Names of the Dead

Names of the Dead

It is under this ominous title that The New York Times publishes its periodic rubric, tucked somewhere in its pages. I do not know what page; I cannot afford the NYT print edition. My RSS feed never seems to miss the title, though. I find no shame in saying I do skip it sometimes. I know what it will say: a few names of men and women I do not know, their ages and how they perished over there.

Every single time, the rubric does not fail to mention the onerous reminder of the cost of this war: the total numbers of those whose lives have met their end in the hands of those whom they oppose. What I think about more, however, are the dirty hands of those because of whom they died. We all know their names. We all know their deeds. And we all witness periodically how the numbers of those who lose their lives in two wars far removed from the public eye, rise with no end in sight.

Today's numbers:
Iraq: 4,257
Afghanistan: 666

The disparity is shocking. The fault of those who sent them there, ever greater. Their remorse, ever more remote.

I find few justifications for war. Of the two in question, Afghanistan was the more 'justified' (I use the term with a lot of reservations) and somehow for six years it has been the more forgotten war. I do not know what must be done, what will be done. I want us to get out of Iraq... badly... and not look back. But a big part of me (call it the masochistic part, call it the accountable part) wants us to feel the burden of responsibility for the destruction and chaos we wrought on it, and the culpability for the injustices we have committed with Iraq ever since the inception of the war. We have destroyed a country, countless lives—among which hundreds of our own people—and all I know for certain right now is that we all have blood on our hands... and this damnèd spot is not going to come off easily.