My Rifle 

By: Dario DiBattista

6148572,
Can you tell me what you've seen?
Who made you?
Did delicate hands manage the machines
That manufactured your murderous life?

Did you jam in Khandahar, Mogadishu,
Port-Au-Prince, or Khafji?
Will you jam here in Husaybah?

Did a cold recruit carrying you
Freeze in Grenada –
His final breath a reminder                                                                                                                                                    Of why he should’ve trusted you more?

Do you carry sand and dirt from dozens of
Nations lodged in your private parts?

Has your black skin been caressed
And charmed by hands of
Brown, white, oil, red, or tan? 

What is the history of your killing time;
The men that held you and the men                                                                                                                                       That felt you from afar?
Who prevailed – and who perished –                                                                                                                                 With you solidly in their hands?

I love you rifle
But I will not take you home to mom.
When I get back,
I will put you in a closet
And never tell the world we were married.

Mission accomplished? Is this for real? Sorry to go on a sort of brain dump type of post here, but the events of this week in Iraq are just kind of overwhelming my thinking entirely. Not to be too abstract in what I’m typing, but, can this war really end? Does any war ever end? World War I begat World War II which begat the Cold War, which empowered a man we once supported – Osama Bin Laden (we covertly supported the Taliban’s insurgency against the USSR in the 80s) – to attack us on 9/11 and begin the Global War on Terror. I want to think of this as a victory but what are the spoils here? What does this mean for our country? What does this mean for the new generation of troops dealing with the trauma of “life after war?”

Can all be mended? Can everything be fixed? I can’t stop thinking about how the release of Saving Private Ryan in theaters caused an uptick in PTSD claims from WWII veterans. When I think of my elders, I think of bold, quiet men; stubborn fellows who out of necessity and social norms closed themselves off when they returned home. Not to take anything away from their glory and history, but were they ever healed from their experiences at war? Or did we just not understand or care? What kind of life is that to carry the secret burdens of combat forever?

I don’t want to be a bitter, beaten down, angry fart at the retirement home one day. I don’t desire to be a man who will, at the end of his life, finally be faced with the demons of his past. And I don’t want that for any of my other brothers or sisters. I want us to work on those issues now.

Maybe some WWII, Korea, or Vietnam guys will think our generational character is weak, but I’m glad there is so much talk and attention to the mental health issues that result from serving in combat in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hotspots around the world. Maybe we can be the first group of veterans truly healed from our time at war. Maybe that inner peace will result in a greater peace and stimulate tranquility around the world.

No, I do not believe that this war is over. I believe we need to keep fighting for our veterans – working as hard as we can at helping them get well and making new lives for themselves – or we’ll lose this victory.