As he lay on the hospital gurney, shielded by flimsy curtains, a ventilator tube in his throat, he looked nothing like the man I remembered. The wound to his head had stretched his skin taught across his face, his mouth gaped wide, and his labored breathing rent the air.

They removed the life support - there was nothing they could do for him. I told them I would stay with him until he passed on, and he was moved to a little side room where we could be alone. Although he was in a coma, as I slid my hand around his, he gripped my fingers tightly and I knew he was still there somewhere, and that he was afraid.

The nurses were wonderful. They called my father by name and spoke to him as if he could hear what they were saying. But as I sat in that anonymous room, with its green-painted walls and linoleum floor, I was saddened by the fact that my father should be in this place at the time of his passing. For as kind and compassionate as the medical staff had shown themselves to be, they did not know who my father was. To them, he was another elderly man who had taken a fatal fall and was clinging to the last tenuous threads of life. And so I wept, for both his passing and the way it had come about, holding his hand to let him know that he was not alone at this undoubtedly frightening time in his life.

I grieved for his passing, especially in the anonymous environment in which he drew his final breath. He had a history uniquely his own. He had been a baby, full of hope and potential, loved by his parents. He had been a lieutenant during WWII, and I discovered photographs showing he'd had some girlfriends (one or two hot babes) before he married my mother (an equally hot babe.) There were many pictures of him as a vibrant young man, a glowing father, and as a successful businessman. And endless snapshots of him with the dogs he'd loved over the years.

My father died during the bombardment of Fallujah. On the night of his passing, I lay awake, and tried to understand my feelings. I grieved for his passing, even as I was sure that he was in a better and happier place. And I felt a deep anger. Not for my father, but for all the people who had died that day in Fallujah. Because each of these people was like my Dad. They had been born in hope. They had come into the world with the potential to love and be loved. They had each been given the gift of life, and had used it in their own unique way. Each and every one of them was special - a father, a daughter, a brother, a niece. And too many of them had been taken from life before they had ever had the chance to live. They had been taken in hate and fear, and had been robbed of their potential to enrich the lives of those around them.

For those who say, "Kill them! Let them die! They are the face of Satan and are the enemy!" remember: They are people. They love. They dream. They hope. They want to feel safe, and they want to watch their children grow. They have just as much right to live and to wish as you, or any other. When you demonize them you dehumanize yourself, and you spread darkness upon the world. No one, be they Iraqi civilian, or American soldier, should die needlessly. No one should die alone and afraid, and every life should be honored for what it was and what it could have been.

To the US administration, I can only echo the words of Michael Moore: "Shame on you!" You hide the casualties in Iraq and, in refusing to count the dead, pretend that they have not been killed. And by doing so, you deny them that most important of dignities - the recognition that they have lived. You work so assiduously to protect the unborn child, yet take the lives of innocent people without a second thought. You cause them to be killed, and then claim that they have never existed, thereby aborting those who have already been born.

You are not special! You are no more worthy of life, have no more right to be remembered, than any of those who have died in your God-forsaken conflict. On the contrary, any who believe they are chosen to mete out death in the name of an ideology or for gain, are already one step removed from the humanity that makes us unique and worthy of another's remembrance and grief. You should be marginalized, and prevented from spreading your message of hate and death. We need to turn away from your fetid breath of inhumanity, and honor our collective spirit, regardless of where we live and which gods we worship. For if we don't, then we too may be doomed to die alone, never to have existed.

L.A. Theil is an artist. Her website is here www.latheil.com

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