Young Writers Society

There is no denying that war changes a person— a nation. Even decades later, the repercussions of such a massacre were felt. My grandfather died in war. The Vietnam War, from 1955 to 1975, lasted twenty years— twenty years too long for the millions of lives affected. Of all the soldiers that were deployed, many were from my village, and few survived.

Fewer came back to the village and even fewer stayed sane. They were too strung from inaction, too used to constant vigilance, too war-worn to ever be at peace. Many turned to bottles to cope with the nightmares, and most had a cigarette in between their fingers more often than not. They were soldiers, traumatized and burdened by their time in the front lines— and drunken soldiers were dangerous.

As a child, I knew this was a fact. The adults would warn us children to hide, to stay away from these old men we see stumbling about in the streets. Us village children never needed a boogeyman to be afraid of— threats to take us to these old men were enough to get a stubborn mouth to eat, warnings that they prey on waking kids were enough to get a babe to sleep. It was cruel; to treat our protectors that way, to make us fear the brave fighters that served our country once upon a time.

It was Tet— the Vietnamese Lunar New Year— when I came face to face with one of these soldiers. My grandmother had asked me to accompany her to my great-aunt's place. There wasn’t much for a five-year-old to do when two elderly women meet and gossip, so as any good kid would, I snuck into the back kitchen for snacks; and was rewarded with the sight of sweet potatoes in the hearth.

The entire place was quiet— a tranquil calm, and the wind was a balm for the scorching noon sun. Munching happily on my stolen sweet potatoes, I sat on the stairs next to the back well, contemplating what games to play with my friends later on.

It was a while before any sound was made besides the far-away conversations in the living room— there was some shuffling around the hearth and an amused chuckle behind me. I looked up; and an old man with a scratchy beard met my eyes. He was one of the soldiers I saw sometimes; it was a jarring experience seeing him in a home and not on the streets.

“It’s peaceful, isn't it?” - At those words, I could only nod. He sat down next to me, taking a swig of his beer. I continued nibbling my snack, he continued sipping his bottle. We stayed that way for hours. That was my first interaction with war.

I asked my dad about his father that evening. That was the first and last conversation we had about my paternal grandfather. It wasn't the last about war though. I was a curious child— it didn't take me long to find all I could about the war in the family library. It was nowhere near enough for me— I spent the next week of my spring break reading about different conflicts throughout history.

I learned a lot in those months of constant reading. I didn’t understand much of the texts— but it was enough for the childish War is bad line that adults repeated to have an entirely deeper meaning. It wasn't just bad— it was cruel.

I've always found mythical battles to be easier to swallow— the Trojan War and Ragnarok weren't real, not like the Holocaust and the Russian Civil War. Achilles' slaughter of the Trojan ranks and Thor's battle against the Jotnar were myths— the genocides and live human experimentation during World War II weren't.

Those were real.

Those were real— the fact that we needed the Geneva Convention says it all.

I've read and learned a lot about war, about heinous crimes and disturbing weaponry, but never had something confused me more. What is war, exactly? Why don't they understand that the only people they'll hurt is each other?

Nothing has ever answered that question better than the game Tug of War.

You have a large, thick rope— the kind that will burn your hands as soon as you pull it.

You have two teams— you might know someone, you might not know none. Your friend might be on the other side— and oh, you have to fight them now.

You have a flag tied in the middle of the rope. You have two lines drawn in the sand— and the flag resting in the middle of it all. That flag is called this: victory.

The two teams are on each side. Maybe one has less people, maybe the other one has more. Maybe one has stronger hands, maybe the other one has none. Maybe one gives up, maybe the other one doesn't. But the two teams grab their side of the rope, and they pull.

Then they pull the flag, they keep pulling and pulling until their hands bleed and their feet are stuck sore in the sand. They want the flag— they want victory. They want it in their territory— behind their line in the sand, safe and sound. And they’ll pull and they’ll pull and they don’t want to lose— they have bets going on; or their crushes are on the sidelines watching; or their friends on the other side promised drinks to the loser— whatever it is, they don’t want to lose.

The spectators cheer. Some that placed bets on the losing team came in to help. Some got promised candy or a chicken to come in and land a hand.

Some pullers fall— their hands are burning, their legs are shaken. They fall and some get up but some don't.

The winning verdict happens like this: the flag is dragged behind a line in the sand; everyone is tired and needs to get home for dinner; or the rope snaps and nobody wins.

The last one almost never happens. Almost, because there is a chance that it would, but you can't be sure.

The second one is improbable too— rarely is anyone fully content with just leaving an unfinished game, but sometimes your mother's glare is worse than those scratches on your hands and your father will be angry if you come home late.

The first one happens the most often. Is expected to happen. One team will fold over and the other will win— especially if the lineups were skewed and the stronger kids landed together in a team. Or maybe the team with the most people wins. Or maybe the losing side had outside help that flicks rubber bands onto already brittle ankles of their opposition.

No one knows the exact outcome of any Tug of War game— but it's obvious who will get dragged by the rope and who will pull it towards them most of the time.

There are two teams that pull the rope, and one will win. That's it.

That's the game.

But at the end of the day— it's a game. Yeah, you might lose one bill or two. Sure, you might get rope burn and get dragged through the mud. But it's a game— you either win or lose, and it's all in good fun. You get friendships out of that game. You get stronger just pulling the rope.

But war isn't like that. War isn't a childish game. War is expensive— you pay with blood and land and lives. War can drag on for decades— centuries, even. If you're tired and exhausted— it won't stop.

Yet you want to win anyhow.

Many things can be war— the childish sibling squabbles can be called a war; the constant battles to study can be called a war; the loud voice in your head that keeps telling you you're bad and ugly and evil while you try to tell it no, I'm good and pretty and nice can be called a war. But the worst kind is the one where you lose and you have more at stake than just your pride or your grades.

Because you pay with your life, and it won't just be your hands or knees that are scratched.

War is bad. Real war is bad. It's not fun, it's not amusing, it's not a game.

And friend, you could do well to remember that.