During the
current infantile government shutdown, nothing is more likely to make the
evening news than an army of World War II veterans storming their memorial in
Washington, DC, crushing the barricades with their wheelchairs while assisted by
the non-paid, non-working monument police and Harvard-educated clown senator
Ted Cruz, blindly participating in his self-scripted morality play shut down
before it even opened.
Don’t get me
wrong. If I had been in DC at the time,
I would have moved the barricades myself. I object to crass politicians of all stripes
using aging veterans for their scripted talking points. I’m reminded of the bumper stickers during the
Iraq War that encouraged us to support our troops. As fewer Americans serve in the military—just
1%, I think—the military is considered out there, doing the country’s dirty
work, and though “I” probably wouldn’t encourage my daughter or son to serve, I
can honor those that do, even in some abstract, knee-jerk kind of way. I can protest against death benefits being
denied veterans due to the Sequester. And
politicians can take credit for making sure the military gets paid during the
self-inflicted Washington insanity, thus ginning up their patriotism.
Serving in
the military was one of the most important decisions of my life and probably
had a more lasting effect on my character, discipline and, as an immigrant,
appreciation for America than my time in college and graduate school. I was at sea for four years, mainly in Asia
with a number of stints in the Tonkin Gulf. I had a number of close calls, but that was
part of the enlistment compact. No big
deal. As any veteran will tell you, the
military remains in the bones for a lifetime. It is not unusual for veterans, whatever the
severity of their service, to remain quiet for a lifetime. It’s taken me decades to write my first book
about my time at sea.
It is not
likely that America will go back to the draft nor should it, considering the
inequities of that time. But we should
at least consider some form of national service, if only to get our collective
hands dirty. If not, then let’s treat
our military as American citizens and let them, active or retired, suffer the
same consequences of living in this imperfect county that at the moment seems
to be run by clowns. Let’s not elevate
our military, not because we don’t hold them in high esteem, but because that
very act of elevation, placing them up and “out there” resolves us from
understanding of what it’s like to serve this country and what it means for us
to “go to war,” as we seem to have been doing since I arrived in America.
Let’s not
elevate our military, not because we do not honor them, but because that often
absolves us of the responsibility of looking closely at what President
Eisenhower warned us about the military-industrial complex more than a
half-century ago. The danger that
Eisenhower, a warrior himself who played down his Word War II heroics, warned
us about is much more pronounced today with America spending more on armaments
than the next ten countries combined. We
have outsourced our wars to the 1% and the thousands of civilians—usually
ex-military, who continue to fight our wars abroad, without necessarily
adhering to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And have we not noticed at home the militarization
of our neighborhoods with full-fledged SWAT teams in more than 100 communities
in the US, courtesy of the War on Terror funds?
Let’s not
elevate our military, not because we do not remember the price they paid, but
because that righteous act might blind us to “first causes” and the fact that
our most recent wars, including Vietnam and Iraq, were based on lies. The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution was a complete
fabrication. The weapons of mass
destruction in Iraq quickly became a late-night television joke. Some joke. Our men
and women have borne the brunt of this folly that has never been fully
adjudicated in the public or political arena.
When we
elevate our military, let it be with full knowledge of past wars, the political
mendacity that is disguised as patriotism, and the industrial gun-runners who
are in the business of supporting wars as free market enterprise. As always, follow the money.
We honor our
military, living and dead, by not letting our service men and women be put in
harm’s way to satisfy an itch of mainly aging white politicians who want to
shore up their base or to satisfy their fantasies by engaging in some martial
theatrics. “All wars are boyish,” Herman
Melville said. Think Syria, Korea, and
Iran.
We honor our
military, living and dead, by slowing down the martial rhetoric, cooling the
bombast, and insisting of our representatives that any future war or military
action will be decided in full daylight with everyone, including the lobbyists,
in plain sight.
We honor our
military, living and dead, by insisting that our churches and synagogues that
are often quiet on these matters, step front-and-center, explaining to their
respective congregations what exactly constitutes just and unjust wars. And
why a sacred text can be as bellicose as a political speech.
The late psychologist
James Hillman writes that “war is not a product of reason and does not yield to
reason.” As a student of war, I agree
with him. So we honor our military, living and dead, by
accepting war in all its “unreason,” and by being aware of the speciousness of
leaders who prattle about “wars to end all wars” and the like. Hillman
notes that “Like a manic syndrome, war eventually exhausts itself.”
So we honor
our military, living and dead, by accepting war as a manic syndrome that feeds
on itself until satiated. The country
expressed its exhaustion with war when the drums were beating for Syria. And this exhaustion came from a largely
disinterested public, silent for the last decade. Our exhausted military have suffered more
directly: PTSD, suicides, displacement and unemployment. Many will suffer for a lifetime.
I honor our
military, living and dead, in a Kindle ebook, The
Archetype of the Gun, which explores many of the above issues. Our
veterans form the centerpiece of this epic poem, this prayer.
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