Julia Schwartz

March 17, 2003

“even in Arcadia, there [are we]”

March 17, 2003. Saint Patrick’s Day. Soon, this day may be remembered for more than that.

I feel the need right now to document my existence at this moment in time, for it seems quite possible that my life will be somehow changed in about four hours. I don’t know how, I don’t know to what extent, I don’t know what will happen to the enclave of happiness and innocence that is my world. Yet I know it will be changed.

We are going to war.

“Well, fellow members of my generation,” reads my away message on AIM. “We shall finally know what it is like to live during a time of war.”

It is a beautiful day. Too bad the beauty of the weather isn’t replicated in the world of international relations.

War.

What does this mean – war? It’s a queer, ugly little word. How do those three letters describe the atrocities, the loss of life? One man down is mourned by hundreds. How long will it take for us all to be mourning the life of someone dear to our hearts?

During a time like this, I am slammed with two feelings that contrast so sharply it is impossible to believe they can be a part of the same world. There is the beauty of the world, the warm sun, the gentle breezes, the ecstasy inherent in the first day of spring. I want to frolic in the warmth, revel in the beauty, taste the freshness of the crisp air, hear the birds singing beautiful songs and fear the bees buzzing.

Then I turn the gears of my mind to the other issue of the day. Iraq. President Bush. Saddam Hussein. Eight o’clock tonight.

How many people will perish? How can we win this war? What if we lose?
I ate a big piece of fresh Parisian bread just a few minutes ago. How much longer until it is “liberty bread”? It will take its place along Liberty fries and American wines.

We are on the brink of war. The hearts of the 300,000 soldiers stationed in the Gulf must be racing; these Americans are finally going to realize their lives’ dream. Yet they must be petrified. They know not everyone is going to come home in a chair, not everyone will be able to laugh over old memories and share stories of their families waiting for them back home. They know there are hundreds, thousands, who knows how many, long black bags for some. How can their lives be over? They are young, they are strong, they are brave, they are proud. These men – and women, too; we cannot forget the women – these are the people who are about to become our heroes: our fallen soldiers, our fearless crusaders for justice and democracy throughout the world. They can do nothing to stop a bullet spinning at their chests at hundreds of meters per second, they can do nothing to stop contaminated air from entering their soft pink lungs, they can do nothing to unstir the jam from the pudding. Once it is unleashed, it can never be undone, and the toxicity of the jam will cripple the purity of the rice pudding.

We know Saddam has chemical weapons; we know he has nuclear capabilities. This is our substantiation for this war. I don’t care that it highlights our hypocrisy, I know we have them too. North Korea has them. India and Pakistan have them. The nations of Europe must. Russia may. Al Qaida probably does. We all have the capability to decimate the planet. Our world is about to combust. This war will not be a war of trenches and bombs. No, this will be a war of who has the most developed technology, who can sneak their toxins into the atmosphere of another. What if someone doesn’t think of the far off future, and unleashes a nuclear agent? Each action of war must have not merely an equal, but a greater reaction. War is a battle of wits, only these wits kill hundreds, maybe thousands of people who thirst to live – maybe even more.

Once one button is pressed and a nuclear or biological or chemical agent is released, another must follow to avoid defeat. Instead of slowing the war, it merely escalates it. More die. You can’t unstir the pudding. The only order that will ultimately result if one nation begins the slaughter will be the ultimate chaos, and, the pinnacle of all organization. The result will be nothing. We will all be leveled to the ground with our buildings. Our lives will end more suddenly than they began. You cannot unstir the pudding. One drop of red jam, and we will be swirled and swirled until we are nothing but pink. White will no longer remain.

We cannot be so naïve as to think this is us against them; it is not the United States and our few allies against Iraq. We have entangled Al Qaida; we have ensnared Turkey. Israel will explode, be it by its own internal struggles brought to a climax or a missile launched from the sands of Iraq. We have aligned ourselves against Russia and France. What if they become our enemies? What if North Korea decides to join in the fight against us? This situation is fraught with terrifying “what ifs”; there are so many situations that are easily obtainable that would rock our already shaky stance. How can we win a war? What if we lose?

            The world is ceasing to be a paradise. Perhaps the clear blue skies and warm sun are gifts to us from something that knows more, to prepare us for the struggles of the future, perhaps these are to give us one last breath of happiness, one final chance to savor the world. Perhaps these will be our last beauty for a long time – perhaps they will be our last forever. We cannot expect that our action will have no reaction but that which we seek. The world has changed, and there are innumerable conflicts. Most of them can be easily inflamed by what we are about to do. We are dropping that spoonful of jam into our rice pudding, and the only thing to do is stir. Stir, stir, stir… what will the pink bring?