Iraq war blogswarm 2008
Posted by: Jenny Penny in Human rights, International, Iraq war blogswarm 2008, Politics, The "war on terrorism"
I apologize for not doing this yesterday - I had a migraine that threatened to explode my head. So here, one day late, is my Iraq War Blogswarm 2008 contribution. I really want to write something smart, something new, something that sums it all up. But what can I offer? I have never seen war. I type in the comfort of my warm apartment, with snow glistening in the sunshine outside, my breakfast beside me and my loved ones only a simple phone call away. What can I say that isn’t simply platitudes, that isn’t just a reiteration of what so many have said before me, about the lies, the atrocities, the pain and the suffering. My love is coming home tonight, we’re making easter candy. When night falls, we’ll turn on the lights, run water to make tea and then sleep peacefully knowing that nothing bad will happen to us tonight. Half a world away, people are dying, crying, ripped to pieces by shrapnel, humiliated, debilitated. Half a world away, people are lied to, asked to be cannon fodder, asked to lose their lives and limbs for some grand idea, told they are heroes but treated like trash. What can I say?
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Dulce Et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the hunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes of thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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