War Is Not A Fair Game

As of Wednesday, 2nd May, The Associated Press reported at least 3,354 members of the U.S. military have died in Iraq since March 2003. The British have lost 147, Italy, 33; Ukraine, 18; Poland, 20, Bulgaria, 13; Spain, 11; Denmark, 6, El Salvador, 5; Slovakia, 4; Latvia, 3; Estonia, Netherlands, Thailand - 2 each; Australia, Hungary, Kazakhstan, Romania - 1 each. *the AP count is one higher than the Defense Department's tally, last updated 10am (Wednesday)

Let's put politics aside and the decisions of the powers-that-be. Let's forget about who is wrong or right, for now. Let's not focus on why conflicts happen. I am not here to debate about foreign policies, to slam or ridicule any government. Let's see it from another point of view. Let's view these soldiers as your brothers and sisters; regardless or race, creed or colour. Everyone of those men is somebody's son, father and/or husband. Every woman, a daughter, mother and/or wife. Some of them did not choose to fight the current wars. It is their job. Some of them are there because they are making a living so that they can feed their families. Let's not hate the player, people. Let's hate the game.

Blaise Pascal:
"Can anything be stupider than that a man has the right to kill me because he lives on the other side of a river and his ruler has a quarrel with mine, though I have not quarrelled with him?"

War has been happening for countless of centuries. Each century claims new conflicts. If only there could be one day of peace. Just one day to know that we can live in harmony without trying to kill each other, in words and deeds.

When war takes place, both soldiers and civilians are victims.

My late Uncle Cyril was a prisoner of war in the early 1940s. He left home at 17 to join the (British) Royal Air Force (RAF). My grandparents did not see him until he was about 22 years old. They were informed of his imprisonment in Japan. All they could do was hope, pray and wait for news. Five years is a long time to wait. Too long for a parent or his loved ones - not knowing if he will survive or die.

He survived, albeit in horrendous conditions. When he finally came home to Taiping, Perak, I was told he looked very thin - almost skeletal. All he had on himself were a 'Pagoda' t-shirt and a pair khaki trouser. These garments were supplied by the U.S. Marine Corp when they liberated the POW (Prisoner Of War) camp, about 200 km from Nagasaki. The prisoners in that camp did not see the second atomic bomb go off. As slave labourers, they were underground at that time - mining for coal.

I was 11 years old when I asked Uncle Cyril about the unsightly bump on his forearm. He said that a Japanese soldier had hit him using a rifle butt. The soldier was aiming for the head. Uncle Cyril raised his right arm in time to defend himself and suffered a blow on his forearm. As a POW, he was not given medical aid. That injury developed into a cyst. He carried that cyst all his life. Uncle Cyril passed away in 2003, a few days shy of his 80th birthday.

My neighbour in Klang, the late Uncle Patrick Rajamanickam, was in the same camp with my Uncle Cyril. He too served in the RAF. In camp, they were confined to a barracks assigned to the Asian POWs. When I had a chance to speak to Uncle Patrick about his POW days, he recounted his memories with sadness and pain. Yet, amidst such glooming accounts, I found a sparkle of pride in him. Pride that he survived it all.
He showed me a small deep hole on his upper back, slightly to the right of his spine. He told me that he was tortured with a burning joss stick. He never told me the rest of the story. However, he shared it with my brother, Derek. Apparently, Uncle Patrick was stripped naked and made to kneel in the snow as the Japanese officer tormented him. That torture did not end till the joss stick burned out. Though it looked like a harmless scar by the time I saw it, 50 years later, I will never be able to imagine what he endured as he felt the joss stick sear through his skin and flesh. Uncle Patrick passed away on 14th February 2004.

They suffered. Both Uncles Cyril and Patrick. They shared a certain bond only few would know. They met again, for the last time, in 1999. Uncle Cyril, my godfather, walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. Uncle Patrick was given the honour of saying an opening prayer at my wedding reception. That was the last time I saw both men in the same room.

There were not the only ones who underwent hardships of war. Many families in Malaya (and around the region) suffered under the Japanese occupation.

Many years ago, mum told me that she will never forget the day when three Japanese soldiers stormed into her house and held her mother at gun point. They wanted my grandmother to mend their torn clothing and sew on buttons. My grandmother's hands and legs were shaking as she tried to thread the needle. My mum was an eight year old girl, hanging on to her mummy's skirt, in fear. That was also the day her father was taken away for questioning by the Kempetai (Japanese Secret Police).

My grandfather, Wilfred Sta. Maria, served as a Reserve Officer in the Eurasian Infantry Rifles Company (Straits Settlement Battalion) prior to the war. He was put on alert when the Japanese invaded Malaya.

Her father returned home three days later, in a trishaw. He never spoke about his detention experience. He took that memory to his grave.

Several wars have taken place since World War II. You'd think the human race would have learned about the evils of war by now.

Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put an end to mankind. ~John F. Kennedy, 1961

A great war leaves the country with three armies - an army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of thieves. ~German Proverb

War is not a fair game.