My father, US Army Colonel John M. McHugh, was killed in Afghanistan. Though the United States involvement in Afghanistan ended on August 31
, my son will feel the war's ripples. As he grows up with only stories about his grandfather, the man he'll share a name with, the Forever War will haunt him in ways that, over the past decade, they've haunted me. I'm already bracing for the day he starts asking questions.
"Why did he have to die?" he may ask.
I wish I had a good answer.
I was 18 on May 18, 2010
, when my father's convoy was hit by a suicide bomber on the streets of Kabul. The attack killed more high-ranking officers than the war had seen in its then-nine years, and the Taliban took credit for it immediately.
Like anyone hit with the news of losing a loved one too soon, I was rocked by my father's sudden, unexpected death -- my world shaken. But amid the pain and grief, there was also confusion. In the months, then years, then decade that followed, I was filled with questions that, no matter where I looked or who I talked to, were never answered. I wanted to know what exactly we were doing in Afghanistan and what the endgame was. I wanted to know that my dad's life was at least part of progress towards a bigger plan. I felt my country owed me that.
As the war in Afghanistan comes to an end, what are Gold Star families like mine supposed to feel? As we watch the Taliban take over the country, what does that mean for the legacies of the ones we've lost? What do we have to show for their lives? I'd always thought ending the Forever War would provide some kind of meaning in my father's death, but that has been hard to find, and I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that maybe I'll never find it.
Since President Joe Biden announced the withdrawal earlier this year, I've been following the commentary surrounding the decision closely. Words from podcasts, newscasts, essays and military Twitter swirl through my head. I've read the personal stories from veterans, listened to thoughts on the withdrawal from politicians and military leaders and followed the devastating reports from the ground in Afghanistan. Though this withdrawal is what I've been waiting for, longing for, since my father's death, it doesn't feel the way I thought it would.
I was 10 years old on September 11, 2001. At the time, my family was one month into a three-year assignment in Geibelstat, Germany. That afternoon, helicopters from the Army post flew low above our neighborhood, the loud thud, thud, thud, thud of their blades slicing through the silent streets. I was scared and remember worrying about my dad -- Giebelstadt Army Airfield went on lockdown and I was nervous he would never be able to come home from work. It's been 20 years, but my memories of that day are crystal clear.
There was no doubt then our nation would go to war, that we'd, as President George W. Bush put it, "find out who did this, and kick their ass." A month later, on October 10, 2001, Operation Enduring Freedom officially began. In the war's first two years, the United States was making headway. The why behind the war wasn't difficult to see then. Though we'd yet to capture Osama bin Laden, the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks, Al Qaeda and the Taliban were retreating and reconstruction efforts in Afghanistan were on the horizon. By May of 2003, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld declared, "We have concluded we're at a point where we clearly have moved from major combat activity to a period of stability and stabilization and reconstruction activities. The bulk of this country today is permissive, it's secure."
This is the first of many times that we heard of a conclusion to the War in Afghanistan. And it's here that I begin playing the dangerous game of "What if." What if we hadn't shifted our focus to Iraq in 2003 and, instead, really finished what we started in Afghanistan? Would my