The networks are all indulging in a feeding frenzy over Saddam Hussein's execution, which I'm sure surprises no one by now. But lost in our extended Two Minute Hate are so many more deaths.
I've intended this blog to be about the after-effects--emotional, physical, and ethical--of my participation in the war on Iraq. Today I find myself stepping back from myself a little, which is probably a good thing. Aside from reading a couple of on-line stories, I've avoided all coverage of Saddam's execution. It was bound to happen at some point, and the violence that will continue to flow from him is just as predictable. There are, however, two other stories about deaths associated with Iraq that draw my attention more than the story of the death of a brutal ruler.
In just a few hours a more meaningful story (to me, at least) will get barely a mention. Three thousand American servicemen and women will have died directly as a result of our involvement in Iraq. The cynic in me has to wonder at the timing of Saddam's execution. When the casualty count passed two thousand in October, 2005 (one week after I returned home), the headlines, vigils, and protests prompted the White House to go into overdrive in order to keep the fantasy going that things really were getting better in Iraq. Of course, those of us who were moved to reflection by that number were, in the words of Lt Col Steve Boylan, focusing on "an artificial mark on the wall set by individuals or groups with specific agendas and ulterior motives." The message seemed to be that being overly concerned about the number of casualties was at the very least suspicious; more likely it was unpatriotic.
What really matters, I guess, is that we have brought democracy and freedom to Iraq. The President, no doubt deeply moved, reminded us that the best way to honour the dead was to "complete the mission and lay the foundation of peace by spreading freedom". And, in his sagacity, he looked ahead and reminded us that "this war will require more sacrifice, more time and more resolve."
Eight months later, five hundred more Americans had been sacrificed for our resolve. But when the body count reached 2500, the President's press secretary, Tony Snow, again explained to us that 2500 was "just a number." I suppose one cannot quantify sacrifice, so why bother?
Now we will cross the three-thousand casualty line, but fortunately for the President the news will be all about one dictator's death. Coincidence? Possibly. It won't really matter, though, to the family that will soon hear the knock on their door and, upon opening it, see the uniformed officer standing there. Their world will come crashing down around them, but the reverberations will be drowned out by indifference, ignorance, and the vengeance implicit in Saddam's death. Just like the other two-thousand, nine-hundred, and ninety-nine, for the rest of the world it will be just another number.
Whenever I have a toothache, I find that I just can't leave it alone. My tongue is always poking at it, even though it causes pain. In what seems to be a similar quirk of personality, I read about the casualties at Iraq Coalition Casualty Count. Every day since I've come home the count rises by one, two, three, or more; and I often read the stories posted about the individuals who died. I have a sign in my front yard where I post the count for the cars driving by, just in case someone might notice. I feel each death deep within me; each one seems a personal loss. Every number isn't just a number: every number marks another soldier, marine, sailor, or airman who is now dead. Every number marks another family that is now grieving. Every number marks another circle of friends and acquaintances who feel a loss. And every number marks another scar on our nation. I can't stop myself from feeling this hurt. I don't want to stop.
One more death comes to mind today, that of Army Reservist James E. Dean on Christmas Day. SPC Dean had already served in Afghanistan; recently he was notified that he was soon to be mobilized for Iraq. On Christmas he went to his father's house, called police threatening suicide, and was shot and killed after a fourteen-hour standoff when he pointed a weapon at an officer. The term, I believe, is "Suicide by Cop." Dean is not the first person to take his life after returning from war, and he certainly will not be the last. These men and women, though, will never be counted as casualties of war. They will never get mentioned in press releases, there will never be parades or stirring speeches to remind us that they, too, died from their wounds. Emotional wounds, I guess, are not really wounds. The pain that Dean felt inside at the prospect of going back into a war zone was no doubt a "personality disorder" in today's parlance.
Since the military and VA do not track suicides, it's likely that we'll never know the real American casualty count from the Iraq war, just like we'll never know how many veterans of Vietnam and our other wars ended their own personal wars. Our nation is probably happier in not knowing. Many of our fellow citizens can push aside the sheer amount of suffering that radiates from a number like three thousand by thinking of brave soldiers sacrificing themselves for our sakes, or the sake of the Iraqis, or for the sake of Freedom, or some other abstraction. It's a lot harder to look at those who choose their own death over the pain of their sacrifice.
The President recently told us that he sleeps well at night. I don't.
While the rest of the world focusses on Saddam's execution, I'll be thinking about these other deaths. I'll also be thinking about the uncounted thousands of Iraqis who have died, and the deaths in Afghanistan, Somalia, the Sudan, and all the other bloody and brutal conflicts around the world. For once I find myself agreeing with Donald Rumsfeld: "Death has a tendency to encourage a depressing view of war." I hope and pray that we will always find it so.