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"Wars would be a lot better, I think, if guys would say to themselves sometimes 'Jesus — I'm not going to do that to the enemy. That's too much.' "
- Kurt Vonnegut, Happy Birthday, Wanda June
I learned today, hours ago, that an old friend from college was seriously injured in the December 30 suicide bombing in Afghanistan. He is currently recovering in Bethesda Naval Hospital with an assortment of terrible injuries, although reports from the family indicate that he is making good progress so far.
I'm ashamed to say that I had to do a little online research to confirm that the bombing in question is the same one that killed eight CIA agents, earning widespread notoriety. At the time I originally heard about this bombing, I admit that the news didn't affect me much. I probably shook my head, sighed, avoided reading any of the details.
Eight deaths did not move the needle, until I found out my friend was one of the lucky ones. On the surface of my brain, in my peripheral vision, eight deaths has become nothing. It's a quarter of a Tarantino movie. It's the last segment of This Week with George Stephanopolous, the one I always fast-forward through. It's another Wednesday morning in Afghanistan. Do I avoid thinking about it because I'm self-absorbed? Desensitized? Helpless?
The phrase "suicide bombing" is a perversion, an abortion of humanity. Every day, it seems, a poor and undereducated young person prepares to kill himself and as many as hundreds of other people in the name of dogmatic warfare. But are these men really warriors, or are they weapons -- low-tech drones operated by so-called holy men with dreams of pious totalitarianism? What turns a man into an instrument of death? What would make anyone want to kill my friend -- who has a beautiful wife and a three-year old daughter and the quickest laugh-trigger I've ever seen? Is it anger? Ignorance? Helplessness?
And the U.S. marches forward, playing whac-a-mole in the desert. We cannot retreat, lest the threat advance. And we cannot escalate, lest we risk greater losses. And we cannot stand still, lest we sink in the sand. So we barter and negotiate, overture and undermine, yell and whisper. And we only get closer to these fundamental questions: how do you win a war? Why do we fight? Are we righteous? Deluded? Helpless?
All I can do now is shake my head, sigh, and wait for more details. Because of my friend, and Americans like him, I am safer. But I don't really feel any safer. So what have I gained? What have we bought?
I feel a deep sense of gratitude to our fallen soldiers. I have sincere pity for our beseiged leaders. I hope and wish for my friend's full and fast recovery. But I remain helpless.
- Kurt Vonnegut, Happy Birthday, Wanda June
I learned today, hours ago, that an old friend from college was seriously injured in the December 30 suicide bombing in Afghanistan. He is currently recovering in Bethesda Naval Hospital with an assortment of terrible injuries, although reports from the family indicate that he is making good progress so far.
I'm ashamed to say that I had to do a little online research to confirm that the bombing in question is the same one that killed eight CIA agents, earning widespread notoriety. At the time I originally heard about this bombing, I admit that the news didn't affect me much. I probably shook my head, sighed, avoided reading any of the details.
Eight deaths did not move the needle, until I found out my friend was one of the lucky ones. On the surface of my brain, in my peripheral vision, eight deaths has become nothing. It's a quarter of a Tarantino movie. It's the last segment of This Week with George Stephanopolous, the one I always fast-forward through. It's another Wednesday morning in Afghanistan. Do I avoid thinking about it because I'm self-absorbed? Desensitized? Helpless?
The phrase "suicide bombing" is a perversion, an abortion of humanity. Every day, it seems, a poor and undereducated young person prepares to kill himself and as many as hundreds of other people in the name of dogmatic warfare. But are these men really warriors, or are they weapons -- low-tech drones operated by so-called holy men with dreams of pious totalitarianism? What turns a man into an instrument of death? What would make anyone want to kill my friend -- who has a beautiful wife and a three-year old daughter and the quickest laugh-trigger I've ever seen? Is it anger? Ignorance? Helplessness?
And the U.S. marches forward, playing whac-a-mole in the desert. We cannot retreat, lest the threat advance. And we cannot escalate, lest we risk greater losses. And we cannot stand still, lest we sink in the sand. So we barter and negotiate, overture and undermine, yell and whisper. And we only get closer to these fundamental questions: how do you win a war? Why do we fight? Are we righteous? Deluded? Helpless?
All I can do now is shake my head, sigh, and wait for more details. Because of my friend, and Americans like him, I am safer. But I don't really feel any safer. So what have I gained? What have we bought?
I feel a deep sense of gratitude to our fallen soldiers. I have sincere pity for our beseiged leaders. I hope and wish for my friend's full and fast recovery. But I remain helpless.
