Welcome, Veteran Poster Boy: Aaron Alexis

I should be polishing the essay I turn in to my workshop class tomorrow, or starting the research paper due next month, or chipping away at that looming thesis project. But sometimes there’s something that needs to be written before anything else can be. Today, that something revolves around Monday’s shooting at the Washington, DC Navy Yard. 

It’s been a violent week. Last weekend, three separate shootings rocked my home city of Boston. The Navy Yard incident, though farther from home, hit me hardest. Not because of the scale—though how can you not balk at the gruesome facts: at least 12 killed and eight injured in the “single worst loss of life in the District” since a Boeing 737 crashed into the Potomac River in 1982, killing 78 people.

No, the Navy Yard shooting hit me hardest because the shooter was a veteran. 

Aaron Alexis, the new veteran
Poster Boy
UNCREDITED/AP

That makes it personal. That adds Aaron Alexis to a list of high-profile poster boys who represent what the public knows to be a veteran. He’s in the company of Army Staff Sergeant Robert Bales, who recently pleaded guilty to killing 16 Afghan villagers in March 2012; Iraq veteran Benjamin Colton Barnes, who shot and killed a park ranger at Mt. Rainier National Park almost exactly a year ago; and Army veteran Wade Michael Page, who fatally shot six people at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin in August 2012.

Of course, any shooting death is tragic. But a perpetrator with military connections makes it doubly tragic for the veteran community. Cue the ripple effects of reinforced stereotypes.

Additionally, this situation is hard for me because I know that as a veteran, Alexis had access to a support network.

The military and VA certainly don’t lack for negative press, especially in light of shocking statistics like in 2012, the number of military suicides was higher than the number of American soldiers killed in Afghanistan. Still, the military community comes with an inherent support network that includes not only official mental healthcare channels, but also chaplains, family support centers, supervisors who are trained and charged with their soldiers’ well-being, and, of course, peers who have “been there, done that.” So many resources—if Alexis had reached out to one, could this tragedy have been prevented?

And is it really that simple? Of course not.

Seeking help requires a degree of self-awareness and an emotional vulnerability that goes against military culture and training.

The military thrives on an ethos of hyper-masculinity. In war, you can’t afford to be emotional. I am by nature one of the most emotional people I know (I still have to fast-forward through Mufasa’s death scene), but in Afghanistan, out of necessity (and somewhat unwittingly), I built barriers around my emotions. It was a defense mechanism that enabled me to do my job—one which keeps war-fighters focused and alive.

But emotional dullness doesn’t translate back to “real life.” I recognized that on some level—that’s what spurred me through the doors of my base’s Mental Health Clinic when everything in me wanted to turn around. My military mentality told me I was weak. A failure.

In hindsight, I realize that incredibly difficult, controversial decision was one of the most important choices I’ve ever made. But can a veteran be faulted for not making it? Is there an element of institutional failure as well?

Right now, the details of Alexis’ military career are sketchy. There's no information on whether he deployed. Reports say that during his service as a Navy reservist he had a “pattern of misconduct” but ultimately received an honorable discharge. The New York Times also reports that Alexis “exhibited signs of mental illness” for many years. 

Surely, there were people who interacted with Alexis and noticed red flags. Surely some such interactions occurred during his time in the service.

In response to the shocking suicide rates, the military has become, in theory, hyper-aware of mental health issues. One of my annual Air Force training requirements was a lengthy Suicide Prevention presentation that was so cheesy and mind-numbing that we all joked it made us want to commit suicide. Each unit took “training days” to discuss our individual and group concerns. We filled out questionnaires about our mental health. We were given flyers with a hotline number.

Mental health was a hot topic for discussion, but too easily clashed with the aforementioned culture in practice. A change in culture starts at the top, and takes more than handouts and PowerPoint. And ultimately, each person is responsible for his or her own sphere of influence. How many paths did Alexis cross where he could have been turned? How many people were too busy, too distracted, too disinterested, too self-absorbed, too scared, too lenient to act?

As a 2^nd Lieutenant, my second year in the Air Force, I got a call in the middle of the night that one of my Airmen had been put on suicide watch. The Airman was someone I directly supervised, someone I interacted with on a daily basis, someone I was responsible for. I had failed. It can be so easy—and so terribly costly—to fail.

I could never justify or rationalize the killing of innocent people. I’m not making excuses for Alexis’ actions. I imagine there are a million factors that combine to make a person commit a violent act. And I imagine that no matter how strict our gun laws or how strong a person’s support network, if someone is dead-set on committing violence, he or she will find a way to do so.

I can only hope that in the wake of this tragedy, we can all take stock of our potential for failure—as individuals, as institutions, as a society—and be hyper-aware in practice of prevention.

Food for Thought on National BBQ Day

Last year was the first time Memorial Day really affected me. 

I’m ashamed to admit that. 2012 wasn’t my first year with military association—my mother served in the Army and deployed to Saudi Arabia when I was seven. It wasn’t my first year as a veteran myself, or my first year with a connection to a military comrade killed in action.

Memorial Day 2012 was, however, the first time I gave the holiday the consideration it deserves.

Previously, I’d bounced between opposite ends of the spectrum of observance. Before I served in the military, I flitted past the final Monday of May without much thought. There are so many distractions in civilian America: work, family, friends, school, health, groceries, cleaning, sports, hobbies, politics . . . With holiday weekends come travel, traffic, sun (or complaints about rain), relaxation, barbeques and beer . . . It’s easy to overlook the meaning of the holiday; or to simply acknowledge, but not honor the purpose.

In the military, it’s impossible to forget. Reminders are everywhere, every day of every year.

My base in Afghanistan had a memorial wall with portraits of each of the 17 fallen comrades of Paktya province. I stared at those photos daily; proud faces of young men who had died in the space where I lived and worked. My base in Florida had names chiseled into a memorial outside the base chapel. There were plaques in the airpark commemorating those lost in aircraft crashes. Streets shared names with fallen Airmen. I attended memorial services; I wrote profiles on their subjects. Every day was Memorial Day.

I don’t remember how I spent Memorial Day 2011, my first year out of the military. Maybe I was stuck in limbo on that spectrum—at once too separated from the military, cozy with my family in my childhood home in Seattle; and too close, my war still fresh and raw and unprocessed.  

As Memorial Day approached last year, my mind went back to the faces in Paktya and the names at Hurlburt Field. It lingered for a long time with memories of Randy Voas, Ryan Hall and JD Loftis. I didn’t tell my mind to go there, but I didn’t try to redirect it either. I let those names and faces and memories form a backdrop to my time with family, to my sun and relaxation, food and drink. I toasted them. Then for one minute on Memorial Day, at 12:01pm Eastern Standard Time, I closed my eyes and cleared my head of everything but the names and faces I knew, and the countless others I didn’t, who made the ultimate sacrifice.

On some level, those names and faces are always with me now. They are part of who I am as a veteran. I can already feel them pushing a little harder as Memorial Day weekend approaches, and like last year, I won’t push back. I will again bring them to the forefront for a minute of silence this Memorial Day, and I hope you will do the same.

12:01pm EDT Monday: #GoSilent for one minute to honor the men and women who have given their lives for our country.

Then enjoy your weekend. That’s what they would want.

Good Samaritanism

Summer 2010:

It was a dark and stormy night . . . Actually, I think it was warm and clear. But it was dark and stormy inside my head. I had finished a long day of work, in a series of many long days, and was en route back to my new condo. Which wasn't really my condo; I was house-sitting for a friend who was deployed. Before that I’d been in a short-term corporate apartment, before that I’d spent a few weeks in a friend’s spare bedroom, and before that I’d been in Afghanistan. All my belongings were still in storage.

I had recently started seeing a social worker at my Air Force base’s Behavioral Health Clinic for the depression and anxiety that had been nagging me since my deployment. At work, I was good at pretending I was okay (hence the long days, time is always a good substitute for motivation), but not far below the surface, I was stressed, tired, and unsettled, teetering on the verge of falling apart.

And, as I drove “home,” I was hungry.

I wasn't in the habit of stopping at restaurants in my uniform. I was always anxious to leave base and put on “normal” clothes (ie. pajamas), to de-militarize as quickly as possible. But that night, I needed some comfort food and couldn't fathom the energy to scrounge up dinner from the meager contents of my borrowed kitchen.

The green glow of the Olive Garden sign beckoned me from the side of Highway 98. I placed a To-Go order for something creamy and smothered in cheese and slumped onto a bench in the waiting area. All around me, people were laughing and chatting excitedly. Just listening to them made me tired.

When the hostess brought out my order, I had my credit card ready. She shook her head and smiled warmly. “It’s already been paid for. The gentlemen thanks you for your service.”

Shocked, I mumbled a “thank you,” took my food and returned to my car, where I immediately burst into tears—not because I was tired or stressed or frustrated or missing my cats that were still in Seattle with my parents, but because I was appreciated.

January 2013:

As we begin this new year, a lot of people seem to be looking for a fresh start. For many, the last few years have been soured by a tough economy, political bickering and countless other personal and financial problems. Whatever you’re dealing with in 2013, I wish you strength and perseverance.

And I issue you a challenge: Sometime this year, take a moment to step outside your own crazy, busy, frazzled life to make someone else’s day. Buy coffee for the customer behind you at the Starbucks drive through. Carry groceries for the older woman in your building. Thank those soldiers at the airport, the cops directing traffic at your 5K, the firemen on break outside their station.

The Olive Garden Good Samaritan didn't know I’d had a rough couple months. Maybe I wouldn't have been as touched by his gesture if I’d been in better spirits. If he’d gone on with his meal and not given me a second glance, he’d have an extra $15 in his pocket, and I’d probably be just fine.

I don’t know the story of the soldier sitting by himself at the Conn. Red Robin last month. I don’t know what his job is in the Army. I don’t know if he’s deployed once, multiple times, or not at all. I don’t know if he saw me slip the waitress my credit card to cover his check. I don’t know if it made him smile.

I just know, for me, it felt good on both sides.

**Photo from the Flickr Creative Commons: “Buying dinner with Change” by Flickr user “Juli Crockett” (Licensed by CC 3.0)

Lessons in bureaucracy...and sweet, sweet VICTORY!

One big lesson I learned in the military is that nothing is ever as easy as it should be. Getting paid, taking leave, submitting a briefing for a meeting—everything was drowned in extra layers of bureaucracy. My Army instructors at pre-deployment training were fond of saying, “It’s not the right way, but it’s a way.”

Thus, another big lesson I learned was perseverance. I needed to get paid, take leave and submit briefings for meetings, so I waded through the red tape until I could.

Sometimes it sucked. (Extra administrative stress is exactly what you need when preparing for war). But you know what I’ve learned since leaving the military and entering the “real world”? Sometimes that sucks too.

Sometimes a process like waiving school health insurance because you get comprehensive coverage through the VA hospital is not as simple as filling out the waiver form, showing your VA ID, having a VA representative call the school, or even providing examples of legislation that identify VA coverage as fulfilling the state insurance requirement.

And sometimes it would be easier to give up.

But then, two weeks, two in-person visits, two identical forms, and three phone calls later you receive a response like this that makes it all worthwhile: 

Dear Lauren,  

After reviewing the Veteran's Administration Health Care Program in reference to State requirements of comparable coverage, we have determined that although your program does not meet each individual requirement, you are provided with access to the necessary coverages, and the Health Care Program covers the costs of the requirements which aren't included (specifically emergency care). I have processed your waiver request for the Emerson Health Insurance and Health Services Fee and the charges have been removed from your account.  

I want to thank you for taking the time to send us the information you did regarding the Health Care Program. In order to make our policies clear for future Veteran's with this coverage, we will be revising our website to include the VA Health Care Program under acceptable comparable coverage for waivers.

The VA is a strange entity that straddles the line between the military and the real world. Therefore, it comes with a certain amount of built-in confusion—a knowledge gap, as with so many military issues, on the civilian side, and a perpetual inability for the government to keep up with the need to educate. Caught in the fray are the veterans, left to struggle through frustration and ignorance in order to use their earned benefits.

Until the government effectively takes control (lots of rolls of red tape away, I'm sure), I guess the task of bridging the gap is left to grassroots educators, like me.

So here’s my advice: persevere. Do your research, and throw it in their face (tactfully, of course). Kick and scream (tactfully) until you get what you’re entitled to. Eventually, you’ll get it. And you just might make it easier for those who follow.

For any MA vets struggling with insurance waiver issues (Hi! Thanks for reading!), here’s some helpful legislation:

When filling out MA State Taxes, there is an option to select U.S. Military (including TRICARE and VA coverage) to satisfy the requirement for minimal credible healthcare coverage.  

From the Official Website of the Executive Office of Health and Human Services: 

14. What is required for a student to obtain a waiver from the SHP plan for alternative coverage?

The student must submit a waiver application to the school and certify, in writing, that he or she has alternative coverage, the name of the entity offering the plan, the policy number or member identification number, the name of the subscriber or primary enrollee and the relationship of that person to the student, and a statement that the coverage is comparable to the coverage required under a SHP. The waiver request must be on a form supplied by the institution, and may be submitted electronically.

15. What is considered "comparable coverage" necessary to obtain a waiver from the SHP?
The health plan must provide reasonably comprehensive coverage of health services, including preventive and primary care, emergency services, surgical services hospitalization benefit, ambulatory patient services, and mental health services; and be reasonably accessible to the student in the area where the student attends school.

According to the Mass Student Health Insurance legislation Section 3.05, waivers can be given to students with MassHealth coverage. VA coverage is acceptable for the MassHealth waiver, and qualifies veterans under state and now federal legislation as comprehensively covered 

UMass, the state's university, declares that veterans are eligible for health insurance waivers (See Waiver Eligibility).

And good luck.

DON'T Free Bradley Manning: A rejected Op-Ed for your reading enjoyment

One of the great things about having a blog is that when I write an op-ed no one wants to publish, I can post it here! While I pay my writerly dues and amass a collection of rejection letters, I'm glad I can subject you, dear loyal readers, to what the masses will never see. I welcome questions, comments, recommendations to find a new field of study . . .

Here is the latest: 

DON'T Free Bradley Manning

On Sept. 6, protestors took to the streets in Boston and more than 30 cities nationwide to demand the release and pardon of Bradley Manning, the 24-year-old Army intelligence analyst who faces possible life in prison for charges of releasing secret military information through the WikiLeaks website in 2010. 

Outside the local Obama headquarters downtown, the Boston protestors carried signs and distributed handouts with the slogan “Blowing the whistle on war crimes is not a crime.”

As a former military public affairs officer, I agree with this slogan, and I agree with the principle of Manning’s actions—his intentions to, as the Bradley Manning Support Network website states, “inform the public and promote ‘discussion, debates, and reforms.’”

However, Manning’s methods were illegal, reckless and potentially dangerous, and for that he should be held accountable.

Bradley Manning (AP)

I‘m no stranger to the flow—or lack thereof—of government information. In fact, the strategic “spinning” of information, and my role as a spinner, in part drove me to leave the service. Now a civilian, I relish the freedom to speak candidly and to openly express my opinions.

But there are certain things I will never discuss, because such information could endanger my military comrades and hinder foreign relations. All veterans must bear the burden of selective silence.

Despite Manning’s obvious security breach, the Bradley Manning Support Network website stresses that “Not a single person has been harmed by the release of this information.” Though some officials are more wary, general consensus seems to assess the damage as minimal. For that, we are fortunate.

Some of the documents released on WikiLeaks dealt directly with my nation-building unit in Afghanistan. These items were classified for a reason; they addressed ongoing operations and investigations of insurgent activity. If this information had landed in the wrong hands—hands linked to the subjects of the operations and investigations—the U.S. personnel named in the documents could have faced serious danger.

Furthermore, classified communication can reveal military “tactics, techniques and procedures,” the exact processes for planning and executing operations. Enemy knowledge of these systems could easily jeopardize their effectiveness, and again, put those involved at risk.

Manning’s charge of “aiding the enemy” refers to his knowingly making such information available to the enemy by enabling its posting on the internet, a resource to which any audience has access.

These actions equate to treason. Treason is punishable by death. Intent is irrelevant.

Like Manning, during my time in the military I saw information that I felt belonged in the public domain. The American people deserve the opportunity to make informed decisions about a war they support with resources, sons and daughters. But a delicate balance exists between transparency and operational security. When tipped, this scale can compromise military and bureaucratic missions.

To assert that the military walks this line well would be brash. The military has a process for releasing information, but as in many dealings with the U.S. government, this process can be frustratingly long and painstaking, more difficult than it should be. Far too often, officials withhold information unnecessarily, even against regulations.

In these instances, we need people with courage like Bradley Manning. America entrusts our military with upholding the highest standards of conduct, with using resources wisely and supporting our collective best interests. The media and whistle-blowers serve to maintain accountability.

Still, one can blow a whistle without abusing sensitive information. Unfortunately, Manning did the right thing the wrong way.

The Free Bradley Manning campaign considers their subject a hero and a scapegoat. They express concern that Manning’s potential life in prison sentence and his treatment during pre-trial incarceration at Marine Base Quantico, which included extended solitary confinement, will serve to intimidate future whistle-blowers.

On the contrary, Manning must be an example of punishment befitting actions.

We cannot set the precedent that good intent justifies law-breaking, that lack of perceived damage negates the known potential for damage, and that there exists an acceptable level of treason.

I hope Manning’s actions do bring about international debate and reform. And I also hope his methods are penalized accordingly.

Heroism vs. Awesomeness

UPDATE - 8/21/12: Thank you, US Weekly, for proving my point:

Now available on news stands and in the collective American psyche!

So the Olympics are over. This is probably a good thing, both for my sleep schedule and my fitness level. Yes, besides its sedentary nature, roughly four hours of nightly couch-sitting also inspired me to snack . . . the irony of watching world class, zero-body-fat athletes while gorging on popcorn and Twizzlers is not lost on me. For the last two weeks, I relished these things because I love the Olympics. And because I could. Unlike 2010, when I was in Afghanistan - something I discussed in my last post.

This year’s Olympics were everything I’d imagined, full of triumphs, disappointment, Michael Phelps, happy tears, tears of joy, very young-looking Chinese gymnasts, surprising upsets, patriotism, unity, and, as often happens, controversy.

One of the big stories of the Games was the discovery that any medals U.S. athletes bring home and the associated prize money are subject to taxation. The headlines were bold. The reactions, mixed. Sure, some said, their winnings are income and should be taxed accordingly. Others, like Sen. Marco Rubio, R-Fla., asserted that Olympic athletes shouldn’t be penalized for representing their country. Sen. Rubio went so far as to introduce a bill that would exempt Olympians from being taxed on their winnings. 

Missy Franklin, with expensive hardware
(AP)

On both sides, among the media, bloggers, and comment trolls, many called the athletes heroes. Many, like Yahoo sports blogger Chris Chase, compared them to the military.

In this article, Chase chastised the government, “you can't make an exception to athletes representing our country in the biggest event in the world? It's not unheard of: Military members are exempt from taxes when they're deployed in a combat zone.”

I don’t know if Sen. Rubio’s bill will pass, and frankly, I don’t care. My argument is not for or against taxation of Olympic winnings. My issue is the military being used as a measuring stick to assess athletic sacrifice and accomplishment.

This discussion provides interesting commentary on modern American priorities and perspectives. Perhaps the real question is not over earned benefits, but over our collective perceptions of what constitutes a hero.

We throw the word “hero” around a lot. I’m guilty, too. When I was little, I thought Julia Roberts was beautiful and talented; therefore, she was my hero. In high school had my own swimming heroes to go with my own Olympic dreams. That guy who proudly defied convention and rocked the purple Mohawk, studded leatherjacket, fishnet stockings and combat boots – for a minute last week, he was my hero. “Hero” has become so commonplace it’s almost lost its meaning.

So let me ask you: is athletic accomplishment true heroism, or closer to awesomeness?

As Sen. Rubio said in a statement, Olympic competitors “dedicate their lives to athletic excellence.” To make such a commitment is impressive and admirable. But dedicating one’s life to athletic excellence cannot be compared to dedicating one’s life to selfless service. Sacrificing in pursuit of Olympic dreams cannot be compared to sacrificing to protect a nation’s freedoms, to save a buddy’s life, to save a stranger’s life.

The Olympics is the biggest stage for athletes. For military members, the biggest stage is a life-and-death battle that can happen at any time, where bullets are flying, explosives are set, the humvee is on fire and the driver is trapped inside, a live grenade just landed a few feet away.

There are no improvised explosive devices buried in the sand of the beach volleyball court. Kayaking through whitewater is pretty badass, but it’s not on par with driving a humvee through an ambush to get the wounded back to base for emergency medical treatment. Running faster than anyone in the world is impressive, but not the same as running through live fire in 60+ pounds of body armor, having already been shot in your bulletproof vest, having already pulled a buddy to safety; running and rescuing another wounded buddy from two Taliban soldiers trying to drag him away, dragging him yourself back to safety while returning fire, and dressing his wounds, with no regard for your own life.

Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta
U.S. Army

The latter is what Salvatore Giunta did in 2007 in Afghanistan. He was awarded a Medal of Honor. But Guinta, like many military members, doesn’t see himself as a hero.

He told VanityFair, "I did what I did because in the scheme of painting the picture of that ambush, that was just my brush stroke. That’s not above and beyond. I didn’t take the biggest brush stroke, and it wasn’t the most important brush stroke. Hearing the Medal of Honor is like a slap in the face. I don’t think you know what I did. I didn’t do shit."

And the ChristianScience Monitor,“In this job, I am only mediocre. I’m average” . . . ““If I’m a hero, every man that stands around me, every woman in the military, everyone who goes into the unknown is a hero,” he says. “So if you think that’s a hero – as long as you include everyone with me.”

If we’re talking numbers, an Olympic gold medal nets $25,000 in prize money - that’s about Guinta’s annual base salary while he was deployed to Afghanistan as an E-4. Giunta was 17, the same age as four-time gold medalist Missy Franklin, one of the “heroes” of the Games, when he swore an oath to defend his country. At 27, Michael Phelps has more Olympic medals than any athlete in history. At 27, Guinta is still haunted from watching his friends die.

People make sacrifices every day. Some sacrifice social life to work their way through college. Some sacrifice time with their children to put food on the table. Some sacrifice time and social life and other young-person aspirations to pursue athletic excellence. All sacrifices are noble. 

But we should be more careful about what we call heroic. 

Afghan Massacre: Q & attempted A

I received some thoughtful questions on my last blog post about the March 11 Afghanistan massacre, and I’m going to try my best to answer them. I apologize in advance for my inability to do so adequately. They’re hard questions. I also apologize (and warn you) that this is very long. They’re hard questions that cannot possibly be addressed briefly. (Or maybe I’m just trying to dazzle and confound you with my rhetoric.)

Please also remember that my perspective is limited – I’m just ONE public affairs officer who served ONE nine-month tour in ONE tiny corner of Afghanistan. I encourage everyone to research these issues, talk to others who’ve “been there/done that,” enhance your sphere of knowledge.

In the meantime, here's my 3 cents . . .

I would like to hear a bit more about how the military handles information about things like this. The military has released very little information on the incident. It seems that the lack of official, confirmed information on the incident could lead one to regard all accounts as rumor. I read that soldiers with knowledge such as the suspect's identity or other details of the incident are strictly forbidden from communicating, even with loved ones who may be worried about them. Therefore, civilians might be a more accessible source of information. What effect does this have? Is this an appropriate way of handling it? In your former job, what would you have been called upon to do to control the flow of information?

The cop out answer is the military handles information like this very carefully, and the response is situation dependant. When it comes to public affairs, there’s a bit of push-and-pull. Rumors are bad. We want to fill the information void first in order to mitigate them. But, we also don’t want to fill the void with speculation and half-truths, and prior to an investigation (and often even after an investigation) speculation and half-truths are all there is. Something I dealt with in the military, and something I face again as a nonfiction writer . . . is there ever such a thing as Truth with a capital T?

My experience with incidents of this serious nature is fortunately pretty limited, but in general, when the $*&% hits the fan, public affairs will:

Draft a press release. The initial press release is never sufficient in explaining what happened, because there is never enough “confirmed” information available. A press release, in a complicated, foggy situation like this, is essentially an admission that something happened and a promise that the military is taking it seriously and will launch an investigation to learn more – which can take months or even years, and people (understandably) don’t like to wait that long. For the initial press release, there are rules that dictate what information is releasable in order to ensure, to the extent possible, security of those involved, accuracy of information, adherence to policy, and propriety of information released (which forms the catchy acronym SAPP).

For example, in an incident where casualties are involved, no names are released until 24 hours after the next of kin have been officially notified. This is for the same reason that communications are suspended: Loved ones deserve to have their hearts broken by official military representatives standing on their porch in dress uniforms, not by a frantic phone call or a speculative news report. I was on the home station end of a casualty notification and got a behind-the-scenes peek at how this process works – it’s something the military is committed to handling professionally and as delicately as possible. The communication suspension absolutely sucks and absolutely has the potential to breed worry (and, yes, rumor) but I do believe it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t help but think that in the case of the accused Army Staff Sgt. Robert Bales, the information trickled so slowly in an effort to protect his family. I don’t envy those who had to break the hearts of his wife and two small children. I don't envy the wife and children for what they must now endure.

After the notifications are made, public affairs offers to assist the family. The media barrage comes quickly. Reporters can camp out on the sidewalk outside the family home, ambush them on their way to the mailbox. Sometimes people are okay with that. Sometimes they even seek out media interaction as a way of expressing themselves or honoring/defending their loved ones. Everyone deals with grief differently. For those who are, understandably, overwhelmed, public affairs can be the buffer. We can be the equivalent of lawyers escorting the family into a closed courtroom: My client has no further comment.

Public affairs personnel serve as official spokespeople. It’s their contact info on the press release, their quotes in the media, their phones ringing off the hook. All other military personnel are directed not to respond if they’re questioned about the incident, to refer all inquiries to

public affairs. Again, this is a double-edged sword. It’s necessary to have a spokesperson who has access to the most up-to-date information, who knows what to and what not to release, and who is trained to handle the prying questions that inevitably come. The concern with having a military person speak to any issue is the perception that their viewpoints represent that of the military as a whole. So, yes, spokespeople are necessary. But at the same time, taking away a person’s ability to speak his mind has potentially damaging secondary effects. As much as it seems like it sometimes, the military is not full of brainwashed, unfeeling androids. Not everyone always agrees with the “party line.” I personally had some ethical conflicts with what I believed versus what my job dictated I said and did (it’s damn hard being an information filter), and I know that contributed to me self-isolating and closing myself off emotionally. Stifling expression can lead to pent up emotions, which can lead to emotional trauma and emotional outbursts.

So how do you find a balance? How do you reconcile a military that must require its members to forfeit some level of personal freedom in order to complete the mission, with the emotional strain that can result? I wish I knew the answer. I wish anyone did.

While most of your post added to my understanding of the situation, I still don't understand what you mean when you say you understand why he did what he did. If demons are to blame, what are their names? How, specifically, do they affect soldiers? Are you suggesting the soldier might plead not-guilty for reasons of temporary insanity do to his role in the war? Is this the case for all soldiers? Where, in your opinion does the line lie between soldier and murderer (not legally speaking, but in terms of the mentality needed to commit the act of killing someone) and what causes a person to cross it? Do shortcomings in training or support for soldiers contribute? What could we do, and what should our military do, to deal with and prevent such incidents?

First of all, I want to clarify that I in no way condone Sgt. Bales’ alleged actions. I don’t know why he did what he did, and, demons are no demons, there is no justification for murder. But I understand how war can screw with your head, screw with your emotions; I understand how it can make you “snap.” Did Sgt. Bales snap? I don’t know. Did he have demons, after three tours in Iraq? Absolutely.

There are many demons, and I can’t speak to all of them. Here some I’ve experienced:

Paranoia – you have to be paranoid in a war zone. You have to be ready to respond at a moment’s notice. Complacency, hesitation can mean death. Even those who don’t have a direct combat role (with a few Geneva Convention noncombatant exceptions) are trained to kill, because war can turn life and death in a flash. I mostly worked a desk job, but I carried two weapons and I knew how to use them. Just knowing makes your hands twitch. It makes your mind spin, lurching for the chance to translate training into action, turning shadowed corners and sudden noises into attackers, molding suspicion from every conversation. War is sensory overload. Paranoia burrows under your skin. It’s impossible to leave it completely behind, even when the warzone is gone.

Compounded stress – the Siamese twin of paranoia. The threat of death every day is pretty stressful. A job that directly feeds into national security is pretty stressful. Having hundreds of people all up in your business all day every day is pretty stressful. And a lot of traditional coping mechanisms (binging on comfort food, hanging out with friends, going to the gym, taking a day off, drinking) are not necessarily available in a combat zone. So the stress builds.

Frustration – with everything. With the lack of progress. With the little progresses that no one talks about. With corruption, foot-dragging and selfish motivations on the Afghan side. With bureaucratic red tape on the U.S. side. With leadership decisions and indecisions. With waking up every morning and still being in Afghanistan. With everything you’re missing at home. With confusion over what exactly you’re supposed to be doing and how you’re supposed to be doing it. With no one to talk to – and even if there is someone, with no way to possibly explain how you feel. With the same dry, overcooked chicken breast again in the chow hall. With sheer masses of people and no privacy. With outside conversations about war limited to the budget deficit and troop strength numbers. With being a face behind the numbers no one sees. With saying and writing things everyone sees.

Anger – at everyone. At all the people behind the frustrations. At yourself for being angry and frustrated and paranoid. At the local Afghan coalition employees who stockpiled cell phones, wires and batteries – three ingredients in homemade bombs – in an old latrine. At the other “innocent civilians” who plant roadside bombs, who dress in Afghan Security Force uniforms and infiltrate the forces to kill their NATO trainers, who strap suicide vests to their chests. At the godforsaken country of Afghanistan for holding you hostage. At the U.S. for playing World Police and sending you there in the first place. At yourself for being so idealistic and setting yourself up for disappointment. At everything for disappointing you.

Guilt – it’s not a rational feeling, but it’s there, inherent in the what ifs. What if I could have prevented [bad thing] from happening? What if I could have enabled [good thing] to happen/last longer/be better? What if I had done more, tried harder, anticipated better, moved faster, learned quicker? When it comes down to it, most things in a warzone are out of individual control, but that’s hard to accept. The military preaches control. In many ways, the military is a bubble of control. So when, individually, you feel controlless, it’s disorienting. Admitting a lack of control feels like failure, and failure in the military can mean a lot of bad things. And bad things mean guilt.

The big, obvious demon is one I thankfully I don’t know personally: what the military describes as witnessing or experiencing an event that involves threatened or actual serious injury or death. Yes, death is a part of war. Everyone knows that. But knowing can’t prepare you for experiencing. We all know our pets will die some day, but we still get sad when they do. Now, multiply that feeling by about a zillion. Regardless of its inevitability, nothing can steel you to witness the violent slaughter of a human being. There is nothing “natural” about death in war. And in its aftermath, there’s no time to grieve. When a plane from Hurlburt Field crashed in Afghanistan a couple years ago, killing two crew members, the squadron ceased flying for 24 hours to allow friends and colleagues to grieve. For a whole day. Then they were up flying again, maneuvering multi-million dollar equipment, carrying weapons, executing national security strategy. Because war is bigger than the individual.

But is the individual bigger – stronger – than war?

Reportedly, the day prior to his shooting spree, Sgt. Bales witnessed a buddy get his legs blown off. To this piece of information, The Independent columnist Robert Fisk responded: “So what?” If I met Mr. Fisk, I would be really tempted to punch him in the face. Hopefully instead I would have the peace of mind to tell him this: In the military, your battle buddies are more than comrades, they’re more than friends. They’re people you trust with your life and who trust you with theirs. When Sgt. Bales saw his buddy’s legs blown off – probably by a roadside bomb planted by an “innocent civilian” – he witnessed the near death and serious maiming of one of the most important people in his life, and someone who, if the order of march had been slightly different, could have been Bales himself. There is nothing “so what” about that.

Will Sgt. Bales make a temporary insanity plea? Should he? I don’t know. All I know is that war is a crazy thing and it makes everyone who experiences it at least a little crazy.

The military knows this, too. They knew it before 16 civilians were murdered on March 11. In his column, Fisk references a speech by the International Security Assistance Force commander, Gen. John Allen, after two U.S. soldiers were killed in retaliation for the Koran burnings at a U.S. military base last month. On Feb. 23, the general, who’s in charge of all U.S. and coalition forces in Afghanistan, told a group of soldiers:

“There will be moments like this when your emotions are governed by anger and a desire to strike back. Now is not the time for revenge. Now is not the time for vengeance. Now is the time to look deep inside your souls, remember your mission, remember your discipline, remember who you are."

That’s a nice speech. It’s a true speech. It’s also a terrible speech because it’s a necessary speech. Fisk expressed concern that General Allen had to plead with a “supposedly well-disciplined, elite, professional army” not to commit murder. My concern is that the general’s words acknowledge a military that has become so tired, so frustrated, so battered, bruised and scarred that it has created an environment that could breed murder. And my concern is that military leadership thinks pleading is enough to prevent it. Obviously – 16 deaths later – it’s not.

I do believe there are shortcomings in training and support. But at the same time, how can you possibly prepare people mentally and emotionally for war? You can make them proficient on weapons, send them on 20-mile ruck marches to “toughen them up,” make them perform menial tasks to “instill discipline,” sleep deprive them and put them through strenuous exercises in manufactured “high stress” environments, break them down, build them up. All this will make them stronger. But there’s no possible way to ensure they’re strong enough. War is the final exam, and not all the answers are in the book.

Orders don’t sound the same when they’re life or death. The weight of a rifle changes when pointed at a human. A uniform feels different when stained with blood. An enemy’s blood. A buddy’s. Your own. No training can prepare someone for these moments. No training can prepare someone for the emotional aftermath.

So then the question becomes, how do we clean up the aftermath? How do we prevent other Sgt. Bales’ from “snapping”? The first step, I believe, is talking about it. Easier said than done. The military has a long-seeded stigma around mental health care. After all, people with “mental health” issues shouldn’t be serving on the front lines, right? People in the military should be self-sufficient, competent, composed, right? People in the military should suck it up and deal with it because “service before self,” right?

It’s gotten better. My mom served as an Army nurse in Operation Desert Storm in 1991, and when her unit returned home, no one asked how they were faring mentally. No one encouraged them to “get help” if they needed it. Now, all returning troops fill out a post-deployment health questionnaire intended to flag mental health concerns and other potential issues. But it’s common knowledge people often lie on these questionnaires. I did. I didn’t want to report to alcohol abuse counseling because it was embarrassing and I didn’t see my nightly tipsiness as a problem. And thankfully, I could pull myself out of that gutter and it wasn’t a serious problem. Not everyone is so lucky.

Oftentimes, symptoms don’t emerge until weeks or months after deployment. For me, it

was 97 days. If/when symptoms do emerge, it’s up to the individual to self report. Many people aren’t willing to do this. Because of the stigma. Because of that horrible feeling of walking through the doors labeled “Mental Health” when your nametag broadcasts to everyone who you are, and your rank broadcasts how strong you’re supposed to be. Because of fear of negative career repercussions. Because of fear of not being able to deploy, of being left behind while your unit deploys, of not being there to protect your buddies and feeling that terrible, gnawing guilt. Because you think you’re tough enough to deal with it because the military has always told you that you need to be.

In a way, you do need to be tough enough – that’s what makes this so tough. War is not for the weak. In a perfect world, soldiers would be strong enough to push through it when they’re at war, and strong enough to stop pushing when they get back; to seek help, to work through and intellectualize, to make peace with their experiences. But turning emotions on and off is not that easy. Especially when the military’s switch is perpetually stuck in “off.”

Beyond the stigma, there are numbers. Every military member represents a number in a pool of people who can be scooped up and sent wherever, whenever the military needs those numbers. The pool is only so big. When it dries up, sometimes they have to start scraping along the shoreline – where those designated not-quite-so-fit-for-duty are resting. I’ve known more than one soldier who have been sent to war on cocktails of medications that supposedly “manage” their psychological symptoms. I saw one snap; his cocktail turned sour, he pulled a knife on his command sergeant major. They sent him home. Quietly. No one was hurt. Crisis averted. Another cocktail. Back to the shore line.

So is the answer a bigger pool? Stronger swimmers? Less demand? How about we all build a campfire on the shore, hold hands and sing kumbaya. Yep, it’s that easy.

I would also really like to hear about how you hope to see this specific massacre situation, and the larger, ongoing issue of the war, resolved. How do you hope the people involved in this war (on both sides) will be regarded by the public? And how should we regard the alleged perpetrator?

Oh dear . . . everyone always says you shouldn’t talk politics with friends and family or random blog readers. Well, since you asked . . .

I want everyone to come home. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better. Yes, there will be a power void if we leave early and security will probably collapse and mass chaos will likely ensue. But I’m pretty sure that will happen in 2014, too. Or 2015. Or 3582. It feels like diminishing returns for a military, for a country, that’s already given so much. It also feels like giving up. And I hate that conflict. Is there a point when you have to – for lack of better terminology – cut your losses? Have we already passed that point? I think so.

In 2010, the military pulled out of the Korengal Valley in northeastern Afghanistan (the

setting of the documentary RESTREPO) because the area was determined to be too dangerous (or in military terms, “not an effective use of resources”). In roughly three years, 42 U.S. soldiers were killed in Korengal and hundreds were injured. So pulling out was a good thing, because it meant no more blood would be spilled there. But what about those who were there while blood was being spilled? Were their efforts in vain? Did their buddies die in vain? Would it have been better to stay, to maybe make slight progress, to definitely spill more blood?

I’m afraid that the lives lost and the portions of lives spent working in Afghanistan will be remembered not for what they accomplished, or at least tried to accomplish, but for what they did not do. We did not bring peace to Afghanistan. We did not, at least by my subjective measuring stick, bring effective democracy. We did not get rid of all the bad guys while sparing all the innocent civilians. These are ridiculous, impossible goals, but they are what people tend to think of as “success.”

I hope instead we will be remembered for doing everything we could. For making small, but profound differences that may (God willing) be more evident as they ripple and grow through future generations. For giving children hope. For helping bring opportunities like schools and health clinics – and sometimes even equipping them with teachers and doctors! For opening lines of communication, and opening minds. Sometimes a crack is all that’s needed to make room for the seeds of change.

I hope we will be remembered for volunteering. Every single person currently serving in the U.S. military swore an oath during a time of war, knowing that deployments would almost certainly be a reality. That has never happened before. This nation must never forget to be thankful that when the call came, so many were willing to answer.

On the Afghan side my desires are not as clear. I want to believe the majority of Afghans are really interested in bettering their country. I talked with local women who said so with conviction that can’t be doubted. But I think, when it really comes down to it, Afghans are people who are just trying to survive. They’re clawing along the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. They’re looking for physiological fulfillment: food, water, shelter, basic safety. I hope they find these things, because everyone deserves a chance to move to the next level of the pyramid. I really, truly wish there was a way we could more effectively help them get there. But I fear that’s another impossible goal.

As for Sgt. Bales, all I have left to say is that I hope he’s not regarded through black and white glasses. I hope he’s held accountable for what he’s done but that the military, the American and international publics, the Afghan people, the jury, his wife and children acknowledge the complexity of the gray area in which he acted.

I hope Sgt. Bales finds peace, in this life or the next.

I hope the investigation reveals what truly happened – with that elusive capital T – and that justice is served.

I hope that this incident reverberates through the military culture. Because Sgt. Bales is not the first, and if the culture does not change, I doubt he will be the last.



And if you read this whole thing, I owe you a beer.

Complicated emotions over a complicated situation

I know it seems awful to say that when I heard about the alleged massacre of 16 civilians by a U.S. soldier in Afghanistan on Sunday, I felt relief.

It’s an inappropriate emotion, a sibling to guilt, but undeniable. Relief that it’s not my mess to clean up.

“A mess” . . . another inappropriate – at least crass – description. But in the world of public affairs, that’s what this is: a terrible, horrible, tragic mess. Personally, a mess of explaining the unexplainable. Of responding to inquiries and issuing statements that never tell the whole story because telling the whole story is impossible. And, on a larger scale, a tangled mess of unraveled efforts and relationships.

I remember cleaning one of those up in Afghanistan. (But to say I cleaned it up would be a generous exaggeration. Messes like this can never be completely scrubbed clean.)

It was Feb 12, 2010, and it was the worst day of my life. The night before, there had been a Special Forces raid on a house in nearby Gardez City. Somehow, five civilians, including three women, were dead. The details were hazy. This is what they call the fog of war. Fog is thick in Afghanistan. Bodies were moved, cleaned, hooded and prepared for burial before investigators arrived, leaving them scrambling to connect an ever-shifting set of dots. The local anger swelled, and we watched, horror-struck, as eight months of relationship-building were undermined in a matter of a few chaotic minutes.

At the center there were five lives, the collateral damage, buried in the fog of war. There was absolutely nothing we could say. But we couldn’t remain silent, couldn’t leave a void to be filled by rumor, speculation and insurgent propaganda. So we said what we could. And it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

Another emotion: understanding.

I understand why the soldier did what he did.

This is not to be confused with condoning his actions. Nothing could ever justify murder. That’s what this was: murder. But it’s not all this was.

Anger is easy. Blame is easy. Denouncement and apology are easy. But they don’t tell the whole story. The truth is, nothing can.

WAR IS NEVER BLACK AND WHITE. Like I discussed in my last post, war is a human experience, and humans are never black and white. Especially humans who have been to war.

When humans go to war, they change. There is no denying this. Whatever the individual experience, no one remains the same. I would go so far as to say that some people actually become two distinct people – a war-induced schizophrenia – split into “soldier” and “demons.” (Hell, go ahead the throw a third person on there, too. Soldier + demons + regular person with a regular life and a wife and two children at home.)

I have demons. Sometimes they act on their own, independent of me. They’re buttons that, when pushed, can send me into a Hulk-like rage or a tailspin of sadness. My demons are mild compared to many. While in Afghanistan, I never directly experienced death. I never got blown up. I never had to point my rifle at a person. I never had a person point a rifle at me. If I had experienced any of these things, I can’t comprehend the strength my demons would have.

The accused U.S. Army sergeant has been to war four times. God only knows what he’s seen, what he’s done, the demons he carries. It would be foolish, it would be outright wrong, not to blame, at least in part, those demons for this act.

That is not an excuse for murder. It is not a complete explanation. But it can’t be ignored.

Another emotion: anger.

Yes, it’s an easy one and I’m guilty of it, too. I’m angry at the sergeant for the mess he created. But I’m also angry at the rumors. I fume over articles chronicling this incident from the “Afghan perspective,” over the locals’ explanations of what happened and how. I want to believe them, to pity them for what they’ve endured, and on some level I do. But on another level I know that in Afghanistan when a car backfires the Taliban will claim an attack on a U.S. convoy that killed eight soldiers. I know that on Feb 12, 2010 villagers claimed that U.S. aircraft had bombed the residential compound where the raid took place. I know they claimed specific high-level government officials had been killed – government officials who were sitting in meetings with our unit’s personnel, very much alive, as the claims were being made.

Truth is elusive, especially in Afghanistan. And that makes me angry.

I’m also angry over apologies. In a statement Tuesday, President Obama pledged to take this situation “as seriously as if this was our own citizens and our own children who were murdered.” Maybe it’s my demons talking, but I want to know, on the flipside, where was the apology when I was in Afghanistan and a man dressed as an Afghan Border Patrolman sneaked onto one of our unit’s Combat Outposts and blew himself up outside U.S. soldiers’ sleeping quarters? Where was the apology when a “trusted informant” killed seven CIA agents at a base gym in the neighboring province? Where was the apology last month when, in indiscriminate retaliation for the Koran burnings by U.S. troops, my friend, JD Loftis was shot at close range. Murdered.

I want to know, after ten years, 1,900 deaths, more than 15,000 reported injuries, and millions of demons, not to mention billions of dollars, why are we always apologizing.

Another emotion: what feels very sad but can only be described as hope.

Lots of hope. That this doesn’t create more anger. But that’s a foolish hope, so I hope that the anger is managed, that it doesn’t manifest itself in more indiscriminate retaliation, in more meaningless death and suffering, in more widowed wives. Hope that these unraveled threads aren't irreconcilably tangled. Hope that the actions of one soldier and his demons don’t overshadow the work of thousands of other men and women over the last decade. Men and women like me. And JD Loftis.

And I hope that justice – whatever that means – is served.