THE WAR WITHIN

We spend our lives looking for metaphors that eventually are supposed to assume a semblance of profundity. In the quest of such an entity my particular interest in the concept of war has made its presence felt in more than many ways. I am writing this after viewing a video showing authentic footage from a Nazi concentration camp. The video only lasted for 19 seconds; but in many ways those 19 seconds have been the most excruciating moments in my recent past.

I have been shaken to the core.

All I have ever believed in, all I have ever loved and all I have ever cared for…suddenly fades away into a haze as an overpowering sense of an unknown feeling makes its way up my spine and wreaks havoc inside my head. Questions, doubts, dilemmas manifold…shoot across my consciousness as I grapple with the meaning of human life and the very definition of war.

“Fuck… Fuck”. Yes, this had been my first reaction after seeing that terrible video. I am 21 years old. I am right now in a dwindling state of mind that rocks between realism and optimism. I partially believe that I am immortal. War to me was glorious, with every soldier as a hero who is ready to lay down his life for a cause that is much greater than his own existence; atleast that’s what he believes. But right now I am immensely confused more than anything else. Where is the worth of being human in all this? Millions of young men laid down their lives in the two world wars and every other war that has plagued mankind since. I like to believe that each one of those men was bright, clear and were starry eyed with a tremendous vigor for life. I don’t care if I am wrong. They died. There death assumes a strange aura of bravery. I am too young to see anything beyond that. But my head conjures up images of a particular young man, whose name I don’t know. He’s is manning the lines in some god dammed front fighting some god dammed war against some god dammed enemy. Maybe he too is 21 years old. He too is confused about how women think. He too likes sports, music, junk food, birthday bashes et al. But right now, his prime concern is shooting at anything that moves in front of him. It dosent matter whether its some dog or another figment of human life. Maybe he hasn’t had proper “grub” for a week. He’s dirty, tired and sleep deprived. The longing for going back home and sleeping on a warm bed are distant dreams to him now. He had vomited when he had first killed a man. He had been sick to his guts. He was maybe even ashamed of himself. But now it was alright. He had killed so many men that it did not matter anymore. He had developed an attribute which brings man closest to the mythical concept of immortality… an indifference to death. The gory faces of a fellow soldier dosen’t move him anymore. Death has become commonplace. Death has become mundane. Is this what I can call being heroic and glorious? Yes, because he continues to man his post in the face of such realities that are enough to disintegrate the psyches of the best of us. I slowly start to develop a strange sense of admiration for this particular young man. Yes, I can almost see him in front of my eyes. A face that has long lost its youthful exuberance and has been replaced with a cold visage which betrays no emotions. He’s no longer just human; he’s a killing machine; lethal, efficient and merciless. He is ready to kill as soon as he receives his order. A smile makes its way across my face as I begin to imagine that maybe when this young man was 12 years old, he had developed a keen interest in playing the guitar. Maybe he was very passionate about it; like any average 12 year old. Now that guitar represents all relics of the past that have ceased to exist in his consciousness. His fingers have lost the dexterity to pluck the strings of the guitar anyway. His service rifle is his best friend and the trigger has replaced the strings. The music has long died; the mirth has long evaporated. He feels no remorse and no pain. He has achieved a mental state that has surpassed all these emotions. He too maybe is as confused as me, albeit his confusions are vastly different. Maybe he is grappling with the question related to the purpose of his existence. Unfortunately he hasn’t really had the time to ponder over it. He has always been occupied with things like ducking under shell fire, covering fire, evasive fire, shrapnels, grenades. “Words, just plain words and nothing more.” Yes, maybe that’s exactly what he is thinking. He had joined the army and had decided to fight the war because he believed that dying for his country was “one hell of a way to die” (line from one of the songs sung by the 101^st airborne). But now words like patriotism, maybe, have been reduced to sources of mild amusement. At this point of time with dozens of enemy guns waiting for him to make a slight movement, all his beliefs have zeroed down to just one single stark sentiment… survival. Nothing else matters.

Yes I have developed a strange sense of bonhomie with this fictional young man my mind has conjured. I smile as I bid him goodbye. But the mind fails to find peace. The images of the Nazi concentration camp come rushing back. Frail sickly looking human figures limping weakly across the frame as a US soldier hands out bread. Are they human? Well biologically yes. Every other shred of humanity has been snatched away from them. Yes the projectors inside my mind are starting up again as I conjure the image of another young man. Now this young man knew nothing of the war. He was a painter and believed that he could capture every figment of visible beauty into his canvas. His life was characterized by his brush strokes. His passions lay concentrated on his palette as he mixed colours as he channelised his supreme energies and abilities into the careful movements of his brush of his canvas. One dreadful day everything changed. He was taken away along with many others to a dreadful looking place because his parents had chosen a particular religion for him. His head had been shaved off and his brushes had been snatched away. He no longer had a name. He was now recognized by the number that had been branded on his right forearm. His complete existence had been reduced to those six digits. He had screamed out loud when they had pressed the red hot iron block against his arm. His skin was scorched and he had cried for days together. He had found relief in wailing like a toddler and shrieking till his voice cracked and his lungs burned. The wounds that he had incurred while his head was being shaved still bled from time to time. He allowed the blood to trickle down his face through his eyes upto his lips. The blood after all was warm and warmth is something that he still yearned for. As days passed by the blood dried up and so did the tears. All his anguish had been bottled inside him because he was too tired to cry; to weary to scream. He at times wondered whether he was still alive, but then there was one thing that always made him believe he did… pain. He had seen so many people die of starvation and disease in front of him that he had started counting the number of dead bodies that were stacking around him thick and fast. Atleast now he had something to do till his time came. Every other day he would see many of his fellow captives being taken into huge barn shaped structures. They never came back. He always wondered why. One part of him which still had some shreds of optimism left fabricated images of that structure being a gateway to freedom. But this part him was too insignificant. He had overheard one of the guards whisper something about “gas”. He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. He just limped around the camp looking for any shred of food that he could find in order to keep his limbs moving. Once a few inmates had managed to kill a dog which had somehow managed to make its way inside the unfortunate place. They had feasted on the flesh of the creature. There mouths were stained red with the blood of the canine creature as their teeth tore into the flesh. That was the last “decent” meal he had had. When the guards found out about this, they had beaten him up so brutally that his right leg had ceased to move………..

The projector inside my head is sputtering. It simply cant continue to flash images of this young man anymore. They are too gory. They are almost surreal.

I have never seen a man die. I have never seen a man being shot in combat. I have never seen a the guts of a man sprawled all around him after a grenade blast. I have never seen war. Yet for those 19 seconds I felt the existence of every one of the millions killed. I could almost see them in front of me. I realize that whatever I have written is utterly clichéd and has been debated over for several years. This is not any anti war statement or an attempt to a pseudo intellectual approach to war. This is nothing but a sudden rush of feeling finding their vent through words.

I am smiling now because after 1667 words I am still so god dammed confused.