Still digging through the archives. This one goes back to September 2006. These early notes contributed to the general sentiment of what ultimately became the first complete draft of "Enough to Pray".
FOR LOVE OF COUNTRY
Tony plays Croatian songs in his car at full blast. He knows all the words, and he knows all the stories. When I don’t understand a song, he translates it for me. When I go to his house, he offers me Croatian food and his grandmother’s brandy. As I spent the last year studying various civil wars in the twentieth century, he readily told me all about what happened in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina in the early 90’s. He tells me about his family back home, and shows me videos of his cousins’ weddings. I was always impressed by his pride.
Then Tony told me he wants to move back home. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea, but his life is his own. Then Tony told me that if another war breaks out in that region, he wants to fight. Something funny happened to me in that moment. I don’t know whether it was anger or fear, but I believe that was the moment that I saw nationalism as a manifested evil. I was upset, if only because I saw that one day I would need to worry about my friend. We had been talking about war all year: about the nature of war, the horrors of families torn apart and devastated, the irony that Britain never seems to suffer at Hague, etc. But in all of our conversations, war was never glorified. I couldn’t believe that Tony would want to fight for nationalist causes if ever necessary.
I do see some value in fighting for country. The case could very well be one of aggressors who would force people to change their lives. That seems like a good time to fight. But there is none the less something shameful in it. For starters, if the cause is worth fighting for, then why is there a need for national songs and national artwork and national poetry? Sure, people will say that all the glitz is just to remind people who they are and where they come from. Is this to say that proud people easily forget these things? Or that an entire nation is too stupid to know what makes them great? It’s so easy to laugh at Canada as a country with a questionable culture, but the fact remains that every true Canadian knows what it means to be a Canadian (health care and tax jokes go here), knows why he or she is proud to be a Canadian, and has a special idea of what makes Canada so great. And to date, I have never heard a Canadian army song, telling Canadians everywhere that they should fight. I am not calling Eastern Europeans idiots. My family is Ukrainian, and I grew up singing all of the old Ukrainian army songs, myself. I remember them to this day, still sing them to myself. They are catchy. They are meant to rouse a crowd (the only reason I can imagine throwing ‘hey’ into the lyrics so many times). They are meant to drive home the fact that we were, are, and will be great, strong, resilient, etc. And they are meant to remind us to fight when the time comes. If only the reminders to vote every couple of years could be as entertaining!
There is no question that there is money in propaganda here in North America. It’s the only possible explanation for Michael Moore’s success (it certainly isn’t honest journalism). I particularly like the television commercial for the Marines on American television: the one where a diamond is being cut as young men are running and jumping and climbing. But there are no clips of fighting or dying. On the same note, has anyone determined the actual cause of World War One yet? No, no, not the trigger. I’m talking about something in the amalgam of arms races and suspicion and tension and whatnot. Why couldn’t anybody trust anybody else back then? Could it be that deep down at the heart of the matter, the war was caused by fear? Something so simple? I don’t see why not. Because when people are afraid, they need to be encouraged. They respond to suggestion. They need someone to tell them the answers and think for them. They need guidance. When it looks like house, home and family are threatened, and there is either no time to leave or no money to leave, it seems natural to take in all of the posters and commercials and songs that suggest the right thing to do is fight.
Fighting should be the work of soldiers. Once that gun is being aimed, and the moment becomes one’s last, does he or she think at that second about country? About freedom? About pride? About national history? I could only guess not, but then I’ve never stared death in the face. What will his or her family think? When will they find out that they’ve lost a loved one? What about friends left behind? Or children? It seems to me that one’s last moment on the earth is not a brave one, or a proud one, but more likely rather a fearful one. I could be wrong, but we’ve seen this all before. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, right?
Solutions? Don’t look to me for answers, I have none. It’s happened before, it’ll happen still, we are only human and we do what we can. We can say that land isn’t worth fighting over, but we’d be lying. We can pretend to be proud of our sons and daughters known to the country as fallen soldiers, as heroes. We can make our own martyrs and justify away every act of violence we have been involved in. Or, we can scream and cry and plea for changes, for a better humanity, for an end to the madness, for someone to recognize all of the stupidity. The madness will not end. Perhaps it’s in our blood. Perhaps we aren’t the nice, civilized, cultured, peace-loving people we would all like to think we are, but rather the Hobbesian antithesis we’d like to think we’re not. The problems will not end. But it doesn’t hurt to ask: if it turns out this is the only life we get, is it really worth risking it for something as trivial as nation? Is there really nothing more important to live for?
As for Tony, nobody can tell him what to believe. Nobody can tell him what to value, or what to do with his life. If the world is my oyster, it is also his and everyone else’s. I can care about my friends, and I can worry about them (though I’d prefer not to need to). It’s only natural to want the comfort of knowing one’s loved ones are safe. It’s a tangled mess of emotions, but then that’s human, too. All I can do is make it clear that in friends and loved ones there is always a safe place to come home to. And no song can ever change that.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Empty Canvas
I sit here staring blankly at an empty canvas, an unmarked page, unsure of what to say but so sure I want to say something, say everything, without needing to decide on where to start. The beginning, yes, the beginning, but what can be said for a story with no definite beginning, one that followed destiny, or fate, as it should fall, one with no trigger, no turning point, no denouement, just being, itself? What is this paralyzing hesitation that keeps my fingers chained to each other, my hands to my sides? Where did this uncertainty arise? What to add? What to leave out?
I hear them laughing already, rolling their eyes, rejecting, rejecting. The voices laughing are my own. The eyes rolling are my own. The story rejected? Also my own. It doesn’t start with Once upon a time, doesn’t end with happily ever after, doesn’t end at all. Why should it be told? There is no lesson to learn on my account, no moralizing, no preaching, no precedent to set. Who wouldn’t see my words and wonder why I’d felt them worth saying at all? I have no story as unique as I. Or perhaps I do, and that’s what stifles me, staring at my blank sheet, muted. If everybody’s been there, then who is left to care?
Who among us wasn’t once a scared child, driven by insecurity, greed, the ever-screaming longing to belong? And who among us hasn’t spent hours and days and months and years plagued by thoughts that nothing would be good enough, that we simply were not good enough, and struggled with that beast, and sometimes won, and sometimes lost? And who among us hasn’t missed that opportunity that could have turned the tables, could have changed it all? And who among us hasn’t said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person? Who among us hasn’t loved, hasn’t lost, hasn’t loved unrequitedly, hasn’t unwittingly broken a heart or two? Who among us hasn’t cried into a pillow, wishing for death, wishing for sleep, wishing for that one thing that could heal our wounds? Is there a person who has truly never laughed? The story has been told, has been played out in ourselves time after time after time after time, and will continue thus long after us. What can I possibly say?
Where is the air? It was here just a minute ago, fresh and abundant, and now I can’t seem to find it. The room grows small, breath grows short. I need… I need… I don’t know what I need. A cup of tea, a nap, a walk outside, some solitude, some silence. Solitude is as often an enemy as it is a friend. Silence can scream louder than human voices, louder than sirens. Sleep, a welcome friend, grows increasingly elusive, and when it comes it serves only to distract. It will never readily agree with me, carry a message for me, a message yet to be painted on this still-blank canvas. It knows only some odd form of stillness, but cannot still the mind.
In the vacuum images and stories swirl and swirl toward the void, and I can’t help but wonder what is to be found on the other side. To follow into the void is an exercise in futility. To reverse the pull is to stick fingers down the throat of the mind’s eye, regurgitate each image, some too sacred for words, some too banal to matter.
I hear them laughing already, rolling their eyes, rejecting, rejecting. The voices laughing are my own. The eyes rolling are my own. The story rejected? Also my own. It doesn’t start with Once upon a time, doesn’t end with happily ever after, doesn’t end at all. Why should it be told? There is no lesson to learn on my account, no moralizing, no preaching, no precedent to set. Who wouldn’t see my words and wonder why I’d felt them worth saying at all? I have no story as unique as I. Or perhaps I do, and that’s what stifles me, staring at my blank sheet, muted. If everybody’s been there, then who is left to care?
Who among us wasn’t once a scared child, driven by insecurity, greed, the ever-screaming longing to belong? And who among us hasn’t spent hours and days and months and years plagued by thoughts that nothing would be good enough, that we simply were not good enough, and struggled with that beast, and sometimes won, and sometimes lost? And who among us hasn’t missed that opportunity that could have turned the tables, could have changed it all? And who among us hasn’t said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person? Who among us hasn’t loved, hasn’t lost, hasn’t loved unrequitedly, hasn’t unwittingly broken a heart or two? Who among us hasn’t cried into a pillow, wishing for death, wishing for sleep, wishing for that one thing that could heal our wounds? Is there a person who has truly never laughed? The story has been told, has been played out in ourselves time after time after time after time, and will continue thus long after us. What can I possibly say?
Where is the air? It was here just a minute ago, fresh and abundant, and now I can’t seem to find it. The room grows small, breath grows short. I need… I need… I don’t know what I need. A cup of tea, a nap, a walk outside, some solitude, some silence. Solitude is as often an enemy as it is a friend. Silence can scream louder than human voices, louder than sirens. Sleep, a welcome friend, grows increasingly elusive, and when it comes it serves only to distract. It will never readily agree with me, carry a message for me, a message yet to be painted on this still-blank canvas. It knows only some odd form of stillness, but cannot still the mind.
In the vacuum images and stories swirl and swirl toward the void, and I can’t help but wonder what is to be found on the other side. To follow into the void is an exercise in futility. To reverse the pull is to stick fingers down the throat of the mind’s eye, regurgitate each image, some too sacred for words, some too banal to matter.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Veteran
Digging through the archives... this one's from December 2006. I think of this man everytime I sit down to write. His name wasn't really Ron.
“ I can tell you a funny story, but not really one about the war.” I had just met Ron in a barroom I’d never been to before. He was probably in his later fifties, grey-haired and wrinkled, and passionate about life. He had spent the night cracking jokes and flirting with the bartender, and making conversation with every stranger he could attract. That’s where I came in. I seem to attract the life of the party in places like this. We spoke for a little while about hockey and literature as he bought me a few drinks. He meant no harm. When in the run of our conversation he mentioned he had served in Vietnam, it piqued my interest.
“What was it like to be there? I’m sure it wasn’t how the textbooks say.” I quickly explained to him that I was writing a book about war, and that I was looking for an honest account. He eyed me carefully.
“What are they teaching you?” he asked.
“They teach us lots of things. In high school they taught us that soldiers went to World War One and died for our freedom. In history classes they taught us that propaganda was behind the whole thing. In university they taught us that the thought of going to war was the most glorious sacrifice a man could make for his country, and in English classes they taught us that the glory was a golden lie. But not many people teach us what the soldiers actually went through.”
“You listen to me, little girl. There is nothing glorious about war. You wanna know what goes through a soldier’s head? It’s ‘get me the fuck out of here.’ And if it’s a high-ranking official, it’s ‘get my men the fuck out of here.’ Glory? It’s fucking propaganda.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s the truth. And you know something? There is no worse feeling than bombing the shit out of a town and seeing for yourself what you did. I once had to see the damage I did to a town. Our first orders were to blow the town to smithereens, and we did. But the regiment that was supposed to finish the job wasn’t there, so they told us to go into the town and finish the job. I followed my orders. I went into the town, and saw all the buildings destroyed, bodies lying in the street with their skin burned off, blood everywhere. And do you know what it was that made me cry?”
“What?” I asked.
“A dog. A dog who had lost one of its legs. In the army, they teach you only how to kill. They train you not to care. But here was a crippled dog in a destroyed city, and it was all my fault. You know what I did when I saw that? I followed my orders, and finished my job.”
“That must have been horrible. I mean, to go into the village and see all of the people you killed.”
“Sweetheart, I never said I killed anyone.”
“You’re right,” I said, “you didn’t. That couldn’t have made things any easier.”
“No. But don’t you dare think there’s any glory in the war. I know exactly what I did, but don’t take it as offence if I don’t actually say it.”
“I don’t.” We left the heavy topic for awhile and spoke a little more about hockey. Ron introduced me to a friend of his, Howard, a native Canadian who had a daughter in university studying English. We cracked a few jokes and toasted to the finer things in life. There was a twinkle in Ron’s eye, a sense of true joy that only a man of experience could show. A few minutes later, though, Ron pulled me aside. He wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore, the way he had been before we spoke. His mood had changed in a heartbeat, and I was afraid that perhaps I had awoken a demon that would have preferred to stay dormant. Ron wanted to speak to me alone – he was serious. I obliged. I wanted to hear what he had to say. For some reason, this stranger whose slightly wrinkled face and twinkling eyes had smiled at me a short while ago from across the room wanted to confide in me. We stood away from everyone else.
“You want the truth, Natalie, I’ll tell you the truth. And you can spread the word.” I was no longer ‘little girl’ or ‘young lady’. He was calling me by name. “I don’t like talking about these things. That war was thirty years ago, and I still get nightmares when I think about it. You try to move on with your life, but how can you? You know something? I was in a POW camp in Vietnam.” Ron started to quiver. He stopped blinking altogether. “I was in a POW camp, and I escaped. I escaped on foot, with a razorblade.” Ron’s face started turning red, and he squinted as he spoke, as though he had just been jabbed in the rib. “How do you think I escaped with just a razorblade? What do you think I had to do?” Ron’s unblinking eyes were red, bulging out of their sockets as the shaking got more and more violent. His voice started breaking as he spoke, and I was certain that Ron was going to cry. But somehow he held himself together. In his position, I’m not sure I could have. But then, they had trained him not to care, had they not? I saw this guilty, angry man standing before me, shaking and quivering, forced suddenly to think about the men whose throats he had slit, and I couldn’t speak. What was I to say? This is what the war did to our soldiers! This is what the soldiers signed up for! Were sent out for! And here I stood before a broken man, and I had robbed him, if only for a moment, of his joy and zest for life! In his now-shaky voice he continued. “Natalie, not a day goes by when I don’t think about it. I remember each one of their faces. It was one thing to shoot weapons from far away, but how do you kill a man face to face? And I had to. It was all I could do! I watched as my friends had the shit shot out of them! I saw what happened to the people in the POW camp, and all I could think was ‘It’s not happening to me,’ and I got my hands on a razorblade and did what I had to do.”
“Oh man,” I said. What else could I say? Ron hadn’t blinked in well over three minutes now. His face burned red. My heart sank. “I’m so sorry.” I wanted to cry, myself. I was choking up inside and holding back the tears. It was what I wanted to hear, wasn’t it? The things they never taught us in school. The reality behind the phrase ‘war is hell’ had never struck me quite so sharply. There was no comforting Ron. He wasn’t looking for comfort. And yet, for some reason, for perhaps the same reason I had asked, he wanted me to know.
“They sent us out there to kill,” said Ron, “and we killed. I think about it everyday. And when we got back, they didn’t want us. The only job I could get when I came back was as a cook! They wouldn’t let us into the Legions because we’d lost the war. We didn’t lose the war! We shouldn’t have been there. They never wanted us there! I don’t want pity. I was a soldier, doing what I had to do to survive. But you know, the circumstances don’t matter. The war doesn’t matter, and the danger doesn’t matter. There’s only one word for what happened that day in the POW camp, and it’s Murder. I did what I had to do, but I just wish there had been another way.” It was then that tears sprang from his eyes. A grown man crying, with no support. When he placed a hand on my shoulder, I let him leave it there. It was the most I could do.
Ron wasn’t finished talking, but when he calmed down we rejoined his friend. The redness in his face faded, and he started blinking again. His shaking slowed down a little, and he regained control of his voice. “At the Legion, we never talk about what we’ve been through,” he told me. “We go there for a drink, for a laugh. We ignore the rest of it. Nobody wants to think about being a soldier. Nobody wants to think about fighting in a war. The guys over there, they know the truth.” A few minutes passed, and then Ron went on.
“I look at what’s going on these days in the Middle East. All these kids they’re sending out, sending home in coffins. It’s such a waste. A buddy of mine asked me how long it would take me to take down a town out there, and I told him twenty minutes – and I’d flatten everything in the way.” Ron’s voice was starting to break again. He had tears in his eyes, and he started struggling to catch his breath. He didn’t like what he was saying, and I could see it. “They’re sending kids out there who don’t know what they’re doing. They should send us old guys. I mean, I know I can’t fit into a tank like I used to, but dammit, we’ve done it before! We’d get the job done quicker! We’d do it right!” Ron looked at me for a second as though I was on my deathbed, and he was looking at me for the last time. For all I knew, it could very well be the last time I would speak to this stranger. For a minute I thought I sensed a bit of pity. “This world’s a mess, and us old guys should clean up the mess for you young people. You shouldn’t be out there, learning how to kill from scratch. People your age should be studying, and partying, and making love. . .”
“And writing books,” I interrupted. For the first time in awhile, Ron smiled. He cupped my face with his hands, and then hugged me.
“God bless you,” he said. “You put this in your book. But don’t ever say there’s anything glorious about war.”
“ I can tell you a funny story, but not really one about the war.” I had just met Ron in a barroom I’d never been to before. He was probably in his later fifties, grey-haired and wrinkled, and passionate about life. He had spent the night cracking jokes and flirting with the bartender, and making conversation with every stranger he could attract. That’s where I came in. I seem to attract the life of the party in places like this. We spoke for a little while about hockey and literature as he bought me a few drinks. He meant no harm. When in the run of our conversation he mentioned he had served in Vietnam, it piqued my interest.
“What was it like to be there? I’m sure it wasn’t how the textbooks say.” I quickly explained to him that I was writing a book about war, and that I was looking for an honest account. He eyed me carefully.
“What are they teaching you?” he asked.
“They teach us lots of things. In high school they taught us that soldiers went to World War One and died for our freedom. In history classes they taught us that propaganda was behind the whole thing. In university they taught us that the thought of going to war was the most glorious sacrifice a man could make for his country, and in English classes they taught us that the glory was a golden lie. But not many people teach us what the soldiers actually went through.”
“You listen to me, little girl. There is nothing glorious about war. You wanna know what goes through a soldier’s head? It’s ‘get me the fuck out of here.’ And if it’s a high-ranking official, it’s ‘get my men the fuck out of here.’ Glory? It’s fucking propaganda.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s the truth. And you know something? There is no worse feeling than bombing the shit out of a town and seeing for yourself what you did. I once had to see the damage I did to a town. Our first orders were to blow the town to smithereens, and we did. But the regiment that was supposed to finish the job wasn’t there, so they told us to go into the town and finish the job. I followed my orders. I went into the town, and saw all the buildings destroyed, bodies lying in the street with their skin burned off, blood everywhere. And do you know what it was that made me cry?”
“What?” I asked.
“A dog. A dog who had lost one of its legs. In the army, they teach you only how to kill. They train you not to care. But here was a crippled dog in a destroyed city, and it was all my fault. You know what I did when I saw that? I followed my orders, and finished my job.”
“That must have been horrible. I mean, to go into the village and see all of the people you killed.”
“Sweetheart, I never said I killed anyone.”
“You’re right,” I said, “you didn’t. That couldn’t have made things any easier.”
“No. But don’t you dare think there’s any glory in the war. I know exactly what I did, but don’t take it as offence if I don’t actually say it.”
“I don’t.” We left the heavy topic for awhile and spoke a little more about hockey. Ron introduced me to a friend of his, Howard, a native Canadian who had a daughter in university studying English. We cracked a few jokes and toasted to the finer things in life. There was a twinkle in Ron’s eye, a sense of true joy that only a man of experience could show. A few minutes later, though, Ron pulled me aside. He wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore, the way he had been before we spoke. His mood had changed in a heartbeat, and I was afraid that perhaps I had awoken a demon that would have preferred to stay dormant. Ron wanted to speak to me alone – he was serious. I obliged. I wanted to hear what he had to say. For some reason, this stranger whose slightly wrinkled face and twinkling eyes had smiled at me a short while ago from across the room wanted to confide in me. We stood away from everyone else.
“You want the truth, Natalie, I’ll tell you the truth. And you can spread the word.” I was no longer ‘little girl’ or ‘young lady’. He was calling me by name. “I don’t like talking about these things. That war was thirty years ago, and I still get nightmares when I think about it. You try to move on with your life, but how can you? You know something? I was in a POW camp in Vietnam.” Ron started to quiver. He stopped blinking altogether. “I was in a POW camp, and I escaped. I escaped on foot, with a razorblade.” Ron’s face started turning red, and he squinted as he spoke, as though he had just been jabbed in the rib. “How do you think I escaped with just a razorblade? What do you think I had to do?” Ron’s unblinking eyes were red, bulging out of their sockets as the shaking got more and more violent. His voice started breaking as he spoke, and I was certain that Ron was going to cry. But somehow he held himself together. In his position, I’m not sure I could have. But then, they had trained him not to care, had they not? I saw this guilty, angry man standing before me, shaking and quivering, forced suddenly to think about the men whose throats he had slit, and I couldn’t speak. What was I to say? This is what the war did to our soldiers! This is what the soldiers signed up for! Were sent out for! And here I stood before a broken man, and I had robbed him, if only for a moment, of his joy and zest for life! In his now-shaky voice he continued. “Natalie, not a day goes by when I don’t think about it. I remember each one of their faces. It was one thing to shoot weapons from far away, but how do you kill a man face to face? And I had to. It was all I could do! I watched as my friends had the shit shot out of them! I saw what happened to the people in the POW camp, and all I could think was ‘It’s not happening to me,’ and I got my hands on a razorblade and did what I had to do.”
“Oh man,” I said. What else could I say? Ron hadn’t blinked in well over three minutes now. His face burned red. My heart sank. “I’m so sorry.” I wanted to cry, myself. I was choking up inside and holding back the tears. It was what I wanted to hear, wasn’t it? The things they never taught us in school. The reality behind the phrase ‘war is hell’ had never struck me quite so sharply. There was no comforting Ron. He wasn’t looking for comfort. And yet, for some reason, for perhaps the same reason I had asked, he wanted me to know.
“They sent us out there to kill,” said Ron, “and we killed. I think about it everyday. And when we got back, they didn’t want us. The only job I could get when I came back was as a cook! They wouldn’t let us into the Legions because we’d lost the war. We didn’t lose the war! We shouldn’t have been there. They never wanted us there! I don’t want pity. I was a soldier, doing what I had to do to survive. But you know, the circumstances don’t matter. The war doesn’t matter, and the danger doesn’t matter. There’s only one word for what happened that day in the POW camp, and it’s Murder. I did what I had to do, but I just wish there had been another way.” It was then that tears sprang from his eyes. A grown man crying, with no support. When he placed a hand on my shoulder, I let him leave it there. It was the most I could do.
Ron wasn’t finished talking, but when he calmed down we rejoined his friend. The redness in his face faded, and he started blinking again. His shaking slowed down a little, and he regained control of his voice. “At the Legion, we never talk about what we’ve been through,” he told me. “We go there for a drink, for a laugh. We ignore the rest of it. Nobody wants to think about being a soldier. Nobody wants to think about fighting in a war. The guys over there, they know the truth.” A few minutes passed, and then Ron went on.
“I look at what’s going on these days in the Middle East. All these kids they’re sending out, sending home in coffins. It’s such a waste. A buddy of mine asked me how long it would take me to take down a town out there, and I told him twenty minutes – and I’d flatten everything in the way.” Ron’s voice was starting to break again. He had tears in his eyes, and he started struggling to catch his breath. He didn’t like what he was saying, and I could see it. “They’re sending kids out there who don’t know what they’re doing. They should send us old guys. I mean, I know I can’t fit into a tank like I used to, but dammit, we’ve done it before! We’d get the job done quicker! We’d do it right!” Ron looked at me for a second as though I was on my deathbed, and he was looking at me for the last time. For all I knew, it could very well be the last time I would speak to this stranger. For a minute I thought I sensed a bit of pity. “This world’s a mess, and us old guys should clean up the mess for you young people. You shouldn’t be out there, learning how to kill from scratch. People your age should be studying, and partying, and making love. . .”
“And writing books,” I interrupted. For the first time in awhile, Ron smiled. He cupped my face with his hands, and then hugged me.
“God bless you,” he said. “You put this in your book. But don’t ever say there’s anything glorious about war.”
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