Art, War, and The Human Condition.

As I sit down to write this month’s column, it’s 13 years to the day that the American military invaded Iraq. That invasion, and the subsequent nine years of war and occupation, irrevocably ruptured the lives of millions of Iraqis, as well as hundreds of thousands of American service-members and their families. The war still isn’t over for Iraq, nor is the fallout from the war even close to seeing its end back here. And now it looks like we’ll be a part of whatever comes next in Iraq — though how much we’re involved, and for how long, has not yet been determined.

Which brings me to the crossroads of War and Art. Since at least the time of the Iliad, war has been an artist’s subject. It is one of life’s great ironies that one of the most destructive human endeavors can lead to creations of utter poignancy and beauty. Yet anyone who’s ever walked along the black panels of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial, or gazed up at Picasso’s Guernica, or sat down with the poetry of Wilfred Owen, intuitively understands this contradiction. Each of those experiences are fucking DEEP, and connects with the human condition in ways that are somehow both universal and specific.

Now, 13 years after the beginning of the Iraq War, a new moment in the arts is upon us: one in which that war and war stories are penetrating our cultural consciousness. From story collections like Phil Klay’s Redeployment to Hollywood blockbusters like “American Sniper” to the paintings of Iraqi artists like Qasim Sabti, art is again proving to be a salvation from the destruction human beings have wrought upon the world.

What does it mean? Does it affect the wider culture at all, or is it just nothing but an expression for the self-selected part of the citizenry already engaging with these issues of war and peace? How will it shape the future, or can art ever do such a thing so grandiose? Hell if I know. I just work here. But while these questions may not have clear answers, they’re still worth considering. Though perhaps I’m a bit biased considering my own soldier-to-artist transition.

“The futility of war must be related anew in every generation.”

Like many writers and artists whose work touches upon war and armed violence, and the effects of that armed violence upon human communities and individual souls, I wrestle with issues of message and fears of glorification. After all, “Full Metal Jacket” is a stridently antiwar film — yet nearly every soldier and Marine of my generation could quote it verbatim. (And with good reason — it’s a film filled with fantastic lines.)

But ignorance of something done in our collective name hardly seems the answer, either. So one writes, and tries to write well, and be purposeful about it. One wants to keep it real, and be emotionally truthful to the moment and experience, but do so in a way that doesn’t cheat the subject matter. The late, great E.L. Doctorow said, “The historian will tell you what happened. The novelist will tell you what it felt like.” That’s sound advice for all creatives and seekers, I think, not just novelists. The feel of something can be slippery, but when a story or piece of art gets it right, the reader/viewer/observer feels it right back, interpreting and internalizing in a variety of ways.

“How is contemporary war literature different from the war literature of the past?” This question was posed to me recently at a college. It was an earnest question, and deserved an earnest response, though there was a certain undertone to it: “Why should we care?” There’s an earnestness to that undertone, too, I suppose, though there was also bite to it. I took a deep breath and did my best.

I talked about how every American service member who served in Iraq and Afghanistan at one point volunteered for duty. That needs to be explored, not just in individuals, but what it means for our military at large, how it conducts itself in warfare, and how it impacts us all as Americans, soldier and citizen.

Then I talked about how more and more contemporary war lit is finding realized and dimensional local perspectives — “the others” to use a literary term, “the enemy” to use a military one. Maybe this is due to the nature of counterinsurgency operations. Maybe it’s the understanding that these wars ultimately aren’t about us. Maybe it’s just good storytelling. Regardless, one would have to go back to the modernist revolution of World War I to see such vibrant empathy for and with “the others” in war literature.

That’s interesting, I think. And hope.

There’s another reason that art emerges from the wreckage of war. A broader reason, and unfortunately, a timeless one. The futility of war must be related anew in every generation for it to be heard at all. In that way, it’s happening now because it has to happen. If it wasn’t, we’d not only be failing what comes after, but we’d also be failing what came before.