I’m not a big fan of war.
I grew up Mennonite, which is a pacifist Anabaptist sect of Christianity.
Indeed Mennonites are not so much anti-war as pro-Peace, emphasizing active peacemaking, conscientious objection to military service, and nonviolent conflict resolution.
So when one of my favourite podcasts—Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History decided to run an episode of the show Medal of Honor instead, I was going to skip the show.
According to the show’s web page, “the Medal of Honor is the United States’ highest military decoration. Hear about the men who charged enemy hills alone in World War II and pilots who risked everything to rescue the wounded in Vietnam. Follow escapes from prison camps and acts of sacrifice that didn’t involve a weapon at all—like the Four Chaplains, who gave up their lives so others could survive as their ship went down in the Atlantic.
“Medal of Honor uncovers the stories that redefine what it means to be an American. From a French-born Muslim immigrant who tackled a suicide bomber in Afghanistan, to a Marine who overcame disability to save his fellow troops, to legends like Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain at Gettysburg, Medal of Honor asks what heroism really is—and what it costs. Explore what these experiences reveal about courage, leadership, identity, and sacrifice—and what happens after you’ve done the extraordinary in the name of something bigger than yourself.”
To my peacenik ears, it sounds like American jingoism masquerading as infotainment. But I was busy when it started, so I listened to the first few minutes, and, having listened to the first few minutes, I had to listen to the whole show. It told the story of helicopter pilot James Flemming who, on his second day flying during the Vietnam war, refused to head back to base, even in the face of overwhelming enemy fire, because he had dropped seven men off on the mission, and he was not going to leave them behind.
“There were seven soldiers down in that jungle who were about to be captured or killed by the North Vietnamese Army,” said show host JR Martinez. “They had fought their way to the riverbank, and James was their only chance to get out of there alive. Jim remembered what he told those same guys just a few hours earlier when he dropped them there.
“He had told them he would put them in, but he would also get them out. Jim looked at his fuel gauge and it was almost empty. He looked at the terrain, impossible.
“And then he banked his helicopter and started in.”
He pulled those seven men out. And, while he was awarded a medal of honor for his deeds, he says it wasn’t unique.
Every single man he picked up during his time in Vietnam, says Flemming, would turn around when they reached the helicopter, and reach back to the next person.
“Make sure everybody was there. That’s who we are. That was my duty, my honor. My job was to take these soldiers in the enemy territory, to drop them off, to let them do their mission, and go back and bring them home.”
Leave no one behind.
That idea has been on my mind a lot lately as people discuss—sometimes quite passionately—the pros and (more often than not) the cons of building a new school.
And there are good arguments, strong points on both sides.
In a recent letter to Premier David Eby (cc’d to council), former council member Helen Scott writes of tearing the building down: “I believe this approach risks sending the wrong message to the very children we are trying to help.
“The building itself is not responsible for what happened. Evil and violence came from an individual’s actions, not from concrete walls or classrooms. If we teach children that healing comes from destroying physical places tied to painful memories, we may unintentionally reinforce fear and avoidance rather than resilience and recovery.
“Real healing does not come from pretending tragedy never happened or by covering it up with a new structure. Healing comes from helping young people confront reality, process grief honestly, support one another, and learn that painful events are unfortunately part of life. Shielding children from difficult memories may provide temporary comfort, but avoiding trauma entirely can sometimes deepen fear instead of reducing it.”
Fair point. Yet even now, in a new space, there are kids reluctant to go back to school. I’ve heard stories about how, when the metal siding heats up and expands with a loud ping, some students jump at the sound, heart racing.
There is no perfect decision in this situation, there are only the decisions that need to be made. Each potential path picked has strengths and weaknesses. Opportunities and, yes, threats.
Yes, we need to do all we can do to help these students deal with their trauma as opposed to bury it or run away from it, yet I can’t help but think about what Flemming said: leave no one behind. I fear that choosing to send kids back to the old school would mean that some would not return, despite our best efforts to help.
Which begs the question: how many kids are we willing to leave behind? How many are we willing to lose? How many is too many? At what point do we say this is the wrong path? Ten percent? Ten? One? How many kids are we willing to let slip through the cracks?
Or do we force them back to school? Make them face their fears. Toss them in the deep end to sink or swim, then wonder why so many are sinking?
We are faced with a difficult choice, and no matter which path we choose, there will be people unhappy with the choice.
I don’t know that there is a right answer, but whatever path we take, let’s try and find the one that runs the least risk of leaving anyone—any child—behind.
Trent is the publisher of Tumbler RidgeLines.
