[Lục Tuyết Kỳ]

A Soldier’s Silence and the Price of Freedom

It was a quiet afternoon when I walked into a small office, the scent of coffee and paperwork lingering in the air.

Behind a desk sat a soldier—broad-shouldered, strong, but carrying a stiffness in his movements that told a story of pain not yet healed. His uniform was crisp, but the sleeves couldn’t hide the scars running down his arm, nor could the polished boots erase the fact that he had once stood on the battlefield, fighting for a country too many take for granted.

He had been transferred from the front lines to a desk job after being badly injured by an IED blast—a warrior forced to trade his rifle for a keyboard. And yet, as I looked at him, there was no bitterness in his face. No resentment. Just quiet acceptance of where life had placed him.

Outside, something had just made my blood boil—a group of activists standing in front of a nearby building, shouting, waving their signs, spewing words of disrespect toward soldiers like him. I heard the insults, the mocking, the accusations. Words that cowards wouldn’t dare say if they had ever worn the uniform themselves.

And yet, he remained silent, focused on his work, as if their voices meant nothing.

I couldn’t take it. Finally, I asked, “Why do you stay quiet? Why not say something?”

He looked up at me, and for a moment, I saw something behind his eyes—not anger, not exhaustion, but understanding. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Because they’re practicing what I gave my life to defend—their freedom.”

I blinked, waiting for more. And he didn’t disappoint.

“Look, I’ve been shot at, blown up, and lived off MREs for months in a desert. If you think a few angry protesters are gonna rattle me, you don’t know soldiers.”

His laugh was dry, but not cold. There was something behind it—a quiet kind of grace, maybe even kindness.

“Maybe their ideology is wrong. Maybe they don’t understand what we sacrifice. But that’s the point. They don’t have to. Freedom means they have the right to stand there and yell their nonsense, even when it’s against us.”

I crossed my arms, still fuming. “Doesn’t mean we have to just sit back and take it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“And that’s where people like you come in. Soldiers like me have people like you having our backs. I know who appreciates us. Besides, if it ever came down to it, we both know who’s actually capable of defending this country.”

That moment stuck with me.

How many times have we watched politicians send our troops to die in foreign lands while they sit safely in Washington, making decisions that never affect them personally? They talk about “defending democracy,” yet ignore the struggles of our veterans, our citizens, and our borders.

President Trump’s peace plan isn’t about abandoning Ukraine—it’s about ending the war swiftly and strategically, without sacrificing American lives. We shouldn’t be plundering our own resources to fund an unwinnable conflict in foreign countries while our own nation faces crisis after crisis.

In reality, Trump’s mineral deal is a calculated strategy to position US troops without escalating the war—safeguarding American assets, securing Ukraine, and keeping Poo-tin in check without direct military confrontation. Poo-tin is ruthless and alot of things, but he is no fool; he won’t dare to strike while American boots are on the ground. Wars are won through strength and strategy, not reckless spending and endless bloodshed.

That soldier was right.

When it comes to having their backs, it’s us. Not the politicians. Not the media. Us—the American people.

I support President Trump’s peace plan for Ukraine. Because freedom isn’t free, and the men and women who fight for it deserve more than to be sent off again into another war without end.

Lanney