Yesterday was Veteran’s Day.
I was thinking a lot about war and life yesterday. When I became a mother and god-mother, I understood that if my son (or god-daughters) went to war, I would have to go as well, because anything that is worth my child’s life, is worth my life. (And the corollary: if you mess with my children, you mess with me.) Of course, I think it would be hard to take your mom into battle. But if you know me, you know that the enemy should be really, really, scared.
So, I am grateful to the young men and women who routinely put their lives at risk for the high stakes political chess that our world leaders play with way too much glee and ooky blood lust.
And I am grateful to the veterans of prior wars for their sacrifices. It is hard to imagine old men and women in their prime, as spies (www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Tragedy-WWII-spy-Eileen-Nearne-escaped-Gestapo-died-alone.html) and soldiers and nurses on the front. They look so old and enfeebled now.
Today, as I was leaving my office, I saw two old men in wheel chairs. Using “old” is somewhat euphemistic. “Ancient” is more appropriate. Incapacitated and dependent. When I see random ancient people on the street (as opposed to family), I cannot think of them as once young and vibrant. I just see strangers with no past and probably not much of a future.
Except the two old men in their wheelchairs with their attendants were wearing war medals and insignias of their military service. All of a sudden, they were not inconvenient and uncomfortable reminders of my future decrepitude. I know that when they were young, they were warriors. Given the number of medals, they were brave warriors. And they have stories, of war and peace, love and hate, passion and indifference. Maybe these were good, generous, upright men. Maybe they weren’t. Probably, like all of us, they fell somewhere in between.
Two of my uncles were reluctant warriors in WWII. One was captured and imprisoned. I know his story, which is powerful (www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/Shapiro.html). It was hard to know these things about my uncle. I know it was hard for my uncle to remember, transcend the evil, and have his story known.
It wasn’t until my other uncle, Uncle Al, died about 9 years ago that I learned he fought in the Pacific in WWII. He never talked about it (or maybe we just didn’t see enough of him to draw him out). My father thinks he was at Guadalcanal. Of course, that generation never talked about the war, even when the effects of the war crippled, or at least altered, the trajectories of their post-war lives.
Truth is that I didn’t know this uncle very well. He was the third of five sons and got short shrift by three generations of our family. He was a quiet man with great artist skill. I wonder if I would have interacted with him differently if, while he was alive, I knew to look at his life through the prism of the bloodshed he must have witnessed and (possibly) perpetrated in some of the most grisly fighting of WWII.
Today, we have veterans who need our support. Whether or not we agree with the politics, their mere willingness to go to war to protect and defend us is heroic. We owe it to these young men and women to learn their stories, help them re-acclimate to post-war lives, and protect them from their deepest, darkest memories of combat and, yes, deal with the bad things they did “over there”.
It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families have not yet been granted US citizenship. It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families are treated like second class citizens because of sexual orientation. It is hard to believe that anyone thinks our returning veterans don’t deserve the very best in medical care and social services.
I just hope that no one has to wonder, when the veterans of our generation are in wheelchairs with attendants, if they will be remembered and honored. I hope the next generations remember that they once were warriors, protecting and defending us.
