1 month ago the American people stopped to remember the third

Host: The sun was sinking behind the hills, bleeding through a haze of dust and smoke that hung above the city. It was one of those evenings when the air felt thick with memory, when even the wind carried echoes of things unspoken.
A television in the corner of the bar played muted footage — soldiers in camouflage, flags at half-mast, a memorial ceremony under a grey sky. The caption read: “Three years since the Iraq War began.”
At a corner table, under the dim amber glow of a single bulb, Jack and Jeeny sat. Between them, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a silence so heavy it seemed to press against the walls.

Host: Jack stared at the screen, his jaw tense, his fingers tapping the side of his glass. Jeeny watched him quietly, her eyes carrying that same sorrow the world had carried for too long.

Jeeny: “Rosa DeLauro once said — ‘One month ago the American people stopped to remember the third anniversary of the beginning of the Iraq war. We thought first and foremost of the selflessness, patriotism, and heroism by our troops, our National Guard and Reserves.’”
(she pauses) “Do you believe that, Jack? That what we remember most is heroism?”

Jack: (dryly) “We remember what we’re told to remember, Jeeny. Heroism makes the pain easier to swallow. Nobody wants to think about the mistakes, the lies, the broken families. So we wrap it in words like patriotism and sacrifice.”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass, listening from a distance, the sound of ice clinking against metal filling the spaces between their words.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there truth in that, too? Those soldiers — they didn’t choose the politics. They went because they believed they were serving something bigger than themselves.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t sanctify what’s wrong. The Crusaders believed too. So did the men who dropped bombs on Dresden. You can die for a lie, Jeeny — and still die bravely. But that doesn’t make the lie worth dying for.”

Host: His voice was low, almost reverent, but edged with a kind of bitterness that seemed carved into his bones. Jeeny turned her glass slowly, watching the light ripple across the amber liquid.

Jeeny: “Then what do we honor, Jack — the truth or the courage? You can’t tell a mother her son died in vain. You can’t tell a soldier his pain was for nothing.”

Jack: “No, but maybe we should tell them the whole story. Maybe we owe them that. Honor the courage, yes — but never worship the war.”

Host: The TV flickered, showing images of young faces — some smiling, some haunted. A reporter’s lips moved silently, mouthing words that could’ve been anything: freedom, democracy, duty.

Jeeny: “When Rosa DeLauro said those words, she wasn’t glorifying war. She was reminding people to remember the human part. The soldiers, not the speeches. The families, not the flags.”

Jack: “And yet, every time we remember, we forget something else. We forget the Iraqi families. The children running through streets littered with shells. The civilians caught in someone else’s ‘patriotism.’ Tell me, Jeeny — who remembers them?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, a shadow of pain crossing her face. She leaned forward, her voice trembling with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “I do. I think of them, too. But grief isn’t a competition, Jack. We can mourn both sides — the soldier who believed and the child who never understood why the sky was falling.”

Jack: “Maybe. But when leaders talk about heroism, they’re not mourning. They’re justifying. They turn death into decoration.”

Host: The light from the TV flashed, momentarily washing their faces in cold blue. The contrast between them — her soft sorrow, his hard certainty — looked like two halves of the same wound.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t believe in anything anymore.”

Jack: “I believe in truth. And truth is rarely heroic.”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t comfort the dying, Jack. Or their families.”

Jack: “Maybe comfort isn’t what we need. Maybe we need accountability. Maybe the real heroism isn’t dying for a flag — it’s questioning the reason you’re sent to die for it.”

Host: The clock behind the bar ticked, the sound sharp, steady, like the heartbeat of a room that refused to breathe. Jeeny looked down, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve seen it.”

Jack: (pausing) “Afghanistan. 2009. I wasn’t a soldier — just a contractor. But I saw boys younger than me coming home in boxes, and no one wanted to talk about why. They only wanted to talk about how brave they were. As if bravery could wash the blood off the truth.”

Jeeny: “And yet… isn’t bravery still worth honoring, even if the cause wasn’t pure?”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, Jeeny. The purer the heart, the easier it is to exploit.”

Host: The room seemed to shrink, the air heavier, the whiskey now more bitter than warm. Outside, sirens wailed faintly in the distance, echoing like a memory too old to heal.

Jeeny: “But if we stop believing in heroism, we lose the very thing that makes us human — the willingness to give ourselves for something greater. Even flawed causes can produce beautiful acts.”

Jack: “And even beautiful acts can be used to sell a lie.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the lie doesn’t win, Jack. Maybe what lasts isn’t the reason for the fight — but the courage within it.”

Host: The silence after her words hung between them, like a flag torn but still flying. Jack looked up at the television again — a soldier saluting, a family weeping, a bugle crying in the background. He sighed.

Jack: “You always find a way to make me feel like there’s still light left.”

Jeeny: “Because there is. Even in war. Especially in war.”

Host: The rain outside had begun to fall, soft, persistent, like the world was trying to wash itself clean.

Jack: “So what do we do then? Keep remembering the good parts? Keep pretending the bad ones didn’t happen?”

Jeeny: “No. We remember everything. The blood, the bravery, the confusion, the humanity. We remember the way war steals from everyone — but also the way it reveals what people can be at their best, even in the worst.”

Jack: “You sound like you still have faith in people.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because even when governments fail, people still reach out — they still save one another, write letters home, hold hands in the rubble. That’s the kind of patriotism I believe in. Not blind loyalty. Human loyalty.”

Host: Jack nodded, his eyes softer now, the defense fading. He poured the last of the whiskey, slid her a glass, and raised his own.

Jack: “To human loyalty, then.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And to remembering — all of it. The heroism and the heartbreak.”

Host: They drank, the sound of the rain masking their breaths, the television glow like a ghost light flickering across their faces. Outside, the flag above the courthouse fluttered, wet, torn, yet somehow still standing.

Host: And in that quiet moment, amid the echoes of wars past and present, the truth of DeLauro’s words lingered — not as a political statement, but as a human one: that even in the shadow of loss, what we remember first must always be the people — not the cause, not the battle, but the beating hearts that carried both.