War and Other Diseases

As my husband and I watched M*A*S*H*: The Comedy That Changed Television on FOX last evening, we wondered why we cared so much about the characters on that show—more than in any other. I remember I once dreamed about them as though they were family members. Perhaps they were. Not that I always cheered the show. In the beginning, some of the humor felt as exaggerated as I expected television to be. But the series and I matured simultaneously, gradually admitting the reality of the situation being portrayed—the awful juxtaposition of laughter, horror, and tears. Life and death was happening to diverse characters we came to love. The actors came to love one another. I took it with me to college, squeezing time to watch it into my schedule. I cried openly more than once, touched by the bizarre tragedy of war.

My parents sheltered their children from the dark side of life. I’m not sure why they allowed us to watch M*A*S*H*—perhaps because it was billed as a comedy. They didn’t like that, either—too much sex. But somehow they couldn’t look away any more than I could. My parents liked to pretend the world and its issues could be simple—like computer code of ON and OFF. But life isn’t designed to be simple. Morality is a morass of choices, no matter how diligently a person or doctrine pounds it as flat as they can. The people who have the intellectual resources (not simple intelligence but wisdom) to sort out a path through life that makes sense are immensely lucky—not always happy, but lucky. The more we know about life, the more complicated and unknowable it is. Accepting the realities is proof of civilization and a goal of human existence.

We loved M*A*S*H* for not pandering to what’s easy. After all, we all knew people who were enmeshed in the “police action” of Vietnam. We all lost friends. We were coaxed into seeing that war isn’t noble or glorious and doesn’t always settle a point. We had to admit there were motivations we didn’t see and murder we did see. At the bottom of the pile, those who fought were common people from wherever, directed by powers who remained safe at a great distance. On operating tables, all the soldiers looked alike, as did the destruction of the land left behind. With Putin willing to sanction any level of killing so he can recreate the glory of the lost Soviet Union, we know war doesn’t change. Power isn’t always right. The masses always lose. A need to control can result in living hell.

On a seemingly unrelated note, we watched PBS Masterpiece Theater: Elizabeth is Missing. Combining themes of Alzheimer’s disease with a murder, all from the point of view of the woman losing control of her reasoning, the beautifully rendered story succeeds in demonstrating how readily we discard the insights we could gain from one another if we spent more time listening. Listening is humanity’s most precious skill—one that could help us sort good from evil, leaders from dictators, necessities from greed. We could see the multiple time bombs of any conflict ahead of time and have hope of defusing them.

Seeking out reality by listening isn’t easy or pretty and it doesn’t automatically answer questions. But it’s our best hope for human survival.