Mother's view of the war
Battle fatigue on the home front

Teri Wills Allison

Sunday, November 21, 2004

I am not a pacifist. I am a mother. By nature, the two are incompatible, for even a cottontail rabbit will fight to protect her young.

Violent action may be necessary in defense of one's family or home, and that definition of home can easily be extended to community and beyond, but violence, no matter how warranted, always takes a heavy toll.

Violence taken to the extreme -- war -- exacts the most extreme costs. There may be a just war, but there is no such thing as a good war. And the burdens of an unjust war are insufferable.

I know something about the costs of an unjust war, for my son, Nick, an Army infantryman, is fighting one in Iraq. I don't speak for him. I couldn't even if I wanted to, for all I hear through the mom filter is "I'm fine, Mom, don't worry. I'm fine. Everything is fine, fine, fine. We're fine, just fine. '' But I can tell you what some of the costs are as I live and breathe them.

First, the minor stuff: my constant feelings of dread and despair, the sweeping rage that alternates with petrifying fear, the torrents of tears that accompany a maddening sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

My son is involved in a deadly situation that should never have been. I feel like a mother lion in a cage, my grown cub in danger, and all I can do is throw myself furiously against the bars, impotent to protect him. My tolerance for b.s. is zero, and I've snapped off more heads in the last several months than in all the rest of my 48 years combined.

For the first time in my life and with great amazement and sorrow, I feel what can only be described as hatred. It took me a long time to admit it, but there it is. I loathe the hubris, the callousness, and the lies of those in the Bush administration who led us into this war.

Truth be told, I even loathe the fallible and very human purveyors of those lies. I feel no satisfaction in this admission, only sadness and recognition. I hope that, given time, I can do better. I never wanted to hate anyone.

Xanax helps a bit. At least it holds the debilitating panic attacks somewhat at bay, so I can fake it through one more day. A friend in the same situation relies on a six-pack of beer every night. Another has drifted into a la-la land of denial. Nice.

[...]

[speaking of two Others' son]
Instead of getting treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder, he has just received a "less than honorable" discharge from the Army. The rest of his unit redeploys to Iraq in February.

Another friend of Nick's was horrifically wounded when his humvee stopped on a bomb. He didn't even have time to instinctively raise his arm and protect his face. Shrapnel ripped through his right eye, obliterating it to gooey shreds, and penetrated his brain. He has been in a coma since March.

His mother spends every day with him in the hospital. His wife is devastated, and their 1 1/2-year-old daughter doesn't know her daddy. But my son's friend is a fighter and so is making steady, incremental progress toward consciousness.

He has a long hard struggle ahead of him, one that he shouldn't have to face, and his family has had to fight every step of the way to get him the treatment he needs. So much for supporting the troops.

I visit him every week. It breaks my heart to see the burned faces, the missing limbs, the limps and the vacant stares one encounters in an acute-care military hospital.

In front of the hospital there is a cannon, and every afternoon they blast that sucker off. You should see all those poor guys hit the pavement.

Although many requests have been made to discontinue the practice for the sake of the returning wounded, the general in charge refuses. Boom.

[...]

I know there are military moms who view the war in Iraq through different ideological lenses than mine. Sometimes I envy them. How much easier it must be to believe one's son or daughter is fighting for a just and noble cause.

But no matter how hard I scrutinize the invasion and occupation of Iraq, all I see are lies, corruption, and greed fueled by a powerful addiction to oil. Real soldiers get blown to tatters in their Hummers so that well-heeled American suburbanites can play in theirs.