CARRIE, Sep 2016, The Falklands:

So, when do you truly forgive someone? I guess it always depends on who you are and what that person has done, and what the context is in general. My context is that I’ve had an alcoholic father who went away on drinking sprees when I was a kid, and I had to go out and look for him in the ditches during the evening when he didn’t come home from the pub. Me and my mom had to go out and look for him. And he got fired from his work, and we couldn’t make ends meet, and eventually, of course, my mom tired of his bullshit and, after perhaps too many years, got the divorce and we moved from Scotland to the United States.

He always played the victim. Like there was something that was so bad and we had to understand it. And he was angry at us for, just me. I was a little girl. If I’d ask him, “Dad, can you stay home tonight?” or something like that, he got angry at me, like it was a personal insult that he couldn’t go to the pub instead of leaving me alone with Mom, who was already having a nervous breakdown because of the situation.

And then for the first couple of years after we moved to the United States, he sort of softened up a little bit, but most of it was about his own—I guess, I guess I can understand him—but it was about him again, begging my mom to let us, let him come over for Christmas. Or, maybe that I could, I was a big girl at the time. I was still a teen and maybe I could, if he bought me a plane ticket, I could come and visit him. Transatlantic divorces are a bit problematic and my mom will be the first to admit that she hasn’t had a lucky hand with that. I’m a quarter French and half Scottish because my grandmom on my mom’s side, she’s from France and they lived in France for a couple of years, actually, while my grandparents were missionaries or some such from the Latter-day Saints church.

And my mom then, of course, met my father when he was in the United States training for something. He was a professional soldier and she sort of got—I guess she—even though she had had lots of problems with my grandfather, who also had a shitload of traumas from World War II, or maybe because of that, she just saw my father as—because he was—she saw my father as a sort of stable male figure. What do I know? I’m not into psychology. But maybe it’s a little bit like my own marriage, I guess, ‘cause, Jonathan also fought in Iraq and he was always, the stable figure who didn’t, even though he had his scars, he didn’t, like, complain or freak out or have anxiety attacks or shit like that. But I had plenty of that. So that’s why I love him and that’s why he can support me, even though he’s got his own shit to deal with. But he had this strength, and maybe also my mom saw, at least in the beginning, that my father had this strength in him that her father didn’t have.

Again, I don’t wanna be the psychologist because I don’t believe that we marry the men, or women for that matter, who are like our parents. But you have to admit that there’s a lot of shit that we bring with us into our adult relationships from our childhoods. That’s a given. Maybe this was some of it.

But in any case, my shit wasn’t all over with. Long story short, a friend of mine committed suicide. I broke down, fell in with bad company, started taking drugs. My old man had to step in and save me. This was around the time my stepbrother died, also a soldier, killed by a mine in Afghanistan. We were to meet at the funeral. I hadn’t seen my father in years. He saw how bad I was and forced me into rehab, with my mother’s consent.

Funny thing is, I resented him for it at first, for taking control of my life, even though he literally saved it. Because it felt like him being selfish again. That was my first thought. For me, there was no emotional difference between him saying, “I can’t stay home, honey, I gotta drink my brains out with my mates,” when I was a kid, and him saying later, “Carrie, you have to do this. If you won’t, I’ll do it for you, ’cause otherwise you’re gonna die.”

Isn’t that silly, how the brain works? I guess when you’re a crackhead it doesn’t work at all, but still, it’s wild how resentment sticks so deep that even when someone saves you, if it echoes an old wound, you’ll still hate them for it. Even when they mean well. Even when it’s objectively good.

And it was good. It saved my life. I’m still here ten years later. Married, two kids. Not easy, never is, but I’m here. I’ve even patched things up with my father enough to call it a functional relationship. He comes for Christmas. We visit him on the other side of the pond when we can.

Still, that old resentment lingered. Sometimes it surfaced. We’d never really talked about the past, my childhood, or his, and too much time had passed. He’d gotten sober, found a new woman, started going to church. All good things. So we stayed on that plateau, afraid that digging deeper would just make everything blow up again.

Here. Now. On this rainy September day in 2016, at Mount Harriet in the Falklands, driving from Stanley, I can see maybe we should’ve talked sooner.

I’d said yes to going back there with him, to see where it all happened, where he was wounded and shipped home early, because he’d met the man who shot him. Online, of all places. An Argentinian soldier turned schoolteacher in Buenos Aires. Somehow they’d become friends and decided to meet, to visit the old battlefield together.

Only, Pablo doesn’t speak much English, so my dad asked me to come translate. I’m fluent in Spanish, it helps when you live near the Mexican border and do part-time translation work for an NGO. So I agreed, despite the chaos in my own life, because it mattered, and because my father had never asked me for help before. Not like this. He’d always been too proud.

He’d finally asked me for something, and that felt important. I had this naïve idea that the last bits of resentment I still carried could finally be cleared out. That if I went to the place where it all happened, where he fought and got shot, I’d understand why he’d been such an asshole when I was a kid. Why he drank. And that would be that.

But as we climbed, Pablo pointed things out, a torn boot, an old sleeping bag in a trench, a couple of rusted razors, and my dad just stared, dazed. Then he started pointing too, showing us stray bullets, warning us to stay on the safe path because there might still be unexploded ordnance. As we went higher, they talked about how his company had advanced under fire, how he’d barely started before he got hit. I translated. It’s such an intimate job, translating, especially when you’ve got skin in the game, when what you’re saying matters deeply to the people you’re speaking for.

And still, I felt nothing. I looked at my father and thought, So that’s it? You slogged eighty miles through peat bogs, froze half to death, climbed this little hill, it’s hardly a mountain, and got shot. That’s the story. Maybe “Mount Harriet” isn’t really a mountain at all; maybe it’s just a name. Doesn’t matter. It’s high ground. The Argentinians were dug in here, and at Longdon, and the Two Sisters. These strong points had to be taken before the commandos and paratroopers could move on to retake Stanley and end the war.

My father was there. He didn’t get far, shot in the knee, left lying between the rocks for hours under fire before they could get him away. I can’t imagine what that’s like, being hit, trapped, surrounded by gunfire, unable to move or hide. Maybe that’s the problem: I can’t imagine it. I’m here, in the drizzle, they’re talking, and Pablo’s still rambling about those damn razor blades. He collects them, old ones from Buenos Aires shops. Maybe it’s an OCD thing. Or maybe he’s just trying to distract himself because he’s uncomfortable.

And I still feel nothing. No big revelation, no, Oh, Dad, now I get it, you suffered so much, let’s make peace. None of that. If anything, the opposite. For years I’d managed to tolerate him, to live with the past half-buried, even show some gratitude. He saved my life, after all. I was an ungrateful bitch back when he forced me into rehab. But at least things were steady, a grey kind of peace. We just kept going, pretending it was enough. Moving forward, for the sake of his grandchildren, my kids. For the sake of us all.

The resentment comes back full force. At first there’s nothing, just the climb through rocks and grass, over slick stones, no real safe path. I’m counting on Pablo and my father to keep us from stepping on something that might explode. I’m cold, wet, uneasy, thinking, Why don’t I feel anything? Then I do. Anger.

Was it just this? Dad, I lost my brother. I lost my best friend. I was with a man who beat me for years before I got out and found Jonathan. I almost died from drugs. And you, you were trained for this. A commando. Northern Ireland, everywhere. You’d been under fire before. You were supposed to know how to handle it. And now it all feels like nothing.

I guess the anger’s tied to what I’ve suspected all along, and heard confirmed, that you weren’t really traumatized by being wounded, or lying in that hole all night under fire. You felt worthless because you didn’t make it to the summit with your mates. You didn’t “take out” anyone, didn’t clear a trench, didn’t do your job. You missed the fight. You failed the story you built your life around.

After all that, sailing thousands of miles, hauling gear through this frozen bog, it wasn’t your fault, but maybe you told yourself it was. Maybe you thought you didn’t take cover right. And that’s why you turned to the bottle. That’s why you grew bitter and self-pitying. I’ve pieced it together over the years, talking with Mom. I was little when it started, but a teenager when the divorce came, and I remember those last years clearly, the rants about politicians, about Mom, about me, about the Rangers before they fired you. Everything was someone else’s fault.

But it wasn’t the war that broke you. It was the shame. Getting shot early, sent home before the fight was finished. Shipped back like cargo.

Now we’re at the summit. The last trenches. Pablo’s pointing out where he was taken prisoner. And I just feel anger. My father stands there, scanning the ground, blank. He never shows emotion, never has. I think, Cry, damn it. Do something. But he doesn’t. Just stands there, quiet, and that stillness makes me hate him all over again.

Crazy, isn’t it? Thirty-seven years old, and I’m still here, waiting for a revelation. This trip was supposed to burn out the last of the bitterness, purge the old poison. But it hasn’t. Even with our so-called peace, the resentment’s still there. He knows it. I know it. And there’s nothing left to say.

It all comes up again. I feel like I’m back to sixteen, hearing about the divorce. Knowing it was his fault, knowing he’d still hate me for going with my mom. What else could I do? He couldn’t take care of me. We thought he’d be dead within months, he was that far gone. It was a miracle he made it into rehab. Maybe Sheila helped him. Maybe it was the priest who got him back to church. I don’t know. I just get angry.

They’re walking through the trench, and just as I think I’ve never felt further from forgiving him, it hits again, like we’ve gone backward fifteen years.

Then Pablo says, “There. That’s where I was taken. I was sure…” I’m translating, so I can’t escape. I have to be right there with them, every word. He points to the spot where he’d been posted as a sniper, where he hit my father from a distance. It was an accident that he didn’t kill him, that the bullet only hit his knee. “We moved,” he says. “I was further down, then I came back here. This is where they took me. I was sure I’d die. A marine threw a grenade, shot two of my friends, and then pointed his weapon at me. I tried to say in Spanish that I surrendered, but I didn’t know if he understood.”

My father stops. Looks at Pablo. Looks at me. Then sits on a rock in the trench, chin on his fists, nodding slowly. “So it was there? What did they do? How did they treat you?” He keeps asking, circling the same questions, what it was like, what happened next, how they treated him as a prisoner.

For a moment he looks just like he used to on Skye, sunk in that chair in the living room, waiting for us to figure out what was wrong. Like it was our job to fix him, to tell him he was good enough. He always carried some invisible wound we were supposed to tend. Cold, silent, distant. We eventually stopped trying. And now here he is again, sinking into that same posture.

Then I see it, his face cracking. He’s holding himself together, barely. He’s got immense control over his emotions, too much, but I can see him freezing up. The rain’s coming down harder. Pablo says, “We should go back to the Land Rover, we’ll freeze up here.”

I echo it: “We’re gonna freeze, Dad. Get up.” But he just sits there, repeating himself. “It was there you were taken? And this happened, that happened? Then you went home, you got back to your girlfriend, got married, had the son who doesn’t want to see you now.” Back and forth, between Buenos Aires and this trench, as if he’s stuck looping through it.

Pablo’s exasperated. I’m soaked, my new boots leaking, boots I couldn’t afford. “Dad, we have to go back!” I shout. He ignores me. And still, under the anger, I see something I’ve never seen before, not rage, not self-pity, but sorrow.

Finally, Pablo sits down beside him in the rain. Doesn’t touch him, doesn’t say much. Just sits. Then he gestures for me to come closer, fumbling for words. I crouch down, ready to translate when he slips into Spanish. Finally, he says, “I’m glad I didn’t kill you. And I’m glad you didn’t kill me. ’Cause I think you would have if you’d come up here.”

My father nods slowly. Then he starts talking, about my brother.

We all know he did some things in Afghanistan before he died. There was a village they thought was full of Taliban. They killed a lot of people, and there was an inquiry. They’d just come out of an ambush, angry, on edge. They killed people. Maybe women. Maybe kids. It wasn’t even a real fight. And before anything came of it, Tim was blown apart by a roadside bomb.

My father’s been trying to make sense of that for years. It stuck in him. Maybe he confuses it with his own war, or maybe he just imagines it too clearly. He stares into the mist and says, “Well… I’m glad I didn’t kill you. I’m glad I didn’t come up here. I’m really glad. But I know I wouldn’t have thought that back then. I would’ve done it. And I wouldn’t have lived a good life. Now I’ve lived a terrible one, and it’s my fault. A lot of what’s happened.”

He doesn’t look at me, but I know it’s meant for me. I keep translating, even though I’m thinking, I can’t do this anymore, Dad. I can’t translate this. But that’s why I’m here.

Then he says, “I lived the bad life, but I’m glad I didn’t kill you. You got to go back and have yours, even with your son’s troubles, even with your wife’s illness. I’m glad I didn’t. Isn’t that strange? I’m glad now, but I wouldn’t have been then.”

He doesn’t look relieved, just hollow. Like he’s realizing fate gave him a bad life, hurt others, but spared him one sin. Maybe he’s thinking of my brother too, how he did what soldiers do, only later realizing the cost. Back then it was just a job. Nobody would’ve blamed him for killing another soldier.

Maybe that’s what time does, it changes the moral weight. It wasn’t wrong that he fought here, that he would’ve killed. But it isn’t wrong either that, over thirty years later, he feels grateful he didn’t. He’s just not at peace with it.

I can see it: he doesn’t know what to do with that feeling, that he was spared doing something he no longer believes he could live with. If he’d gone further, killed men up there, he’d never have thought twice. But meeting Pablo now, seeing what time has done to them both, he finally sees what he might’ve taken away. Even if it would’ve been justified. And that terrifies him.

And I realize I have to forgive him, for that. It’s the same reason we’ve managed to stay barely functional all these years: because there’s no other choice. We move on or we drown. Even if we never talk about the past. Even if he never says sorry. I know he feels it. The same way he feels the weight of nearly killing Pablo, who nearly killed him. Thirty four years, two lives, and they both know.

It’s strange, it wouldn’t have mattered then. It would just have happened. But now it’s like he’s living two lives at once: one where he made it to the summit and did what soldiers do, and one where he didn’t and came home instead. Both are real. And he can’t reconcile them. Just like I couldn’t, for years, with my own mess.

Then I realize how cold I am. And that if anything’s going to heal, we’ll have to start letting go. The grudges, the heavy, irrational resentments that still feel sacred. Maybe they don’t need to be solved. Maybe they

just need to be released.

Pablo’s still talking, trying to keep Dad engaged, but he’s gone somewhere inside himself. So I kneel in front of him and say, “Dad, I love you. We have to go home now. It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do.” He knows I’m not just talking about the trench. “From now on,” I say, “we’re going home.”

He finally stands. And we go.

I think it works. I think it’s going to work, but only time will tell. I expected catharsis, everything spilling out, all the buried things that made us barely function. At first I thought it would break us. Then I thought it would fix us. But it ends here, in silence. I can’t get everything out. But I can let it go.

Because when we reach the summit, we’re not here to kill anyone. We’re just here to stand and watch the sun rise over the ocean.

*

Photo: Richard Giddens on Flickr. Motif: Argentine machine gun mount on Mt. Harriet.