March 22, 2006
Measure in
Years, Measure in Misery
Three years.
It hardly seems like that long, does it.
Three years since America learned that yes,
just as it had expected, it was at war with
Iraq.
A lot can happen in three years. But for
many of us, cloistered comfortably within
the United States, the weeks and months
since that fateful day in March of 2003 have
flown by, filled with the mundane events
we're accustomed to: Days in the office or
at the shop or in school; evenings at the
mall or propped in front of the TV. Weekends
of barbecues and freshly mowed lawns.
Perhaps the daily regularities have been
punctuated by a few demarcating events:
Births or deaths, marriages and divorces,
new jobs or friends or cars. By and large,
though, chances are that the majority of the
past three years have drifted past as just
more of the unremarked time that is typical
of a comparatively static, comfortable
existence.
Time can pass differently, though, depending
upon who you are, where you are, and what
surrounds you. Three years, thirty-six
months, 156 weeks - for some the twinkling
of an eye, for others an eternity. The same
span of time, experienced from within a
different skin, can seem like a limitless,
endless, unendurable hell, an intolerable
eternal present where each second is
drenched in pain, fear or sorrow.
Somewhere within the U.S. Army's prison
facility at Guantanamo Bay, there is a
person who has felt each hour, minute and
second pass, someone for whom each moment
stretches ahead into the distance like a
road to an empty horizon. Someone who has
had no choice but to count each minute since
the last time they saw their home or family,
since they last spoke with a friend, since
they last were in the presence of someone
who loved them. Counting the minutes spent
futilely looking for some variation in the
familiar landscape of chainlink, barbed
wire, orange uniforms and parched earth.
Someone who still doesn't understand why
they were plucked from the midst of their
family and fellows, spirited across the
ocean, dumped into a hellhole and left to
wait without purpose.
Somewhere in Baghdad a parent has marked
every passing moment of the three years
since a falling bomb or machinegun burst or
artillery round snatched away a daughter or
son. Someone else marks the absence of a
father or mother, brother or sister, wife or
husband, incinerated within white
phosphorous flame or buried beneath tons of
rubble. Someone else still measures time in
terms of missing friends or neighbors,
abducted by gunmen at intersections or in
their bedrooms or in the market, to be
consigned to the ranks of the disappeared or
to be found later with a single bullet wound
at the base of the skull, and wonders how
many nights remain until they - whoever they
are - come for him.
And for others, three years have been
measured out in roadside bombs and RPGs.
Three years of hours, minutes and seconds
spent in suspended terror, knowing that the
enemy is always nearby, that there is always
another bullet or another bomb waiting to
find its mark. Torn from home and hearth,
from parents and spouses and children, these
men and women dream of a return to the
comfortable blandness of daily American life
- cubicle jobs, frozen foods, sitcom reruns
all seeming like aspects of a lost paradise
when considered from within the context of
scorching desert heat, endless anxiety and
omnipresent menace.
Three years: A period of time in which
everything can change, even as each second
remains frozen in unchanging, inescapable
dread. Three years spent at the random mercy
of forces beyond one's control, waiting for
the next bomb, the next questioning, the
next order, the next bullet, knowing that
whether or when each comes will be
determined by either shadowy figures lurking
around the corner or by men in offices
thousands of miles away. If there is one
thing that the last three years have shown,
it is that it is possible for
incomprehensible suffering to be visited
upon towns, countries, families, and
soldiers, but it is as impossible to build a
functional, stable nation from the ashes of
a senseless war as it is for the men in
Washington and London who set these events
in motion to develop a functioning
conscience.
Three years, and still we stay the course.
©
2006 North Star Writers Group. May not
be republished without permission.
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