I'm too old to be young, and too young to be old...

Some times I wonder if it will ever stop. And not just for my sake, but for my brother and sister's sake, they are just so young and I'm afraid for them. I'm afraid everyday. I'm afraid that on my way to school a bomb will go off. I'm afraid that if someone gets hurt we wont have the money to pay for the proper help. I'm afraid that if something were to happen to my parents that I will be separated form my siblings. 

I'm Tired of being afraid. I wish the war would

 stop. With every passing minute i dont know if i will live to see another day. My skin crawls when i see a bomb blow up and then the next day one of my friends doesn't come to school. It frightens me that i am not afraid of the dead bodies anymore...I see them all the time now as more and more crime comes into my town.  I wish there was a way out. A way for us to get away from all the terror. 

I see it in there eyes. They are scared just like me. I dont think any kid should have to see what I have seen, No one should. I'm scared that one day i will wake up and not care anymore. Not feel anything. Im afraid i will become numb to everything around me. 

Sometimes i just want to give up. I am so tired all the time and i have to take care of my siblings and i'm just so tired of fighting and killings. And the worst part about it is that i am so tired but i usually can never sleep because i'm afraid that my house will be blown up i don't want my family to suffer anymore. I get comfort when the troops are near.  They give me a sense of security. I feel like when they are around i don't have to be on my 

guard all the time.  And the stress is let off my shoulders a bit. But when they leave i feel just as scared as ever before. Im 11 years old and i feel as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. 

I wish someone could tell me why we have to live like this. So many of us are broken. Emotionally and Physically. We Just want to be whole again. We want to not worry anymore, we want to be able to play games outside without the worry of being blown up, we want to be kids. Its hard to be strong when everyday i feel like i could just breakdown. We are stuck in the middle of this war. This was not our choice and no matter how many of us are killed or how many of us suffer our voices seem to be silenced because we are young. Physically we are young, yet our age is misleading,

we have seen more than many will in a lifetime. Its a struggle almost everyday. 

Somedays I wish there was something that i could do to make the place i live in better. But the matter of fact is that right now there is nothing i can do but live and try to help my family as much as i can. So i have to learn to let go of what i cannot change. And hope that there is a brighter future for all kids in Iraq. I just feel so caught in the middle. Im too old to be young, and too young to be old. There is hope for those of use stuck in the cross fires of this war and all i can wish for is that it come sooner than later.

A True Hero of the Vietnam War

Vietnam-The war where Americans came to be the hero once again. The war where American men put their lives on the line to fight for an un-American cause. The war between America and the Vietcong. But what about us? What about the war the Vietnamese faced at home? American soldiers were killed as they tried to kill Vietnamese communists; they seemed to forget that not all of Vietnam was the enemy. To Americans at home, there were two groups of people being killed in Vietnam: The enemy, and the men who entered Vietnam knowing full well what the consequences could be. But there was another group that was forgotten. There were the parents whose houses were ransacked by soldiers searching for Vietcong. There were the children who witnessed the burning of their homes by American soldiers. There were the teenagers who witnessed their comrades killed right before their eyes. We were the forgotten innocent who were forced to suffer more than any others. I’ll tell you one thing- America sure wasn’t our hero. America savagely took many innocent lives. In particular, the life of An Chinh Gia: a rice farmer, a brother, a husband, a friend, and my father.

Forty-one years have passed since the day American soldiers ambushed my home in Lieu An, stole me and my younger brothers and sisters away from my ma, mother, and my Ba, father. I was only fourteen then, my youngest brother was only three. They took us, and my Ba, he tried to come to us. The soldiers wouldn’t let him come, but he tried again. I saw him running for us, running for my little brother because he was crying. Ba was also crying-tears I had never seen a man like my father shed. I saw him running, I heard him yelling, I saw him fall as he was shot in the back, "Don’t allow them to take from you what I have worked so hard to give you". And that was our dignity; our honor. To this day, I have not let that be taken away from me while everything else in my life seems to have been stripped bare.

In the years leading up to this life-altering event, I had come accustomed to the brutality against the people I knew. I heard of and saw terrible acts carried out on my friends, and my neighbors, but I approached these crimes against the people I knew as an onlooker because, for the time being, my family was safe. My Ba was one of the most generous men I knew, and for that matter, have ever known. When soldiers killed a rice-farmer in our village, my Ba helped his family get back on their feet. And I’ll never forget when my Ba ran into the burning home of our neighbors and rescued a mother and son from the flames.
It was the summer of my thirteenth birthday. For the first time, the war was at my doorstep, quite literally. We all heard news of soldiers who were demanding answers from Jin Jian, a friendly merchant, husband and father to his two-year old son, Tuan. Me, along with the other curious children in the village, followed our worried parents to the Jian’s home in order to see for ourselves what was happening. I didn’t like what I witnessed. By the time my Ba and I arrived, it was too late for my Ba to be hero; the Americans had already come and used their “heroism” to kill Jin Jian. I saw a hut engulfed in flames. I saw people frantically throwing pails of water at the fire that quickly took everything in its path captive. But what I remember most was not the fear I felt, nor the tangible fear from those around me, but the screams that emanated from inside the hut. Not screams of pain, not screams of anger, not screams of fear – screams of sorrow. Suddenly, I heard nothing, I only saw what I believed to be a man entering the burning home, and not just any man, but my father. For the thirty seconds that he was out of my sight, I don’t remember taking a single gasp of air, If Baba can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. That was one of the longest thirty seconds of my life. I finally breathed steady when I saw my father emerging, a true hero, from the home with a woman in his arms, and Tuan in hers. Once again I heard the shrieks of sorrow coming from the woman. I saw people rushing to her side, padding her with washcloths, asking her questions, but she did not speak, she did not react. She looked towards her home, now a massive bonfire, as it fell to the ground. Everyone looked at the home as it collapsed - the extravagant finale to the day’s events – but I only watched this woman with tears in her eyes, distress in her face, and her nude Tuan in her arms, as they both looked on at their life falling apart before their eyes.

Tuan sat emotionless, curious if anything, covered in the blood of his dead father who now lay among the ashes of the hut. That was the first of many times my father outshone the American “heroes” who trod on our soil.

And the last time my Baba had his chance to be a hero was that day forty-one years ago. The day that defines what the Vietnam War is for me. I got up at 5:15 in the morning and had begun my normal morning routine, and by 8:30 that same morning my world was flipped upside down. I returned home from fetching water at 6:30. Actually, this place was no longer the home I had known, it looked like a military base; a scene of a battle; a scene of defeat. A dozen Americans dressed in camouflage suits mingled in my front yard. The look in their eyes told me they had a mission – they weren’t here to protect me and my family, they weren’t here to assure us we should no longer fear the Vietcong; they were here for answers and I could’ve assured them they wouldn’t find what they were looking for here. As I approached, three soldiers were escorting my three younger siblings away from the hut and another handful had my two parents, along with several of their acquaintances, cornered against our home as they borated them with interrogations. My father shot me a glance that told me to not come near, but the glance was also glazed with a fear I had never seen in him before. At the same moment that I noticed there was a 42-caliber pistol to the back of my Ba’s head, there was a sudden tug at my arm from behind as I was whisked toward the motionless huddle that was my siblings. It was then that my Ba yelled my name, and attempted to say more, but was hushed by the cold barrel pressed against his temple.

If I thought I saw fear in my Ba’s expression, it wasn’t comparable to the fear in the faces of the huddled mass of my siblings. My youngest brother, Sinh, despite all his efforts to act like the “big boy” he bragged of being, bawled like a baby. I went to him and put my arms around him without saying a word. For every anxious moment that passed, I came nearer and nearer to losing my own composure. I desperately needed to know what was happening to my parents, but I couldn’t compose the courage to raise my head. In a moment, my father was rushing towards us in an impulsive attempt to be with his children and keep us safe, for reasons my Ma later recounted to me: The group of my parents and six of their friends were being accused of Vietcong affiliations; affiliations which they all, to the discontent of the American soldiers, denied. One soldier radioed in to his commander that he had eight civilians, “What do I do with ‘em?”. The response shook every nerve in my mother’s body, and instigated my father’s impetuous efforts to, once and for all, be a hero to his children, “Kill anything that moves”. That voice echoed in my mother’s head until the day she was layed to rest.

At the time, I didn’t understand why my father was trying to escape the barricade of soldiers that surrounded him. I only saw him coming for us, and at last, I felt safe. Like my Baba had saved so many others, he was now coming to save me, to save my brothers and sisters. But before he could make it ten strides, he was forced to the ground by a young boy who thought he had the authority to tell my Ba what to do simply because he held a gun in his hands. Sinh cried for his Baba, and I wish I could stop time right there. When my Ba heard his youngest cry out for him, it was the beginning of the end. He was determined to reach us, to console us, to have us console him. He pushed himself off the ground and made his way towards us again. I cringed when I saw the gun pointed at my father. I cringed, but I could not move, I could not speak. I suppose my Ba saw the expression in my face – or perhaps it was the lack of expression that put my Ba at unease- and it was then that he spoke his last words to me. One blast from the gun and my father was gone, but no gun, no American soldier, could demean my honor or my dignity.
I guess the soldiers considered their work done after they had stolen a life, so they took off, and they left my mother bawling over the body of her dead husband.

A couple years later, I heard of a Napalm attack in a nearby village. I saw children, badly injured, I saw their bodies lining the streets, I saw men, like my Ba, carrying them to safety. If my father had been alive, he would have been the one to come to the rescue of those children – I just know he would’ve. Heroes are the people like my father that save lives, not the people like the American soldiers who take them away.

Glory?

9000 men died on the beaches of Normandy by Jun 6^th all because some upper level officer decided that it would be better to sacrifice thousands of men rather than a few tanks, and the goddamn captains of the landing craft couldn’t find the section of beach they were supposed to hit. Hundreds of my friends, men I had trained with, and people I had known before the war succumbed to the bombardment of bullets that rained down from the heavily fortified bunkers just because some General didn’t want to risk the tanks in the rough water.

D-day wasn’t a great, we weren’t celebrating the fact that we had gained a foothold in France; we were mourning the loss of many comrades whose only crimes were to be in the wrong place at the worst time.

As my landing craft left the USS LST-73 we all sat in a nervous silence. Our ears still rang from the unrelenting bombardment that the Allied ships had emptied upon the beach, now it was our turn to go in. Bullets whizzed over our heads as our landing craft was grounded on the beach. The front came down and almost immediately half of the men with me were ripped apart by the German machine guns. The water ran red with blood as I heaved myself over the side of that metal deathtrap. Two more men climbed up onto the side and managed to heave their legs over when they were engulfed in a ball of fire. The landing craft was blown out of the water. Limbs flew in every direction and shrapnel cut into my back and legs, but I kept struggling towards that damned beach wishing all of this would just end. Bodies lay lifeless in the sand and just below the surface of the water. The wounded struggled up the beach as the tide slowly closed in on them. I managed to crawl my way behind some cover next to the only two guys who had managed to escape the landing craft unharmed. I watched as they traded off positions, one reloading as the other fired, and vice versa.

I later learned that John and Lewis had been the two men exchanging rounds with the Germans. I watched in horror as John lifted his head for one second only to have a round smash through his helmet, killing him instantly. Lewis kept firing at the Germans, unaware as to what had just happened to his best friend. Lewis finished his clip, took cover to reload, noticed John lying in the sand, and just stared in horror at what used to be Johns head. The bullet had entered through the back of John’s head and ripped through his face. A gaping hole now replaced what had once been John’s cheek.

Tears in his eyes, Lewis grabbed his rife and ran up the beach firing at the German positions. A machine gun round grazed his shoulder but he kept going, a mortar exploded no more that twenty feet ahead of him and shrapnel peppered his front, but he kept going. Lewis kept running up that beach, tears in his eyes, until another machine gun round tore through his kneecap. Lewis was a good man; I had known him during basic training. He didn’t deserve to die on that godforsaken beach and neither did John, but they did. Their lives were taken from them by an evil dictator whom we all wanted a shot at killing. Lewis fell to the ground and kept firing his BAR until the click of an empty magazine told him that his gun was empty. He then pulled his Colt out of his holster and tried to squeeze off a few rounds, but before he got the chance another round ripped open his chest. If only we had had those Shermans.

I never knew Lewis as well as John did. I never really got close to anyone in my company. Friends are a liability in war; they make you take unnecessary risks to protect them. Veterans had warned me of this, they told me not to make friends with anyone because eventually, no matter what you do, either you’re going to have to watch them die or their going to have to watch you die.

Home, sweet home?

Last year I came home from Iraq. The anticipation leading up to my departure was almost too much to handle. I was excited; excited to see my family, to eat real food, and to just sit around my house. But, I was also scared. I didn’t know if everything with my wife would be the same, or if my old friends would treat me differently. My worst fear, though, was of the people that were not only against the way, but also against the soldiers. I understood the need for peace in our world, trust me, I was in Iraq and I know how badly we need it. Yet, I didn’t understand why people hated me. Yes, I fought and killed people in a war over a pointless cause, but I didn’t ask to go into this war. Being a soldier means you want to protect your country, when necessary.

Despite my worries, when I got on the plane in Kuwait all I felt was happiness.I arrived in New York, but since it wasn’t my final destination no one was waiting for me. I got on my next plane for Philadelphia with palms sweating. It was almost time to see my family live in flesh. I could soon hug my son, and kiss my mother. I could soon hold my wife's hand for as long as I felt like.

As I sat down in my seat the guy next to me turned and stared at my uniform. He asked me where I was coming from.

“Iraq, I just came back.” He looked away and then pushed the call button above his head.

I was confused. No response? Of course I didn’t expect him to hug me, but from all those books I read on World War II as a child, I expected a little something. In those books the people would hug the men coming back from war. There would be parades and parties. Everyone would cheer and laugh and cry. This, though, just felt tense.

"Excuse me, did one of you two call for me?” asked the flight attendant.

“Yeah. I did. Is there any way you could move my seat? I cannot sit next to a murderer.”I looked up at the man in shock. A murderer? I didn’t even know how to respond.

“Um, well I could check,” the flight attendant said in a hurried voice. She looked stunned, and confused. Just the way I felt.The man next to me wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Not out of embarrassment, but out of disgust. I could tell he felt grossed out and really mad just being in my presence. I didn’t even feel like making an effort with him. All I felt was a ruined homecoming. I felt like this day, the one that I had been looking forward to since I left home, was being soiled. Soiled by an un grateful man. How typical that I would meet one of these people on my way home.

So, the flight attendant returned to our seats and told the man that the captain said he would not be able to switch seats unless he found someone who was willing.

“Of course,” she added, “You’ll have to do that without disturbing the people around you.”

Well, he’s already done that. He disturbed me into thinking that only bad things will happen on my return. So, now instead of feeling the excitement, I felt nauseous.

As we pulled into the gate my nausea increased. What if the people waiting were booing me? What if my family felt ashamed? I hoped my son didn’t get ridiculed in school.

The fasten seat belt sign turned off and everyone stood up. The man next to me practically ran out of his seat. Slowly, I walked towards the exit and up the ramp. As I turned the corner into the air port I saw signs. Tons of signs. There were also balloons and smiling faces. There were tears. There was laughter. When my wife saw me she dropped the welcome home sign she was holding and ran straight into my arms. At that point in time I realized that war isn’t about putting people down, but raising people up. Even if many in our country don't understand that, it is true. We shouldn’t be protesting people who cannot help what they are doing. Instead we should praise them because they have risked their lives for trying to make this world a better place. Even if it is not working. So, in the end I got my World War II homecoming, and a new life lesson to go with it.

World War II Propaganda

Dear Diary,
Danny left today. Mommy said that he will be back soon but I am going to miss him so much. I can’t believe that my oldest brother is actually going to war. I know that he will make my family and America proud but I’m still a little nervous. He may be big but he is only 18. I like it when he is at home. He is always there for me and I hope that I can be there for him to keep him safe while he is away. Even though he is miles and miles away fighting, I know that I can help him come home safely and win the war while I am here in Chicago. It may seem like only a little bit, but I know that everything that I do will help him. I went to the bank and bought some war bonds with Mommy. She said that this will help keep Danny safe and that put a big smile on my face. Next time Mommy or Daddy goes to buy war bonds, I am going to give them some of my money, or maybe I could buy a war stamp!
Mary

Dear Diary,
I made a decision. When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurse! I know that being a nurse can help save all of the men fighting to keep our country free from the Nazis and the Japanese. I’ve already started practicing! I bandage up all of my friends cuts and scrapes and I even know how to feel for a temperature with my hand! I’m not that great yet, but I’m learning. Being a nurse would be the best thing ever! It would be so much fun keeping America safe and sound and helping the boys who got hurt in battle. I know that when I write to Danny to tell him that I’m going to be a nurse, he will be so glad. Hopefully he’ll get the next letter I send him.
Mary

Dear Diary,
Remember how I said that I was going to be a nurse when I grow up? Well, I’m going to be a WOW too! Isn’t that so grand! I’ll be a nurse some of the time and I’ll be a nurse some of the time! I know that it seems a little early for me to be planning the rest of my life, I know I’m only 8 but, I know my country needs me! Being a WOW seems like so much fun and I would be helping all of the boys fighting, they will all be so proud of me over there. When I tell Danny in my next letter, he’ll be so happy.
Mary

Dear Diary,
Mommy and I today started planting our victory garden. Almost everybody in the neighborhood have victory gardens. They are so fun to plant and to work with and it is going to help Danny and all of the boys fighting get more food. I am so happy! My family is working so hard to make sure that America keeps the freedom for everyone!

Mary

Dear Diary,
Working on the victory garden is hard. It is a lot of work but I am glad to do it. Whenever I get tired or think about how I wish Mommy and I could just go to the grocery store to buy our food, I think about Danny and all of the other soldiers fighting for me. Mommy said that once all of the food grows, we are going to can and jar them and save them for the winter which will help all of our soldiers. I know that my work on the victory garden is helping to bring home our American boys home and win the war. I know how tired I am but I cannot even imagine how tired Danny must be. I hope he is alright. I miss him.
Mary

Dear Diary,
Daddy and I went out today and bought more war bonds. I even bought a war stamp this time! I cannot wait to show all of my friends at school my war stamp. They will all be so jealous. I bought the war stamp with my own money! I paid for it and everything. I love buying war stamps and bonds, it helps America. Mommy and Daddy say that Danny will still not be home for a while. I know that he is over in Europe fighting for America but I still miss him. That’s why I buy the war bonds. I am just so happy that we have a blue star on our front window.
Mary

Dear Diary,
Daddy joined a car sharing club today! Isn't that wonderful! He is helping Danny and all of his friends to win the war! By sharing cars and carpooling, America can save lots of rubber and other supplies that will go to help make new weapons for the boys fighting. Daddy says that sharing the car, buying stamps and bonds, and growing the victory garden will help us win the war against the Japanese and the Nazis. He says that by joining a car sharing club, he is protecting Danny from Hitler. When I get my own car, I'm going to join a car sharing club!

Mary

Dear Diary,

My best friend's name is Katie. She told me that her brother John just left for the war today. I told her not to be sad. I told her that her brother is keeping everybody in America safe from Japan and the Nazis and that she should be proud! I told her that she should buy war stamps and grow a victory garden to help bring him home safe and sound. He's going to Asia not like Danny who is in Europe right now. I hear that it is getting pretty hard over there but that if we keep on working over here in America, we can win the war! Kaite and I are going to be nurses and WOWs together when we grow up! I'm so excited!

Mary

Dear Diary,

I got a letter from Danny today! A lot of the stuff that he wrote is crossed out with a black marker but I am just so happy that I got a letter. He said that he is healthy and has made a lot of friends. He said that he misses me an Mommy and Daddy a lot and wants to come home. He said that his tour is almost over and should be home soon! I'm so happy! He said that he just has to stay a little while longer to make sure that the everyone is safe from the Nazis. I know that he is working hard and I am so proud of him! I'm going to do my part to save everyone from the Nazis by buying war stamps! God Bless America!

Mary

World War 2: A Liberation Story

The Holocaust

Stormtroopers forced all members of Warsaw Ghetto
to move with their arms in the air during the uprising ----->

The Holocaust is used to describe the genocide of about 6 million European Jews during World War II, but the total number of deaths during the Holocaust are estimated to be between 9- 11 million. The Warsaw Ghetto was created on October 16, 1940. Nazi Germany controlled Poland’s capital, Warsaw and created the largest Jewish ghetto. At the time of its creation The Warsaw Ghetto had an estimated 440,000 people, estimates of over 100,000 of the Ghetto’s residents died of disease or starvation. Unknowingly to members of Warsaw ghetto Jewish residents began to be moved to concentration camps. In the end of 1942 members of the Ghetto realized that they were apart of an extermination process and began to rebel.
January 18, 1943 marked the first armed rebellion by the Jewish community against the Germans. The Jewish Military Union and the Jewish Combat Organization took control of the ghetto. These fighters were armed with mostly pistols and revolvers, but had very little ammunition. Polish Resistance units tried to smuggle ammunition to the struggling Jewish forces and fought German units near the Ghetto walls. April 29, 1943 marked a turning point for the Nazi army, the rebel Jewish Military Union lost the last of its leaders. An estimated 13,000 Jewish residents were killed during the uprising and the remaining members of the ghetto were moved to concentration and extermination camps.
Life in a concentration camp is nearly indescribable. Each prisoner had few accommodations and most of their personal affects were taken from them. A Jewish survivor of Majdanek concentration camp in Poland recounted an average day. At 3 a.m. everyone would get up and make their beds so that

Auschwitz warehouse filled
with confiscated clothing---->

it looks like a matchbox. They would then immediately leave the barracks and stand outside trembling, groups of ten or twenty people huddled together for warmth. At 5 a.m. they would get half a liter of black, bitter coffee. After a headcount many people would leave for work. Some built railroad tracks and other built a road. The SS men beat prisoners mercilessly for no reason. At noon there was a break for a meal, half a liter of soup was given to the prisoners, yet no one was allowed to use spoons. They

<----Women sleeping in an Auschwitz barracks

were forced to drink the soup out of the bowl, or lick it like dogs. 1 p.m. until 6 p.m. was work. Some days lunch was given with the evening meal, by then it was sour and cold. After work prisoners would again line up for a head count. They were often left in line for an hour or two while German officers publicly punished prisoners. The punished prisoners were stripped naked, laid on benched, and whipped with 25 to 50 lashes. Every prisoner was forced to watch the brutal beatings and listen to their cries.
Auschwitz concentration camp was the largest Nazi Germany concentration camp. Auschwitz contained three main camps: Auschwitz I, II, and III. Rudolf Hoss, camp commandant testified at the Nuremberg Trials that up to 2.5 million people died at Auschwitz, but current calculations estimate that 1.1 to 1.6 million died, ninety percent of whom were Jewish. Auschwitz I was the original concentration camp and was the site of an estimated 70,000 deaths. Auschwitz II was the extermination camp where roughly 950,000 Jewish and 75,000 Polish people were killed. Auschwitz III was the labor camp. Allied forces first heard of these mass killings in April of 1943, but quickly claimed that it was an exaggeration. Allied forces were finally convinced by mid 1944 by Rudolf Vrba and Alfred Wetzler, two escapees from Auschwitz. In January of 1945 German SS blew up the gas chambers in Auschwitz II. January 17^th 1945 Nazis began to evacuate Auschwitz, leaving behind roughly 7,500 prisoners. The Soviet Union liberated these 7,500 prisoners on January 27^th 1945.

Majdanek was the first major camp discovered by the Soviet Army on July 23, 1944. Auschwitz was liberated by the Soviets on January 27^th, 1945. The United States liberated Buchenwald on April 11^th. Dachau was liberated by the United States on April 29^th. Buchenwald was built by the prisoners during the summer of 1937. Thousands of workers were murdered by work, torture, beatings or starvation.

<----Auchwitz prisoners seeing their liberators

Starving prisoners at Mauthausen liberated on May 5, 1945--->

Thousands of inmates were murdered in the infirmary by lethal injection. An underground organization was created in Buchenwald. The camp was evacuated on April 8^th 1945; the remaining inmates seized control of the camp using guns they had collected since 1942. The US 6^th Armored Division, the US Third Army liberated the remaining members of Buchenwald on April 11^th. Over 1000 prisoners were liberated. liberated these 7,500 prisoners on January 27th.

<----American soldiers lead newly liberated survivors of Buchenwald Liberation came too late for six million European Jews, who lost their lives to Socialist Nazi Party.

<---Dwight Eisenhower and General Omar Bradley inspecting a grave at a concentration camp

Proud to be an American?

Hello, my name is Amy, am a 19 year old, average American girl and I am here to tell you my war story. Out of my 19 years living I have spent 13 years of my life saying the pledge of allegiance every morning and singing “Star Spangled Banner” every Fourth of July. I guess one would say I was proud to be an American. I was proud to be a citizen of a country that promoted happiness, justice, democracy, and foremost, freedom for all. That’s why America fought in wars, to help those in need, serve justice, spread democracy, and promote freedom. When the Iraq war started in 2003 I didn’t think this one was any different. As President Bush declared war against Iraq he only confirmed my beliefs. This war was a war, the war, against terrorism. The U.S. was fighting against people who used fear and death to get desired results. It was America’s responsibility to once again come to the rescue and help people in dire need.
To win this war against terrorism we needed to stop Al Qaeda and capture the evil dictator Suddam Hussein. We also had to help the Iraqi citizens gain the human rights they rightfully deserved. Suddam Hussein had been a malevolent dictator, depriving his people of their natural rights and using torture on a regular basis. He was a threat to the entire civilized world not only because of his beliefs and practices, but I was also told that he had weapons of mass destruction. I was told this by my president, George Bush, a man who was suppose to think for the greater good of man kind and lead us, a man I trusted. I had been convinced that the Iraqi War was a fight to save lives. Whether it be the lives of innocent Iraqis, Americans, or potential victims of mass destruction, we were protecting them by destroying a prevalent source of evil in our world. Simply, we were the good guys and they were the bad guys.
I was never given a reason to question my reasoning. Actually, I was given every reason to continue my beliefs. During my sporadic encounters with news channels I would see the horror and violence in Iraq but that was only expected from combat. Paired with these pictures I would see proud soldiers saluting the American flag. Their pride gave me faith. If they were willing to give their lives for this cause than why would I ever doubt its legitimacy? The television would flicker with pictures of U.S. marines carrying wounded civilians, capturing suicide bombers, and Iraqi citizens thanking the soldiers for their fortitude. These men and woman were making the ultimate sacrifice; they were risking their own lives for others. They were defending the American name by fighting for human rights and freedom, they were truly heroes. I will never forget the day though when my feelings took a complete 360, my pride turned to disgust. For what I saw defied every belief I had been taught. It was a chilly spring morning when I was getting ready for school and my senses were quickly distracted from my cereal to the television. I heard phrases that were foreign to me, words that I had never heard paired together, like “American”, “torture”, “Iraq”, and “prisoner”. I couldn't put meaning to these phrases though; I quickly cocked my head and saw the giant picture on my 36” TV screen that will haunt me forever. It was a young American soldier holding a beaten Iraqi prisoner on a leash, like an animal. This photo was unlike any picture I had ever seen before on the news. This American wasn’t displaying pride and justice. This was a picture of serious misconduct and loss of moral values. Yet another picture flashed across the screen. This one was of a U.S. Soldier punching bound Iraqi prisoners. It was then I had to rush out of the house to go to school. I was left so confused. Those two pictures and several words completely obliterated all sense of leadership I felt we had in Iraq. I needed to know more.
That night my wish came true. The story of Abu Ghraib was all over the television, plastered across every headline. These pictures were of a U.S. soldiers stationed in Abu Ghraib prison and had been using the tactic of torture in interrogations. Americans were suppose to be helping the Iraqi and be fighting for their freedom, yet there they were, dragging beaten men, punching bound prisoners, and laughing at cruel torture.

I had lost hope in our troops; but I knew that our government would immediately punish this behavior and inhumane conduct.
I was only met with more disappointment though. During further inquiries on the event my trust turned to distain. I found that not only were the U.S. soldiers to blame but also the U.S. government, especially Bush and vice president Cheney. Torture had been outlawed in war with the Geneva Conventions, which was created to protect civilians and prisoners, but in 2002 Bush decided the Geneva Conventions wouldn’t apply to the Iraq War because Iraq had not signed it. Also in 2002, Donald Rumsfeld approves a new set of interrogation techniques for the military. These new tactics were the harshest ever; his list included all tactics except death and loss of bodily function, for those are considered torture. This created a permissible environment for the military, with these limitless limitations and basically no rules of engagement, Soldiers were allowed to do what needed to get results. They would use deadly dogs during interrogations, often when the prisoners were indeed innocent. They also kept them in stress positions for hours, even days at end. They would be handcuffed, beaten, stripped of all clothing, and then humiliated. Often they would provoke them with the idea of electrocution to get information. This was a Brazilian method adopted by the US, where a prisoner stands in a stress position hooked up to fake wires. At Abu Ghraib the torturing got out of hand. Unrecorded detainees were kept and several died from abuse. Pictures of badly beaten prisoners are proof that the torture tactic went to far. But in the soldier kind set his torture was victory, their own personal war. It is their way to fight against who they believe to be the enemy. This victory brings pleasure. This disgusting pleasure is noted in pictures of U.S. soldiers smiling over dead, beaten prisoners. Torture is simply inhumane and the fact that our government allows it is completely contradictory to what America stand for.

The soldier’s actions at Abu Ghraib were the debasement of everything Americans pride themselves on. The photos of the true U.S. soldiers don’t portray the same image Americans have of the Iraq War. The media and government say this is a war to help those in need and stop evil people, but the true U.S. soldiers are as uncivilized and unlawful as the terrorists themselves. After learning about the true war in Iraq I have lost pride and trust in my country. Without my personal inquisition I would have led my life blind to the truth. We are supposed to be fighting a war against terrorists but there is now a blur between the U.S. soldiers and the terrorists. If a terrorist is someone who uses fear and violence to get desired results than what would you call the soldiers at Abu Ghraib? America is involved in a war on terrorism but I believe people need to take a step back and ask who the terrorists are. The true war story of America is not one of pride and freedom, but of dishonor and hypocrisy.