A reader responds to the war-poem published earlier today:
You ask of your wrenching poem, "Does it make sense to you? Do you understand?"
No, it doesn’t, and I don’t, and I can’t.
I’m safely at home, working and raising my daughter and watching football – and though I’ve read accounts of what is happening in this sham of a war, and have heard stories of the sacrifices of men and women who are fighting on, as hard as they can, despite the stupidity of their civilian leadership, I can never know what it is like to see a friend die in a flash, never know what it’s like to have to decide whether to help that man on the side of the road or kill him before he kills you, to drive over children because the alternative is to keep your friends out in the open to be slaughtered.
I can’t know what you know, and I will never know what you know, and I’m sorry for that. I wish you could stay home, marry your girlfriend, raise a family, and watch football, and never think of this war again. I don’t know what can be done, but I do know that I’ll do the pitifully small amount I can, shouting as loudly as I can that this war has failed, and that we do our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines no service by sending in a handful more to save face. I’ll do that, knowing full well that in the end, it will not be enough; I only hope someday that you can forgive your fellow Americans for demanding sacrifice of you beyond what we were willing to give, trading your very safety for the illusion of safety for us.
I hope you can forgive us, but I understand if you cannot.
The Dish 