There's not alot there; in total, the reading is about five minutes. And wether you're pro/anti-war, it doesn't matter, because everyone should know the consequences of war. Everyone should know what goes on in Iraq right now. Ignorance never solved anything, except in a very final sort of solution.
There's no need for someone to write an epitaph for Duraid. I think he wrote it for himself pretty perfectly:
It's the scars. They never heal, and never go away. And it's only you who can see them when you are on your own, so it's only you living through the memories again and again until you learn to just try to heal them from within. But how can you heal them when you are screaming within?
Who am I to worry about commerating this stranger? This man who gave me the tiniest of windows into his life; barely a page of print? The better question is who is he. I'm not commerating the man, but my idea of the man. This is unfair, because the man too should be commerated, but I do not have the power to do that. I'm not sure it's even possible to commerate the person, merely our idea of them. So I bury the idea of him, and wish him on his way. I know nothing about him, other than the fact that he touched me deeply, and for that, I remember him.