[Editorial note: This piece originally appeared in greatly expanded form as a book review in the December 16, 2004 issue of the New York Review of Books, a fact we did not know at the time of publication. We regret the error.]
vanquished know war. They see through the empty jingoism of those who use the
abstract words of glory, honor, and patriotism to mask the cries of the wounded,
the senseless killing, war profiteering, and chest-pounding grief. They know
the lies the victors often do not acknowledge, the lies covered up in stately
war memorials and mythic war narratives, filled with words of courage and comradeship.
They know the lies that permeate the thick, self-important memoirs by amoral
statesmen who make wars but do not know war.
The vanquished know the essence of war – death. They grasp that war is necrophilia.
They see that war is a state of almost pure sin with its goals of hatred and
destruction. They know how war fosters alienation, leads inevitably to nihilism,
and is a turning away from the sanctity and preservation of life. All other
narratives about war too easily fall prey to the allure and seductiveness of
violence, as well as the attraction of the godlike power that comes with the
license to kill with impunity.
But the words of the vanquished come later, sometimes long after the war, when
grown men and women unpack the suffering they endured as children, what it was
like to see their mother or father killed or taken away, or what it was like
to lose their homes, their community, their security, and be discarded as human
refuse. But by then few listen. The truth about war comes out, but usually too
late. We are assured by the war-makers that these stories have no bearing on
the glorious violent enterprise the nation is about to inaugurate. And, lapping
up the myth of war and its sense of empowerment, we prefer not to look.
We see the war in Iraq only through the distorted lens of the occupiers. The
embedded reporters, dependent on the military for food and transportation as
well as security, have a natural and understandable tendency, one I have myself
felt, to protect those who are protecting them. They are not allowed to report
outside of the unit and are, in effect, captives. They have no relationships
with the occupied, essential to all balanced reporting of conflicts, but only
with the Marines and soldiers who drive through desolate mud-walled towns and
pump grenades and machine-gun bullets into houses, leaving scores of nameless
dead and wounded in their wake. The reporters admire and laud these fighters
for their physical courage. They feel protected as well by the jet fighters
and heavy artillery and throaty rattle of machine guns. And the reporting, even
among those who struggle to keep some distance, usually descends into a shameful
There is no more candor in Iraq or Afghanistan than there was in Vietnam, but
in the age of live satellite feeds the military has perfected the appearance
of candor. What we are fed is the myth of war. For the myth of war, the myth
of glory and honor sells newspapers and boosts ratings, real war reporting does
not. Ask the grieving parents of Pat Tillman. Nearly every embedded war correspondent
sees his or her mission as sustaining civilian and army morale. This is what
passes for coverage on FOX, MSNBC or CNN. In wartime, as Senator Hiram Johnson
reminded us in 1917, "truth is the first casualty."
All our knowledge of the war in Iraq has to be viewed as lacking the sweep
and depth that will come one day, perhaps years from now, when a small Iraqi
boy or girl reaches adulthood and unfolds for us the sad and tragic story of
the invasion and bloody occupation of their nation.
I have spent most of my adult life in war. I began two decades ago covering
wars in Central America, where I spent five years, then the Middle East, where
I spent seven, and the Balkans where I covered the wars in Bosnia and Kosovo.
My life has been marred, let me say deformed, by the organized industrial violence
that year after year was an intimate part of my existence. I have watched young
men bleed to death on lonely Central American dirt roads and cobblestone squares
in Sarajevo. I have looked into the eyes of mothers, kneeing over the lifeless
and mutilated bodies of their children. I have stood in warehouses with rows
of corpses, including children, and breathed death into my lungs. I carry within
me the ghosts of those I worked with, my comrades, now gone.
I have felt the attraction of violence. I know its seductiveness, excitement
and the powerful addictive narcotic it can become. The young soldiers, trained
well enough to be disciplined but encouraged to maintain their naive adolescent
belief in invulnerability, have in wartime more power at their fingertips than
they will ever have again. They catapult from being minimum wage employees at
places like Burger King, facing a life of dead-end jobs with little hope of
health insurance and adequate benefits, to being part of, in the words of the
Marines, "the greatest fighting force on the face of the earth." The disparity
between what they were and what they have become is breathtaking and intoxicating.
This intoxication is only heightened in wartime when all taboos are broken.
Murder goes unpunished and often rewarded. The thrill of destruction fills their
days with wild adrenaline highs, strange grotesque landscapes that are hallucinogenic,
all accompanied by a sense of purpose and comradeship, overpowers the alienation
many left behind. They become accustomed to killing, carrying out acts of slaughter
with no more forethought than they take to relieve themselves. And the abuses
committed against the helpless prisoners in Abu Ghraib or Guantánamo
are not aberrations but the real face of war. In wartime all human beings become
objects, objects either to gratify or destroy or both. And almost no one is
immune. The contagion of the crowd sees to that.
"Force," Simone Weil wrote, "is as pitiless to the man who possess it, or thinks
he does, as it is to his victim. The second it crushes; the first it intoxicates."
This myth, the lie, about war, about ourselves, is imploding our democracy.
We shun introspection and self-criticism. We ignore truth, to embrace the strange,
disquieting certitude and hubris offered by the radical Christian Right. These
radical Christians draw almost exclusively from the book of Revelations, the
only time in the Bible where Jesus sanctions violence, peddling a vision of
Christ as the head of a great and murderous army of heavenly avengers. They
rarely speak about Christ's message of love, forgiveness and compassion. They
relish the cataclysmic destruction that will befall unbelievers, including those
such as myself, who they dismiss as "nominal Christians." They divide the world
between good and evil, between those anointed to act as agents of God and those
who act as agents of Satan. The cult of masculinity and esthetic of violence
pervades their ideology. Feminism and homosexuality are forces, believers are
told, that have rendered the American male physically and spiritually impotent.
Jesus, for the Christian Right, is a man of action, casting out demons, battling
the Anti-Christ, attacking hypocrites and castigating the corrupt. The language
is one not only of exclusion, hatred and fear, but a call for apocalyptic violence,
in short the language of war.
As the war grinds forward, as we sink into a morass of our own creation, as
our press and political opposition, and yes even our great research universities,
remain complacent and passive, as we refuse to confront the forces that have
crippled us outside our gates and are working to cripple us within, the ideology
of the Christian Right, so intertwined with intolerance and force, will become
the way we speak not only to others but among ourselves.
In war, we always deform ourselves, our essence. We give up individual conscience
– maybe even consciousness – for contagion of the crowd, the rush of patriotism,
the belief that we must stand together as a nation in moments of extremity.
To make a moral choice, to defy war's enticement, to find moral courage, can
The attacks on the World Trade Center illustrate that those who oppose us,
rather than coming from another moral universe, have been schooled well in modern
warfare. The dramatic explosions, the fireballs, the victims plummeting to their
deaths, the collapse of the towers in Manhattan, were straight out of Hollywood.
Where else, but from the industrialized world, did the suicide bombers learn
that huge explosions and death above a city skyline are a peculiar and effective
form of communication? They have mastered the language we have taught them.
They understand that the use of indiscriminate violence against innocents is
a way to make a statement. We leave the same calling cards. We delivered such
incendiary messages in Vietnam, Serbia, Afghanistan and Iraq. It was Secretary
of Defense Robert McNamara who in the summer of 1965 defined the bombing raids
that would kill hundreds of thousands of civilians north of Saigon as a means
of communication to the Communist regime in Hanoi.
The most powerful antiwar testaments, of war and what war does to us, are those
that eschew images of combat. It is the suffering of the veteran whose body
and mind are changed forever because he or she served a nation that sacrificed
them, the suffering of families and children caught up in the unforgiving maw
of war, which begin to tell the story of war. But we are not allowed to see
dead bodies, at least of our own soldiers, nor do we see the wounds that forever
mark a life, the wounds that leave faces and bodies horribly disfigured by burns
or shrapnel. We never watch the agony of the dying. War is made palatable. It
is sanitized. We are allowed to taste war's perverse thrill, but spared from
seeing war's consequences. The wounded and the dead are swiftly carted offstage.
And for this I blame the press, which willingly hides from us the effects of
bullets, roadside bombs and rocket-propelled grenades, which sat at the feet
of those who lied to make this war possible and dutifully reported these lies
and called it journalism.
War is always about this betrayal. It is about the betrayal of the young by
the old, idealists by cynics and finally soldiers by politicians. Those who
pay the price, those who are maimed forever by war, however, are crumpled up
and thrown away. We do not see them. We do not hear them. They are doomed, like
wandering spirits, to float around the edges of our consciousness, ignored,
even reviled. The message they bring is too painful for us to hear. We prefer
the myth of war, the myth of glory, honor, patriotism and heroism, words that
in the terror and brutality of combat are empty, meaningless and obscene.
We are losing the war in Iraq. We are an isolated and reviled nation. We are
pitiless to others weaker than ourselves. We have lost sight of our democratic
ideals. Thucydides wrote of Athens' expanding empire and how this empire led
it to become a tyrant abroad and then a tyrant at home. The tyranny Athens imposed
on others, it finally imposed on itself. If we do not confront the lies and
hubris told to justify the killing and mask the destruction carried out in our
name in Iraq, if we do not grasp the moral corrosiveness of empire and occupation,
if we continue to allow force and violence to be our primary form of communication,
if we do not remove from power our flag-waving, cross-bearing versions of the
Taliban, we will not so much defeat dictators such as Saddam Hussein as become