While we rant about Social Security, Jeff Gannon and the secret Bush tapes, the war in Iraq rages on. At least three more GIs were killed today.
I found this poignant letter on Bring Them Home Now. It's a good reminder of the personal cost of war.
February 12, 2005
Today is the one-year anniversary of my nephew's death in Baghdad. Next month he would have turned 21. He would have been anticipating his first legal drink as a young man. He might have had a girlfriend, a job, even a career start, full of possibilities and life. Instead, he is one year in the grave, forever 19.
We stood over him in the rain today; I thinking about the year. How it seems so long and so short at the same time. How much seems to have happened and yet how little has actually changed. He is joined by fresh graves at Willamette National Cemetery. Old vets and young victims. We've had elections. Iraq's had elections. And yet the war rages on. The killing and dying goes on even more fiercely. Same old lies, just more proof. Same old liars, just new titles.
It's so quiet there and my inner screams seem very out of place. I feel out of place a lot these days. Like everyone around me is operating on a different plane of reality. People go about, business as usual, with their "Support Our Troops" magnets on their gas-guzzling SUVs. I want to stop them and show them William's photo. I want to tell them what he gave up and I want to ask them, "WHY?" I want to ask them what they've given up. America is not "getting" it. Do they know that this boy and thousands like him have lost their lives, their health, their sanity? How many more new graves will be here next year? And the year after that?
Annette Pritchard
Aunt of PFC William Ramirez, KIA 2/12/04
posted 20 february 2005
I remember William's
death. I used to take note of the names of those lost in Iraq. I don't' any longer. There are too many. But I still remember William. He was from my state and just a kid, really. His life ahead of him, or at least, it should have been.
William Ramirez grew up in southeast Portland and dreamed of becoming an architect, his father said. He attended David Douglas and Franklin high schools.
His mother, Maria Buscho, described him as shy and creative. He loved to draw, he liked break-dancing, basketball and listening to Dixie Chicks? music.
He always wanted to do something good with his life, Buscho said.
Please remember William. Please remember your neighbors' sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, friends and lovers who have died in this war. Also remember it was waged by those who care little about these loses except for it's impact politically. We care, though.