Over the last couple months, there’s been occasional talk in various online journals and new outlets about the concept of war-weariness. The discussions have coincided (whether intentionally or not, I can’t say for sure) with the 100th anniversary of the start of World War I. The picture to the left is my granddad (whom I never met) who served in World War I.
Reflecting on the idea of war-weariness, I’ve looked backwards at my own life. Having grown up during Korea and Vietnam, my young adulthood seemed a relatively peaceful time. Then came the first Gulf War, followed by Afghanistan and eventually Iraq. (While there were others, I’m not cataloguing all US ventures.)
It has been our good fortune in the United States that war usually doesn’t closely touch our shores … though certainly for those whose families have lost loved ones overseas (or on 9/11), the sting of war is no less felt.
Unlike the Middle East, we train our school children to shelter under their desks for tornadoes, but thankfully, not for rocket attacks. Still, whether one lives in the Middle East or middle America, it seems to me, there comes a point where one finds the weariness of ongoing war despicable.