As we prepared to leave, we complimented our host on her hospitality and the quality of the breakfast conversation we had just enjoyed as the lone Americans among a dozen Irish guests.
"Yes," she said in her marvelous lilt, nodding her head slowly. "They're just like us, aren't they? I don't understand the fuss."
Reading our baffled looks, she explained herself.
"The Northerners, I mean. They're no different than us."
Visiting from the other side of the ocean, we two Yanks hadn't recognized that half the guests had been Catholic Irish, and the other half Protestant Northern Irish. This was a vital distinction to those closer in, but Teresa and I missed the whole conflicted under-current.
I've often reflected on this small treasure of a memory from my particular spot on the tiny, spinning rock all humans call home. I imagine all the vital distinctions dividing our race would be quite imperceptible to any visitor from beyond our fragile atmosphere. Still, this is the soup inwhich we swim... our reality.
I mention this because we have just passed Veterans' Day. I know some people are quite uncomfortable with this and the Memorial Day holidays. Some believe these observances are turned into a promotion of the military-industrial complex and the glorification of war. The point does have some resonance for me. War is undoubtedly the worst of human innovations: a true mark of abysmal failure in EVERY case.
War is hell.
I heard an interview recently with a soldier who had done multiple tours in Iraq. He, like many, had been placed in a position where he had to kill other human beings. He is certain that he killed several. He said that near the end of his final tour he had started to think before each patrol that he just wanted to make it home, no differently than any person likely to be in his gunsights that day.
That is hell.
I hold other stories, but they aren't mine to share. They came out in hoarse whispers late at night when others had gone to bed, or within concrete walls after staff and family footsteps had long since trailed away down long hallways. They are harrowing memories, and mostly involve what must be done to survive amid unspeakable carnage. Such stories are not welcomed from lofty pulpits or flag-bedecked platforms erected on village greens.
That is hell.
Let's never forget those who go through hell.
It is not lost on me that many who chant "freedom isn't free" are turning a hefty profit waging war. Also, somehow, it is never their sons and daughters shooting and being shot -- nor, typically, the sons and daughters of the elected officials they own. The parting wisdom of President/General Dwight D. Eisenhower should be carved on every forehead in America. He called it, didn't he?
But two days a year I still choose to publicly recognize en masse the horror we have elected to put many of our brothers and sisters through. Phone calls and/or visits are made, too. I don't wrap it in flags and patriotic platitudes. I recognize horror, hardship and sacrifice. Don't even dream of suggesting that's not appropriate.
It is so tragic what we humans put ourselves through.
