The photographs show the soldiers, the rubble, the flags. What they do not show is the woman in the apartment downstairs from me who lost her grandson last month — she still sets out his shoes by the door sometimes, forgets, then remembers. The news counts the dead and moves to the next story. Nobody counts the people who stop sleeping, or sleep too much, or forget their grandchildren's names on purpose because it hurts less. I taught children for thirty-six years and I learned that trauma does not announce itself loudly. It whispers. It shows up in a trembling hand, in a child who cannot read the same page twice, in silences that last too long. War produces numbers for the broadcasts. It produces people like my neighbour, who will live another twenty years with a hole in the shape of a person she loved.
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