Every war has its darkness. Ours is clouded in smoke. Thick smoke, choking, blinding. It keeps us from seeing, it frightens us. Smoke that reaches into our hearts and chases our courage. It hardens our spirit, it blackens our souls. Every war has its darkness.
Every war has its pain. Ours is in the tears of the children who lost their fathers and mothers. Tears of loss, of not knowing why, tears of wanting to be tucked in one more time. Tears that drown our will, wash us into despair. It makes us retreat, it makes us cry more. Every war has its pain.
Every war has its victims. Ours are countless. They are in countries far away, they are buried in the land we call home. They are young, they are old, they believe in God, they believe in Allah, they believe in neither; they believe in love, they believe in charity. Some still hurt, others' pain has ceased forever. Every war has its victims.
Every war has its soldiers. Ours are all around. They tie yellow ribbons, they fly fighter jets, they write, they sing, they dance, they work, they deliver pizzas, they answer phones, they sit at desks. They march to bus stops, they march into caves, they dive into files, they dive into foxholes. They sting, they bleed, they cry, they work, they study. Every war has its soldiers.
Every war has its enemies. Ours are live in shadows and in daylight. They brood, they plan, they hate, they kill. Enemies who don't understand, enemies who don't question. They take their orders, blindly following the man behind the cause, following the cause behind the man, following, always following, brainwashed, misguided, ignorant; dangerous for what they know, and dangerous for what they do not know. Every war has its enemies.
Every war has its sacrifice. Ours are the questions unasked. Questions withheld for fear of reprisal, for fear of being branded unfaithful, disloyal. The sacrifice of those who have another idea, who have another plan, who have another answer that dies for the sake of unanimity and the illusion of resolve. Every war has its sacrifice.
Every war has its weapons. Ours is our example. We fight with the example of freedom, with the values of liberty. We fight with the weapons of our words, with the weapons of our charity, of our philanthropy. We fight with our dissent, with our unending pursuit of compromise, with the ideals of a people molded in the concept of public debate and an unyielding questioning of authority. Every war has its weapons.
Every war has its treaties. Ours are in the media. The newspapers, CNN and radio. We make peace in our attempt to reconcile through knowledge. We yearn to understand the enemies, to know why they hate. We extend them invitations to Camp David, we allow them to see our secular temples of justice and civil law, we show them our intellect, our forums for conversation, our understanding, our compassion. Every war has its treaties.
Every war has its comrades. Ours are every person who asks "why?" The man who stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square because no good answer is given, he is our comrade. The rebels who dare to stand in front of the cameras and demand an explanation for the violence, for the reciprocating hate, for the hypocrisy, for the terror, terror both foreign and domestic. Every war has its comrades.
Every war has its turning point. Ours happened high in the Pennsylvania sky. High among clouds and sunshine. High among fear and resolve. High among all-too-human hatred and high among super-human courage. This was first victory in the war against ignorance, terror and greed. A time when love of country, of family, of liberty and of dignity overcame the most frightening of odds. In their memory, we stand up and salute, hand over heart, the dawn of the resistance. The first sign that we all shall overcome. Every war has its turning point.
Every war has its wounds. Ours is the gash in a skyline. A wound deeper than sixteen acres, a wound deeper than 110 stories. It is a wound that pierces the heart of a city, of a nation and a people. It is a wound exploited for personal gain and lamented for personal loss. A wound venerated as a shrine, a wound cursed as a tomb. It is a wound that can never be healed, it is a wound that penetrates the memory, permeates the scenery and poisons the heart. Every war has its wounds.
Every war has its veterans. Ours are covered in dust. The dust of rescue, of escape, of resolve, of duty and of pain. Dust on men in three-piece suits, and on men in vulcanized rubber suits. Dust on neckties and dust on badges. They fought the siege and lived to fight another day; they will continue the fight with their computers, and they will fight with their hoses. They will fight by taking their kids to soccer practice, they will fight by loving their neighbor. They will fight by being informed, and they will fight by going to work. Every war has its veterans.
Every war has its victories. Ours will come each day. Each day we get out of bed, and each day we watch the news. Each day we write a letter to a congressman, and every day we embrace a different idea. With each new concept we integrate into our melting pot, and with each new passion we accept into our identity. The end will come when free discussion is encouraged, and compassion overtakes greed. It will come when we care less for revenge and more for a greater good. Every war has its victories.
