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The Wall

By Pete Zastrow

Any war—good, bad or indifferent, righteous or immoral—is starkly tragic simply because wars are fought, mostly, by the young and it is the young who die. Who can say which life, stolen before its time, might have belonged to the artist who would give us a new way to see the world, a doctor who would cure disease, a thinker who could propose a path to a peaceful world.

The Wall: Images and Offerings from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (Collins Publishers, 1987 fiercely testifies to the tragedy of Vietnam. An eloquent series of photographs with a sparing collection of words, the book captures the spirit of the Wall and a little of the agony of those who thought the Wall, Any Vietnam vet who can look through the 125 pages of the book without his or her eyes misting over several times is one hard individual.

By now most of us know the power of The Wall: in the words of a sign carried by one vet whose picture is in the book, "I am a Vietnam veteran. I like the memorial and if it makes it difficult to send people into battle again—I'll like it even more." The names of how many sons and fathers and brothers and husbands must decorate such a wall before people say enough? Slow as always, the politicians finally noticed the power of The Wall and began to try to dilute the impact-statues, flags, anything to lessen the strength of black marble covered with names.

The book is beautiful; the photographs are matchless in snatching small moments of drama—a vet touching the metal hand of one of the statues, a school girl passing by, and older couple whose grief pours from the page. The Wall speaks for itself as do those who come to it; the book truly lets both speak for themselves.

The Vietnamese have no such wall (the size of such a wall to represent the millions of deaths of Vietnamese is unimaginable) perhaps because their unified country is monument enough to the sacrifices of their soldiers. The United States has nothing even vaguely similar for the victims of any of our other wars; winning those wars was, apparently, enough. The winners always end up writing the histories of wars and can justify the sacrifice—monuments are unnecessary.

Just as the political powers are now working to clutter up The Wall with all manner of extraneous garbage—to dilute the message—so recollections of Vietnam are rapidly beginning to drown in a lot of sentimental nonsense. POW/MIA's are but a part of this effort to rewrite the clear lessons of Vietnam. The potent efforts of television glamorize Vietnam service. All such attempts must finally face The Wall which tells the ultimate truth; men and women—mostly young—die, and in the case of Vietnam, die only for the greed of their leaders.

I cannot imagine how angry I would be were it my child or my father whose name was inscribed on The Wall. As it is, the fact that the names of a few friends are there makes me angry enough but without the heart-wrenching pain that must come from the death of one dearly loved. The words in The Wall make that pain throb as parents and children and lovers and friends of the dead search for the meaning of what has happened.

Neither the book nor the Wall itself is explicitly anti-war; had anyone even guessed what a powerful antiwar statement The Wall would make it would probably never have been built. The book reflects the same message. One cannot look at a picture of The Wall in the snow, a memorial in a city of memorials, The Wall stretching on and on and on. In a war there is no end to the dead, and the dying and the pain go on and on. They continue today.

I'm not sure why the compilers of this extraordinary book decided on the subtitle, "Images and Offerings..." What religion is it that requires the offering of young people on a regular basis? What horrible war god is consuming these offerings? And what will bring it all to an end? The Wall gives only some of the reasons why it must end, but it does that splendidly.

—Pete Zastrow
VVAW National Office