Sunday morning I sat in a group psychotherapy session with nine of my fellow combat veterans, all of whom fought in Afghanistan. While I am no stranger to combat, I am a stranger to Afghanistan. I was the group’s outsider, not only because we had not fought in the same land, but also because I was their therapist. What differences existed between us seemed insignificant. Like in combat, the boundaries between us were blurred. When one man wept, we all felt it. As when in uniform, the burden of any member of the group was carried by the whole. No one left behind.
In battle, a cohesive unit is one that overcomes the adversity it faces, and in group therapy, cohesion is the factor that sets the stage for healing. In our society, it is sorely lacking--in more places than one, and not the least of which is between veterans and the civilians they risk their lives to serve. In times like this, cohesion and solidarity are crucial for those most significantly impacted.
A Pew Research Center study found 77% of veterans feel the public does not understand the problems they face, and 71% of the public agreed. The same report showed fewer and fewer Americans these days have personal connections to military members, and those who don’t aren’t as likely to be supportive of veterans.
This morning, one of the group’s members leaned into his frustration over how the civilians in his life bickered about the politics behind the fall of Afghanistan--people who’d never been there, and who’d never seemed to care about Afghanistan until now. Worse yet was their lack of adequate, empathetic responses after the deadly attack at Kabul airport’s Abby gate. All these folks wanted to do was fight about it--nevermind holding space to honor the slain, or to support the veterans who’d been transported back into memories too terrible to forget, that were too similar to the images coming through their screens. Group members listened and nodded. They all knew and felt the complicated feelings of anger, grief, resentment, and heartache.
There was no political debate to be had in our group, even though it was obvious there would be no consensus on the right way to get out of Afghanistan. This group of warriors wasn’t looking for a fight. They’d had enough of that. These warriors knew that the priority right now is to take care of the casualties--and though they might not see themselves this way, we might say they are the walking wounded, and have been for many years, waiting for a moment that might bring the healing they long for.
In the Odyssey, there’s this critical moment in the story where Odysseus finds himself in a foreign land as he struggles to find his way home from war. He’s welcomed to a banquet, and he breaks into tears as he is confronted with painful stories about the war he fought in. While the people around him could’ve looked the other way or changed the subject, they didn’t. They lean in. The person next to him (who happens to be the king of the Phaeacians) asks him to open up and share his story. Odysseus tells his heart-wrenching tale, and about all the difficulties he’s had since the war ended.The king and queen are so moved they give him the full devotion of their assistance, making possible his return to his homeland, Ithaca, and his reintegration into society. His return home (a symbolic, healing event) only becomes possible when the civilians around him are able to make space for him to share his story and his suffering.
Life’s most challenging and even traumatic moments also carry an inherent opportunity for increased connection, intimacy, and healing. For many veterans, this is one of those moments where deep repairs are made possible. But those of us who surround veterans have to show up--not just physically, but psychologically and emotionally.
In recent months and years, other crises in our society have provoked broad, necessary, and remarkable displays of solidarity. I’d venture to guess that a significant portion of the veteran population (in roughly a similar proportion to that of the general population) shows up in such moments to lend support. Whether viral, symbolic, social media images or candlelight vigils, such displays do make a difference—they help survivors to know they’re not alone in their pain, by making the collective concern and heartache visible.
Last Thursday, 13 young service members died. The old man among them, Taylor Hoover, was just 31. The next eldest was Humberto Sanchez, 29; next was Johanny Rosario, 25; Daegan Page, 23; Ryan Knauss, 23; Nicole Gee, 23; Hunter Lopez, 22; Kareem Nikoui, 22; Max Soviak, 22; Dylan Merola, 20; Rylee McCollum, 20; David Espinoza, 20; and Jared Schmitz, 20. Most were babies or toddlers on 9/11/2001–and they all gave their lives knowing that a terrorist attack was imminent, and they worked past a deadline to save as many people as humanly possible. They lived and died heroes. The survivors, from that attack and those who’ve experienced others like it, feel the despair.
When I first saw the list of those killed last Thursday, and their ages, I wept. My heart broke for their lives, cut short; their families, their friends, and their comrades who will be carrying the pain of this event for many years to come. I was also angry. I wanted to be there with them, to help the survivors and fight back. Instead I did the only thing I knew I could do to help. I called the Afghanistan veterans in my life and then I worked with my colleagues at The Battle Within to make plans for group therapy sessions for any Operation Enduring Freedom vets who might need it.
It’s easy for me to imagine that every individual who has fought in Afghanistan, Iraq, Vietnam, or elsewhere was hit with a wave of complicated emotions when they learned of the attack and the loss of these young servicemembers’ lives. When I saw the images of the aftermath, I was instantly taken back to the numerous IED attacks I experienced when I was in Baghdad. I know I’m not alone, because my veteran-friends and clients have told me the same. One told me he was sucked back into the painful memories of when his platoon was the first to the scene of a car bomb that killed over 200 people. Another of when a mortar struck the vehicle of his platoon mates, killing them all instantly. Thursday’s attack was an event to process and grieve in its own right, but it was also a catalyst that opened up wounds from long ago--wounds that won’t heal until they’re tended to in critical moments, just like the one we’re in right now.
For years people have talked about the civilian-veteran divide. But, right now is perhaps the singular moment where our generation has an opportunity to close it. This tragedy has opened a chasm we must step into with the kind of courage and vulnerability demanded of soldiers in combat, and the kind of tenderness and empathy we all long for and deserve--the kind of tenderness and empathy that inspired our comrades in Kabul to risk their lives to save our friends and allies. No one left behind means something to some of us. In our moment of need, does it mean something to you?
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