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.

PTSD: The new four-letter word

The acronym is familiar to me, as it is to anyone who has access to mass media in the western world and can read, watch and listen to how it’s “breaking” young men and women returning from military deployments. It’s familiar to me as a veteran, who has known and worked with many whose records bear those letters. I witness every day how it colors the words and actions of someone I love.

But recently, PTSD hit me in a new way.

As of last week, I’m donating my body to science. (Incrementally, by way of Veterans Affairs research studies.) My initial study is investigating brain functioning in veterans with diagnosed stress disorders and/or traumatic brain injury. I spent a day clicking blinking computer boxes, memorizing words and pictures, and counting backwards by threes (by FAR the hardest!). The study also involved a lengthy psychological evaluation. As I prepared for that section, I settled into my chair, ready to rehash what I’ve been discussing with social workers, psychologists, and my unwitting creative writing classes for the last two years.

I talked. The psychologist nodded, scribbling notes onto a series of pages. She prompted me, I kept talking. Then there were no more pages and I had nothing left to say, and, flipping back through her notebook, the psychologist said, “Well, you’re definitely still exhibiting symptoms of low-grade PTSD.”

???????

This was not something I’d been told by the previous social workers or psychologists. This is not the diagnosis reflected in my VA disability rating, which proclaims me a sufferer of Chronic Adjustment Disorder . . . Is that the same thing?

“No,” the psychologist clarified, “they’re definitely different. What I get from you is definitely PTSD.”

Definitely PTSD. Not an official diagnosis, really. An opinion rendered in a non-treatment capacity, one of many professional opinions I’ve received. The outlier. But hearing those letters with my name brought an onslaught of emotions:

Affirmation – so that’s why I feel and act the way I do. Maybe I’m justified, after all. (Followed quickly by . . .)

Guilt – what right do I have to be linked with PTSD? I, who spent most of my deployment behind a desk, who was never shot at, who never shot at anyone, who was never blown up, who made it home safely with my entire unit. So many horrible things I didn’t experience. How can I be associated with veterans who did?

Weakness – maybe I am linked with those who suffered more, and because I suffered less but had a similar reaction, that makes me weak. They say everyone has a breaking point, maybe mine came sooner than most. Maybe I was never meant to be a soldier.

Fear – if I do have PTSD, what does that mean? There are so many things that scare me about that acronym, about the complication, the destruction it can leave in its wake.

More guilt – how can I fear the things in others that I myself embody?

Ultimately, I know I’ll be okay. I know I’ve come a long way in the two years I’ve been back from Afghanistan. In many ways, I think I’m stronger. I know I’m stronger. Those four letters are merely scribbled in a research notebook. They hung in the air for a moment over a table in a VA testing room, then disappeared.

But they seeped into my consciousness, where they’ve been gnawing at me, making me think about how we view PTSD as a society – something that has colored my perspective more than I’d like to admit.

Despite living on the fringes, I don’t understand PTSD. Most people don't. My boyfriend, Colin, had been lecturing on PTSD for a couple years before he was officially diagnosed. When we started dating, I was hesitant to get involved because of those four letters. Conversely, I was convicted by my fear. If anyone can understand a veteran’s emotional state, shouldn’t it be a fellow veteran?

PTSD is scary because it is unknown. Until recently, no one talked about it; military mental health care has always been shrouded in stigma. Now, it seems, as soon as the military is beginning to acknowledge the inevitable mental and emotional affects of war, the issue is being sensationalized outside the military, and veterans are stigmatized by the civilian community.

Lack of knowledge breeds misrepresentation and misunderstanding – two things the media is famous for propagating.

In the latest example, on April 19, “Dr.” Phil (quotations added), aired a show titled “PTSD Takes Veterans from Heroes to Monsters.” As if the title weren’t enough, it came with this melodramatic ad. Following heated response from the veteran community, the show’s name was changed to “Heroes in Pain,” post-broadcast. But the message was already out. As they stressed in public affairs training, the initial message is the one that sticks.

Before Dr. Phil’s show, military mental health advocacy faced another hurdle when U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Robert Bales became the new face of modern warfare after allegedly massacred 17 civilians in southern Afghanistan. For many, Sergeant Bales has come to represent this generation of veterans: broken, unstable, a hopeless tragedy.

Veteran unemployment continues at an unprecedented rate. There is no denying the PTSD stigma plays a role. In the minds of employers, the “impressive military resume” we were all promised upon enlistment is being weighed against an imagined mental health resume.

No one wants to hire a Sgt. Bales. No one wants to associate with the likes of those profiled on Dr. Phil: the drug addict, the husband who beats his wife, the one who set his wife on fire.

To Dr. Phil’s audience, I’m Frankenstein.

To civilian employers, I’m a loose cannon.

To the VA, I’m damaged goods.

Amidst these messages, how am I supposed to view myself? How are veterans dealing with the emotional scars of war supposed to respond to military messages encouraging them to seek help when seeking help might lead to a diagnosis, and a diagnosis might lead to labels and disenfranchisement?

A new debate, discussed in this article, questions whether a name change would help alleviate the stigma around PTSD. Replacing "disorder" with "injury," for example, communicates that healing is possible.

Whatever you call it, the truth is, PTSD can be scary. It can manifest in ways which, when sufferers don’t get needed treatment and therapy, can lead to violent outbursts like the extreme examples above. These examples are hard to ignore when they scream at us from every news broadcast. But they are the exception. There are many more like Colin and me than like Sergeant Bales.   

Mental health will always be an issue in the military. Just as combat is in the job description, emotional and mental strain are among the expected side effects. Mental health is a bigger issue than it needs to be because we either don’t talk about it, or we talk about it in the wrong way. We ignore it, or we sensationalize it.

On either end of the spectrum, the ones who suffer are the veterans. And they have suffered enough. 

The sound of silence

First, an apology. I’ve been terribly out of touch. It’s not just you; it’s everything. I guess that’s what happens when you’re falling in love . . .

I’ve had a bit of an epiphany in the last couple weeks. It has to do with my last entry. And it has to do with the object of my love-falling, who you may know through blog post infamy. Since I’ll probably be referencing him frequently now, I’ll just go ahead and call him Colin. Because that’s his name.

Anyway, what I’ve realized is I like to talk. I know what you’re thinking: Lauren is loud and obnoxious and always has been! This is true. Or it was . . . until Afghanistan.

Before Afghanistan, I was a pretty gregarious, bubbly person. Probably annoyingly so. I told my parents everything. I told random strangers more than they cared to know about the Air Force. I also wrote about everything – it was my way of chronicling my thoughts and feelings, and, if I was stressed, of shaping my stressors into something tangible, something manageable.

At some point during my deployment, I stopped talking. Not entirely, of course; I don’t think I’m physically equipped to do that. I stopped talking about my feelings. As I got disillusioned and worn down, as my feelings turned more negative, I withheld them because I didn’t want to worry my family back home. On the extreme end of the spectrum – the end you’re often on in war – if I were killed, I didn’t want them to think that I didn’t believe in what I was fighting for.

For similar reasons, I stopped writing. I had been keeping a blog, and I could no longer find non-worry-inducing “spins” for my entries. I ran out of ideas. I ran out of steam.

I ran out of words.

Hello darkness, my old friend

It took me almost a year to find them again. It started with my initial visit to the Mental Health Clinic at my home base, Hurlburt Field, FL. Social workers have a way of getting you to talk, and mine started picking away at my silent veneer. One I began to open up to her, I was able to ease into talking to my parents. I called them once and prayed they weren’t home so I wouldn’t have to tell them that I was hurting. They didn’t answer. I was relieved. I cried myself to sleep. Alone.

The next day, I finally told them. The ball started rolling. Hesitantly, I let it roll to other relatives and friends.

Graduate school applications – a writing portfolio – forced me to find my written words again. They came slowly at first, then stumbling over one another, eager to break out of the dark places they’d been forced to hide.

I've come to talk with you again

When I got to grad school, I was faced with a new hurdle: talking to strangers. And not just any strangers: civilians. I would have kept my mouth shut and my pen capped if I had a choice. But I’d already chosen nonfiction writing. (Awfully silly for someone who doesn’t want to talk about feelings).

I will be eternally grateful for the amazing reception from my classmates and teachers at Emerson. If their response had been different, I might have shut down again. Who knows where I would be now. Silent.

But they were interested in my words. They were appreciative. They were supportive. They wanted to hear more. So I kept talking, kept writing. I started another blog. I got more positive feedback, and it was like oil in my rusty machine.

Because a vision softly creeping

Then I went to Chicago for a writing conference, and met other veterans, including Colin, who like to talk. I was inspired by their openness; I realized I’m part of a veteran writing community that’s gaining traction and getting louder. I added my voice. And my machine got a new engine.

That engine propelled me through my last two blog posts about the March 11 Afghanistan Massacre. The incident hit me with a bombardment of complicated emotions, and instead of burying them, I talked. I wrote.

And I realized that talking is important.

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

After my initial massacre post, I got my first ever angry comment. I’m strangely proud of that – I’m officially a controversial writer! I’m so thrilled to have the opportunity to be controversial, to go against the “party line,” to exercise my First Amendment rights. I think that just might be my favorite amendment.

In a way, every writer aspires to be provocative, to incite thought, conversation, even criticism. To promote understanding. To present a new perspective. Speaking from within a community comprised of less than 1% of the American population (I’m talking about veterans, not Wall Street), these aspects are even more important. As Colin often says, in order for civilians to understand veterans’ experiences, veterans need to start talking. It’s easy to blame civilians for being “ignorant,” but the only cure for ignorance is education, and education can only come from the educated.

Like it or not, it all starts with veterans.

And the vision that was planted in my brain

After my last post, one person told me that this was the first time I’d really dug below the surface without skirting around the issues. I wasn’t conscious of that at the time, but looking back, I agree. Skirting is much more comfortable. And frankly, I’m trained to skirt. In public affairs, I learned how to tap dance around controversial topics, to answer questions in that artful roundabout way that sounds good but doesn’t actually answer anything at all. And like all military members, I learned to, in many situations, keep my mouth shut.

Now, it’s a constant struggle to keep it open. Still – after more than a year in the “civilian world” – I have to continually remind myself that I don’t need to censor my words. When you’re living in a restricted world, you don’t realize how easy it is to internalize the restrictions. (When you’re outside a restricted world, you don’t realize how beautiful your freedom is.)

Still remains

In response to the post, fellow veterans told me about some of their own demons, of their manifestations of the demons I mentioned. They told me about their struggles readjusting to life and their families after deployments. Some have spoken with therapists. Some are reluctant. One called my blog a form of therapy.

There is no more powerful motivation than the thought that my words can reach into dark places within others and help light a spark of healing and understanding.

People called me courageous for being willing to talk, to be controversial. I don’t feel courageous. I feel like I’m doing what I need to do. I have been blessed (cursed?) with a passion – and, I like to hope, a talent – that spurs me to action. It makes me talk. Then talking feels good, and I can’t shut up.

Within the sound of silence

Beware: Before long, I may start screaming.

Because that’s who I am, and that’s what I do. I’m a talker. I’m a writer. I’m a breaker-of-silence. And that’s kind of cool, because the silence needs to be broken.

I just hope people are ready to listen.


“The state of birth, suffering, love, and death are extreme states—extreme, universal, and inescapable. We all know this, but we would rather not know it. The artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge.

It is for this reason that all societies have battled with the incorrigible disturber of the peace—the artist.”

~James Baldwin, The Creative Process


Interspersed lyrics from “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel

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.