On writing and war—voices of veterans

This morning, instead of heading out for a longed-for run in that quiet half hour between the kids’ departure for school and the forward rush of my day, I sat down to glance at the Times and got swallowed up by other thoughts: on writing, and on war.  Both of these subjects have been much on my mind lately.  I started a post last night, winding through the “why” of my recurrent interest in war (focused at present through a writing assignment and a class I’m wanting to lead).  But instead of returning to my own reasons right now, and the inward gaze it necessitated, today I want to look outward.

Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the start of the Iraq war.  You’ve probably already read or heard that somewhere.  One of those news headlines or story ledes; we all love an anniversary, especially in the media.  It’s a hook, isn’t it?  And then we turn back to other things.  Except when it’s your life, your experience.

What got me going this morning, wrestling with reaction and words, instead of running alongside the river, was a reader’s comment on a NYT blog.  The blog itself contained three short pieces by veterans, the fourth such entry in a six part series.  I had been fortunate enough to hear these three writers (Phil Klay, Mariette Kalinowski, and Colby Buzzell) read from their work, along with the editors, Matt Gallagher and Roy Scranton, of the collection in which they appeared, Fire and Forget: Short Stories from the Long War, over the course of two recent events featuring the book, along with two other of its contributors, Siobhan Fallon and Jacob Siegel.

The aggravating comment on the NYT site seems to have been removed, a tangential yet somewhat interesting detail.  The comment suggested that the writing about war experiences was romanticizing war and the writers were benefiting from atrocity, and that any ‘benefit’ should be returned to victims, such as those in Iraq.  While I strongly took issue with the gist of the comment, most particularly an assigning of blame to soldiers instead of to politicians and civilians who elect them and/or perpetuate policies, I would not have guessed that the offending words would be taken down.  They had the effect of spurring debate (from other readers), and forced me to hone in on some of the thoughts on my mind.  I’m going to share my comment here – and then I hope you’ll go read the pieces, where the real stories begin.

Writing is a brave and arduous task, when taken seriously, which these three have done. In a few hundred words, each of them has given a small glimpse into different facets of what it means to be a soldier and what war looks like up close. Certainly, there are many more angles, opinions, and emotions that could be added; likely even contradictory ones from the same person.
Ignoring the voices of veterans – indeed the voices of any difficult and complex experience or issue – is to wallow in the comfort of ignorance. As to “gaining” from their experience as soldiers: everyday isn’t this what all of us attempt to do – move forward, whether from a difficult place or a comfortable one, trying to build on what we’ve learned? We don’t blame a college student for looking for a job after finishing school, using his/her experience. Why should we blame a vet for writing about experiences, whether we would wish them for ourselves or for anyone? It is too easy to devalue the importance of written accounts and to ignore the value of throwing aside silence and secrecy, for individuals and for society as a whole.
Thank you to these men and women, and their comrades, for the difficult task of examining what they have seen and been through, and making the brave attempt to craft those experiences into essays and stories that have the potential to bring us all closer to understanding – what we do or don’t want, and what we might wish we didn’t have to understand.

~   ~   ~

~ Also on the subject of war: my first piece for Highbrow Magazine came out last week…

“Reading Aleksandar Hemon: Where Biography Meets Fiction”

~ The war in Yugoslavia during the 1990’s has long been of deep interest to me, just one of the reasons I have turned to Bosnian writer Aleksandar Hemon’s fantastic stories, novel, and his new non-fiction book, The Book of My Lives.  I hope this chance to think intently about Bosnia again will continue to spur edits on my earlier novel, Down the Street a Building Burned.  But I am also just pleased to share thoughts on Hemon’s work, and the fascinating themes woven into his fiction and essays. ~

~ I am now a Contributing Writer for Highbrow Magazine and look forward to having more work there throughout the year. ~

~   ~   ~

About Kara Krauze

http://karakrauze.com Kara Krauze is a writer, consultant, and educator. Kara has worked in publishing, financial services, the mental health field, and community organizing. Her essays have been published in Quarterly West, Center: A Journal of the Literary Arts, Highbrow Magazine, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and elsewhere. She has a B.A. from Vassar College in International Studies and a M.A. in Literary Cultures from New York University. She has participated in workshops in New York City, Prague, and France, studied in Moscow and lived in London. Her writing, including a memoir and novels, engages with the subjects of war, loss, and memory. She grew up in Ohio and currently lives in New York City. Kara founded Voices From War, offering writing workshops for veterans, in 2013. http://VoicesFromWar.org
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4 Responses to On writing and war—voices of veterans

  1. johncoyote says:

    Took me 8 years to write about my friends death. Old soldiers hide bad memories and pain. If you want a real story. I know of a female marine who wrote 18 chapters of her time in Iraq.
    Thoughts From Baghdad . Here in the first chapter. The series is in Writer’s cafe. She took drugs for pain to stay with her follow Soldiers. So many heroes are with us.
    A Chapter by Kalila

    There’s a lot to learn when the Army decides to send you thousands of miles away from home to fight a war that doesn’t make sense…

    There’s a lot to learn when the Army decides to send you thousands of miles away from home to fight a war that doesn’t make sense. You learn a lot about yourself. A lot about the soldiers next to you. A lot about the friends you left behind. You become greatful for simple things you took for granted before.

    I think I may have made a mistake when I took candy from the strange man in the humvee that said “Just call me Uncle Sam, kiddo.” I guess you can’t really blame me, though. He seemed like a nice guy. Then again, if Uncle Sam hadn’t drawn me in, I would never have met Josh, I’d still be working at McDonald’s, my family wouldn’t have any reason to be proud of me, and I’d be on a life long journey to failure. But back to the other hand, I wouldn’t be writing this in Iraq, sitting at CID in the wonderful city of Baghdad, with a bottle of somewhat cold water, an empty bottle, a dip tucked along my gum line under my lip, savoring every gust of air that stirs the sweat pouring off my face. I would be home in MA enjoying a nice sunny day, where the temperature stands around 90 degrees, instead of 110 degrees. (120-125 degrees with all my gear.)

    I look like I’m going into space with all this gear. Headset, helmet, ballistic vest that’s too big for my body, too long for my torso, sun glasses, gloves, and harness. With this gunner’s harness, I look awkward. I feel awkward.

    You know, it hasn’t hit me yet that I’m deployed. Sometimes my mind slips and I think A day off? I should call Josh and see if he wants to do anything. and then I remember Oh yeah. I can’t…

    I keep thinking it’s just another day of work back on Ft. Leonard Wood, and after work I can go home, shower, then see Josh. Or go to Sonic with Audrey. Or just relax in my room until I feel like doing something or going to sleep. This isn’t Ft. Leonard Wood, though. This is definitely not Ft. Leonard Wood. I’m in iraq, damn it, and I’m here for another 14 months.

    I get to go home for 2 weeks at some point, maybe February or March. My mother doesn’t know, but I plan on spending most of R&R in MO. With Josh, with Audrey, with the people back in MO that I have come to know as my real friends. I’ll still go to MA, but only for a few days. Maybe during the week. I can’t stand being home for too long. I fit better with the Army, and going home means leaving the Army.

    Everyone I knew back home is gone. They either found drugs or college. I don’t approve of drugs, and since I’m just a soldier, I don’t fit in with the college scene. But on Ft. Leonard Wood, I fit in. Hell, I even fit in with the Marines on Ft. Leonard Wood. Josh is a Marine, and so are his best friends. And they love me.

    Josh said he’d wait for me. He said he fell for me. We even dare to say “I love you” to eachother. I don’t have any of that in MA. My life is in MO, now.

    next chapter Next Chapter

    © 2008 Kalila

    • Kara Krauze says:


      Thanks for visiting, and for sharing some of your story and Kalila’s. I’ve enjoyed looking around your site and reading your work. It’s wonderful you’re exploring your memories and writing. I know how hard it can sometimes be to look back and get the stories and poems down, but so meaningful for others too.

      All the best,

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