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Existing at the Center, Watching from the Edges

For the last fifteen years I have been writing down notes, sketches of some of the wars I have lived through and yes, often with a survivor's guilt. Notes on the back of receipts, scraps of papers, note cards, letters, books, bookmarks—whatever is at hand. I find it difficult to put these together in any formal, traditional format as I attempt to make sense of the unending wars I have watched and lived through. Wars that have taken the shape of an adult's slap on a child's face, of the red, orange, green, blue and yellow flames engulfing the body of a monk or the body of a woman, of the stooped shoulders and the traumatized eyes of a man or woman whose dignity has been broken through conquest and poverty and of the corpses, the obscene slaughter of human beings and the earth in the name of God, truth, revenge and justice. Seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and touching war, sometimes from the very center and sometimes from the sidelines that has led me to a pattern of war existence that seems terrifyingly...