A Deadly Silence

Arthur Silber has taken on war advocates for not acknowledging the human costs of the policies they advocate:

I find it reprehensible that these people seemingly addicted to war cannot even take a few minutes to acknowledge the terrible costs incurred by those people their policies have placed in harm's way -- particularly when the greatest danger they themselves face is a broken fingernail as they type their endlessly hawkish posts on their keyboards (urging us on to Saudi Arabia, or Syria, or Iran, or North Korea), safe in their comfortable, danger-free middle or upper-middle-class homes.

I don't think I am addicted to war (I don't know whether I fit into the "war blogger" category or not), but I never forget what others have to face. Many face death. Still more face serious life-threatening injuries often disabling them for life.

Even those lucky enough never to be wounded or killed face a daily battle with the elements unimaginable to guys like me, who suffer little more than occasional mouse-related carpal issues.

Here's just one example, from last week (it is long, but worth the read, particularly for those armchair warriors who never think about the consequences of policies they advocate):

Friday, July 11, 2003

We are in the midst of a sand storm, the likes of which I have not seen for quite some time. We have all retreated to our tents of choice, which for me is the old bombed out radio station. Actually it serves me quite well as a place for refuge and protection during one of these horrendous whirlwinds that come our way ever so often. We have spent much time securing every crack and crevice, to make this old building as sand proof as possible.

Regardless of our efforts, the sand has crept through into our inner sanctuary laying a fine coat of sand down on everything around us. No matter how many times we wipe it off, with in minutes the sand like a plague returns to pester our lives. It is as if the sand is looking for its own resting place away from the wind that is constantly twirling it about like inside of a large dryer.

The wind is howling outside screaming let me enter your place of refuge, to dump my load on everything in sight. We are all covered with many layers of this fine silt, changing the color of our skin as if we all worked inside some kind of a milling operation. Even though it is not visible to the naked eye, one swipe of my hand across my brow reveals a coarseness to the touch confirming the sands presence. Our computers need constant care to prevent them from clogging up their systems. The tables, the chairs, the books and papers, are all like sand magnets pulling sand in from the air we breathe perhaps to diminish the quantity accessible to our lungs.

We have covered up every hole, every opening, and every window, all to no avail. It is coming in no matter what. With every entrance into the building a gust of wind and sand that has been waiting for this opportunity jumps inside whirling about like dancing gypsies.

Along with the heat we have learned to adjust to our cohabitation with sand. Today several times I have been forced to venture outside, beyond the walls of this brick oven. Before leaving I secure my hat and papers walking outside into the fierceness of the winds anger, which has picked up a load of sand along the way, hitting any bare skin like minute bee bees.

Even with goggles my vision is impaired, not being able to see more than a few feet ahead. It is at times like a total sand black out; with the tents, the equipment, the vehicles all disappearing behind this khaki colored cloak of wind and sand, making it almost impossible to breath. I wonder at times how my lungs are going to dispose of the shear quantities I have inhaled or will it just settle to the bottom like what happens in our water heaters at home. I am waiting for it to resurface in some form to be coughed up into large mud balls.

Just when I was starting to think we were rid of these storms, they pounced upon us again to remind us of our own frailties as human beings living in our varied environments. We do adapt and adjust regardless of the severity. All of us for the most part have become accustomed to the extreme 130 plus temperatures, the constant battle with the sand, and the almost lifeless desert landscape.

As I attempt to walk I lean into the wind to keep moving in a forward direction being careful not to lose my step. I know the way so I rely on my instincts to direct me, hoping that I end up at my destination. But it is our way of life.

Yesterday as I worked out in the pens for about 5 hours, I was forced to cope with the ever present blowing of the desert wind. I had the unique experience of interviewing the generals while battling the weather. We were in a tent but like all ways it found its way inside, with huge gusts of sand blowing in across us, covering every inch of us in a thick layer. I wasn't complaining, this time I was actually glad for the rough conditions, which I will now explain.

Today was probably the best day out here in the desert. I just really had an extremely great day. It started out like any other day, but little did I know what was in store for me.

I was not prepared totally for the events that were to follow.

(Link via LTSmash, via Instapundit.)

The second reason I am sensitive about the fatal consequences policies can have is that I watched so many of my friends die of AIDS, and I blamed myself because I had (at least so I was told) advocated a lifestyle (if not that, then at least advocacy of a particular form of love) which had killed them. Rationally, love is not the same thing as war, but death is death, and the dead are dead. AIDS did kill more Americans than died in Vietnam. Rationally, I don't think I am responsible for the deaths of either group, but I am a human being, with the usual human feelings, which are not always rational. I will always feel guilty because my friends died and I did not. (I watched moral conservatives and the gay movement blaming each other for AIDS deaths. Regardless of blame, I still suffered.)

Anyway, Arthur is right about denial. Denial of the reality of war is dishonest and immoral. War supporters who ignore the constantly-mounting casualties, while they may not be responsible for them, should take some time to acknowledge war's terrible costs.

There is no better soldier in the country than this guy, who would be the last person to ever deny the horrible realities of war. His site is well worth a visit, as a reminder.