When I was in college I kept a journal, a dark red corduroy-bound book bought at the campus bookstore. Each night before bed I'd set down the day's events along with the occasional profound thought. I wrote faithfully, yet ultimately the journal was a failure. I was too afraid of it falling into someone else's hands to write candidly about my life or my innermost thoughts and feelings. I still have the journal, and when I flip through the pages now all I see are sterile yet still painfully awkward accounts of a daily routine peppered with names I no longer recognize.
Despite the failure of my lone attempt at archiving my life, I remain fascinated by the process of looking back at a previous version of myself. I love to examine the bits of my personal history, looking for clues about how, where, or even if I've changed and grown as a person.
As our nation marked the beginning of the fifth year of war in Iraq, a local politically-themed message board re-ran a thread from the days leading up to the invasion. I spent well over an hour reading the comments; looking through a window into a world that no longer exists. A world where we didn't yet know for sure the WMD threat was bogus. A world where a frighteningly bloodthirsty majority of our population demanded we hurt "them" the way we'd been hurt on a sunny September morning. A world where we believed the war would be measured in days instead of months or years. A world where to disagree was to be labeled "traitor."
Two things struck me hardest as I read through those comments. The first was how wrong so many people managed to be about the details. The WMDs, the adoring crowds throwing flowers at our feet, the low price tag, the virtually non-existent civilian death toll, the length of the war and our likelihood of creating a stable democracy in Iraq: wrong on every count. The second was the complete and utter faith in the Bush administration (which, to be fair, wasn't yet as ridiculous as it is today), the certainty, the unwillingness to even listen to a word of caution, the arrogance, the hubris. It was the stereotype of the ugly American come to terrifying life.
It was difficult to read these words then; it's even more so now that a mere four years has proven them so wrong, so costly. But, as painful as it may be, we must never forget those words, in order that we never need repeat them.
I struggle with this, because I understand all too well the human desire for revenge. I want to confront everyone who called me "traitor" or "Saddam-lover" for opposing the war, and rub their faces in how wrong they were. It doesn't work, though. It only makes them defensive, even if, deep down, they know I'm right. If they would only be willing to learn from their mistake, I'd be more than willing to suck it up and be the adult, because the important thing is that this never happen again. Unfortunately, reading those comments did little for my faith in my fellow Americans.
I don't really have a conclusion here, or an answer or even a suggestion. I'm just putting something I struggle with out there. Maybe you struggle with it too, or maybe you've found a way past it. I sure hope so.