The Wars of Old Men
Dave Muskera, M.A.
November 17, 2007
Commuting to my office most mornings, I listen to NPR. Frequently, especially now during the war of occupation in Iraq, they cameo the life and combat death of some recently fallen young soldier. Those selected for this honor are typically from small towns, are described as well liked, gentle and loving and the past captain of this or that high school team. Sometimes, they leave behind a grieving young wife and new baby they never saw. The cameo usually ends with patriotic platitudes and expressions of just how proud of him or her is the whole community. The soft spoken radio host might even add that the deceased “loved one” came from a long line of family patriots mentioning the fathers and grandfathers who fought and died or were wounded in dimly remembered tribal conflicts.
These gracious and heartfelt expressions seem meager compensation and only feeble, unfulfilling attempts to sooth agony and the pain of loss. None of it, for long, can reoccupy the void left in the absence of this fine young person. In an instant and without thinking the family and loved ones left in grief would give up all the platitudes just to have them back...made whole and alive and well.
Arguably, there have been necessary wars. Wars in which our very way of life was in reality threatened directly and undeniably. Certainly, there are men and women who gave their life or limb to protect us all. They should be remembered and honored. No doubt. However, many would also argue it’s been a very long time since this country actually engaged in such a war. Possibly the last such occasion followed December 7, 1941 when, after an attack by a foreign country, the US entered WWII.
The idea that wars are begun by old men who then use as fodder for their “cause”, the bodies and blood of the young has been often repeated. As is said, the young think themselves immortal and do not count the possibility of personal death as much of a reality. They eagerly go marching off to war carried by a tide of nationalistic patriotism, energized by testosterone and adrenaline.
Without the young, old men might hasten more to find grounds for negotiation and compromise in world relations. Without the young to carry forth the nationalist flag into the valleys of death, old men might be more content with the power they have and find tolerance in their hearts for the differences of others. But they have always had the young. From the thunderous armies of Imperial Rome to the muddy trenches of the American Civil War, the young have always born the brunt and met death head-on while the old sit safely at long tables scowling at maps and plans. Old men wave banners of patriotism in front of the young - like bullfighters in the ring, agitating a snorting bull. They move the red cape of fear and anger beckoning the doomed beast to charge into a sword of deadly steel that’s held concealed, like the cost of war, behind the camouflage. “Be all that you can” is shouted in their ears without ever telling them that death is for eternity and that their “sacrifice’ is not to some nationalist cause but rather to the egos of the old envious men. The young are easily swayed and go forth carrying the flags of their fathers till their blood saturates the cobblestone streets of cities and towns with unpronounceable names. Then, their broken, dead and cold bodies are returned for burial. Spent, used up, erased from the Currier and Ives prints of family Thanksgiving Dinners - and only 21 at last birthday. The old live lives of vicarious violence like arm waving and chanting fans at a football game - but with much more damning consequences. This sadly is a repeated pattern. An intricate and dark part of the history of our species.
In this current Iraq war of occupation, we the public have been deliberately shielded from seeing the succession of flag draped caskets returning to our soil. Our government fears we would object too strongly if blatantly confronted with the undeniable and very real cost of their vaguely defined “war on terror”. Instead we get the sanitized NPR radio version, rarely upgraded. We are shown even less of the wounded and mangled bodies of young soldiers whose lives and futures have been suddenly and terribly altered by the loss of limbs, the loss of vision or residual brain damage - the collateral gift of a roadside bomb. These returning heroes are often stuffed in poorly staffed and maintain facilities while politicians ponder cost cutting measures to free up more dollars for war machinery and Backwater contracts.
I have no healing medications for the madness of humanity. The old quickly sacrifice the young to their momentary cuase. There is no magic pill that leads we humans to peace or tolerance. Such a destination is difficult to reach but, despite the rhetoric, seems always more elusive when pursued with a war machine.
I only make observations and take a moment every now and then to wipe the tear that forms at the corner of my aging eyes. My heart breaks for all the young men and women who will not see their sons and daughters grown and for all those yet to be sacrificed because old men are bereft of solutions. Despite all else, the imperative continues: The idea that we must carry forth our need for power and revenge via violent nationalism refuses to die. Or when it does, it may very well take us all with it.
These gracious and heartfelt expressions seem meager compensation and only feeble, unfulfilling attempts to sooth agony and the pain of loss. None of it, for long, can reoccupy the void left in the absence of this fine young person. In an instant and without thinking the family and loved ones left in grief would give up all the platitudes just to have them back...made whole and alive and well.
Arguably, there have been necessary wars. Wars in which our very way of life was in reality threatened directly and undeniably. Certainly, there are men and women who gave their life or limb to protect us all. They should be remembered and honored. No doubt. However, many would also argue it’s been a very long time since this country actually engaged in such a war. Possibly the last such occasion followed December 7, 1941 when, after an attack by a foreign country, the US entered WWII.
The idea that wars are begun by old men who then use as fodder for their “cause”, the bodies and blood of the young has been often repeated. As is said, the young think themselves immortal and do not count the possibility of personal death as much of a reality. They eagerly go marching off to war carried by a tide of nationalistic patriotism, energized by testosterone and adrenaline.
Without the young, old men might hasten more to find grounds for negotiation and compromise in world relations. Without the young to carry forth the nationalist flag into the valleys of death, old men might be more content with the power they have and find tolerance in their hearts for the differences of others. But they have always had the young. From the thunderous armies of Imperial Rome to the muddy trenches of the American Civil War, the young have always born the brunt and met death head-on while the old sit safely at long tables scowling at maps and plans. Old men wave banners of patriotism in front of the young - like bullfighters in the ring, agitating a snorting bull. They move the red cape of fear and anger beckoning the doomed beast to charge into a sword of deadly steel that’s held concealed, like the cost of war, behind the camouflage. “Be all that you can” is shouted in their ears without ever telling them that death is for eternity and that their “sacrifice’ is not to some nationalist cause but rather to the egos of the old envious men. The young are easily swayed and go forth carrying the flags of their fathers till their blood saturates the cobblestone streets of cities and towns with unpronounceable names. Then, their broken, dead and cold bodies are returned for burial. Spent, used up, erased from the Currier and Ives prints of family Thanksgiving Dinners - and only 21 at last birthday. The old live lives of vicarious violence like arm waving and chanting fans at a football game - but with much more damning consequences. This sadly is a repeated pattern. An intricate and dark part of the history of our species.
In this current Iraq war of occupation, we the public have been deliberately shielded from seeing the succession of flag draped caskets returning to our soil. Our government fears we would object too strongly if blatantly confronted with the undeniable and very real cost of their vaguely defined “war on terror”. Instead we get the sanitized NPR radio version, rarely upgraded. We are shown even less of the wounded and mangled bodies of young soldiers whose lives and futures have been suddenly and terribly altered by the loss of limbs, the loss of vision or residual brain damage - the collateral gift of a roadside bomb. These returning heroes are often stuffed in poorly staffed and maintain facilities while politicians ponder cost cutting measures to free up more dollars for war machinery and Backwater contracts.
I have no healing medications for the madness of humanity. The old quickly sacrifice the young to their momentary cuase. There is no magic pill that leads we humans to peace or tolerance. Such a destination is difficult to reach but, despite the rhetoric, seems always more elusive when pursued with a war machine.
I only make observations and take a moment every now and then to wipe the tear that forms at the corner of my aging eyes. My heart breaks for all the young men and women who will not see their sons and daughters grown and for all those yet to be sacrificed because old men are bereft of solutions. Despite all else, the imperative continues: The idea that we must carry forth our need for power and revenge via violent nationalism refuses to die. Or when it does, it may very well take us all with it.
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