When the first Gulf War broke out, I was with a girlfriend, touring Acadia National Park, in Maine. We had only been there a matter of hours when the news came on the car radio — a breathless, jittery dispatch from downtown Baghdad. We pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the engine. It was a lovely spot: moss-freckled rocks, wrinkle-free waters, snow-capped spruce trees. I remember thinking how strange it was to be sitting there, not a cloud in the sky, barely a breeze, listening to Baghdad burn.

The truly strange thing about that day, though, is how impassive I felt. Later, my girlfriend and I went back to our hotel room and ate sandwiches and watched CNN. "Wow!" I kept saying. "Holy shit!" I was dazzled by the fairy-light tracers that filled the sky, spellbound by the orange firestorm flickering on the horizon, the delayed and muted Boom! Boom! Boom! But I wasn’t scared. The images on that TV screen hardly seemed real. I honestly don’t think it even occurred to me that every flash signified pain and terror and death.

Things are different now.

"America may not survive the second attack coming at it. BYE BYE AMERICA." These words, recently posted on a message board by someone calling himself Death4U, cannot be taken lightly. We’ve seen what our enemies can do when they put their minds to it. It’s patently clear now that a US-led attack on Iraq could lead to a devastating response right here in America — maybe even here in Boston. Boom! Boom! Boom!

On a chilly Sunday morning not long ago, I sat beside Memorial Drive and gazed out across the Charles River. A few hardy scullers glided by. The occasional Red Line train slid across the Longfellow. I’ve sat in this spot many times, and I’ve never seen the city look so beautiful, so calm. Then it hit me: we could lose this. At that moment, I felt such anger that I think I actually growled. Then I just felt tired. Then sad. Then angry again. Muttering mad. How dare they. Bomb the bastards. Make them suffer. A couple of spandexed joggers lollopped by. Fuck.

Back in 1991, escaping the war seemed as easy as switching off the TV, taking a road trip to Northern Maine. No more. This time, I will have to take the fighting seriously. And maybe that’s a good thing. What worries me, though, is the emotion that has replaced my indifference, the fury that courses through me now, the desire — the need — to see somebody pay. But who? We’ve been swatting at Al Qaeda for over a year, to little effect. It worries me that we may seek catharsis in Iraq. I am frightened. I am angry. I am bent on revenge. But I cannot rid myself of the thought that there may be someone like me, sitting on the banks of the Tigris River, looking out over Baghdad, wondering whether it will still be there tomorrow.

Back to the Thoughts on going to war index.