Raising Boys in a Time of War

I wrote the following a couple of years ago, but I've decided to repost it because as we've added yet another little boy to our family, the war in Afghanistan has ratcheted up again, innocent civilians are losing their lives, American troops continue to spill their precious blood, and the cost of the wars has now topped 1 trillion dollars:

I grew up in a military family, so I feel a great deal of loyalty to the military. The military men and women I have known are among the highest caliber people you will ever meet in your life. Chief among them is my father, who is a retired Air Force officer. He is a loyal, smart, and dedicated man. I was so proud of him at his retirement ceremony when I heard of his achievements and the admiration his colleagues and superiors had for him. It is from this place that my loyalty springs.

I am against our current war in Iraq, but I am not a pacifist. I believe very strongly in the right to bear arms and in the necessity of defending our families and our freedoms when necessary. Many say that is what we are doing in Iraq. I disagree. When we first went in to Iraq, I did think the goal of installing a democracy was honorable, but misguided. Being somewhat familiar with the tumultuous history of Iraq and the fact that Great Britain had failed to install a democracy in Iraq, I wondered why we thought we would succeed. But this post isn't really about military strategery. It is about being a mother of four boys in a time of war. My oldest is only 10, but at the present time I am not confident that we will see peace in the near future.

My trepidation and fear grows as the war comes closer to home for me. A few years ago, a friend's husband died in Iraq. He left behind a two year old daughter. Just a couple of weeks ago, my brother found out that a childhood friend of his had died in Iraq. He was only 31 and left behind five children. He was the oldest of 12 children and seeing a picture of his mother being handed her oldest son's flag was devastating. Then I think back through history to all of the mothers who have lost boys (and in more recent history girls) to the cruelty of war. My great grandmother lost her youngest son, "Dicky" in the Korean War. She gave permission for him to enlist at only 17 because she knew he would find a way to get in on the action no matter what. It is said that the entire "French Island" where they lived heard her scream when she received the news of her son's death. It is with reverence that I recall these sacrifices, but I gently and humbly ask that all of us think more critically and demand more accountability from our politicians in this dangerous and uncertain time.

I found the following passage in an article at Lew Rockwell attributed to Major General Smedley Darlington Butler, a highly decorated and controversial General who died right before the U.S. got into World War II:

"Now – you mothers, particularly. The only way you can resist all this war hysteria and beating tomtoms is by hanging onto the love you bear your boys. When you listen to some well-worded, well-delivered speech, just remember that it's nothing but sound. It's your boy that matters. And no amount of sound can make up to you for the loss of your boy. After you've heard one of those speeches and your blood's all hot and you want to bite somebody like Hitler – go upstairs to where your boy's asleep. . . . Look at him. Put your hand on that spot on the back of his neck. The place you used to love to kiss when he was a baby. Just rub it a little. You won't wake him up, he knows it's just you. Just look at his strong, fine young body because only the best boys are chosen for war. Look at this splendid young creature who's part of yourself, then close your eyes for a moment and I'll tell you what can happen . . .

Somewhere – five thousand miles from home. Night. Darkness. Cold. A drizzling rain. The noise is terrific. All Hell has broken loose. A star shell burst in the air. Its unearthly flare lights up the muddy field. There's a lot of tangled rusty barbed wires out there and a boy hanging over them – his stomach ripped out, and he's feebly calling for help and water. His lips are white and drawn. He's in agony.

There's your boy. The same boy who's lying in bed tonight. The same boy who trusts you. . . . Are you going to run out on him? Are you going to let someone beat a drum or blow a bugle and make him chase after it? Thank God, this is a democracy and by your voice and your vote you can save your boy. (from a 1939 broadcast) "