Coming to Terms: Bereaved Families Take Action Against the War

by Gilda Carbonaro, Peacework

When we heard about Alex's second deployment, we drove down to Camp Lejeune. In the meantime, [Alex and his new wife] had bought a house. It was so neat to see our child so grownup and responsible, asking his father for advice. But this time, we arrived and he didn't come to meet us. We were so puzzled, so hurt. We couldn't get over it. His behavior was so hard to read. It was a difficult visit. He was very withdrawn, wouldn't engage in conversation. I'd look at him and he'd look sideways, not straight in my eyes.

So he left for his deployment. I got one message from Alex. Just one. "I haven't had much time, mostly been down field, haven't slept more than three nights in my trailer, haven't showered in three weeks." They were exhausted, working so hard. In a letter he sent his wife, he said they were doing things by the seat of their pants. He was out in the field all the time. They keep sending them until they get killed. Absurd missions.

I was at school, teaching fifth-graders, when the chaplain came to my class and asked me to come out. She said the Marines had called the school. She gave me the phone number. They told me Alex had been in an explosion, ran over a bomb in his Humvee. Seventy percent of his body had second and third degree burns.

I wanted to protect my son so much. Once, I dreamt I had been accepted into recon. Imagine, a 56-year-old woman! It was a special brigade of older women, still in training. But because the war had taken such a bad turn, our training had been interrupted and we were sent to Iraq. Our mission every night was to go to a house that had insurgents, look through the window, break in, and walk out without waking the insurgents. Stealth training. Alex laughed so hard when I told him. But in the dream, I'd contacted him, asked him if what the Marines were doing, was it right? Kosher? He said "No, Mom, be careful, it's not right."

I had another dream. I stood on top of a tangled highway in the desert, like spaghetti, leading nowhere. Alex was in a helmet and fatigues, I was in ordinary clothes. He said, "Look, we've done a lot." I said, "No, what is this? A highway made of crushed Humvees, rubber, tires, all smashed together to make this road."

Maybe if I'd been an oo-rah Marine mom, it would have been easier.

Part of my healing is to do what I can to help the American people understand what a mistake they made, that we are responsible for the deaths of all these people. This country must come to terms with what was done in our name. I will make this my life's work if need be. This is how I will honor my son and keep his memory alive.