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The yellow ribbon stays

I have placed a yellow ribbon on on the flag (our nameplate) on the front of our paper since the beginning of the Iraqi war. It will stay there until this strange and tragic confrontation is over. I donít know when that will be. Perhaps a yellow ribbon should always be displayed somewhere in our communities, as American men and women are on alert 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year somewhere in this world defending and protecting us and dedicating their lives to freedom for all.
As we come on to Veteranís Day this year, the stories of World War I and World War II are fading. But a new generation, who has learned little about those wars, fears the word terrorist like never before. Memories of Korea, Vietnam, Granada, and Desert Storm remain in the hearts and minds of many, but few school children know what those names mean. Itís frightening to think that courses taught in tomorrowís schools will hardly speak of these conflicts, conflicts that took the lives of brave men and women ñ your mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters.
Weíve come to a place where patriotism is up to the individual, where pledging allegiance to the flag is questioned by young people, and where itís alright to criticize the government that assures them that freedom. For many who have served in wars, this is difficult to comprehend.
To those who came before us, to those who still remember the bloody beach of Normandy, the thick smoke of Pearl Harbor, the travesties of napalm in the jungles of Vietnam . . . to those who wheel their chairs to the dining rooms of VA hospitals, to all the veterans still besieged by nightmares, I say thank you and forgive us for not understanding.
I grew up hearing stories of Pacific Ocean duties, the Mariana Islands, tours in Italy and Germany. We feared for family members in Vietnam, and buried our dead.
Still, the reality of it all cannot be fully understood by someone who has never held a dying buddy in his arms, who never had to shoot children because if you didnít they would shoot you. The reality cannot be understood by someone who sweeps a handful of sand from a kitchen floor while young men and women pour buckets of sand from their boots in a country made of sand.
If we could all truly understand how it feels to see buildings blown apart, bodies mutilated and innocent children left alone and crying in a war torn world, perhaps the efforts to attain peace would be more intense. We have to learn from those who have been there.
We must listen to grandfathers talk of mortars and bombs. We must listen to uncles talk of snakes in the jungles. We must listen to veterans tell of the destruction of countries and the pain of death witnessed.
Roseanne Johnson, mother of LCpl Michael E. Johnson of the United States Marine Corps, who served his country last spring in Operation Iraqi Freedom, assures me that almost every one of the young people from our area have returned to the states. Some may have to return to Iraq next spring, she says. These men and women will have their own memories of war that will never go away.
And itís not over so, the yellow ribbon stays.

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