stirile anunta mortii din razboaie, accidente. cu cifre, cu emfaza si cu dramatism.
ranitii sunt in viata, sunt victorii ale sistemului (politic, medical) si nu sunt la fel de spectaculosi in dramatism.
dar in viata, cind timpul trece, pentru familiile celor implicati ranitii sunt cei care trebuie cumva integrati in realitatea banala. ranitii sunt cei care se chinuie (uneori ii chinuie si pe apartinatori).
ei trebuie sa traiasca fara o mina -un picior-un ochi-o parte din creier si sa faca fata sistemului care nu are o categorie speciala pentru ei.
nu spunem nimic despre ranitii din razboaiele in care romania a fost implicata recent. i-am anuntat la stiri pe cei care au murit, dar nimeni nu povesteste despre cei care acum se chinuie purtind sechelele razboiului, desi in tabelele militare sunt victorii: traiesc.
pe 31 august, America a anuntat ca a incheiat razboiul cu Irak-ul. am vrut in ziua aceea sa postez pe blog un minunat text al lui Mike Sager despre raniti. cum nu eram in tara si nici net nu aveam la (foarte) indemina, il postez acum.
se numeste Wounded Battalion si a aparut in Esquire USA.
Maxwell spots the guy he’s looking for, moves in that direction, his gait powerful but uneven, like Chesty the Bulldog with a limp. He has a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes; there is a large scar on the left side of his head, a ropey pink question mark that runs like concertina wire below the hedge line of his high-and-tight military flattop. He has trouble reading and taking instructions, his short-term memory is shot — it took him forever to build the little fort in the backyard for his son, he had to keep rereading each step of the directions over and over again. He tells his daughter to put refrigerator on her tuna sandwich. He refers to the airport as “the place where people come to fly” and to Somalia, where he once served, as “that country in Africa.” His hernia, which he kept a painful secret so as not to miss his final deployment, is “that problem with your nuts.” He calls the family’s new dog Magic instead of Miracle (though he can remember perfectly the name of their old dog, Bella). His right arm and right leg are functional but “clumpy” — he can still run several miles on a treadmill; he does three sets of ten bicep curls, thirty-five pounds each. Though his IQ, his reflexes, his limb strength, all of his measurable functions are down from their “factory original,” as he likes to put it, he is still within what doctors tell him are “acceptable ranges.” Acceptable to whom? Maxwell wonders. He will never be the same. He will never be as good. It weighs on him, you can tell. He is the type of man who has spent his whole life pushing and striving, trying to raise his score or to lower his time, a man who never took the easy path: As a high school kid, he wanted to play lineman in football, even though he weighed only 140 pounds. He took his undergrad degree in industrial engineering and a masters in management and statistics, even though he struggled with math. He eats “morale” pills (he tried four varieties before settling on Effexor), antiseizure pills (five varieties), more pills every day than he is capable of recalling. All the pills have side effects. The list is a mile long. Here is the list for Effexor: constipation, dizziness, dry mouth, insomnia, loss of appetite, nausea, nervousness, sexual side effects, sleepiness, sweating, and weakness. Ask your doctor if Effexor may be right for you. Oooh-rah. Sometimes, his brain starts to crash — that is his word for it. His speech becomes slurry; he gets this look on his face like a guy who has been up for several days doing alcohol and drugs. He just has to shut it all down and go to bed. It happened earlier this week, after he drove the six hours in his old green Land Rover to Quantico, Virginia, to meet his new boss. He is still on active duty. He’s due to report to his new billet in one week.
Mike Sager, Wounded Battalion
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