“An Interesting Perspective”

This was written yesterday by a friend of mine, Tabitha Kaza. She is a young mother of 5 whose husband is a Marine in Iraq. There are a few dimensions to this that struck a chord with me, so I would like to share it.
My youngest brother who is 17 and just graduated from High School on Saturday. He is what they call a Marine “Poolie”. He officially signed up for the Marines in November, but has not gone to basic training yet. He goes off to basic training on September 7. Then maybe to war. We are both very proud and very afraid.

Love Me When I’m Gone
There are moments in everyone’s life when one realizes things will never be the same.
One day, in early spring 2004, my husband came home from work early. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw him. His eyes looked far away. He asked me to send the children outside, but our toddler refused to leave his arms. I sat on our bed, pregnant with our fifth, and felt a bolt of fear.
“He’s going to leave for Iraq before the baby’s born,” I thought.

But when he choked out the news that his roommate from The Basic School had been killed in Iraq a few days earlier, I felt even uglier sensations…immediate loss, dismay, deep helplessness. And I knew, without a doubt, that my husband would someday go to war, as well.
“We Give Them”
1st Lt. Joshua Palmer was an exceptional human being. He spoke several languages, read more widely than almost anyone I have met, and truly loved the Marine Corps. He was killed on Holy Thursday in Fallujah, while leading his men as they swept buildings clean of insurgents. A picture of his body, with his men kneeling and praying over him immediately after he was killed, was published in newspapers and magazines around the world.
My husband, shaken by his friend’s death, quietly kept working towards his own deployment to Iraq. Two weeks after our son, named Joshua in honor of Josh’s sacrifice, was born, my husband said softly that he would be deploying in early 2005.
I would like to say that I gave him a sweet kiss, told him I was proud of him, and immediately draped an American flag by our front door. I did not. In fact, I do not remember much of those days, except that I was filled with a panic and distress that knew no bounds.
“On Going to the Wars”
In college, I majored in political theory. I loved to stay up all night long, debating the best way to run a government, or the meaning of justice. The more complex the issue, the more I enjoyed the conversation. Now, at this stage of human events, my thoughts are simple and stark: there is great evil in the world today, evil that must be confronted and stopped. But must my husband be the one to stop it?
The current conflict in Iraq, where Josh died and my husband (and my brother) now work, has become the focus point of debate. Should we have gone when we did? Should we be there now? What is the score today? My once-nuanced mind has sharpened to a needle-fine point: there is great evil in the world today, evil that must be confronted and stopped. A great deal of that evil is found in the Middle East, and Iraq was chosen as the place and time of our choosing to fight this evil. And my husband must be among those who work to stop it.
“The Nature of Evil”
This is not to say great evil does not exist elsewhere, in other forms. Nor is it to say that evil must always and exclusively be met with force. Sometimes, however, it must. For many reasons, now is one of those times that force is our main method.
But what about my husband–MY husband? Why must he, with his brilliant mind and deep moral sense, be part of the Marine Corps’ spear? Isn’t there other evil he could fight, elsewhere? Couldn’t we go to his parents’ native India and help the poor and sick? Or what if he stayed in the United States, and we helped teenage mothers, or troubled kids, or anyone, ANYONE, who needed help? Isn’t there some alternative, some non-violent work against evil, in which he could take part?
There are two reasons for this question. First, I do not want my husband to die or be hurt. I want him to live a long life with me and our babies. I want that cup to pass from me.
Second, and in some ways more important, it sounds better to be “against violence.” People tend to be more receptive to “my husband fights the evil of poverty (or racism, or oppression) by working for a charity (or a research center, or a university),” rather than by working at war. It sounds better to me, too. It takes so much less mental effort to fight the wrongs of the world with organizations that do not utilize brute force.
It sounds better. But is it better?
In her book “Eichmann in Jerusalem,” Hannah Arendt describes “the banality of evil,” the idea that the greatest evil is often found in the most mundane places, such as the dehumanizing beaurocratic machine that sent millions of people to their gruesome deaths in concentration camps. I wish we only had to fight the banality of beaurocracies. But sometimes we also need to fight the obvious, glaring, malignant evil of concentration camps, as well. And many of those blatant evils–genocide, dictatorships, homicidal fundamentalism–require force to be stopped.
Mother Teresa spoke of the despair of loneliness, and callous disregard for the dignity of each unique human life, and she dedicated her life to lessening the suffering of the lowest castes in India, sometimes just by holding someone’s hand as he died. The same evil she combatted spans a spectrum that ends in suicide bombers blowing up women and children at a funeral. Some individuals are called to minister to the lonely and hungry; some are called to stop those who would murder and destroy, with all necessary force.
On Mother’s Day, a local paper ran an editorial in which the author asked rhetorically how any mother could support any war. In one of the many letters to the editor, a woman responded to a letter-writer whose son was serving in Iraq, saying that she hoped her son would “work for peace,” rather than go to war. The absurdity came into focus: mothers who send their sons to war against great evil are working for peace. In fact, they could not be working any harder, much like firefighters work for peace, not fires, and they put their lives on the line to do so.
So, then, there are those who are called to position themselves at the tip of the spear that stands in front of freedom. And this is noble, and brave, and good. But my husband? Do I need to offer my husband?
“Not my husband”
I have read articles by other military wives, who are very proud of their men, and who pray for their safety even as they offer them valiantly. I, too, am proud of my man, but I am not valiant. I am afraid.
Of course, all wives who love their husbands are afraid of harm coming to them. But I am afraid that to be completely supportive and strong is to volunteer to be one of those who loses her love for the sake of the war. And then what of principle? What of the grand scheme of the course of history? What of the sweeping battle of good versus evil, when I am left bereft?
I am afraid with a sick fear, a fear based on too much thinking during too many lonely nights. A fear based on pure selfishness: not my husband. Not my family. Not my happiness.
I wish I could say that losing Josh turned the corner for me. After all, there have been few young men as intelligent, as kind, and with greater potential to make the world a better place. When Josh’s family and friends gave him to the fight, they gave “first fruits,” the best our country has to offer. So then, it should not be, “Why me?” Rather, “Why not me?”
But the fear remains. To give my blessing to his actions feels like giving permission for his life to be sacrificed. After all, his service could very well lead to his death. Is there a fine line my support does not cross? Or if I withhold my support, do I keep him safe?
During some of my rants, when I fling hurtful accusations at my husband (“You’re abandoning your family!” “How can you just walk away from me?”), he turns to me in exasperation and asks, “What would you prefer? That I run and hide? That I say, Take anyone but me?” And even my most intense desires to control his safety and our lives become suspended.
In an old novel about World War I, a mother who watches her second son enlist is pitied by a neighbor: “Your poor son!” The mother turns, eyes flashing, and says, “It could have been worse. I could have had to urge him to go.”
I feel that to be true, but the night before my husband deployed, I almost gagged on the cold comfort of principle.
For when is a premature death ever appropriate? All human beings should live full lives and die peacefully at a ripe old age. But the world is not a perfect place, and sometimes death comes early.
And could there be such a thing as an appropriate casualty of war? People who speak against the war talk as though there is a theoretical circumstance when they would be satisfied with the death of their loved one. That is absurd. No one wants her loved one to die a violent death at the hands of an enemy. No one wants anyone to die, for any reason other than natural death. But that is besides the point.
War is always a terrible thing. But sometimes, it is a better alternative to evil winning more ground. And some people will be tasked to lay down their lives for the sake of maintaining freedom.
“I wish this had never come to me”
In the movie version of J.R.R. Tolkein’s “Lord of the Rings,” Frodo, who must carry an evil ring into an evil land to destroy it, says to his friend Gandalf the wizard, “I wish this ring had never come to me.” Gandalf turns kindly to him and says, “So do all who see such times.” He continues, saying the question is what to do with these times when they come, even in the face of grave sacrifice and injustice: “Some men die who should live, and some men live who should die.”
Tears come to my eyes every time I watch that scene. For I do not wish to live the life I have to live right now, a life of constant fear and loneliness and emotional torment. But I know, when I care to examine my most hidden soul, that there are times when sacrifice is required, even of those least desiring to sacrifice.
Some wives have earned the right to take personal pride in their husbands’ work. They give their husbands wholeheartedly, bearing the worry and pain quietly and willingly. I admire their strength, and I would never dare pretend to join their ranks. When my husband returns, he will have earned his peace, his place in the history of “extreme citizenship.” And I will not deny him that sense of accomplishment. But his sacrifice shrinks when placed next to Josh’s ultimate sacrifice, and the ultimate sacrifices made by all those who do not come home.
“Memorial Day”
This holiday weekend, I will contemplate all that was lost when Josh was killed by an insurgent bullet. Our country and our world lost a great man who could have become a great husband, a great father, a great statesman.
But I will also appreciate all that was gained when Josh offered his life for his country. Our freedom, our way of life, goodness itself could only exist when those who have so much to offer in times of peace are willing to sacrifice all when peace is threatened.
This firm belief–that sometimes evil must be destroyed by force–does not mean I desire force, nor does it mean I concede the death of those I love. No; I will continue to fight my fear, and my selfish wish that I could be another free rider. I have, at most, occasional virtues, while my vices are constant: jealousy of those who get to live quiet lives, impatience and anger and even despair.
So I will not pretend nobility, nor do I seek pity, especially the “your poor husband!” kind. I am no more desirous of losing my husband to war than the wife of a pacifist professor desires to lose hers. But her pity would be hard to stand. Hy husband is not a dupe, nor a cog in a war machine. He knows exactly what he is doing, and would gladly lay down his life for his country and his fellow Marines. To pity that is to insult courage, honor, and fidelity.
My husband is the one who had to walk away from his children, from the comforts of American life, into a world of extreme heat, danger, and unrest. Those who go into harm’s way, and those who lose the lives they have always wanted to live, are due the admiration and respect I am not. They actually live, and sometimes die, by the principles I can only write about.
That is what Memorial Day should mean: appreciation for those who have given all, and for those who are yet willing to sacrifice all, so that we may go on living.