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We're
at work. We're standing, eyes glued to one of the
screens on the wall above us. Different images
flicker elsewhere on the wall, but the one we're
interested is grainy black and white video,
transmitted live. We're watching because an
indicator on the screen says the operator has
designated a target. A moment later we get the word
- a weapon has been released. Someone is about to
die.
This
scene has repeated itself many times over the last
few days. It's one of few experiences that I've
found is not diminished by repetition.
Am
I remorseful? Do I feel for the men who, in a
matter of seconds, will cease to exist? The place
in my heart that would be occupied by remorse is
scarred by images of a hostage slaughter house. The
part of my mind that might harbor compassion is
imagining a makeshift video studio, where Al
Jazeera cameramen drank tea to the sounds of
innocents' life blood gurgling in their
windpipes.
The
people we watch die are blissfully unaware. What
are they discussing on that street corner? What is
he thinking as he drives that car? Do they, for the
split second before impact, wonder at the sound of
wind, rushing over the stubby wings of the warhead?
Even if they do - even if they hear the missile,
homing inexorably from a vehicle so far away they
never saw it, their brief shock is nothing to me.
The searing flash, the concussion that separates
their body from their soul bothers me not a bit. It
is merciful.
It
is not the weeks or months-long separation from
friends and family, being held like livestock for a
bargain that will never be struck. It is not the
desperate sickness that invades the heart, knowing
you will never see your family again. It is not the
terror of knowing your captors consider you most
valuable when your head is severed, dangling from
their bloody fist in a television commercial for
evil. It is not the grinding by of countless hours
of loneliness and fear.
It
is quick. It is better than they deserve. Far from
regret, I am grimly satisfied at my role in this
process.
Maybe
it shocks you that I can appreciate beauty, love my
family, and calmly contemplate killing men. It
shouldn't. The understanding of good and evil and
the willingness to act in the differentiation
between them is fundamental to those more appealing
characteristics.
I'm
still me.
Steven
Steven's
earlier columns are here:
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