On Trump, His Supporters and Nationalism

Here is your country. Cherish these national wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children’s children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches or its romance.
~Theodore Roosevelt
Nationalism – that word is getting thrown around a lot recently. Trump is a nationalist, isolationist. These words are being used without definition or anecdote, they’re being flung around as if every person should know what they mean. But in my experience, even if you know what nationalism means, you may not know what it breeds.
My first up-close look at nationalism took place when I was 19 years old. At the time, I was dating a survivor of the genocide which occurred at Srebrenica, Bosnia. Up until then, I had only understood nationalism to be a bold word underlined in AP European history textbooks. It was a word I’d put on one side of a study card with its definition on the back. It was a word that I recognized without understanding.
Nationalism: Loyalty and devotion to a nation; especially: a sense of national consciousness exalting one nation above all others and placing primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests as opposed to those of other nations or supranational groups.
Yes, I knew what it meant, but during my 11-month relationship with a Bosnian national here on a war-refugee VISA, I began to understand nationalism in a way that I never had before.
On this man’s closet door hung a scarf, blue and yellow, the colors of the Bosnian flag with white words “I Krv Svoju za Bosnu Moju”. My Blood for My Bosnia. Those words resonated with me. To me, they were beautiful. They also made me feel deeply lonely, like I was a child without a country. Never had I felt such an intense emotion for my own homeland, not even in the wake of 9/11. But then again, never had I been forced to endure a war on my own soil.
And it’s true, nationalism is beautiful, but with all beautiful things, it is also dangerous. As the months passed, “my” Bosnia began to take shape for me, and it was a confusing mess. The more I learned about the fall of the former Yugoslavia and the ensuing Balkan Wars, the less I seemed to understand. How could someone born in Bosnia, to Bosnian parents, who happened to be Catholic see him or herself as Croatian? Was he or she not simply a Catholic Bosnian? How could it be possible for a tiny nation, smaller than West Virginia, to divide itself into thirds? How could people wake up one day and all of a sudden see their neighbors as the enemy?
I was fortunate. I grew up in a post-9/11 America that was full to the brim with patriots, but I had never been a part of a country wrapped up in nationalistic fervor. I had been raised in a country that valued the principles of immigration and assimilation. I was surrounded by African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, Irish-Americans, Italian-Americans. These people, whether generations removed from their ancestors or freshly arrived, retained their cultural heritage while managing to become embedded in the American fabric. Put simply, I grew up in a nation that had no “other”. So to me, seeing nationalism in practice made no sense.
But what seemed so confusing to me then makes sense to me now. Then, I had not experienced nationalism in practice, I had taken my unique American experience for granted. Now, in a time when patriotism is giving way to nationalism, my eyes are opening. The thing that I once found to be so beautiful is also oddly divisive, because somehow, to have that awe-inspiring sense of self that nationalism requires, one also has to be stripped of any other identity.
To perform such a cleanse, we must first define what self we will rally behind. Donald Trump has done this for us. He has gone about systematically defining what it “means” to be American for the past year. What it means is to be a white, Protestant, straight, able-bodied male or subservient female.
In creating this identity, Donald Trump has not only set us back decades, but he has also given strength to all those who feel disenfranchised. He’s created a home for people who feel like I once felt, like a lost child. He is preying on a feeling of isolation that is created for those of us who don’t define ourselves as anything other than American. He is the devil disguised as Peter Pan, ready to lead the lost boys home. Except, like the true Peter Pan, the one who existed in the dark mind of J.M. Barrie, this Peter will make sure to slaughter all those children who should desire to grow up and grow apart from their hero.
Do not doubt for one second that this is in fact what is happening here.
What I once found to be so beautiful, has turned ugly. What the Trump phenomenon has led me to understand is that feeling like a child with no country is vastly superior to feeling like a child with a country gone mad. Because in Trump’s America, you must be an American’s American. You must bleed red, white and blue and scream One Nation Under God at the top of your lungs. To be anything else is to be un-American and thus “other” and “other” is dangerous to the nationalist ideal and thus must be destroyed. #Merica is more than a hashtag to be laughed at, and we should all be aware of this now. The Heartland of America feels that their country has been hijacked by the other, and they will do anything to get it back.
It is our responsibility as a society to make sure that this dark Peter does not get his hands on the lost boys of our country. It is our responsibility not to divide further, but to unite. We must reach across the aisle and give our neighbors a boost up. And the disenfranchised must try to remember that no matter how lost they feel, they have been, and will always be, Americans. No one can take that from them and it therefore does not need to be protected.
We don’t need Donald Trump to protect us. We are many things, but first and foremost, we are Americans, and we are strong.
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Naming the Bones

In Bosnia, I remember, they spoke about a holocaust. I went to Bosnia to see. I felt, if it is, I must move heaven and earth.

~Elie Wiesel

October 21, 2014

When I was in school studying creative writing at the University of North Carolina, my obsession with the Bosnian War sprang back to life. I wrote half a dozen short stories based on accounts that I’d read and heard. I spent dozens of hours in the massive Davis Library, researching the war. I wrote down quotes and cites and made notes in my neat, small handwriting which I filed away in a tabbed three ring binder. Some of the tabs were names: “Milosevic”; “Mladic”; “Tito.” Some of the tabs were places: “Srebrenica”; “Sarajevo”; “Tuzla”. And some of the tabs were atrocities: “Rape camps”; “Siege of Sarajevo”; “Genocide at Srebrenica.”

The library research was much different than it had been when I was eight. The internet made things easier, but harder too. The amount of information we can take in quickly using the internet makes it easier to become scarred. I watched videos. In the videos were Muslim men wearing ragged, dirty clothing, lined up next to one another. And Serb soldiers walked up and down the line and shot them all in the head. One by one they fell into graves they’d dug for themselves.

Nightmares, which I’ve always been plagued with, got worse. I would wake in the middle of the night screaming and sweating, grasping at my chest, sure that I’d just been shot. I was starting to experience symptoms of post traumatic stress from a war which I’d never lived through. But I pushed on, because I wanted to tell these stories and because I felt weak and guilty. I shouldn’t be affected like this, it wasn’t my war. I was just a passerby. These weren’t my horrors to suffer from. I was just telling the story. Or trying to.

The following is one of the many stories that would follow. It was written after I’d graduated college. It was the first story I’d written about Bosnia since I graduated. When I wrote it, I thought I’d put my pen down. I thought I was done writing about war, especially this war, but as it turns out, I’m never really done.

July 9, 2012

I’m naming them now, the bones, that is. I didn’t do that before, but now I think I hear them speaking to me.

This one over here, this is Fatima. We have her femur and a couple broken pelvis bones. I estimate she was about 12 when she was killed. She suffered trauma to her pelvic region, suggesting a violent rape. Because we don’t have her skull, we don’t have dental records to identify her. We’ll have to send some DNA from the bones to the lab, which could take months, maybe years, maybe forever. For now, I call her Fatima and dust the dirt off.

This is my sixteenth summer in Bosnia. Each year I tell myself I won’t go back, that I have done enough, but there are still more bones being found, so every year, after the snow and the ice has melted in the hills, I get on a plane in Philadelphia and fly to Sarajevo, to take a bus to Tuzla to dig through the bones found around Srebrenica.

I’m working on Amir now. He was most likely in his mid to late thirties. He’s unusual because we have almost a complete skeleton and some shreds of clothing. I am proud of Amir. He will be identified quickly as long as he still has family coming here, looking for him, as long as he still has family at all. When I have him cleaned up, we will put an identification number on a yellow piece of cardstock. My assistant will write it in his big, blocky lettering and carefully attach it to the body bag. When he is done, he will create another identical tag, and we will lay out the scraps of clothing along with the Swiss army knife, the silver chain from a pocket watch, and the lighter we found around Amir. My assistant will put the tag on the top of the blanket we assemble the items on. The blanket will be in a room the size of an auditorium, and the families of the missing will walk up and down the aisles of shreds of clothing and items and tags, searching for something that sparks a memory from nearly two decades ago.

Amir was a smoker, I can tell by the state of his teeth. If we had found him sooner, we may have been able to find the brand of cigarettes he smoked, which would have led his family to him quicker. But the years have worn away the paper cartons, taking the fibers back into the earth and leaving the bones behind.

One day, the bones are going to disappear like that paper, and I will never have to come to Bosnia again. But if the bones disappear before I am done, that means I have failed, so I force myself to work faster, longer, harder. Every year there are still more bones found, but less people to tend to them. The unidentified line the catacombs of Tuzla, waiting.

The site that has brought me to Bosnia this year was found like many others. A Serbian man, who was a boy then, came to us, no longer able to bear the guilt, and led us to The Place. The Place was not much different in appearance than many places in Bosnia. It was forested and green, the trees just beginning to bud after the frost. The soil was rich and smelled wet. A tree had fallen nearby but had not yet begun to rot. The Place was just inside the forest, bordering a field which had to be swept for land mines by a canine unit before we went in. Our man’s eyes darted, and he wrung his hands while he waited for the dogs to finish their patrol, insisting that there were no mines, that these fields were farmed and that the mines had been tripped long ago, not by dogs, but by people. Still, there are codes and procedures that need to be followed. The living must always come before the bones.

When we came to The Place, he pointed to the ground and said one word, “Dig.” And so we called in the excavators and began to turn the soil. It didn’t take long for the bones to show up, this grave was shallow, and it surprised me that it took so long to find; we found the shallow ones first, years ago. I told the excavator to stop and examined the bone closely. I shook my head, tossed it aside and told the excavator to continue on. It wasn’t a human bone, but a pig bone, a common occurrence. The Serb commanders told men like our man to cover the graves with slaughtered pigs to hide the bones, which were bodies then. Our man shifted his weight and looked around and wrung his hands while the excavators began to dig again.

Eventually, we found the bones we were looking for, and when we did, we sent the excavators away and proceeded with shovels and brushes. The first thing I teach all of my assistants is that they must be respectful of the bones.

That’s where we found Amir, who would be close to fifty now, had he not been shot in the back of the head, buried in The Place and covered by stuck pigs. As I brush the dirt out of Amir’s eye sockets, I wonder if our man had killed Amir. I used to stop myself from thinking these things, but now I let the thoughts wander. I have found that if I do not let them have free reign during the day, they come back to torture me during the night.

While I prepare Amir, my assistant comes in for Fatima. He asks me if this is it, and I nod without looking away from Amir. I can hear him placing the bones in the bag. The noise of the hard calcium hitting the metal table is muffled by the body bag, so I have to strain to hear it. I know he is being gentle. The zipper slowly creeps its way up the length of the bag. It zippers smoothly, because there isn’t much to fill the bag. I’ll miss her.

My hands no longer twitch to do the sign of the cross when I hear the zipper. In this place, my religion is the enemy, so I give the bones the respect they deserve and still my habitual hands. At first it was difficult, now it isn’t.

My assistant exits almost as quietly as he came in. I like this one; he doesn’t bother me with useless questions and philosophical blather. Perhaps that’s because his English isn’t very good. He comes from Rwanda, which confuses me, because there are many bones there, but I don’t ask him why he’s here. I leave him to his thoughts, because he leaves me to mine. What’s important is that he is gentle with the bones, and he gives them something I cannot – prayer. Before he sets them on the truck to be delivered to the catacombs, he says a prayer over each one. Sometimes, I stop my work to listen to his deep voice mumbling the Muslim prayers, but not today. Today, there is too much work to be done, and I cannot break, not even for Fatima.

When I am finished with Amir, I move onto Halim. I have a skull, four ribs, a femur, assorted foot bones and both lower arm bones, though the radius is missing from one. I estimate Halim was about 13, one of the younger boys from The Place, though not younger than the youngest, my Fatima.

Years ago, when I first came to Bosnia, I asked how so many girls ended up in these graves. I was just out of medical school, and when they briefed us, they told us to expect many men and possibly boys. The women and girls had been separated out and put on buses to Tuzla, they told us. It was just the men who were left behind. But it didn’t take long for girls to start appearing in the graves. When all of the stories were sorted out, we learned that the mothers of the bones tried to disguise their girls as boys to protect them from rape. They cut their hair and smeared their faces with mud. They removed their headscarves and put them in their sons’ clothes and watched while they boarded the buses with their fathers and brothers.

Sometimes, on the way to The Place, the girls would cry or speak, and the soldiers would discover them, and they would end their days like Fatima. Other times, they stayed silent, and they would end their days like Halim, who was beaten and then shot through the temple. An example killing – held up in front of the other prisoners and executed in plain sight. He was most likely not killed at The Place, but before, to keep the Muslims in line, flocked like the sheep they used to tend.

I smile and pet Halim’s skull. What a brave boy. He must have been a fighter, or he tried to escape. The mammalian instinct to survive never ceases to amaze me. I cannot gaze on Halim for long, I have to hurry, there are many more bones to get to before the morning.

Tomorrow, the auditorium will fill up with the sound of wailing. Many will come, and some will leave clutching a yellow tag that will allow them to collect their bones from the catacomb. Mothers, wives, siblings and children will line the room, supporting grandmothers and more mothers and more siblings and wives. A few will not cry. A few will touch the things gingerly, then pick up the tag and bring it to my assistant, who will use a translator to get the story and try to match the bones.

It won’t be long now before the three day march begins, where buses carrying the bones will flood out of Tuzla and descend upon Srebrenica. Those who are able will walk over 60 kilometers. The army will follow behind as the Muslims enter the Serbian territory. Some tourists will come and some reporters, but not many, not like the first five years. Only those like me still come. Those like me, and those who have no choice.

They will say prayers and bury the bones that I have cleaned for them, whatever we have been able to give back to them. And their hatred and their screams will shake the once Bosnian, now Serbian city so that not even the bravest of the Serbs will leave their stolen homes. Some will go back to the homes that they remember their fathers building. They will go back and confront the Serbs who live there now, who eat off of their dishes and sleep in the bed they shared with their dead husbands. But most won’t. Most will just go to Srebrenica to bury their bones and then get back on the buses like they did seventeen years ago, headed for Tuzla once more.

On that day, July 11th, when the bones reach their final destination, I will sit at a Serbian bar in the center of Srebrenica and drink the sweet wine until I can’t stand up. And then I will yell at the bartender, a Serbian who is barely eighteen, who was only a baby when it happened, and I will blame him for what has happened here, in slurred Serbian fragmented with English. At first, he will tell me that he hasn’t done anything, but eventually, he will just listen to me and pour me another drink, because he really doesn’t care what I say as long as the money keeps coming. Srebrenica is a very poor city now. When I can no longer remember the language, the bartender will help me out the door and walk me as close to the buses as he dares, and I will board the bus and sit next to my assistant who doesn’t drink because he is Muslim, and I will speak more words to him than I have spoken all summer.

And the next day, I will give myself back to the bones.

Kobani, a Lesson of History Repeating

The tragedy of Srebrenica will forever haunt the history of the United Nations

~ Kofi Annan

October 10, 2014

Kobani is a small town on the border between northern Syria and southern Turkey. In 2004, according to the Syrian census, it had a population of 44,821. Now, Kobani’s population is unknown. It has been estimated that approximately 700 elderly citizens are still trapped inside the town while the Kurds take on ISIS and another 12,000 civilians have fled but have not made it across the border into Turkey.

Kobani is going to fall.

In 1992, during the Bosnian War, thousands of refugees fled outlying villages and towns in eastern Bosnia. They fled to a city called Srebrenica, on the border between eastern Bosnia and western Serbia. Srebrenica was declared a UN “safe zone.” The population of the small city swelled to 50,000 or more. In early July, 1995, while UN peacekeepers looked on, Srebrenica fell.

Beginning on July 11, 1995 and the days that ensued, over 8,000 Bosnian men and boys were systematically slaughtered by Bosnian-Serb forces. Not because they had done anything wrong, but simply because they were Muslim. Thousands of women and girls were loaded onto buses and sent to neighboring Tuzla. The roads were filled with landmines. Some never made it.

I knew a survivor of this massacre. He and his four other brothers (one an infant at the time) made it. Their father, grandfather and uncle did not. Their mother died shortly after seeking asylum for herself and her children in the United States. He was not any different than you or me, except he had lived through this. He was handsome, charming, charismatic; he liked to dance and go to the beach. He had a penchant for odd home remedies, including gurgling vodka for a sore throat. He loved his family, and they were all he had left. His prized possession was his second-hand Mercedes Benz, and he used to tell me his father once drove a Mercedes for Tito, the old Yugoslavian dictator. He cooked amazing food and for a time, he loved me, and I him. He was a hard worker who put in massive amounts of overtime, lived in a small apartment with his brother and didn’t own a bed frame, because he thought they were a waste of money. He appreciated American life, especially fashion, but he missed Bosnia. He identified as Muslim, but he didn’t believe in God, not anymore, not after Srebrenica.

Now UN staff members are calling on this history, the history of genocide, to urge us all that Kobani must not fall. We must not allow another Srebrenica.

Do you remember Srebrenica? We do. We never forgot and probably we never forgave ourselves.

~ UN Envoy Staffan de Mistura

When I was at school at UNC, I had a friend who was studying international law in the US for a semester. She was from Holland, and she was Muslim. She was older than me, and she kindly snuck me into a bar one night with some of her other international law friends. After we closed down the bar, dancing all night, one of her other friends, a second generation Arab immigrant to Holland, escorted me home. While he tried to woo me, I explained to him that I had a boyfriend. I loved him. He was from Srebrenica.

The wooing immediately stopped and the man’s eyes sharpened. The melancholy seemed to darken his already dark eyes and the frown lines cast a shadow over his olive complexion, “Tell him we are sorry. We are so sorry for standing by and doing nothing.”

I smiled and pet his hand and said thank you, I would tell him. I later found out from my friend that the man who had been trying to win me over was actually won over by me, “That girl has the most integrity of any American I met while I was here, and she’s only 20 years old.”

That stays with me. It meant a lot to me, and still does. What also stayed with me was the guilt that the Dutch still feel over the events of Srebrenica, an occurrence most Americans don’t even know about. It has stayed with the Dutch people. Neither they, nor the Bosnians, have forgotten.

If the same results in Kobani, I fear the Turkish will be imposing the same guilt on their future generations.

Because ISIS is as brutal, if not more brutal, than the Bosnian Serbs. They will not stop at simply winning the city. They will execute anyone there who remains, a punishment for their rebellion. Hundreds, if not thousands, will die, and Turkey, with its tanks and its army sitting on the border, will stand by like the UN peacekeepers in Srebrenica, bearing silent testimony to the atrocities that will likely follow.

Turkey believes that we should intervene; they say that they will not go it alone. They want us to target Al-Assad as well as ISIS, but we are leery of another war in the Middle East. We could not stand by and watch the Yazidis murdered, so we began to strike. We are trying not to stand by and watch the Kurds in Kobani be murdered, but who better to defend Kobani than the Turkish? It is, after all, their doorstep that ISIS is creeping up on. Fighting for Kobani would be a good political move as well, it would help to solidify the tense relationship between Turkey and its own Kurdish minority, who feels that they have been subjected to rampant discrimination and have protested Turkey’s reticence to act. The Turkish Kurds feel an ethnic alignment with their Syrian brethren and the failure of the Turkish government to act makes the Kurdish feel abused, unwanted, mistreated. They feel like Turkey wants ISIS to execute them.

It’s hard to blame them.

For the United States, it’s a precarious balance. We cannot be expected to be the world’s peacekeeper. Turkey is a NATO member as well. It’s not reasonable for Turkey to say to us, “Don’t worry, ISIS is knocking on OUR door, but you got this, right?” We should all be in this together, to prevent another massacre.

At the end of the day, people are people. And those people trapped in Kobani could have been you or me, or your grandfather/grandmother/mother/father/sister/brother if only they had been born in a different part of the world. If Turkey does not act, however, it cannot be said that the blood of the citizens of Kobani is on our hands.

Turkish soldier on top of a tank, with the Syrian town of Kobani in the background, stands guard near the Mursitpinar border crossing on the Turkish-Syrian border in the southeastern town of Suruc

A Turkish soldier sits on top of a tank, with the Syrian town of Kobani in the background (c) 2014 Reuters/Umit Bektas

 

First Impressions

You can’t make promises all based upon tomorrow

Happiness, security, are words we only borrowed

~ Savatage, Dead Winter Dead

August 29, 2014

I was two and three during the Persian Gulf War. I don’t remember anything about it except seeing tanks driving through the desert on TV, but even that I’m not sure about. Maybe I remember the tanks from the desert wars that followed.

The first time I remember becoming invested in a war was in 1996. I was eight. It was one of the only years of peacetime that I would have. The Bosnian War had just ended, and my parents had just divorced. My father was finally sober, and I was just learning to trust him. He’d bought an album by a band called Savatage which was entitled “Dead Winter Dead”. The album was about the Bosnian War, and it was the first rock album I’d ever heard that told a story that I not only understood, but connected with. It was about a city called Sarajevo, which I learned was the capital of the newly created Bosnia. In that town, raged a war, at the center of which were two religions and overlooking it all was a gargoyle atop an ancient church. The story told of a Bosniak Muslim girl living in Sarajevo who fought against a Bosnian Serb boy (Eastern Orthodox). While the two factions fired rockets at one another, the Bosnian Serbs from outside the town, the Bosniak Muslims from inside, an old man went to the center of Sarajevo on Christmas Eve to play Christmas carols.

Trans Siberian Orchestra tells the story to this day, immortalized through their orchestral version of Carol of the Bells called “Christmas Eve in Sarajevo.” As rockets fall amidst the cello music, the old man is killed. The girl and the boy, who had stopped their war to listen, break their lines and flee together in an odd twist of fate.

The album appealed to my fantasy – the gargoyle sheds a single tear for the old man, and my romance – mortal enemies meet, fall in love, elope.

It also fed my curiosity. It was the only album I would allow my father to play in the car on the drive back to my mom’s house from his house. Every Wednesday, when we went to the library at school, I would pick out any book I could about Bosnia and the war. I would check them out and bring them home and sit at my kitchen table, legs dangling from the chair, feet just above the floor, reading the big letters that tried to put a positive spin on what I would later learn was a hideous thing. In the books I checked out were pictures of children, who looked just like me, with dirt on their faces and ragged, torn clothing. They were looking up into the camera like scared animals. It became an obsession. I would talk to my dad about Bosnia for the entire forty-five minute drive home, while Dead Winter Dead played lightly in the background. I spoke in a quick, excited frenzy, like if I didn’t tell him I would forget all that I’d absorbed.

I don’t know if my parents worried, or if they even noticed. They wouldn’t have talked to one another if they did. The divorce was a nasty affair, but I was happy to have it all the same. The marriage was worse. But because the divorce was less than pleasant, I was court-mandated to attend counseling. For what, I wasn’t sure.

The counselor was a man, and that’s all I know about him. I would be carted to his office by one parent or another at which point I would be ushered into a room. In the center of the room were toys, blocks and rudimentary abacuses, trains and cars, a Barbie or two, with her hair all in knots. There was also a big chair by the window. Every time I went, I would crawl up into the big, beige chair, fold my arms over one another and stare out the window. The counselor, therapist, psychologist, I’m not sure which, would ask me questions, and I would stubbornly refuse to answer. I would bite the inside of my cheeks and stare out the window. I’d think of Bosnia.

I’d think of the pictures in the books that I’d seen, of the children with hollow faces, children just like me, who were simply hoping for a meal, and I knew somewhere, that this was hopelessly ridiculous. I wanted to scream at the man that I was fine, that I was happy that my parents split up, that I didn’t have to see the beatings anymore, that I didn’t have to deal with all the yelling, that I didn’t need to hide under a table and cower or worry about whether or not the cops would show up. Everything in my life, in comparison with those children in those books, was perfect.

At the end of the sessions, the man would cart me out with his hand pressed lightly against my shoulder and shake his head sadly as if I couldn’t feel the motion from above me. My mother always picked me up, and she would take on a worried expression and wring her hands and follow him into the room with the toys, while I went and sat in yet another, less comfortable chair outside. The receptionist would smile and offer me some kind of candy which I would always refuse, and I’d pout and slam my legs against the chair and wait. I’d pout and wonder what could possibly take anyone so long to talk about nothing.

Sometimes, my mom would remember to pack my books, and I’d read about Bosnia while I waited.

Eventually, the court mandate was satisfied, and I didn’t have to see the counselor/therapist/psychologist anymore, and eventually, I stopped obsessing over the Bosnian War. There was a new war by then, we were in Haiti, and then Kosovo. At that point, I had grown accustom to war. It was the state of life, and I had other things to occupy my mind with – school, growing up, boys, my mother’s sudden alcoholism.

I look back at that eight year old girl reading books about the Bosnian War and smile at her. She had no idea what fate would bring her and how important those early lessons about that war would become.