Two young girl seen at the destroyed city of Mosul, Iraq. (Photo: Afshin Ismaeli/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images)
War Will Continue Until We Stop It
The bombs were different: American not Russian. Thirty years on, as we watch another wrecking, another invasion, another horror, do we choose to remember or do we choose to forget?
The invasion ended in February, and soon after, I visited what had been a gleaming city. Light still glinted off towering office buildings, six lane highways still sped international traffic in and out. Public parks offered shade and modern art and manicured gardens where older women walked with children and bought ice cream and pastries from roadside carts.
A high school sophomore invited me to dinner with her family in a tree-lined neighborhood a short distance from my hotel by bus. Their house overlooked the city. She described the sparkling of the commercial center at night. In the days before the war, she'd held her sweet sixteen party in a hotel ballroom downtown. She still had the cream-colored dress.
The young woman's English was perfect. She adored Shakespeare. She had hoped to apply to study in Oxford. But that was before the war.
Several of the girl's friends had studied abroad, as had the doctor I'd met earlier that day. White coat, silvering hair at the temples, he had not only studied but taught in most of the capitals in Europe. A pediatric heart surgeon, his work in his state-of-the-art hospital had saved patients from across the region.
War wrecked that modern city, bombed its water plants, and targeted its grid. "Overnight, our modern lives were over," said the girl.
No more Shakespeare. No more pediatrics. The celebrated heart surgeon's time was now devoted to keeping kids in incubators warm when the electricity shut off.
The girl's name could have been Maria or Kateryna or Anastasia. It was Manar.
Not Ukrainian but Iraqi, she was born in Baghdad, not Kyiv. Manar was just as modern, outward looking and innocent--and her life was just as wrecked--as the Marias whose lives are being wrecked right now.
The bombs were different: American not Russian. Thirty years on, as we watch another wrecking, another invasion, another horror, do we choose to remember or do we choose to forget?
Prison abolitionist Mariame Kaba says of struggle, "We do this 'til we free us." Likewise, it seems to me, war is 'til we stop it. We need to stop it.
You can watch my show every week on Public Television or hear the radio program on community radio stations across the country. Get information, and subscribe to the free podcast at lauraflanders.org.
We are at a crossroads
This country and this world are at a monumental crossroads. In a few short weeks, US voters will have an opportunity to beat back the forces of fascism and confront the billionaires who are rigging the economy, our media system, and our democracy, making it increasingly impossible for ordinary people to get by. We’re not just talking about the election. We’re talking about what must be done once these fascist elements are vanquished from power. We need a bolder set of solutions than what either major party has so far been willing to offer and a working-class movement ready to fight like hell for it. Trump didn't emerge from nowhere. The conditions that fueled MAGA authoritarianism were created by decades of radical neoliberal economic policies and a corrupt political system dominated by corporate interests. They slashed taxes on the super-rich, promising that the benefits would trickle down. They said giveaways to the corporate titans would make life more affordable for the rest of us. It was all bullshit. And when a bitter, betrayed populace searches for someone to blame, right-wing demagogues have little trouble finding scapegoats. People know when they're being lied to, but you won't hear any of this from the corporate media. Only independent journalism—powered and funded by people who believe in building a better world—can deliver truly trustworthy daily news. Our Fall Campaign is underway, and we need your help. To power our newsroom through the rest of the year, we need to raise $125,000 by midnight on October 31. So if you share our vision, please contribute whatever you can to sustain our work. |
The invasion ended in February, and soon after, I visited what had been a gleaming city. Light still glinted off towering office buildings, six lane highways still sped international traffic in and out. Public parks offered shade and modern art and manicured gardens where older women walked with children and bought ice cream and pastries from roadside carts.
A high school sophomore invited me to dinner with her family in a tree-lined neighborhood a short distance from my hotel by bus. Their house overlooked the city. She described the sparkling of the commercial center at night. In the days before the war, she'd held her sweet sixteen party in a hotel ballroom downtown. She still had the cream-colored dress.
The young woman's English was perfect. She adored Shakespeare. She had hoped to apply to study in Oxford. But that was before the war.
Several of the girl's friends had studied abroad, as had the doctor I'd met earlier that day. White coat, silvering hair at the temples, he had not only studied but taught in most of the capitals in Europe. A pediatric heart surgeon, his work in his state-of-the-art hospital had saved patients from across the region.
War wrecked that modern city, bombed its water plants, and targeted its grid. "Overnight, our modern lives were over," said the girl.
No more Shakespeare. No more pediatrics. The celebrated heart surgeon's time was now devoted to keeping kids in incubators warm when the electricity shut off.
The girl's name could have been Maria or Kateryna or Anastasia. It was Manar.
Not Ukrainian but Iraqi, she was born in Baghdad, not Kyiv. Manar was just as modern, outward looking and innocent--and her life was just as wrecked--as the Marias whose lives are being wrecked right now.
The bombs were different: American not Russian. Thirty years on, as we watch another wrecking, another invasion, another horror, do we choose to remember or do we choose to forget?
Prison abolitionist Mariame Kaba says of struggle, "We do this 'til we free us." Likewise, it seems to me, war is 'til we stop it. We need to stop it.
You can watch my show every week on Public Television or hear the radio program on community radio stations across the country. Get information, and subscribe to the free podcast at lauraflanders.org.
The invasion ended in February, and soon after, I visited what had been a gleaming city. Light still glinted off towering office buildings, six lane highways still sped international traffic in and out. Public parks offered shade and modern art and manicured gardens where older women walked with children and bought ice cream and pastries from roadside carts.
A high school sophomore invited me to dinner with her family in a tree-lined neighborhood a short distance from my hotel by bus. Their house overlooked the city. She described the sparkling of the commercial center at night. In the days before the war, she'd held her sweet sixteen party in a hotel ballroom downtown. She still had the cream-colored dress.
The young woman's English was perfect. She adored Shakespeare. She had hoped to apply to study in Oxford. But that was before the war.
Several of the girl's friends had studied abroad, as had the doctor I'd met earlier that day. White coat, silvering hair at the temples, he had not only studied but taught in most of the capitals in Europe. A pediatric heart surgeon, his work in his state-of-the-art hospital had saved patients from across the region.
War wrecked that modern city, bombed its water plants, and targeted its grid. "Overnight, our modern lives were over," said the girl.
No more Shakespeare. No more pediatrics. The celebrated heart surgeon's time was now devoted to keeping kids in incubators warm when the electricity shut off.
The girl's name could have been Maria or Kateryna or Anastasia. It was Manar.
Not Ukrainian but Iraqi, she was born in Baghdad, not Kyiv. Manar was just as modern, outward looking and innocent--and her life was just as wrecked--as the Marias whose lives are being wrecked right now.
The bombs were different: American not Russian. Thirty years on, as we watch another wrecking, another invasion, another horror, do we choose to remember or do we choose to forget?
Prison abolitionist Mariame Kaba says of struggle, "We do this 'til we free us." Likewise, it seems to me, war is 'til we stop it. We need to stop it.
You can watch my show every week on Public Television or hear the radio program on community radio stations across the country. Get information, and subscribe to the free podcast at lauraflanders.org.