Originally recorded on August 4, transcribed below. (Note: The recording cuts off because a lady came by walking her dog so I had to stop talking to myself.)
Where do I begin? How do I begin here, at your beginning?
Your country is beautiful. I’m watching it now—green and lush. The sun is setting, the grass golden and the flowers are white in the field. Crows and pigeons call to each other and fly from tree to tree. The cows graze. The whole neighborhood smells of manure, homely and thick.
This is your country, and it’s beautiful.
Is this what you fought for?
Is this who you fought for?
In the mud, and the gas, is this what you thought of?
I wish I could hold you, like I did my little brother, back when he was still little. A tornado was coming, and our parents were gone, and we were afraid. I was afraid. I held him to my chest. I ran my fingers through his short hair.
And we waited.
I wish I could hold you.
I wish words could reach across time, that you could feel them—that you could feel the backbreaking weight of the letters I carry in my backpack. They’re letters from schoolchildren who ask you, “What is your name? How did you die? Why did you die?” Letters that thank you for things they can’t comprehend. I can’t comprehend.
I don’t know what bravery is and I don’t know what war means anymore. They say you didn’t die in vain, but how is 50,000 men in a day not in vain?
Did you know that your war that was supposed to end all wars didn’t work? Did you know that there is still war today? Did you know that people still kill each other?
Did you know that people tried to kill my sister, just for being in a place that doesn’t have the green, fertile land that you have, that doesn’t have children who can write?
Your children can write. They are writing to you.
It’s so beautiful here. It’s quiet, except for the cries of children playing, or the distant rumble of a bus. The sun is setting, and in a few hours it will be 100 years since your war was declared. I wonder how you felt. Were you excited? Were you afraid?
How did your sisters feel? Were they excited by the promises of drama and heroics? Did they urge you on, or did they hold you back?
I wonder what your father and your mother and your friends and your cousins and your aunts and your uncles—I wonder what all the people whom the thread of your life connected—what did they feel, when they first heard? What did they feel, when the thread was severed?
It’s foolish, but I’m a bit like you. Sometimes I think I could end all this. Sometimes I think, if I could just feel enough, then people wouldn’t have to hurt. Sometimes I want to feel so much, to break my heart, so that no one else has to be broken.
That’s not the way it works.
I don’t know how true bravery works. I don’t know how true sacrifice works.
Your life is not money that can measure the cost of today. There isn’t some magical exchange rate—so many lives doesn’t equal my tomorrow. I can’t believe it’s that way—I can’t believe that if we reach a quota of blood we can have children who exist for the next xBox and say there is no more war (even though there is, there always is).
You’ve had over 21,000 letters in the last month. I read about 3500 of them. The sun has set now, and tonight we’ll turn our lights out and try to live in the darkness for an hour. Most of us won’t last ten minutes.
Is this what you died for?
I wish our words could heal you.
