Now, after what has tentatively been dubbed the “Twelve-Day War,” our collective emotions have shifted. Our perception of war has fundamentally changed; the tension it brought has become a part of our lived experience. Prior to going through this war, we may have carried abstract or even romanticized images of what war entails. But now, war is no longer just a concept—it has become an embodied, lived reality. In literature, this difference between imagining war and experiencing it firsthand has given rise to a specific genre of storytelling: anti-war literature. This genre tends to focus on the human cost of war, presents a realistic depiction of violence and trauma, questions state-sponsored propaganda and ideological narratives, rejects heroic mythmaking, and grapples with profound moral questions about life, death, and ethics.
Many stories fit this mold, and among the writers contributing to this tradition is Gabe Hudson, whose short story“Dear Mr. President” (published in The New Yorker) serves as a powerful example of the anti-war narrative form. In this essay, I explore how the story embodies key characteristics of anti-war literature.
Let’s begin with the protagonist: Corporal Lauren, a loyal American soldier deployed in the U.S.–Iraq conflict. He is part of a unit sent to Kuwait for what is loosely described throughout the story as an “oil retrieval mission.” After witnessing the gruesome death of a fellow soldier, Lauren begins to unravel mentally—but remains fiercely devoted to the President. This blind devotion permeates every layer of the narrative: the story itself is structured as a letter addressed directly to the President, and it begins with these words:
“It seems like only yesterday, sir, the day we first met. It glows before my eyes, like a lighthouse in the stormy sea of my life.”
Within this single sentence, the word “sir” appears twice, and the President is metaphorically elevated to the status of a beacon, a guiding light—both reverent and symbolic. As the story unfolds, other aspects of Lauren’s character become clear. He is not merely a believer, but a full-fledged embodiment of ideological indoctrination and military propaganda. This is particularly evident in the following line:
“The guy wearing a gas mask? That was you, sir. I didn’t wear one. As you know, at the base we got our daily anti-bioweapon pills, so there was no need for gas masks.”
Hudson’s story doesn’t flinch from portraying the horrors of war in graphic, visceral detail. Consider this moment:
“We jumped out of the Jeep to assess the damage done to the Iraqis. Sir, it looked just like those art installations you see on the news from the NEA Museum in New York—a massive black crater, filled with smoldering charcoal and burned pieces of Iraqi bodies, blood, hair, dirt, and sand.”
Or this one:
“It all happened in a flash—just a few seconds. Brix got blown in half at the waist and fell to the rooftop. Soldier Brix had become two pieces, like a torn movie ticket.”
The story is not interested in glorifying war or bestowing it with sacred, noble qualities. It refuses to sanctify violence. Soldiers aren’t mythologized; they’re torn apart like movie tickets—reduced to fragments, both literally and metaphorically.
The suffering doesn’t end on the battlefield. The trauma follows Lauren home. His psychological breakdown manifests physically in the form of a deaf ear growing out of his stomach—a grotesque but deeply symbolic image of internalized pain and the inability to express or hear it. He describes it like this:
“You know, I even tried to think of the ear as a flower. Like a sunflower blooming on my body, opening up.”
But this pain is not Lauren’s alone—it spreads to his family in surreal and disturbing ways. First, his wife develops a mouth on the back of her head, and later, his son loses his nose entirely. In one hallucinatory episode, Lauren tapes shut the extra mouth he sees on his wife while she sleeps—prompting her and their son to leave him.
After their departure, Lauren begins to feel wings growing from his back. The soldier who once proudly volunteered for a dangerous mission out of love for his country is now a deranged, broken man—abandoned, delusional, and deformed by the war he thought he believed in.
Hudson doesn’t stop there. Another former soldier, Corporal Hill, appears as an additional representation of post-war trauma:
“Hill can’t walk anymore—he has to sit on a skateboard to get around. His face is covered in pus-filled blisters. He visits my house and constantly curses the U.S. government. A few days ago, he came by and tried to get me to sign a petition. That’s when I made a huge mistake—I showed him the ear.”
The ideological contrast between Lauren and Hill is sharpened in the story’s closing line. Despite everything, Lauren still signs off his letter with unwavering loyalty:
“And as always, sir, let me say: it remains the greatest honor of my life to serve under your command.”
This final line encapsulates the entire tragedy of the story. Lauren, consumed by state narratives and blind patriotism, is unable to acknowledge the destruction war has wrought upon his body, mind, and family.
Hudson’s “Dear Mr. President” is a potent example of anti-war literature. Through stark realism laced with dark humor and surreal imagery, the story confronts both the physical and psychological costs of war. It refuses to look away, and it critiques, with biting clarity, the political machinery that perpetuates violence in the name of honor.