Shadow of War Hovers Close to Home : Persian Gulf: Ultimate reality of the battlefield touches the lives of a family doctor, neighbors, acquaintances and her own children.

Mr. Slonaker, my high school American history teacher, always initiated his lectures on war in the same manner. Preceding the chapter entitled World War I, he recited a litany of childhood names. For World War II and the Korean conflict, he recited the names of several of his students. My youngest sister relates that, upon turning to the chapter entitled Vietnam War, he whispered the names of two of my classmates.

Then he would lead the discussion with complete neutrality, presenting the students with the facts and theories of history. He heard the fervent adolescent voices defend and protest their country’s actions. He listened to the concerns and fears. And he always remembered the faces.

The Persian Gulf Crisis invaded my life while I was listening to an orchestra rehearse during the summer music camp our family attends each year. A young camper from Kuwait placed her instrument on a bench and walked forward to be interviewed by a television reporter. She expressed wrenching concern for her family, whom she had not been able to contact since Iraq had invaded her country three days earlier.

A face.

During the same trip, I had lunch with a dear high school friend whose family was from Iraq.

Another face.

I read and listened to numerous debates on the Middle East. But, quite honestly, I assured myself that it would all be resolved peacefully.

Yet, I found that the crisis permeated my every day. My children’s rhetoric was containing such terms as deployment, Saddam Hussein, Persian Gulf and Kuwait. In October, the 10-year-old spoke of her classmate’s father being “deployed” to the Persian Gulf. Her class wrote letters to service people in Operation Desert Shield.

Sometime in November, a service person in the Middle East received a letter from a 10-year-old that detailed her family, told about her cello and her love of sports. It also included a photo of a pony-tailed girl in her softball uniform, poised at home plate, ready to hit a homer. She had spent an hour searching for just the right picture to send with the letter.

That same month, I sat beside a young F-14 pilot returning to Miramar. This Vanderbilt University engineering graduate’s articulate discussion of his naval career, his family and his future goals struck me.

Another face.

On Dec. 1, as we drove from choir practice at St. Paul’s Cathedral, three children asked me to stop the car high on Laurel Street. Overlooking the bay, we watched the fleet leave San Diego.

More faces.

The newspaper covered a story of the pediatric surgeon being deployed. He had attended our son during an illness.

Another face.

Over the holiday vacation, a flow of returning college students filtered through our home and their concern about the trouble with Iraq surfaced. Did I think there would be a war? Did I worry about a nuclear war? Did I think about terrorists?

The young neighbor children, who had been raised in Israel, worried aloud about former classmates who were now in the Israeli army. I felt that we would be able to resolve the differences, I said optimistically.

And then on Wednesday, while a father cheered on a 16-year-old soccer player at a high school game, a college student napped, and an 8 and 10-year old took piano lessons, Operation Desert Storm began.

The most difficult part of witnessing this historically orchestrated war in the Middle East is that I am left with no answers for my children--simply concern for all of those lives which are so closely involved.

For, I well remember Mr. Slonaker’s one action after he recited his litany of names. He would remove his rimless glasses, take a cloth handkerchief from his pocket, and wipe his eye.