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Okay, these little expenditures of extra police work won't get into the official budget for the Iraq war, but we wind up paying for them just the same. Five guys? Maybe ten guys? Every month, someone's going to have to stop what they're doing and deal with one of these men. Hopefully, it's nothing more than sitting in companiable silence while the guy processes what happened to him. But the more urgent cases, like our friend in Albuquerque, will require an armed police response, accompanied by fervent prayers that nobody gets shot.
But this is what war does. Every time. To every one. Some deal with the trauma better than others, but some surely will toddle off into an unholy netherworld of dark thoughts, emotions and deeds. That's why you don't go into war if you have any choice. That's why you don't pump your fist and say "Feels good" just as you're about to go on national television to announce that you've started a war. That's why you don't sit in front of your television, popping open beers and cheering the pretty flashes in the night sky over a foreign land.
There's nothing sentimental or mooshy about wanting to avoid war. It's a cold-eyed, steely realism, of clearer vision than anything conjured up by the war-mongers. Sooner or later, the men and women we send off to kill and die in war come home, and the ongoing price of their experience is a society in which we have to endure things like an armed standoff just down the street from a child care center. You want to talk about reality? Someone could get killed here, and for what? To silence a gibbering demon in a damaged mind? A luckless bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time or a police officer who kissed his wife and headed out the door for another day on the job this morning might have just seen their last sunrise.
And the people that set this into motion don't give a flying fuck. They're reaping personal financial benefits from the blood being spilled, whether it's in Tikrit, or Baghdad, or Fallujah, or Albuquerque. For public consumption, they'll look sad and stern, make appropriate clucking noises, and sigh heavily about the "price" of freedom. Well, we're paying a price, all right, but it isn't for freedom.
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