What It Means

I put our flag out a short time ago.  Over the weekend I gave thought to my own, private little ceremony.  I determined what the ceremony would signify and what it would most certainly NOT represent.  Part of it I can explain perhaps somewhat coherently.  Other parts, not so much.  These other parts are reflective of where I am in my journey of grief and reevaluating the world around me.  Those I might just have to do the best I can and tell somewhat in story form. 

Let me begin by clarifying in my own mind what putting our flag out does NOT mean to me.

• It, for sure, does NOT indicate a nationalistic point of view.  Although that stance seems to be growing in popularity, I actually abhor the idea that we would promote our own interests to the exclusion of others. 
• It does NOT mean that I think that our country and we Americans are the superlative form of all that is good.  Our history proves otherwise. 
• It does NOT mean I am American before I am anything else.  I am first a part of all people that, according to my belief, were made in the image of God Himself. 
• It does NOT mean I think I love my country any more than anyone who might disagree with me on issues, or who might not be displaying a flag.  As I’ve said before, I find that implication arrogant, judgmental, and offensive, to say the least.

Now let me attempt to verbalize what it does convey for me. 

• It indicates what part of the world I am from, just as simply and straightforwardly as it does during a parade of countries during an Olympic competition. 
• It does mean that I think the ideals symbolized by the flag are worthy.
• It definitely is a way to express my personal appreciation for living in a country where a kid like me, without resources, could get an education.
• It reminds me of what we can be.  We can be generous, unselfish people like my friends Donna and Jonathan, who are right now in Haiti, doing what they can. 
• But it also conveys the necessity for and appropriateness of national self-reflection.
• It does indicate grieving for any families, from any country, who have lost loved ones to war.  And the remembering of those who have died fighting in war.

Now, the hard part; sharing the thoughts I am unable to boil down to a few words.  I can only describe the mental journey and impressions that have come to mind.

Like all parents, I always, always, prayed that nothing would happen to my child.  I would remind God that I simply could not stand that.  Little did I know I would not only have to go through a child’s death and grieve her, but watch my child suffer the worst pain, all while being helpless to relieve any of that suffering.  I was thinking about that the last few days.  I went back to a question I had asked myself frequently once we went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and especially once we invaded Iraq in 2003.  I would sometimes see a television interview of parents who had just lost a son or daughter in the war.  And I would wonder how they could say their child died for our freedom.  I didn’t feel like my freedom had anything to do with Iraq. 

And I would wonder why aren’t these parents angry, very, very angry?  Why don’t they hate politics and the politicians who sent their child into that war?   I didn’t like to think that I could hate someone, but I felt very sure I would. 

I was convinced that, in addition to hatred, I would be filled with frustration beyond what I could imagine.  I would think that I don’t even know why my child died.  I would want to know why my child was even there? 

Now that we have experienced the death of a child, I REALLY don’t understand.  What must it be like if you are a grandparent and lose a grandchild in these wars?  I, of course, know the grief that person would go through.  And I know the distress of watching your child suffer.  But, I haven’t had to deal with what I consider, for some, at least, would be overwhelming frustration that the person lost died based on “policy”.  Based on decisions made by men who did not even know that grandchild’s name.  How would you not resent that? 

I tried to look up the number of children deaths in both Afghanistan and Iraq this morning.  I didn’t really find an exact number for children alone.  I checked a number of websites.  The best that I could come up with is that in Iraq alone, well over 100,000 non-combatant civilians have been killed by military action.  (Evidently some think this estimate is smaller than the actual number.)  And it is estimated that over one-half of these have been women and children.  

I wanted to know the number but then again, I did not want to know.  So I was probably relieved I was unsuccessful with that research.  The number would be too much for me.  Because yesterday I kept picturing in my mind some little boy in Afghanistan kicking a rock down the road, having a pretty good time.  And a little Iraqi boy of the same age, drawing in the dirt with a stick he just found.  And a little girl who was watching out the window, checking on the world outside.  Her mother was keeping her safely inside; or so she thought.  I can only assume some innocent children have died doing just those kinds of things.  So I was thinking about them and the elderly, and all those so defenseless and utterly without power. 

When I put our flag out, I was remembering any who have died in our country, as well as those whose lives have been taken from them in other countries.  And I thought about all the families across the globe.  I thought about that grandparent whose child saw his/her own child die because of war and is now watching the resulting suffering.  Their nationality didn’t come to mind.  It was unimportant.  I had a bond with them, a bond international in breadth.  We could meet and each have his/her country’s flag.  But those flags would be completely irrelevant to us. Our shared human experience and condition would be what mattered.  Or it should be, unless some grieving parent and/or grandparent blamed my country for a child’s death.  And what could I possibly say in defense?