Originally Posted by WWWP

My brother’s dead.

He was 1 of the 13 troops killed in that bombing.
My sister sent me the headlines when it was first being reported, and I threw up.
I did the math. There was 0.003% chance he was one of them.
But I felt it. I knew. He was my baby. It was too unlikely and too ironic and too tragic to not be real.
I keep being inundated with intrusive images of my baby brother being blown to pieces.
He has been stationed in Syria since Jan 2020. He was just moved to Kabul 8/16. After, of course, the indisposables were evac’d. He was a baby. But just one baby in a pile of an endlessly renewable source of babies sent in to absorb the impact of a war that started when he was 6 months old.

He was 19. He did the shotgun wedding thing and has a wife due to deliver any day now.

My family is flooding social media with right wing articles martyrizing these Fallen Heroes. They all keep saying he “died fighting for freedom.”

Kamala Harris said they saved “countless” lives. Countless because the number is zero, perhaps? Because my brother’s death is ****ing pointless?

I’m so angry. I’m so sick.
I don’t know what to do.