more we want, the bigger the profits of huge corporations so they spend huge sums of money and hire armies of marketing and PR specialists to encourage this voracious appetite for "stuff". We are herded into subdivisions in huge automobiles and isolate in front of television or anyone of a myriad of other electronic devices. We are bombarded by a constant stream of messages that order us to consume as much and as fast as possible. We miss the joy of a hawk on the wing or the smile of a child or the feel of a lovers hair because we are engrossed in "Dancing With The Stars" and wondering how we will make the payments on our SUVs. People and community are the greatest joys that creation has to offer and we have forgotten that.
This begs the question: How do we fight such a formidable propaganda machine? The answer is that we don't fight, we create. Never has the artist been more important to the struggle. We have lost control of the story and we must strive to get it back. Art is the institutional memory of a movement and the artist is it's keeper. It is through the "Poetical Expression" that Connolly espouses that the culture of revolution is created. As progressives, I think it is pretty safe to say that we will never get airtime on Fox and frankly, not much more then lip service from PBS. (which the right is trying to kill anyway). The good news is that if we create the art, it will get out. It will be seen and read by somebody who may share it with somebody else.
We heal through art and that includes the artist as well. Through art, we fight despair. Through the creation of beauty we promote peace. Through the promotion of peace, we create compassion. If we have compassion, as a culture, then the rest falls into place. History is full of examples of this. The greatest victory the "Right" has achieved for itself is to equate compassion with weakness in the minds of people. If we have compassion for each other and we have sincere love for all beings, then the need for material wealth disappears. If we take and use only what we need, we can devote the rest of our time and energy to spiritual growth and health.
Without a doubt, this is swimming up stream. We all have challenges to face in this area. We are preconditioned by years of corporate propaganda to want, want, want, regardless of need. I as much as anybody. This is a struggle that cannot be won alone. We need each other, as artists, as citizens and as a community. Art is communication and is easily within our grasp to use. Poetry, writing, painting, sculpture, music, anything that creates beauty lets us "Smile on our bother and everybody gets together to try and love one another right now". Being a hippie is not naivete but an expression of hope.
Peace.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Of Two Minds
Of two minds
One of love
One of pain
One of joy
One of longing
Of two minds
Good wishes
For glad tidings
A small death
Of a small self
Of two minds
A friends joy
New found love
Private sorrow
In a private place
Of two minds
Mournful celebration
A flower blooms
While another
Drowns in tears
One of love
One of pain
One of joy
One of longing
Of two minds
Good wishes
For glad tidings
A small death
Of a small self
Of two minds
A friends joy
New found love
Private sorrow
In a private place
Of two minds
Mournful celebration
A flower blooms
While another
Drowns in tears
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Faithful Prohets
Last week, I made a trip to Milwaukee WI, for the annual "Call To Action" conference. This year the theme was "Faithful Prophets: God Alive In Every Generation".
I went to Milwaukee wracked by a crisis in faith. It was not my faith in the creator that was in trouble, but faith in the church. Recently I have come to feel very alienated by the Hierarchy of the Vatican. The Pope and his minions, the Bishops, seem bent on doing the wrong thing at every turn. In their covering up the misdeeds of pedophile priests, refusing the ordination of women and their cruel indifference to LBGT Christians, particularly by not speaking against the harassment and bullying that has actually driven some of Gods children to suicide in order to escape terror. I was having very real doubts about whether or not I could remain a Catholic in good conscience. What I found in Milwaukee was a lot of powerful inspiration. (and a great Irish Pub).
I was inspired by being in a room with literally thousands of like minded Catholics with similar frustrations to mine. We attended breakout sessions and listened to keynote speakers together and there was a great optimism and a sense of hope that change is possible. Together we all made the statement that to be a catholic one need not be a bigot, a homophobe or a sexist. One can be a catholic and appreciate Gods love of ALL of Gods Children, even if they are gay, or undocumented or are a women answering the call to priesthood.
The keynote speakers were wonderful.
I was warmed by Shane Claiborne, a young man from rural Tennessee who found Gods love working with homeless squatters in an abandoned church in Philadelphia. His first battle was to keep the diocese from throwing them out into the street. He won that battle and helped create a viable and helpful community that exists today.
I was move by Asra Nomani, an Indian born Muslim raised in West Virginia who continues to love and practice her faith even though it has not always been good to her. She was a Wall Street Journal reporter who was a close friend and colleague of Danny Pearl, another WSJ reporter that was kidnapped and murdered by extremists. She is the mother of a child, the father of which, whom she was in love with, was a Pakistani man who disappeared when Pearl was kidnapped out of fear for his own skin. She took the baby home to WVA where she tried to reintegrate with the Muslim community that was rigorously segregated along gender lines. Instead of walking away, she fought and, with the support of her parents, made her mosque coed (no easy task even in the US, particularly carrying the stigma of a single mom).
I was empowered by a Sister Joan Chittister, a benedictine nun and ardent feminist. She spoke of the isolation and loneliness that is the lot of prophets and how they strive for change anyway. She spoke of how they are seldom appreciated in their own time but continue to minister anyway and how we learn from them in later times. She is a powerful voice for humanity and change in the church.
I came home a better and more compassionate christian. I now know I can have faith and compassion at the same time. In the conference I found permission to be a catholic that loves my LBGT brothers and sisters and fight for fair and humane treatment for them(not driving gay kids to suicide would be a good start). I found permission to speak out for the ordination of women in the church because their learning, nurturing and healing is so desperately needed not only in the church but all through creation. I found permission to love all people and care for them even if they don't have legal immigration status. Being a catholic does not require allegiance to a group of tired old men in Rome with a decaying grip on reality or their appointed Bishops in this country who seem determine to keep the church in the dark ages. The church belongs to the people not the clergy and I'm going to fight for that principle. They can kick the parishioner out of the church, but they can't take the church out of the parishioner. Only the parishioner can do that. To quote Rosemary Ruether: "Catholic does not equal Vatican". If you are interested in such things, please check out CTAs link:
http://www.cta-usa.org/
I went to Milwaukee wracked by a crisis in faith. It was not my faith in the creator that was in trouble, but faith in the church. Recently I have come to feel very alienated by the Hierarchy of the Vatican. The Pope and his minions, the Bishops, seem bent on doing the wrong thing at every turn. In their covering up the misdeeds of pedophile priests, refusing the ordination of women and their cruel indifference to LBGT Christians, particularly by not speaking against the harassment and bullying that has actually driven some of Gods children to suicide in order to escape terror. I was having very real doubts about whether or not I could remain a Catholic in good conscience. What I found in Milwaukee was a lot of powerful inspiration. (and a great Irish Pub).
I was inspired by being in a room with literally thousands of like minded Catholics with similar frustrations to mine. We attended breakout sessions and listened to keynote speakers together and there was a great optimism and a sense of hope that change is possible. Together we all made the statement that to be a catholic one need not be a bigot, a homophobe or a sexist. One can be a catholic and appreciate Gods love of ALL of Gods Children, even if they are gay, or undocumented or are a women answering the call to priesthood.
The keynote speakers were wonderful.
I was warmed by Shane Claiborne, a young man from rural Tennessee who found Gods love working with homeless squatters in an abandoned church in Philadelphia. His first battle was to keep the diocese from throwing them out into the street. He won that battle and helped create a viable and helpful community that exists today.
I was move by Asra Nomani, an Indian born Muslim raised in West Virginia who continues to love and practice her faith even though it has not always been good to her. She was a Wall Street Journal reporter who was a close friend and colleague of Danny Pearl, another WSJ reporter that was kidnapped and murdered by extremists. She is the mother of a child, the father of which, whom she was in love with, was a Pakistani man who disappeared when Pearl was kidnapped out of fear for his own skin. She took the baby home to WVA where she tried to reintegrate with the Muslim community that was rigorously segregated along gender lines. Instead of walking away, she fought and, with the support of her parents, made her mosque coed (no easy task even in the US, particularly carrying the stigma of a single mom).
I was empowered by a Sister Joan Chittister, a benedictine nun and ardent feminist. She spoke of the isolation and loneliness that is the lot of prophets and how they strive for change anyway. She spoke of how they are seldom appreciated in their own time but continue to minister anyway and how we learn from them in later times. She is a powerful voice for humanity and change in the church.
I came home a better and more compassionate christian. I now know I can have faith and compassion at the same time. In the conference I found permission to be a catholic that loves my LBGT brothers and sisters and fight for fair and humane treatment for them(not driving gay kids to suicide would be a good start). I found permission to speak out for the ordination of women in the church because their learning, nurturing and healing is so desperately needed not only in the church but all through creation. I found permission to love all people and care for them even if they don't have legal immigration status. Being a catholic does not require allegiance to a group of tired old men in Rome with a decaying grip on reality or their appointed Bishops in this country who seem determine to keep the church in the dark ages. The church belongs to the people not the clergy and I'm going to fight for that principle. They can kick the parishioner out of the church, but they can't take the church out of the parishioner. Only the parishioner can do that. To quote Rosemary Ruether: "Catholic does not equal Vatican". If you are interested in such things, please check out CTAs link:
http://www.cta-usa.org/
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Homefront
Golden Gate National Cemetery, San Bruno, California
Today, Tomorrow or Next Week
“Ready, Fire!” the sharp crack of seven simultaneous rifle shots split the grief thickened air of the cemetery.
“Ready, Fire!” again.
“Ready, Fire!” once again
“Order…arms.” The seven members of the white gloved honor guard snapped their M-16s back into the “Port” position across their immaculately uniformed bemedaled chests. At that moment the mournful melody of "Taps" sang out from a lone bugler standing on a rise a short distance away. The six uniformed pallbearers folded the flag that had draped Billy’s coffin in the traditional manner of a military funeral, each performing a single fold until the flag rested in the hands of the last in a perfect triangle. Billy’s Dad, Jim, listened to the sad tune as the flag was folded. He thought he could hear just a touch more heart and a touch more feeling in the age-old rendition. Maybe it was just the moment or maybe it was because it was his older son Jason who was playing it. Jason played trumpet in school and picked it up again to help pass the endless down time that is so much a part of being a soldier. They pulled Jason out of his unit in Baghdad to attend Billy’s funeral after he was killed in southern Afghanistan near the Pakistan border. Jason requested that he be allowed to play "Taps" over his brother. The Army loves gestures like that so his request was granted. Jason knew the stretch of road where Billy got lit up as he almost met his own end there two and half years earlier on his first trip down range. Billy wasn’t the first American kid to come home in a box because of an ambush there and Jason knew he wouldn’t be the last.
Jason was always a tough kid. He was a notoriously vicious linebacker who made “All State” in high school then went on to the Army going through Ranger School, then Special Forces. He had one combat tour in Afghanistan under his belt and he was half way through another one in Iraq. Today he didn’t look so tough as the tears streamed down his face under his green beret, some actually falling on the rows of ribbons that decorated his uniform and told the world that at twenty-two years of age, he had seen blood by the bucket full and death by the car load. He tried for all he was worth to finish his tribute to his brother. Near the end of the tune, he faltered ever so slightly as he almost broke down. At that, two soldiers that were from Billy’s unit lost it and bowed their heads to weep. In his four years in the service Jason had seen so many people die; now it was his kid brother. Jim almost lost it too. He felt he had to keep it together for the sake of Billy’s Mom who hadn’t stopped crying since the two Chaplains, from the local National Guard unit knocked on their door in the middle of the night to inform them of Billy’s death. Jim did his duty but it was hard. His mind kept flashing to memories of Billy as a kid. The Christmases and birthdays kept coming back. He thought of how proud he was when Billy’s soccer team took the regionals. He remembered the scoldings for a variety of youthful trespasses and the thousands of tender moments that seem small at the time but came back to him larger then life now. He remembered pride mixed with trepidation as Billy followed his brother’s footsteps into the army. At first he told himself that he just didn’t understand but he understood all to well. Jim had been a soldier once himself as were his dad and uncles and cousins. It was expected in his family. You graduate high school, enter the service, get out and have a life. He understood alright, it was the way it had always been except that Billy didn’t make it to the “have a life” part. What Jim didn’t understand is what the hell was in Afghanistan that was worth dying for. He had heard the “party line” over and over again, about how we had to fight terrorists there so we wouldn’t have to fight them here. The trouble was that the more the government and the media pounded that message, the hollower it sounded. Added to that is the fact that you never seemed to hear about a senators or oil billionaires child being buried just the kids of working stiffs and today it was his boy. Jim was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was all bullshit. He was starting to feel that his family had been had. His Dad and all the rest had fought and sometimes bled for the greater good of some rich bastards that never had to put their own butts on the line. Billy died and for what? Nothing that he could see.
The flag made its way down the line of soldier pallbearers to the hands of a young captain who never knew Billy. He walked over to Billy’s Mom and gave her the flag and whispered “the thanks of a grateful nation” to her as he handed her the memento. She was near blind and paralyzed with grief and took the flag absently from the captain’s hands. Jim wasn’t even sure if she knew where she was.
As the flag was passed to the grieving mother, troops on the other side of the world were mounting up in helicopters and Humvees. Weapons were being checked and prayers were being said, prayers in different languages. The Americans didn’t know if today was the day they would find the roadside bomb with their name on it or take a bullet in an ambush. Afghans and Iraqis wondered if this was the day they would get blown to bits in an air strike coming home from the market. They wondered if they were going to get shot in the crossfire between Jihadis and Coalition soldiers or maybe just get killed because someone was having a bad day. Fear and death were constant neighbors, lurking in their homes, cities and villages. The “War on Terror” didn’t seem to stop a lot of terror. It just seemed to exacerbate it.
Jason finished Taps and bowed his head and cried unashamedly. Green Berets be damned, this was his brother.
“Grateful nation my ass” Jim spat under his breath as he wiped his own tears away, “I want my son back”.
Today, Tomorrow or Next Week
“Ready, Fire!” the sharp crack of seven simultaneous rifle shots split the grief thickened air of the cemetery.
“Ready, Fire!” again.
“Ready, Fire!” once again
“Order…arms.” The seven members of the white gloved honor guard snapped their M-16s back into the “Port” position across their immaculately uniformed bemedaled chests. At that moment the mournful melody of "Taps" sang out from a lone bugler standing on a rise a short distance away. The six uniformed pallbearers folded the flag that had draped Billy’s coffin in the traditional manner of a military funeral, each performing a single fold until the flag rested in the hands of the last in a perfect triangle. Billy’s Dad, Jim, listened to the sad tune as the flag was folded. He thought he could hear just a touch more heart and a touch more feeling in the age-old rendition. Maybe it was just the moment or maybe it was because it was his older son Jason who was playing it. Jason played trumpet in school and picked it up again to help pass the endless down time that is so much a part of being a soldier. They pulled Jason out of his unit in Baghdad to attend Billy’s funeral after he was killed in southern Afghanistan near the Pakistan border. Jason requested that he be allowed to play "Taps" over his brother. The Army loves gestures like that so his request was granted. Jason knew the stretch of road where Billy got lit up as he almost met his own end there two and half years earlier on his first trip down range. Billy wasn’t the first American kid to come home in a box because of an ambush there and Jason knew he wouldn’t be the last.
Jason was always a tough kid. He was a notoriously vicious linebacker who made “All State” in high school then went on to the Army going through Ranger School, then Special Forces. He had one combat tour in Afghanistan under his belt and he was half way through another one in Iraq. Today he didn’t look so tough as the tears streamed down his face under his green beret, some actually falling on the rows of ribbons that decorated his uniform and told the world that at twenty-two years of age, he had seen blood by the bucket full and death by the car load. He tried for all he was worth to finish his tribute to his brother. Near the end of the tune, he faltered ever so slightly as he almost broke down. At that, two soldiers that were from Billy’s unit lost it and bowed their heads to weep. In his four years in the service Jason had seen so many people die; now it was his kid brother. Jim almost lost it too. He felt he had to keep it together for the sake of Billy’s Mom who hadn’t stopped crying since the two Chaplains, from the local National Guard unit knocked on their door in the middle of the night to inform them of Billy’s death. Jim did his duty but it was hard. His mind kept flashing to memories of Billy as a kid. The Christmases and birthdays kept coming back. He thought of how proud he was when Billy’s soccer team took the regionals. He remembered the scoldings for a variety of youthful trespasses and the thousands of tender moments that seem small at the time but came back to him larger then life now. He remembered pride mixed with trepidation as Billy followed his brother’s footsteps into the army. At first he told himself that he just didn’t understand but he understood all to well. Jim had been a soldier once himself as were his dad and uncles and cousins. It was expected in his family. You graduate high school, enter the service, get out and have a life. He understood alright, it was the way it had always been except that Billy didn’t make it to the “have a life” part. What Jim didn’t understand is what the hell was in Afghanistan that was worth dying for. He had heard the “party line” over and over again, about how we had to fight terrorists there so we wouldn’t have to fight them here. The trouble was that the more the government and the media pounded that message, the hollower it sounded. Added to that is the fact that you never seemed to hear about a senators or oil billionaires child being buried just the kids of working stiffs and today it was his boy. Jim was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was all bullshit. He was starting to feel that his family had been had. His Dad and all the rest had fought and sometimes bled for the greater good of some rich bastards that never had to put their own butts on the line. Billy died and for what? Nothing that he could see.
The flag made its way down the line of soldier pallbearers to the hands of a young captain who never knew Billy. He walked over to Billy’s Mom and gave her the flag and whispered “the thanks of a grateful nation” to her as he handed her the memento. She was near blind and paralyzed with grief and took the flag absently from the captain’s hands. Jim wasn’t even sure if she knew where she was.
As the flag was passed to the grieving mother, troops on the other side of the world were mounting up in helicopters and Humvees. Weapons were being checked and prayers were being said, prayers in different languages. The Americans didn’t know if today was the day they would find the roadside bomb with their name on it or take a bullet in an ambush. Afghans and Iraqis wondered if this was the day they would get blown to bits in an air strike coming home from the market. They wondered if they were going to get shot in the crossfire between Jihadis and Coalition soldiers or maybe just get killed because someone was having a bad day. Fear and death were constant neighbors, lurking in their homes, cities and villages. The “War on Terror” didn’t seem to stop a lot of terror. It just seemed to exacerbate it.
Jason finished Taps and bowed his head and cried unashamedly. Green Berets be damned, this was his brother.
“Grateful nation my ass” Jim spat under his breath as he wiped his own tears away, “I want my son back”.
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