We love labels, don’t we? As people, humans, I mean. We love to put labels on things, as if the act of doing so simplifies our understanding of that thing. And nowhere is this more evident in how we portray the uglier sides of our nature, right? Nowhere so prevalent as when describing war, warfare, and all the elements related to human conflict. We throw around labels like “insurgent”, “terrorist”, and “combatant” in such a way that it evokes certain images in the hearer’s mind. Yet we know from the past few decades—to say nothing of the past couple years—that these labels simply don’t mean the same thing to all people. Quite a bit of interpretation goes into the use and even processing of such seemingly straight-forward words.
Along those lines I’ve been giving a lot of thought lately to the concept of demilitarization. Here in Korea, of course, you have the Demilitarized Zone or DMZ. An expanse of empty ground between the Republic of Korea and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Now, since the DPRK is neither democratic nor in any way a republic, it should come as no surprise that the DMZ has been called one of the most militarized stretches of ground on the planet, with a million-plus troops protecting one side or the other. Sure, they may technically all remain—more-or-less—outside the boundaries of that infamous zone, but when they bear arms which range far beyond the opposite side, does that distinction really matter? Thus, for the purposes of understanding the term, the DMZ turns out to be . . . well . . . less than helpful.
We talk as well of demilitarizing ordinance, for such purposes as creating training munitions and museum displays. Experts remove those elements of a bomb, artillery shell, or grenade that give the thing its purpose, transforming it from a lethal tool of the military into a variably sized paperweight. Essentially, the act of demilitarizing a weapon takes away its lethality and turns it into a benign object incapable of threatening anyone. That’s a bit more helpful, I think.
Though maybe that’s why we don’t use the term when it comes to people. We don’t speak of “demilitarizing” enemy combatants or even insurgents, we use words like “disarm” and “demobilize” to describe the process of transforming them from combatants into non-combatants. Yet, unlike with weaponry, those people so transformed don’t suddenly become less lethal, less willing to take military action should they be called upon to do so. They are still, in their hearts and in their minds, military or, perhaps, simply militant.
The human heart and mind are funny organs. Once something gets solidly lodged there, it can be hard to get it out again. You hear it said over and over again “there is no such thing as a ‘Former Marine’” and in my experience its generally true. Once those values, that ethos, takes root in a man or woman’s heart and mind, it marks them for life and forever sets them apart as . . . well . . . different.
This comes to mind for me on my first day as a civilian. At least, my first day as a civilian since I entered the Army in 1990. Newly retired—my retiree ID Card is still warm—I don’t feel any different. I certainly don’t feel any less military—or militant if you prefer—than I did yesterday. Granted, I did sleep in this morning, but the guilt that hit me when the clock struck 0520 forced me up and I made coffee just like any other morning over the past 30 years. This was followed, of course, by an 18 kilometer (11 mile) hike up the nearest mountain for physical training or . . . I guess the civilian term is “exercise”.
Regardless, I don’t feel demilitarized. If anything, my three-decade Army identity showed itself more strongly this morning than at any point in recent history!
Yet I am different, aren’t I? That subtle movement of the minute hand from 11:59 last night to 12:00 this morning carried with it some incredible changes in my life. First, I no longer need to sleep with a phone by my head, nodding off each night with the knowledge that a sudden emergency or contingency may require an immediate answer, or worse, a rapid drive to the office. Second, I find myself for the first time since I was 18 not beholden to an overwhelming and dizzying array of regulations that go far beyond either civil law or even the more intrusive social constructs and obligations within which we live. Third, and this may be the single most important change . . . I’ve lost my label.
Now, you’re all familiar enough with the military to understand that rank determines, to a certain degree, the form and tone of any military interaction. As well, you’re probably aware that rank comes with experience, and the more senior ranked officers and NCOs are generally also the oldest. You’re probably also aware that promotion from one rank to another reflects the Army’s recognition of one’s past performance as well as an expectation of further exemplary performance in the future. We’ve all encountered the exception to that rule, the individual promoted beyond their ability, their maturity, or maybe even beyond the weight their personal integrity could bear. Yet generally, hard work, over time, is rewarded with promotion and one’s label—Sergeant, lieutenant, captain, major, etc.—changes to reflect a new place in the Army’s hierarchy. And these labels are mutually understood by all . . . no interpretation required!
In January of 2019 I was promoted to colonel, the rank and label I’ve worn ever since. I was “Colonel Haynes” for so long that it seems strange now not to be called that anymore. More to the point, it feels odd to not have any rank at all—no useful label—for the first time since I was a teenager. Trust me . . . THAT feels different to me. And I can see how retirees might have a hard time adjusting to the new reality. What is my label? What defines who I am for those around me? How will I know how to treat those around me who also don’t have those easy little indicators? These are questions that can be quite distressing after so long in service.
On the other hand, there seems to be an easy solution—though I’ll admit I’m only a day into this new life! It would seem that if I just treat everyone around me as if they deserved my respect, time and continued interaction with those people will bear out who is worthy and who is not. Who I should respect and who is—shall we say—less deserving, generally because they don’t treat others with respect.
In the end, even with those useful military labels, that’s what it really came down to. Respect . . . coming and going. We didn’t respect seniors because of their rank. We displayed the requisite amount of respect due their higher rank, but real, heartfelt respect only ever comes with interaction over time. And those who earn that . . . will often have it for life.
I’ll have to let you know how this approach plays out in my new civilian world, but in the meantime, here I sit. Demobilized . . . transitioned . . . retired. Anything, I think, but demilitarized. Something tells me that my heart and mind will always remain . . . well, for lack of a less trite phrase . . . Army Strong.
M. G. Haynes