Paulo Coelho’s Blog

8 Responses to “War”

• Marta Adriana

  August 18, 2009 at 3:38 am

  I guess most people are against war.

  Only a person who has undergone all the harm that derives from it can fully understand all the horror.

  Even though this happened long ago and not for so long, you still have nightmares of soldiers chasing you. You get a feeling of being defenceless, at the mercy of the worst. This feeling almost chokes you. You also hear the noise of the plane flying over your house and shooting, and you run to the shelter saying the prayer your great aunt has just taught you. You’re almost ten, but already grown-up enough to find out your ten- year-old neighbor got shot and died. You pretend it doesn’t have an effect on you. Anyways ,you didn’t know her. But it does. You realize this 30 years later , when writing a comment you didn’t even think you’d come up with.

  However ,this is not what you wanted to talk about.

  You wanted to say this should not be a discussion about how bad war is and criticize the romantic idea Paulo gives in the book.
  You agree with the way Esther pictures everything about war. It makes sense. People indeed find a meaning for their lives at war because they might die the next minute.
  This is the irony.
  What in your opinion the author tries to convey is people shouldn’t be at war to realize they should live every minute as if it were the last one. People should feel they might pass away any moment without the need of experiencing the horrors of a war.
  There is an analogy there between a real war and the battle of life.
  So, don’t await till you find yourself at the hell of a war to realize the true meaning of your life.

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• Savita Vega

  August 16, 2009 at 6:40 pm

  I agree with Monica: “It is true - when you are near death you are feeling most alive.” Still yet, I had a very hard time accepting the romanticized (is that to harsh a word? - I can’t think of any other) the romanticized perspective on war presented in this novel. It may be true that the conditions present in war sever us from trivial concerns and knock us free from the holds of social norms, but when I think of war, this is not what comes to my mind as it’s primary attributes.

  I honestly believe that in the days of hand-to-hand combat, before the onset of firearms and bombs and chemical warfare, things might have been very different. There was a certain nobility in going to war. Men could walk away from it perhaps better than they were when they went into it, but I think this is not possible today. The kind of warfare that we know today makes men sick in their souls - they are never better for having experienced it. It either turns them into monsters, or it leaves them inhabited by demons which they must continue to fight with for the rest of their lives.

  Just yesterday I was on my way to a birthday party, and I was thinking of this section on the blog, thinking of war and what does it mean. It was a child’s birthday party - very gay and lively. Then, after having cake, I decided to step out onto the porch to have a smoke. The moment that I stepped out the door, however, I realized that something was wrong - I had stepped into a place which (according to social norms) I did not belong. There were four men seated on the porch - each related to me in some vague way - engaged in conversation, and the moment I appeared, the conversation came to a halt. I stood there for a moment, gazing out upon the lawn, pondering what to do. Of course I could go back inside, but that would seem rather stupid - I had a cigarette and a lighter in my hand: it was obvious that I had come out to smoke. Besides, I was very curious to know what it was that they were talking about, and hoped, that if I stood there for a moment, perfectly still, the conversation would continue. I was right: it did. And the subject these men were talking about? - War. So I quietly took a seat off to the side, and looked off in the opposite direction, so that perhaps they would think I was not listening and would continue without censoring their words. My bet paid off.

  There were four men, of four different generations: one, a veteran of World War II; another, a veteran of the Korean War; yet another a bit younger, from another country, having never fought in a war; and yet a fourth, about 17 or 18 perhaps, the one who might yet be called to war within his life-time. The man who was the veteran of the Korean War was engaged in telling a story about a POW camp which his platoon commanded, a place where North Korean soldiers were kept. He was telling of how his Sargeant had bashed a young Korean POW’s head in with the butt of a gun, because the young man had been to quick to move in the soup line, then left him there to die in front of everyone, with his brains hanging out of his skull. He wasn’t telling the story with an aura of horror; in fact, he seemed to take enormous pride and joy in telling of “how tough” they were on their prisoners - “not like today,” he added. The main point he was trying to make was that war has become too watered-down, too wimpish: we try too hard to save the lives of civilians, we try too hard to prevent casualties, we try too hard to insure that each instance of killing is just and truly called for, we give too many right to POW’s and not enough power to those in charge. “We should go back to the old ways,” he said, “When war was war.” He also said that he was 17 when he stood there that day and watched that other young man convulse and slowly die in the dirt, with his head bashed in. There was a certain delight in his eyes upon telling this story, which left me with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wondered: Did he find the Love that Consumes - the love that Esther describes - there within the walls of that POW camp? Perhaps? I cannot say. I did not dare ask. I wanted to, but I knew that it would be one of those absolutely absurd things to say - deemed completely socially unacceptable - and thus would stop the conversation altogether. So I did not ask. But I thought: if he did experience this Love, it did not leave its mark upon him. Instead, he was marked only by hatred - the “Gooks,” he kept calling them, referring to the Korean’s, “the bloody Gooks, the bastards!” He also had the taste of blood in his mouth, as I could see by the strange twinkle in his eyes when he told his tales of horror, and that taste made him greedy for more blood-shed. The word “peace” was not within this man’s vocabulary. “We should just kill ‘em all, civilians too, drop a bomb and be done with it!” - referring to Iraq. In the trenches, there may be the presence of the Love that Consumes, but of some men, war makes only monsters.

  As this man told his tales, I watched the other men’s reactions. The youngest was absolutely silent, staring down at the floor of the porch. Perhaps he was envisioning the possibility that he, too, might one day have to face such circumstances. At the first opportunity, he got up and left, making some scarcely comprehensible excuse about having to go take care of something.

  The other man who was of the next generation up - the one who had come to this country too late and too young to have taken part in it’s conflicts - he seemed eager to step in and make agreeable comments. In his body language, I could detect some hint of guilt or shame, as though he had missed out on some right-of-passage that would make him a “real man,” a “real American.” At one point, he tried to turn the conversation to present-day conflicts in Central America, his region of birth, but no one was interested in this and the topic was quickly dismissed with the comment, “Yeah, it’s always some f-ing dictator they let into power down there,” as though the US held no part in any of this, as though these weren’t “real wars” fought by “real men.”

  The oldest man of the four, the veteran of World War II, I watched closely, as he seemed to be made very uncomfortable by the graphic details related by the Korean vet. He didn’t say this, but I noticed how he slid over in his chair just a bit, as though to distance himself from this man who was talking with zeal about blood, and brains, and guts. I noticed too, how his aged hands slowly wrapped around the wooden arms of the chair in which he was seated, how his grip grew tighter and tighter as his body grew more rigid. He spoke only of war in general, and of his war only in major strategical terms. He did not relate even one single detail of his personal experience of that war. Still I knew. He did not know that I knew, but I knew. I knew because this man was my mother’s first husband, and I can still remember her telling me, when I was very young, about the nightmares he would have when they were married, about the intermittent bouts of drinking, interspersed with depression and violent outburst. He was young too, just a teenager, when he was made to ride in the back of an open truck, along the streets of a German town under curfew, and in the dark, shoot with an automatic weapon at anything and everything that moved. One night they were riding along and it was very cold, and they came upon a very old man, sitting up against a wall, shivering, apparently with no place to get inside. He hesitated. “Shoot!” screamed his commanding officer, in his ear. The old man was looking up at them, shivering, pleading, obviously half-starved. “Shoot!” He shot, and the truck drove on, leaving the mutilated body lying in the snow. He probably experienced more graphically horrid things than that even, but this was the incident that stuck in his mind and gave him nightmares for years to come. I saw the way the thin skin of his knuckled turned white as he gripped the arm of the chair in which he was seated. Now he is that old man; I prayed that his demons haunt him no more.

  So, yes, perhaps Esther was right about the Love that Consumes being so freely accessible in war. I’ve never been in war, so I do not know. It makes sense in a way; I can only believe. And yet, war is war, and I do not see very many men returning from war better human beings than when they entered into the conflict. I see them either turned into monsters or haunted by demons, or both. If that Love touched them while they were in the trenches, it quickly receded and left them isolated, alone on a island, in a sea of horrors.

  War will always be - I believe that - war has always been and to it I see no end, and yet it is not something to be glorified, or wished for, or invited. I realize that Paulo’s intent in this novel is not to “glorify” war, but I still had a very hard time accepting Esther’s view of it. There are other ways to seek out and experience the Love that Consumes, there are other places to find it without entering into the trenches.

  Much Love,
  Savita

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• Monika

  July 23, 2009 at 10:29 pm

  It is true - when you are near death you are feeling most alive.

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• Nicolette

  July 19, 2009 at 6:47 am

  I was engaged with a man who fought in Vietnam, unfortunately he couldn’t let go of the ugliness inside. When we first met, I had writen a poem years ago for another man, who was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam! For some reason, men who had been to war were attracted to me, they opened up to me. Both men I loved with great passion, but both men couldn’t or wouldn’t let go of their self imposed prisons. You can’t heal someone, you can only hold their hand and walk with them where they need to go, which is what I learned from these men. I could take their hand and walk with them, but I couldn’t heal them. When I shared the poem with the second man, he called me and asked me, where do I find the girl on the beach. Having been through an emotional relationship with the pilot, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go down that road with another Vietnam vet, so I told him, within yourself. What I didn’t realize at the time, was, that was true, if he could never find the girl on the beach within himself, he’d never be able to accept her in real life. In 2008 I stood on a corner for 10 months, one day a week, with a sign, end the war, because I’ve seen the damage war inflicts, unnecissary wars are a crime against humanity. I stood there for those two men, for other men and women and children! Unfortunately this poem with a change of place, is still relevant. I think for those to heal, they have to find something to fight for, I used to tell Bill, if we all could learn to fight for peace and happiness like a Marine, then the world would be a better place.

  WELCOME HOME

  The helicopter blades
  like razors slashing veins
  break the stillness of the night,
  a young boy huddles in cold
  caught within the stars……..
  that one’s mom,
  over there, my first kiss,
  oh, and that one……
  summers on Coney Island
  Friday night keggers
  the guys on the team
  Sally’s blowjobs
  the tits on Jane
  my lettermen’s jacket,
  and that one…..
  the first time I…..

  Slowly tears fall
  like soft summer rain
  footsteps from the past.
  but the symphony plays on
  ringing in his ears.
  cries of terror…
  sounds of gunfire….
  the explosion of bombs….
  maybe it’s the fireworks
  on the fourth of July,
  or a bad dream,
  or a……….do something, anything,
  just make it stop….
  cries the child of war
  in the jungles of Vietnam.

  Can he climb a star?
  will it carry him home?
  no, the only way home
  is to shut up his feelings
  stuff’em in a body bag
  lock’em in a steel vault,
  keep them quiet with a forty five
  and destroy the fucking key.
  suddenly his tears stop
  the nightmarish sounds of war
  play like Brahms Lullaby
  cradling him to sleep. so hush little baby
  good night, sleep tight,
  make someone richer,
  get out there and fight.

  The young boy came home
  having grown into a man.
  but somewhere in the jungles
  he left behind the key
  to unlock the emotions,
  he couldn’t bare to see.
  as the years marched by
  the symphony of Nams fury
  played with all her might
  lashing out in anger
  screaming through his dreams
  he cried in desperation
  to escape the cold steel vault
  but no one cared to listen
  blaming him for losing
  a war, that wasn’t his fault.

  One day on a lone beach
  he happened upon a woman
  dancing through the waves
  a girl naked in the sun
  a poet with wings to fly
  just a lover, just a child.
  something stirred inside,
  was it the boy he was?
  who went to fight for freedom,
  not to fight for war?
  suddenly their eyes connected
  shocking him to see
  eyes that had known pain
  yet choosing to be free
  maybe therein lay the key.
  she reached her hand towards his
  slowly he reached out
  silently their tears fell
  like soft summer rain,
  gently she took his hand
  softly she whispered
  I’m sorry, you’re not guilty
  that’s the key, you’re not guilty
  the war’s over, come home
  welcome home, you’re free.

  Nicolette

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  Savita Vega Reply:
  August 16th, 2009 at 8:07 pm

  A very beautiful and thought proving poem, Nicolette. Thank you for sharing it. Thank you also for having an open heart and a light shining from within.

  The Vietnam War, I remember in this way: We never had a television until I was seven, when US withdrawal was well underway. Until then, my dad would not allow a television in our house. I didn’t even know what the Vietnam War was or that it was taking place, until I was much older, as even when my mom and I were allowed to go out and purchase a TV, I was only allowed to watch certain programs - never the news.

  I also remember a young man who, during those years came to live and work on our ranch. I was very young, but it seemed strange to me that he seemed to have no family and no outside life, beyond the confines of the ranch. When we went into town, he never came with us. My mom would ask for a list of the things he required, which she would purchase for him. She also told me that I was not to speak about him in public. When the war was over, he left. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized why he was there and what he was doing - he had obviously been drafted, and he was in hiding. I don’t know what consequences he paid for this choice afterward, as I never saw him again.

  During that same period there were two other young men who came from somewhere up North, who worked on the ranch, but they didn’t stay as long. I remember how they dressed strange - strange to me, who knew nothing of the outside world - with long hair, and bell-bottom jeans with patches on their clothing and even beads. They seemed to have a hard time doing the work that was required of them. I don’t think they had ever been on a ranch before, perhaps never even seen a horse or a cow up-close in their lives. I always wondered what ever became of them after they took up their nap-sacks and moved on. One of them I particularly liked, because he always went around with a field-flower of some sort tucked behind his ear, and I thought this was a very funny thing for a man to do. The other had a guitar, which he would sit in the hay and play when he wasn’t working. (They slept in the barn, in the loft.) Both were very colorful and friendly, and I enjoyed their presence greatly. I, in my child’s naivete, never guessed at the worries which must have clouded their thoughts or the invisible weights which they carried around in their backpacks - the burdens of men seeking to avoid the horrors of what they considered as an unjust war.

  Truly, I feel great sympathy for both the men who went and those who opted out. Both have paid a heavy price, as it seems that, in this situation, there was no right “choice” they COULD make, no choice that afterward would render them as “acceptable” in the eyes of society.

  One of the most callous comments I have ever heard in my life was in reference to Vietnam Veterans. It was at a social gathering which was held in a public park. There was a woman there, one of the organizers of the event, who at one point began to express very boldly her annoyance at the “filthy homeless people” who were sitting around, too close for her comfort. I said to her, “Do you realize that the majority of the homeless people in this city are Vietnam veterans?” This was a statistic that I had picked up from an acquaintance, a psychologist who was employed by a public agency, the focus of which was to try to help these veterans who, due to the effects of PTSD, often avoid all contacts with any authority which might be able to help them. They won’t come in for medical care, although it is free. They won’t even go into the soup kitchen, where they can be fed, because the presence of crowds causes them to have flash-backs of the war. The psychologists hired to help them have to go out on the streets, in disguise, just in order to get to know them. Then, as soon as they suspect that they are being approached by a someone who is seeking to help them, they flee, never to be seen again. So, this woman in her designer outfit and expensive high heels said to me, “So what?! Do you expect me to feel sympathy for them because they are murderers?” I stood there speechless, as she continued. “I believe in karma,” she said. “What they are suffering now is the karma they have created for themselves!”

  At that time I considered myself a Hindu, and that one statement was enough to cause me to seriously consider renouncing my religious affiliation altogether. How could she use karma to justify the traumatic after-effects of war?! Furthermore, she stood on a safe platform to make this declaration - she was a woman and this was a choice that she would never be called on to make. And if she were, she could surely buy her way out of it, by making it appear that she had something more “important” to do than go to war and fight in the trenches.

  So many tragedies this war created, both among the living as well as the dead.

  Much love to you, Nicolette, and to the men who have crossed your path seeking comfort and understanding.

  Sincerely,
  Savita

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• Annie

  July 9, 2009 at 5:12 pm

  “The stranger and the ENEMY you see them in the mirror” - Seferis

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• Ema

  July 9, 2009 at 12:09 pm

  I’m against war. I am a hippy in heart and soul, i want this world to be better , without wars between people and everyone should be happy believing in God and Love. I want all the children in the world to have homes and to be happy.
  I was really interested in the point you’re talking about in Zahir, where Esther saw that man were happy fighting for their country and they felt alive. I think THE GREATEST WAR IS THE WAR IN OURSELVES!
  I love your book “Zahir” :)

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  Elaine Stevens Reply:
  August 20th, 2009 at 4:22 pm

  Namaste Ema,
  This is wonderful. I am now reading The Winner Stands Alone and am having trouble with the cold blooded violence clinically applied. It’s thought provoking but a difficult read… not unlike Capote’s In Cold Blood in that way. I never understand violence and war to me is violence run a muck.

  When taken literally, Esther’s decision to be a war correspondent seemed strange to me unless it was to bring the darkness of war to light. The whole feeling alive thing just didn’t jive with my experience of violence. It made me numb and emotionally dead. Bringing war into the metaphor of self makes me think of Esther as a reflection of the writer’s third eye… his gate to his higher consciousness. This really clarifies a great deal for me. Thank you.

  Love to you

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