2,000 Dead

What They Died For

The kind of thing my newspaper won't bother telling you.

I asked Marines all across Al Anbar province two questions:

1. If something goes bad and you die here. What would you think of people who used your death to protest the war.

2. After being here, and knowing what you know, would you still join the Marines/volunteer for this deployment?

The answers were invariably the same.

They did not want their death to be used as a prop and they would make the same decision all over again. These young Lance Corporals and Non-Commissioned Officers volunteered to join the Marines, many with the intent of coming to Iraq. And while few would say they like war, they all recognize the necessity of it.

The Marines and soldiers who fight in Iraq are not numbers, but the media and certain groups are treating them as if they were. Number 2,000 was a national treasure, just as number 1,435 was and number 2,038 will be. For what is the value of a man who will fight a war for others who despise him?

But for those who are willing to take action, there would be no wall at all hold back evil and those men and women on the wall deserve more than a number.

Unrelated, but entirely related, are two posts from Greyhawk, one on Iraqi women picking up guns to fight the "insurgents" Some of the women -- before now -- had fit into Western stereotypes:

"Before I got into this, I was like a normal female; when I heard bullets, I would hide," said Muna, a stocky young woman in a black T-shirt and black pants.

"Now, I feel like a man. When I hear a bullet, I want to know where it came from," she said, sitting comfortably with an AK-47 assault rifle across her legs, red toenails poking out from a pair of stacked sandals. "Now I feel equal to my husband."

Others, assuredly, do not:

"I used to watch action movies when I was a kid, I loved them," laughed Xena, a conservative Muslim who chose her pseudonym from the film character, Xena the Warrior Princess. "My favorite actor is [Jean-Claude] Van Damme."

Equality comes in many forms.

The other post ponders the 80% re-enlistment rate among the Utah National Guard troops (home of our friend and inspiration Chief Wiggles) and their stated reasons for re-enlisting (or not).

Among the "fors" is a gem of a quote from 1st Lieut. Bruce Bishop, a Salt Lake County firefighter and Afghanistan veteran:

..."because as I look around at the state of this nation and see all of the weak little pampered candy-asses that are whining about this or protesting that, I'd be afraid to leave the fate of this nation entirely up to them."

Finally, but far from finally, if you want an antidote to the "2000 Dead Americans" fireworks bursting above your head and around your ears in the media (my newspaper will be running a full package tomorrow), read Michael Yon's latest.

I was in Baquba during the January elections. I’d hitched a ride with the US Army to a polling site. There were bombs exploding, mortars falling, and hot machine guns. The fact that the voting was going great despite the violence was something few people expected. When the soldiers dropped me off along with a CNN crew, they couldn’t believe we were willing to go alone. Neither could I.

Until that day, I’d been skeptical about Iraq. Not fashionably cynical, merely skeptical. We could all hear what the US President, the UK Prime Minister, and other elected leaders were saying, but they are politicians. We also could hear the end-of-the-Iraqi-world predictions by so many others who were counting the Iraqis out. But nobody really knew what the Iraqi people had in mind, and the Iraqis were the people who counted most.

The millions who voted sent a clear message: serpentine lines of ebullient Iraqis risked their lives—many died—to have a say in their futures. People voted by dipping their right index fingers into purple ink and casting their lot. The image of Iraqi voters proudly holding their stained fingers aloft became a symbol for the success of the election. In Baquba, many voters asked me to photograph them as they left the polling places, all smiles and purple fingers.

The courage of the Iraqi people that January day planted a seed of confidence in my mind. These were not timid or cowering souls. There I was: an American in a dangerous Iraqi city, at the very polling site that soldiers were wagering would be bombed. I was weaponless and alone. One after another, Iraqis came and shook my hand, showing me their children, laughing, smiling, saying over and over, Thank you, thank you, thank you. I felt like an honored guest, and I felt a twinge of shame that I’d held less confidence in the Iraqis than they’d mustered for themselves.

The American soldiers came back to get us after the polls closed, we got into a firefight at a police station, and that was it. The voice of the Iraqi people had risen above the clamor of insurgent violence.

Then came reports that insurgents were targeting people with purple fingers. Since then terrorists have murdered thousands more Iraqis, and hundreds of Coalition members. After all these months, I still wondered which was stronger: the terror, or the hope. Would the Iraqi people speak with softer and more tentative voices now after the slaughter of thousands?

Hard questions. No simple answers. You want simple answers? Go talk to Cindy Sheehan. I hear she's real easy to find these days.