In war, when people close to you aren’t dying, it’s easy to let yourself become isolated from the situation.

Before last Tuesday, I was aware that more than 1,500 soldiers had lost their lives in Iraq since the fighting began more than two years ago, but it seemed to me to be a natural byproduct of war. I had even been riding the fence on where I sided with our attempt to “fix” another country’s political and social climate through physical interference — I’m generally a fan of democracy and freedom, but definitely not of unnecessary bloodshed.

But now my friend is dead, and I can’t be ambivalent any longer.

U.S. Army Spc. David Rice was 22 years old on April 25, the day the U.S. Central Command said his armored Humvee rolled over northeast of Baghdad while he was serving as gunner for the troops in the vehicle. That’s apparently all they know for sure — it could have been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade, or it simply could have been an accident.

I’ve known David for 10 years — he was the boy with whom I spent hours on the phone during middle school cracking stupid jokes and pretending we didn’t like each other. He was my date to the eighth grade “big dance.” In high school, he became one of the sweetest, kindest guys I knew, even though he seemed a little macho to everyone else.

After graduation, we lost touch until this year, when he was home on leave from his first tour in Iraq and we spent a chilly January night catching up. We pounded back a few beers at a downtown bar and headed to his friend’s house, where we ended up reclining in his rental car that smelled of pine needles. I asked him all about Iraq — what he was doing there, how he kept in contact with his mother, sister and friends and what the situation was like there.

Yes, he had killed four Iraqi insurgents, but it wasn’t something he relished. No, the media certainly weren’t reporting everything that was going on — there was a lot of good, but also a lot of bad. There was certainly a lot of death.

David didn’t mind being in Iraq once, but he didn’t want to go back. I’ll never forget what he said: “I don’t know if I’ll come back alive.” If only I would have held his hand a minute longer, held him there so he couldn’t have left.

He was scheduled to return from his second tour on May 12. That day could now be the date of his funeral.

He signed up for the Army before he had even graduated from high school, so obviously he was doing something he wanted to do, and I respect that very much. He felt military work was his duty; he would do whatever he was called to do in service. He trusted it would be the right thing.

But I can’t understand why David had to die halfway around the world from Sioux City, his hometown — away from the people who loved him. Of course he was assisting Iraqis gain freedom and democracy, but at what price? When is it worth the cost of death to send our siblings, parents and friends to fight such nebulous battles against invisible things like “terrorism” and “threats to democracy?”

I need to know, because David, his family and friends — and countless others like them — are paying it.