XPost: can.politics, ont.politics, nb.general   
   From: {~_~}@nyet.ca   
      
   OTTAWA - Was it all worth it?   
      
   It is a brutally awkward question, especially when posed in the context   
   of Afghanistan.   
      
   There is no shortage of people opining about the now-concluded military   
   mission that morphed into a costly, bloody humanitarian exercise.   
      
   But few of those voices truly count as much as the ones who've stayed   
   largely silent through the tempest of this war — the families of the   
   fallen, some of whom are speaking up for the first time in a series of   
   interviews with The Canadian Press.   
      
   Flags that dotted the highway of heroes are folded and put away, and now   
   as the nation moves on, these people will continue to quietly bear the   
   burden — our burden.   
      
   They will be left to ponder that uncomfortable question, more deeply and   
   personally than the rest of us, and long after we have stopped trying to   
   answer it for them.   
      
   As the last 100 soldiers rush into the warmth of home this week, these   
   people will still have empty places at the dining room table and cling   
   to the mementoes of lives inexorably cut short.   
      
   And although the scale of casualties from Afghanistan pales in   
   comparison to the unmitigated slaughter of the First and Second World   
   Wars, they say the grief and sense of loss is no less sharp.   
      
   There were 158 Canadian soldiers, one diplomat, one journalist and two   
   civilian contractors who died over the dozen years Canada's military   
   spent in both Kandahar and Kabul. Here are their families' words:   
      
   MICHAEL HORNBURG:   
      
   Despite the investment of blood and treasure, the Afghanistan being left   
   behind is far from peaceful and secure.   
      
   It teeters dangerously on a knife's edge and that's led Michael Hornburg   
   of Calgary — who lost his son 24-year-old Cpl. Nathan Hornburg — to   
   question why the West stayed after it was clear al-Qaeda had been routed   
   in 2001-02.   
      
   "I think the Taliban got the message right away about not to shelter the   
   al-Qaeda training bases there," said Hornburg, recalling the bright   
   September 2007 fall day when three officers came knocking on his door to   
   announce that his "best friend" was lost to him.   
      
   "While I support human rights all over the world, in many ways I don't   
   understand why our Canadian Armed Forces would be there to stabilize   
   Afghanistan."   
      
   Michael Hornburg, who used to read classic literature out loud to his   
   son even into his teenage years, said he tried to convince the boy to   
   become a firefighter, or a cop, rather than a soldier. Their last 25   
   minute overseas phone conversation, the day before Nathan died, remains   
   seared into his memory.   
      
   "From what (Nathan) told us privately and said publicly, he wanted to go   
   and provide a better way of life for women and girls," he said.   
      
   "He was always a very, very strong supporter in his life here in Calgary   
   for the rights of women and girls, but I just don't know that was worth   
   his life. You know? For a worthless ass piece of (the) Rigestan Desert."   
      
   ANNE SNYDER:   
      
   Other families, including Anne Snyder — whose son Capt. Jon Snyder, 26,   
   died in 2008 — wonder if the Afghans wanted the West there at all.   
      
   "Were we fighting a losing battle?" said Snyder, of Head of Jeddore, N.S.   
      
   When she sees the persistent, grinding poverty of the Afghan people and   
   unabated violence, including last week's bloody attack on the Kandahar   
   intelligence headquarters, Snyder says you can't help but ask questions.   
      
   "I don't want to think my son died for nothing," she said.   
      
   Her way of honouring Jon, who was posthumously awarded the country's   
   second-highest military medal for bravery, is to counsel other families   
   of the fallen, including most recently relatives of suicide victims.   
   She's also dedicated a portion of her garden to him where poppies and   
   lilies return each year.   
      
   BEVERLEY SKAALRUD:   
      
   Beverley Skaalrud, whose son Pte. Braun Woodfield, 24, lost his life in   
   2005, wrestles with questions of political accountability and wonders if   
   the country was mentally and physically ready for war in Kandahar.   
      
   "I feel we sent an ill prepared, inadequately equipped, enthusiastic and   
   honourable military team into an area that was beyond our scope and   
   means," said Skaalrud, who lives in Airdrie, Alta. "Did we draw the   
   short straw? Was there political gain to be had by someone?"   
      
   Her son was proud to serve, but she isn't convinced the government —   
   both Liberal and Conservative — did enough to support the troops when   
   they were in the field.   
      
   LINCOLN AND LAURIE DINNING:   
      
   Cpl. Matthew Dinning would have celebrated his 31st birthday last   
   weekend and is never far from the thoughts of his parents — Lincoln and   
   Laurie Dinning — since his death in roadside bombing on April 22, 2006.   
      
   He believed the Canadian presence was making a difference and that's all   
   the validation his mother and father needed to hear.   
      
   "The soldiers who went over there really believed they could make a   
   change," said Laurie Dinning, of Wingham, Ont. "Of course, from a   
   parent's point of view, the loss of a child is something we'll never get   
   over.  We certainly have been able to move forward in our lives with   
   lots of support from family and friends."   
      
   Every Christmas the family puts two little Christmas trees alongside his   
   grave with purple decorations marking each year since he's been gone.   
      
   VALERIE BERRY:   
      
   Being prepared to give up their lives is second nature to soldiers, and   
   that possibility is something that haunts every military family. But the   
   unlimited liability is not something you expect in the diplomatic service.   
      
   Their job is to prevent and war, not become one of its victims. But   
   that's what happened to Glynn Berry, 59, the political director of the   
   Kandahar provincial reconstruction base, on January 15, 2006 when a   
   suicide bomber smashed a vehicle into a military convoy.   
      
   His widow, Valerie Berry, has never spoken publicly. Like every other   
   family interviewed by The Canadian Press, she said she was relieved to   
   see final 100 troops are now safely out of harm's way.   
      
   "From a purely personal perspective I am thankful our troops are   
   returning home after having performed bravely and steadfastly in a very   
   difficult situation, one that it would appear couldn't possibly have   
   been won in such a relatively short time," she said.   
      
   Berry's memory is kept alive in number of professional and personal   
   ways, including a memorial scholarship at Halifax's Dalhousie   
   University, an annual lecture series on foreign and defence policy, and   
   the awarding of a memorial cup at the annual Canada-Wales rugby match in   
   Cardiff — something Valerie Berry says "would have made Glyn beam with   
   pride because as well as world affairs and family he was passionate   
   about the game of rugby and proud of his Welsh roots."   
      
      
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