War coloured glasses

The last several months have been seeped with attempts to win fear.

First there was the incident in Quebec where military members were run down in their own country and one lost his life.  Scary and heartbreaking, but seemed like a one-off incident.  It was a little easier to breath after that one because maybe, maybe that coward behind his car was the only one.

Then there was the shooting in Ottawa.  Another soldier, this time gunned down by a madman who rushed into our Parliament.  The country took notice.  It was on everyone’s mind, everyone lips. 

It was around that time I was sending Dh on his 4th deployment.  Everything was standing still.  The memories of sending him to Afghanistan after 9/11 started to creep back in, reminding me of the time when the reasons seemed more obvious than they have become.  After the years where deployments have started to blend together (“wait, was that during your 2nd tour or your 3rd?“), years where the quiet complacency that can only be found in countries like ours where war and terror are far removed from our normal, clouded the resolve that had once been clear.

When I see the news and hear the coffee shop/break room chatter, I want it to feel like it used to.  Removed.  That while devastating to some, not life altering to me.  Selfishly, so selfishly, I want to be one of those people in line at Starbucks who analyze every political talking point of these events with the ease of those who have never watched a bus pull away.  I want to be one of those college students on the train who theorize conspiracies and retaliations with the objectivity of someone who has never woken up to a phone call and believed it was the the one. 

I want to go back to when the news was something that could be watched as though I had never seen my heart dress in cadpat and sling a rifle. 

But I can’t.  I can’t and that’s okay.  It’s okay because I live in a safe place where suicide bombings are not on my mind when I pick up groceries and I don’t fear my children will be recruited by extremists.  My life is not regularly in danger just by simply walking my street or attending my church.  I registered my daughter for school same as my sons and without a second thought.  When Monster runs to a police officer I’m not concerned the officer might be owned by the bad guys.  Though I may agree or disagree with the politics of my government I trust them not to try to kill my family or strip me of my basic human rights.  I have never woken in the morning to my neighbours house gone or been kept awake by the sound of rockets or gunfire. 

My life is so easy and yet my worldview is tinged.

The devastation in France, the slaughter in Nigeria, the near daily news reports of someone, somewhere far away or closer to home doing their best to break us and instill panic. It pierces my heart and occupies my thoughts not only for it’s terrifying brutality and loss but for it’s implications.

Will it be the one?

When this tour of duty is over, which event will mean another packed bag, another see you later?  Is this it?  Will the consequence of this bring war through command to my home and off into the night?

We all see terror through our own eyes.

Some see it first hand, and their eyes hold the immense courage and strength it takes to get up when they are pushed down.

Some see it through a connection, their ethnicity or their religion or their employment or their nationality that will cause them to relate to what’s taken place, to feel a kinship with the victims or an intense desire to disassociate from the perpetrators. 

And there are those like me, and we see terror on foreign soil through the sound of the goodbyes on our lips.

I don’t feel like speculating or sharing on facebook, I don’t feel like reading it in my twitter feed and I hate that social media means I see all your opinions on it all because I liked each one of you more before that happened. 

Even though my head knows better than to live so selfishly, my heart will scream every time ‘you won’t have to say goodbye, will you?‘ 

So I turtle.  I turtle when the news hits because I don’t want to know how you think or what you expect or who you blame.

I just want to hide in that place that reminds me that it’s not about me.  That place that adjusts my heart back to where it cares about the world and not just my family.  That less defensive, less scared, less reactive place so when I come back out and open my mouth it will be only to offer condolences without fear.

Over a decade of war as a military family has left me self centered, wearing war coloured glasses through which I see every headline and news alert. 

Slowly, slowly I am teaching my heart that there is more to the story than our goodbyes. 

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