Analysis: Through Kids' Eyes

Oakland, California: Questioning war's validity

When Monique Young first learned that America was going to war, the seventh-grader wondered if her house would be bombed. Weeks earlier, as talk of war took on an iron certainty, 10-year-old Nicholas Petru dreamed that the conflict had come to his neighborhood as Iraqi tanks advanced up his street, crushing houses as they came.

Even today, as images of destruction flicker on news channels only rarely turned to, his older sister finds it odd that her life goes on unchanged — from dance classes to her school musical's opening night.

For America's youngest generation, this past week has been an introduction to the world of war. In many ways, children's reactions echo their parents', and in this antiwar corner of the country, most are struggling to understand why the war began and whether it is worth the cost.

Yet beneath such questions of policy lies a deeper uncertainty. Indeed, many children too young to remember the Gulf War as anything more than a mental shoebox of disjointed impressions are now simply trying to understand what war means — for their daily lives and for the world.

To some, it has brought fear of an unknown and amorphous threat half a world away. To others, it has led to strengthened bonds of friendship and support. To all, however, it has developed the need for a new balance, as teens and grade-schoolers learn to deal with emotions and thoughts they've never felt before.

"It's really new to me, just gathering the information and trying to understand," says eighth-grader Erica Petru. "I've never really been that alert to war before."

On Feb. 16, she and her family joined as many as 200,000 people on a peace march in San Francisco. Like her older sister, Catherine, and younger brother, Nicholas, she designed her own T-shirt for the march, scrawling "Another child for peace" on the back with black marker.

It is an understated humility and self-awareness that defines her attitude toward the war. In contrast to the shrill and often confrontational demeanor of many Bay Area protesters, Erica is quiet and thoughtful when she talks. She does not hate America. She does not hate President Bush. She simply believes that there must be a better way than war to resolve the problem.

"It's important for me to think about people other than myself," she says. "There are people like me in Iraq getting bombed, and it's a really sickening thought."

It's a point that several children make at Erica's school, where Iraq makes for almost daily classroom conversation. Few claim to fully understand what is happening. Most understand that Saddam Hussein has done bad things in the past. Some even know that he used chemical weapons on his own people. But the pictures of Baghdad glowing in a midnight conflagration of bombs and missiles — despite their distance and unfamiliarity — still evoke strong sympathy at Oakland's Redwood Day School, which surrounded by middle-class homes, with an overpass for the MacArthur Highway nearby.

"When I watch it on TV, I think, 'What would I do if it was happening to me?' " says Monique, who has earnest eyes and long, black braids pulled into two ponytails. "I would be so scared."

Sarah Musiker acknowledges that the war affects her even now. Wearing a powder-blue T-shirt with a picture of Eeyore, the donkey from "Winnie the Pooh," the dark-haired eighth-grader enters the room smiling. But when she speaks of the war, she pauses.

Part of it is the fear of terrorism: "This war is a whole different ballgame," she says. But part of it is simply the thought of war itself. Asked to explain, she strains to find the words. "I don't know, it's just that war is not good," she says, rubbing her nails while in thought. "When I flip through the channels [and see the war], it's like, 'Oh yeah, right.' It affects me in ways I don't realize. I get depressed."

For Erica, one answer has been the care of friends and family. Participating in her school's chapter of Free the Children, an international children's-rights group, has also helped her feel that she is doing something.

"It seems like kids can't do much to stop the war, so I'm just trying to stay strong with the people around me," she says.

Not everyone seems so weighed down by cares of war, though. While support for the US-led campaign doesn't break exactly down along gender lines at an eighth-grade history class here, boys seem to be more open to war than girls.

As usual, Sam Taxy takes charge. Sam, who has been known to use the words "Yom Kippur War," "Kissinger," "OPEC," and "Sadat" in the same sentence, thinks the Bush administration did everything it could to avert war. Now, it's the only option.

"As soon as [United Nations Resolution] 1441 passed, there was no turning back," he says, peering confidently from behind his rectangular glasses. "Once the decision is made, we do have to support the government."

Sam is something of a legend in this class. He carts around his books in a wheeled pack that most people would use as carry-on luggage. He once debriefed the class on the positions of all the permanent members of the UN Security Council.

And he says he watched one to two hours of CNN each day over the weekend. Asked where he got a fact from, he responds, "CNN on Saturday morning at 7 a.m." Case closed.

Sam, clearly, is not afraid to go it alone. But for others, America's willingness to do the same — even at the risk of broad international condemnation — touches on perhaps the deepest theme of adolescence: the desire to be accepted. Erica's fourth-grade brother, Nicholas, suggests America "is like the schoolground bully." To his eyes, "It's our fault that there is a war."

What's more, it gives the world a bad view of what America is like, adds his sister Catherine, a sophomore in high school. "I don't want everybody to hate Americans," she says. "Many people don't support Bush, but people judge us because he's our leader. It's the same in Iraq: Many people don't support Saddam Hussein, but we judge them because he's their leader."

Since the first missiles struck Iraq a week ago, life has gone on pretty much as normal in the Petru home, which is perched on tree-lined hills overlooking the bay. Erica's and Catherine's schools held small vigils last Thursday, but the youngsters haven't gone to any more protests. Nicholas, meanwhile, can't recall ever talking about it with his friends or watching it on TV. "I only watch it when I go up a channel too high," mistakenly wandering from the Disney Channel on 55 to CNN on 56, he says.

Pressed about the war, he asks how he can look it up on the Internet. Then he says he feels safe, in part, because "we've got like a force field around Iraq."

Between baseball, soccer, and guitar lessons for Nicholas; basketball, soccer, and piano lessons for Erica; and dance, theater, and the big new production of "A Chorus Line" for Catherine, there's not much time for anything but homework, sleeping, and eating.

On one recent free night, the family gathers around the TV, but the screen flashes between the Oscars and the Golden State Warriors basketball game, with no hint of Iraq or Saddam Hussein.

To Catherine, it's not what she imagined war to be. She had read about what it was like for girls during World Wars I and II. Moreover, she had heard stories about her grandmother, who had survived the Holocaust. For her, war was about brothers and fathers going off to the front. It was about food rations and constant fear. It was about sacrifice.

"It was different," she says. "I feel like I should feel more of an impact right now."

"Of course, [this war] still comes up in daily life, but I feel like I haven't given up anything," she adds. "I can still go to my dance class. That's kind of strange."

Instead, she agrees with her sister when Erica says she's trying to deal with all these new ideas without letting them overwhelm her. "I'm trying not to get too scared, and when I do think about the war, I'm using the quote by Martin Luther King that 'Love is the only force capable of turning an enemy into a friend.' "

Killeen, Texas: Army kids keep war distant

A couple of nights ago, Christen Brock found herself laughing hysterically at an old episode of "Seinfeld." Her father, an Army nurse, had just left for Iraq, and Christen was in need of a little diversion.

"There I was watching 'Seinfeld,' and I don't even like that show," says the high school senior. "I guess I'm just trying to block it out."

Christen's attempt to stand back from the war and her father's involvement in it is a common way to cope here in Killeen. In this one-task town, where sprawling Fort Hood can be seen from most anywhere, it's nearly impossible to find a child that doesn't either have a mom or dad already in battle or know a friend's parent who has been deployed.

Indeed, more than half of the Killeen Independent School District's 28,000 students have at least one parent in the military. They live in a world where the acronyms MRE and BDU mean something, and they know that trouble overseas can mean a one-parent family for months at a time.

But the familiar rumble of tanks under the central Texas sun doesn't make things any easier to take — or understand. Some kids here, in fact, wrestle with the same difficult questions being asked in US communities less attuned to the war effort.

"I think it's mostly really bad," says seventh-grader Joshua Olivencia, trying to get into a pickup basketball game at a busy park. "We are spending a lot of money and sending a lot of guys over there who might die or get hurt. And I'm not really sure what for."

Joshua's father, a medic, was sent to Kuwait on Feb. 12 — and he heard from him once a week until the war started. Now, each night, he studies the grainy television images for a glimpse of the familiar. "I wish my dad didn't have to go over there, but I know he's going to be OK. He told me he was."

While some kids here — mostly those directly affected by the war — say they spend every free minute catching up on the news, a large number say they prefer to remain ignorant. Calculus equations and cruising the mall are still their top priorities, even with the largest post in the United States lurking in the background.

"A lot of us are leaving it up to our parents to tell us if something bad happens," says Ryan Smolinsky, a sophomore at Harker Heights High School. He's just stepped off a video-dance machine at an arcade inside the Killeen Mall, where the Japanese narrator declares his moves "perfect" and "great."

But the longer the war drags on, the more Ryan says he will pay attention. "A lot of us high-schoolers are worried about the draft starting up again. I'm going to stay in college as long as I can."

Even though he'd like others to do the fighting, Ryan believes the US should be in Iraq and says he was disappointed that the country got so little international support. "We helped out a lot of these countries in the past, and I feel bad that they are not backing us up when [we] finally ask for their support," he says as camouflaged soldiers mill about the mall.

Christen, his friend and fellow swim teammate, is a little more tentative in her endorsement of the war. "I have mixed feelings about it. A lot of families are being torn apart and people are dying, but the war will probably help our economy — at least that's what my dad says."

Many children echo the sentiments of their parents and other adults. Ninth-grader Brandon Wright, for instance, says he watched his neighbor ship out recently and recalls his attitude. "He didn't want to go, but he knew he had to. I mean, we have to keep the next Sept. 11 from happening."

Like many students near Fort Hood, Brandon believes that Saddam Hussein had something to do with the terrorist attacks — and therefore presents a future danger to the US. For this reason alone, they contend, the country was justified in declaring war on Iraq, even with little international support.

"They shouldn't have done what they did — bomb us with those planes and kill so many of our people," says Robert Burgett, sipping on an orange Slice and recalling Sept. 11. "Now they are gonna get it."

Robert says when he and his friends talk about the war among themselves, they tend to make jokes of it. They call out "Saddam, your momma," and make light of some mistakes on the battlefield.

But at home, this ninth-grader is constantly watching news reports and asking questions of his father, who fought in the first Gulf War as a national guardsman.

The two tend to talk war strategy and military hardware, but sometimes they simply remark on how "bad" the Iraqi leader is. He cites allegations that Mr. Hussein has used civilians as human shields and has cut off of food and water to them in certain areas of the country.

But more important, Robert worries that once Baghdad is surrounded, Hussein will begin using biological weapons. "We've got to get him out of the country."

But other kids say they don't understand why diplomacy wasn't given more of a chance, especially since very little proof of biological weapons has been found.

"There ain't no reason for war," says Mike Murillo, tossing his backpack over his shoulder on his way home from school. He's standing under a store marquee reading, "We support our troops" — a common sight around town.

But Mike remains unconvinced. "Why fight when you can talk?"

Bloomington, Minnesota: Mall of an America torn

Music screams from inside. T-shirts on the wall read "Bad Example" and "I Bite Back." The saleskids at this goth-punk store have hair so bright it's more like plumage.

But behind the counter, Ryan Kelsey is gentle. When two teen guys approach, 12 cents short to buy a sticker, the high school senior helps them find the change.

He'd be in Iraq if he could.

Out in the mall's hallway, D'Andre Colston and Lancion Gregory are draped over a railing, watching fine girls lighting on benches below.

The high-schoolers rode half an hour on the bus from Brooklyn Park to get here. It's the weekend kicking spot, they say, the best place to talk to girls anywhere near Minneapolis.

They're afraid of being sent to the Gulf to fight for — as they say — the "punk" who calls himself their president.

If this were a year or two from now, these could be the people fighting Operation Iraqi Freedom. Demographically, the mall's Midwestern teens are a near-perfect mirror of today's US armed forces: A little less than a quarter are African-American, 10 percent are Latino, and a smaller percentage are Asian. Almost none are wealthy.

Most teens in this community stress the need to support the US troops now in Iraq. But beyond that, opinions about the war split down racial and ethnic lines, with all the non-Anglo kids opposing it. Pro or con, though, virtually every teen expressed deep reservations about the current conflict — often stemming from a personal distrust of President Bush.

"I've been through ROTC in high school. I was going to be in the Air Force until I broke my leg," Ryan says. "I'm not really a fan of being sent into a war, but instead of seeing my best friends go, I'd rather go.

"But at the same time, I feel bad for the Iraqi people," he says, as buttons with messages like "I ? Metal" and "I'm a mess" swing against his Nine Inch Nails shirt, "This could end up like Vietnam again. For me, it's the way we're going about it. Bush just seems like he's trying to do what his dad forgot to do."

At 4.2 million square feet, the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minn., is by far the largest shopping center in the nation. Since war began in Iraq more than two weeks ago, the mall has stepped up security. A yellow-vested guard with a walkie-talkie now watches each entrance, and pairs of armed guards stroll the halls. There's talk around town that the mall could be a terrorist target.

"I been real worried about that," says Lancion. "I mean, it is the biggest thing in Minnesota."

But despite these fears, inside the mall, signs of war vanish. The displays of patriotism that sprang up in places like New York after Sept. 11 are absent. Walking the halls, you could be anywhere in America, any time in the past decade, swaddled in a sameness of retail chains, fast foods, and Muzak.

In the food court, Osmund Dris, Minh Mai, and Mike Tran are huddled glumly over cartons of Johnny Rockets chili cheese fries. The boys only really come to the mall to find out when the next break-dance competition will be, they say, but there hasn't been one in a while.

The three say at school, kids are trying to forget, to leave the war alone. Yet a teacher from Minh and Osmund's high school is serving in Iraq. "I think in Baghdad," Osmund says. "The bridges," adds Minh. "He's a commander for the bridges."

"Or the desert," throws in Mike. "The whole thing is desert," Minh corrects.

Osmund's parents were born in the Philippines; Mike's, and Minh himself, in Vietnam. Minh says his dad has been sitting in front of the TV for the past four days, riveted. Mike's big brother is 17, and he's been getting recruiting mail from the Army. It frightens him. "He's crying," Minh says quietly.

"That's what you would do," argues Mike.

"I'd cry so much," agrees Minh. "I'd never sign up. I'm scared of dying."

Saturdays are crazy at Glamour Shots, and worse at Glamour Kids. Blotchy-faced preteens emerge from makeup booths for bouts of nerve-, vanity-, and expense-induced sobbing. Lines back up into the floral arrangements. Curling irons break down.

Caitlin Davies, working the counter, says most days at the mall she doesn't even have time to think about war. But at school in nearby Apple Valley, it's a different story. TVs in the halls are tuned to war news, and though the Pledge of Allegiance is optional, more people are saying it. "But I don't know if it's necessarily to support the war," the high school junior says. "Most people I know are supporting troops."

Caitlin's uncle has already shipped out. Her older brother, newly married, is worried he could be called up any day.

Even so, Caitlin says, "I really have no reservations about [the war]." Even the killing of civilians, though sad, might be necessary, she says, looking absently over the heads of aggressively coiffed little girls, because "some of their civilians really support Saddam — like they'd do anything to keep him there, even kill us. "I guess if there were really innocent civilians who got killed, though, that would be bad," she concedes.

So far, Oscar and Llewellyn Boyle-Mejia can only do ollies, the most basic skateboarding jump. But practicing those has just about worn out Llewellyn's boarding shoes, and today, the brothers have fought their way through a store thick with gear-heads to find him some new ones.

They would never go to war for this country, declare the junior and eighth-grader, who have dual citizenship with Mexico.

They've been hearing war stories since they were little. One is about their great uncle, who served in Vietnam and was "the only one to come back alive from his missions three times," explains Llewellyn. He's "never really gotten better from that."

The other is about their grandfather, a chemist, who quit the Army after the bombing of Hiroshima, when "they wanted him to make biological weapons just in case, and he wouldn't do it," Oscar says.

Even so, the boys' cousin is now completing his Marine Corps training in California. "He joined 'cause he wants to go to college," says Oscar. "He just doesn't like the thought of war."

Ken Koosmen does, though. He and a friend, Park Sanderson, have spent the afternoon on the arcade's shooting games.

"I'd get shipped out today," the 16-year-old declares, sporting a necklace of chunky yellow stars. "I actually have a fascination with going over there [to fight]." He'd be good at it, he thinks — not because of his prowess with video games, which he dismisses as unrealistic, but because he's good at paintball. "Paintball's a lot like actual combat," he explains. "One hit and you're dead."

Park is less sure about going to war: He hasn't been playing paintball very long. "I'm not too good yet," he says. "I'm not looking to take a bullet" in the behind.

Ken looks disgusted. "You don't take it there. That'd be a disgrace. You take it here," he says, pointing to his heart.

Crystal Austin and her cousin Jordan stake out a bench from which to consider their strategy. The girls want to see the movie "Head of State," but it's PG-13, and Jordan, who prefers that her last name not be used, is only 12.

"Ooh, I'm scared," Crystal says. But not about the movie. Her mom's fiancé is serving.

The 10th-grader says she doesn't trust the president's reasons for sending him to Iraq. "I feel like Bush don't care about others but himself."

"He only cares about the rich people," Jordan interjects, "but everybody isn't rich as him."

Jordan is intensely aware of Washington politics. She cites Mr. Bush's differences with House majority leader Tom DeLay and Senate minority leader Tom Daschle with a facility that far more senior analysts might envy. America's biggest problem, she says, is the nation's conviction that it's the center of the world.

"When the trade towers collapsed, I was sad. But it wasn't that tragic, 'cause look at the terrible stuff we do to other countries. Up against that, 3,000 [killed] isn't even that many," she says. Then she has to run, to try to sneak into that PG-13 movie.