Every blogger, from mainstream megaportals to small, for-friends-and-family’s-eyes-only sites, will have something to say about the fifth anniversary of the Iraq War. I wasn’t planning on joining the fun, but, after reading so many retrospectives on this awful mess we’re now in, I simply cannot resist. Its impression on my life has been too indelible, its effect on my worldview too long-lasting, to ignore. I’ve been hesitant to accept our current condition to Vietnam and the late 1960s, but, as time and weary soldiers march on, I have come to accept that this war at this time has done for me what I imagine that prior war of ill repute did for my parents’ generation. There’s just no turning back.
On March 19, 2003, when President Bush announced the commencement of Operation Iraqi Freedom, I was a sophomore in college, a month away from my twentieth birthday, still shaken by the call to reality delivered by Al Qaeda on 9/11. Having grown up in an area of mixed races and economic classes, often surrounded by the in-your-face style of liberalism caricatured by Bill O’Reilly and others, I had chosen to resist the at times misinformed liberalism of my peers and had, instead, gravitated toward the similarly misinformed social and economic conservatism my parents tended to espouse. I think it made me feel superior to mock the leftist culture of my high school’s hallways.
When I went away to college, my childhood still defined me, my own political and social identity had not yet formed. My feelings of blind patriotism only intensified in the wake of 9/11. I supported the president. Someone had to pay for the tragedy that occurred so close my hometown. I experienced an almost ecstatic testosterone rush when I watched bombs fall on Afghanistan.
I did as I was told and became suspicious of Arabs and Muslims, even though I tried to mask my fear and prejudice with an intellectual argument in favor of the American system. Sure, Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld were kind of arrogant cocks, and I was smart enough to know that they had had it out for Iraq for years, but Colin Powell was levelheaded and intelligent. When he got on board and sold it at the U.N., I bought the whole thing. Saddam’s helping terrorists? Whatever you say, boss. Weapons of mass destruction? Aye aye, captain. Let’s roll. A slam dunk. A cake walk. Hail to the chief and the whole nine yards.
I thought the protesters, many of whom were my closest friends at Syracuse, were being naive and unnecessarily cynical. There was no way the government would make shit up just to start a war. And even if they tried, I thought, youthful journalism student that I was, the media would have called them on it before the thing got legs. Just relax and enjoy the show. The whole production would be over in a couple months. We’d be out of there completely in a year. Not to worry, silly liberals. Leave the heavy philosophical lifting to the real men.
Doubts set in quickly though, and I tried my damnedest to stick to what I had thought was right. I started to seek alternative viewpoints. I read about the deep-seated hostility between the disparate Muslim sects in Iraq — perhaps something I should have done before I made up my mind on the war. I began to learn about the complexities of the Middle East, the ways Western powers have meddled in the region over time, how chaos in Iraq would seriously threaten the stability of neighboring nations, how our actions were a detriment to peace and would only embolden Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and other factions that use violence as a political tool. All of a sudden, the situation became a bit less clear.
The turning point for me happened when I watched the Mission Accomplished stunt on the USS Abraham Lincoln. When I saw President Bush in the flight suit with the huge banner behind him as he gave a de facto victory speech, it finally clicked. This guy is full of shit. The internal revolution had begun in me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Almost immediately, I began to inundate myself with information concerning the history of U.S. involvement in global affairs. I stopped listening to people’s opinions on what information was credible and what information was just rhetorical pandering written by someone with a political agenda. If Noam Chomsky was a hack (he isn’t), I wanted to find out for myself; if socialism was a threat to freedom (it isn’t), I wanted to evaluate the system on its merits, maybe even compare its drawbacks to those of free-market capitalism; if those who spoke of peace and diplomatic resolutions were wusses intent on damaging America (they’re not not), let me find evidence on my own.
I read everything I could and began to make up my own mind. And what I learned, or rather what I accepted to be true, as this nation fell deeper into a a never-ending war based on lies, is that America represents to many people oppression and greed a lot more than it does freedom and democracy. We have raped and pillaged our way around the world, hunting for resources, making unfair trade agreements with vulnerable, weaker nations. We have overthrown governments that chose to put their own sovereign interests ahead of the demands of the U.S., laughing all the way to the bank as our military arsenal grew and our wallets fattened. We had become an unchecked cancer in the world. I began to hate my country. I was starting to grow up.
I decided, by the time of the 2004 elections, that I would never again support unilateral American military aggression in a foreign nation. Diplomacy can work. Disarmament can work. Respect for other people’s values and histories and interests can work. Bombs and tanks just lead to unnecessary death and devastation. The military institution, as it is deployed by the U.S., does nothing more than turn good, honest kids into psychologically altered killers ravaged by post-traumatic stress disorder, over 2,000 of whom tried to commit suicide last year, according to US News and World Report.
I was done with patriotism. It had become a crutch for people too lazy to figure things out for themselves. I was done with the flag, too. Its stars and stripes had devolved to symbolize an empty moral promise, the weight of which I could no longer bear. I wanted to stand for things I knew to be right, not just for things I wanted to believe in order to feel superior to the kids who played hacky sack and listened to Bob Marley on the quad. This became my overriding mindset. Quite a lot of pressure for a twenty-year-old kid.
By the time I finished school — philosophy and journalism degrees in tow — some of the militant rage had subsided. But the shame and remorse I felt about the person I was and the things that person believed still lingered. I no longer trusted that my government stood on the moral high ground in all cases just because I was told in kindergarten that America is good and always does what is best for the world.
These days I’m a little less angry, but I don’t consider myself a patriot, because being patriotic has been reduced to mean an unwavering support of the government and its policies, no matter how destructive and evil they may be. Instead, I choose to believe in the potential of this country to one day fulfill its potential, and its promise to its citizens and the world. I choose to stand for more than simple geography and civic pride. I stand for peace and justice and equality, regardless of its point of origin. It sounds stupid, but I stopped caring about that a while ago.
I know now that it is my duty to speak out against the things I know to be wrong and to speak up for the things I know to be right. This is the legacy of the Iraq War in my life. To that end, this piece of shit administration and all the corrupt, criminal things it has done, the way it has stomped on the freedoms of its own people and those abroad, has been a resounding success. So to Bush and Cheney and Rumself, I have one thing to say on this horrid anniverary: Mission accomplished, motherfuckers.
Before sitting down to watch the Mets’ season opener against the Marlins, I decided to whip up some hummus for a healthy yet tasty vegan snack. A little hummus, a few baby carrots, a bit of toasted sourdough. Not a bad idea, I thought to myself.
I got to thinking about this today after reading an article in The American Prospect —