War, too Close for Comfort

Simon Klingert runs for cover during a firefight at a combat outpost in Afghanistan

“So have you ever seen someone die?”

It was about two minutes into our conversation when the question had popped up. The question. Not that I minded though. After all, it seems like a natural question to ask when you tell people you’re trying to make a living as a war correspondent and it dawns on them you actually like what you are doing. Plus, there was a genuine curiosity in the young girl’s voice that hinted she isn’t bent on provoking me. She simply reacted to this anomaly that suddenly dropped in on her as she was riding the train to town, out for a Saturday night of fun and booze- fueled oblivion.

“Yeah, I have seen people getting killed. I’ve taken photos of people who were dying right in front of my lens.”

Raw images of an ANA soldier with ghastly injuries flashed into my mind from somewhere deep down in my consciousness, where he had found his resting place. Take a step back and you can see me with my camera, snapping away as the last of his blood oozes through his punctured skin, his life slowly fading away. The IED sure had done its job, and so had I.

I found myself staring at the floor in front of me, the train rushing through the pitch- black night. How long had I been out? It couldn’t have been more than a second or two. The awkward silence from across the aisle told me it was long enough to notice a nerve had been touched. Suddenly, the war had come close and neither the girl nor her two male companions felt too comfortable in its presence. I didn’t even blame them.

“It’s war, you know. People die. Nothing you can do about it.”

I was desperately trying to sound upbeat as I caught my composure, intent to show them I was fully able to talk about the war without falling into that stale burned- out war correspondent cliché. While I lacked the self- deluding qualities any military Public Affairs Officer worth his salt has to have, it was good enough for them, eager to gloss over that moment of awkwardness as they were.

War is bad. People die. Simple answers. The easy way out.

One of guys across the aisle gladly picked up on it and began to drone about the war mongering government and its lackeys, intent to let us know about the inherent futility of pursuing a war too far away for anyone to care. Minutes passed as the train continued to rush through the night.  He was a real wise guy and he knew it. He couldn’t wait to fire his next question at me, so intricate and full of assumptions it bordered on the comical.

“So tell me. Why would a sane person, fully knowing about the absolute uselessness of the war in Afghanistan, which by the way costs insane amounts of money and lives and doesn’t serve our interests, go back out there risking his life for nothing else but a few photos?”

Stay out there long enough and attitudes like this won’t bother you anymore. Unless you’re drunk maybe and you’ll snap in an instant. Not this time though.

“That is a very good question. An excellent one actually.” Three eager faces were looking at me. Hard not to notice the holier- than- thou expression on one of them.

“It is hard to explain. It is a complex question that would deserve a lengthy and possibly contradictory answer. I’m going to spare you that, as you wouldn’t understand no matter what. You simply need to be there to understand.”

Three heads slightly nodding in acknowledgement.

“Think of it as a voyage to your inner- self, where it’s just you and the unforgiving challenges you voluntarily subject yourself to. Once you’ve been there, it’s hard to walk back to a normal, regular life. That’s why you keep doing it.”

Stay out long enough and you’ll discover your own abyss. When the shit hits the fan, you might even dance on its jagged verge. Pure ecstasy. Stay even longer, staring into the black hole and you’ll find out things about yourself that you would have never even dreamed possible. Epiphany is when you wake up and find you’ve jumped over the edge a long time ago and you just keep falling.

The train was about to pull into the station. I hadn’t noticed when exactly the girl had disengaged from the conversation, but she was now making it abundantly clear.

“Come on. Can’t we finally stop talking about the war? It’s my only night out. I want to have fun!”

As I grabbed my bags and got up, I imagined seeing a slight trace of relief flickering underneath the make- up on her face. Clearly, the war had come too close for her comfort.