“The dead cannot cry out for justice;
it is a duty of the living to do so for them.”
I read the news about nine American soldiers killed in remote eastern Afghanistan, the most lost since June 2005. It wasn't until I got an e-mail message from my friend, Rev. Michael Bogar, that it became personal. Among the nine was his son, Cpl. Jason M. Bogar, a 25-year-old serving in the 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment, 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team. Jason left quite an impression on me when he visited one of my PAR Model classes a couple of years ago. Bright, friendly, and spirited, we talked about how cool it would be to bring the PAR Model to the military. Jason was thinking about volunteering for Iraq. He mixed a sense of duty and a young man's desire for adventure into a personal alchemy of purpose and meaning. “Stay safe,” I told him as we were parting. “Yeah, I will,” he replied smiling.
The wrenching pain of Jason's loss bled like some mangled, deep wound out of Michael's e-mail message. I wept. I thought about my two sons and my grandchildren. How do you come to terms with the loss of your child? Can you ever make peace with it? How do you stop the endless mulling of his memory, of the thoughts about how he died, about what would have become of him had he lived?
Fighting Hand-to-Hand
Jason's mom, Carlene Cross, told an interviewer that Jason often volunteered for dangerous missions partly because he was single and felt he could spell married troops from exposure to hazards. That sounds exactly like the idealistic and thoughtful young man I briefly knew.
Sunday, 13 July 2008 was hazardous at that remote base near the Pakistan border in the rugged Hindu Kush. Reports say that, early in the morning, Taliban militants began firing machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs), and mortars at a small outpost manned by Jason and about 60 other US and Afghan troops. They were outnumbered four to one. The savage battle went on for hours, degenerating into hand-to-hand combat. Nine US soldiers, including Jason, were killed. Fifteen others manning the outpost were wounded. The count of the Taliban dead and wounded was thought to be high.
It's Personal
For some time I've taken the position that the correct answer to the question, “How many children do you have?” is: “I don't know. How many children are there?” Jason was one of my “extended kids.” I had a fondness for him, built largely upon both my brief personal experience of him and the proud, loving mention of him by his father. His presence in the war made it personal.
Violence and the PAR Model
Under the PAR Model, violence is described as a “thought-borne pathogen” that emerges out of an experience of powerlessness, most commonly driven by fear. As my thoughts turned to Jason, I felt that powerlessness. I'm powerless to save him and the others who were killed or injured in the fight, to comfort his parents, to make sense of his death, to guarantee protection for my own children and their children, to immediately stop the murderous madness of war.
And I can feel the latent violence churning in a dark corner of my being. I hear its voice, demanding to know who will pay for this? Shouldn't the masters of war bleed personally for their evil? How do I get even? Why do I have to endure the damn delays in getting the PAR Model out so we can stop some of this? I feel sarcastic, spiteful, and convoluted. The pathogen has me in its grip. I'm pissed.
Dreaming
Five nights after Jason's death I had a dream about him. In the dream, Jason and the other dead are sleeping gently on the now-quiet battlefield. I come and wake them. “It's time to go home,” I whisper. Jason yawns himself awake, looks around, and grins. “For us, not for you,” he says as he stands, brushing the dirt off his combat fatigues. “You've got work to do.” He turns to his dead comrades and the dead Taliban fighters getting on their feet, gives the “on me” signal, and they gather close to him. Following his lead, they begin walking toward the light in the distance. He pauses a moment, turns to me and says, “Stay safe.”
“No chance,” I reply. He laughs, shakes his head, and turns back to his comrades as they make their way home.
Click here to see the video tribute to Jason which appeared in the Seattle Times.
