War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele


November 11th
Kandahar Air Field

the day breaks cold and clear. yellow birds in trees coated in white dust, so white, everything coated it looks like a fresh morning in Canada after a light snowfall. there is something oddly Christmasish in this dusting of everything. a preciousness. even in the midst of war, of helicopters, Hercs, fighter jets.

I am garrisoned. thousands of soldiers. trucks. sea can buildings. blast walls. radio towers. in the distance the blue mountain ranges. everyone purposeful. suntanned. serious. none of the laughter of Ex.

and yesterday’s flight from the staging base. sombre. in the hold with me, 14 next-of-kin coming to A’stan. a mother’s words, “the army brought his body home, now I’m coming to bring HIM home”.

one of the mothers walked the camino last year. I saw her camino t-shirt and told her I had walked the 850 km road myself. she said, “I walked it for him. I am his eyes now. I walked and talked to him.” on the camino she found she could laugh again. her grief is open and brilliant. white. it coats everything. like the dust of Afghanistan. but still she has the courage to walk on.

ultreia mothers, fathers, widows, brothers, sisters…



1 Comment (Closed)

N. Wilson

Small World.

Nov 11 2009 · 15:02

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled Remember. It was posted here on November 11, 2009.


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