A Good Man Goes To Great Lengths To Avoid A War

There is a group, the "Islamic" State, that has decided that their brand of extremist Islam demands the "restoration" of a caliphate in the Middle East. They are willing to go to any length to make this happen. They carved a territory out of Syria and Iraq, declared it theirs, and imposed their brutal version of justice on the inhabitants. The brook no interference, to the point of beheading American journalists as retaliation for attempts by the United States to keep them from overrunning and slaughtering groups that do not meet with their fanatical approval.

Their existence is a product of the Cold War. The U.S.A. vs. U.S.S.R. chess match shaped policies on both sides in the Middle East that led to a region rife with fanaticism, shot through with tyrannical dictatorship, and left some nations open to exploitation by dictators, religious fundamentalists, and terrorists. The Shah of Iran, Nasser, Arafat, Ayatollah Khomeini, Qaddafi, bin Laden, Hussein... these are the products of a global tug-of-war that produced regional conflict, fair weather alliances, power grabs, religious oppression, and lethal dictatorships. The Middle East as it is now, was a product of the 20th Century version of The Crusades.

The "Islamic" State is only the latest mutated offspring of the undeclared war between Capitalism and Communism. As such, the blood is on our hands, like it or not. We may have moved a long way from the genesis of the current instability, but it is an albatross that casts its shadow on the deck of the ship of State.

It would be easy enough to claim that we have reached some moral ascendance, that with Gulf War II now nearly over in Afghanistan, we must strike the standards, fold the tents, and return to our homes, and banish from our minds any thought of returning to involve ourselves in the melees the region finds itself enmeshed in. Perhaps we could absolve ourselves that easily.

It doesn't work that way.

Our hand set the game in motion. The waves of dissent and ripples of instability were caused by the rock we heaved into the middle of that desert pond. The single greatest foreign attack on American continental soil, September 11th, was one of those ripples, rebounded from a cave in mountains in Afghanistan. We might wish to believe disengaging from the pageant keeps us safe from the repercussions of our actions, that our new found moral certitude in peace without superior firepower would insulate us.

It is true that, at some point, a nation must stand up before the world, say "we will not continue to live by the sword," and work tirelessly to foster peace. It is true that violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, but within that is the implicit assumption that we were competent in the first place. Violence is not the ultimate solution to our problems; the Cold War was the greatest teacher of that lesson, for the mutually-assured destruction that might have been wrought had tensions between the United States and the U.S.S.R. escalated would certainly have extinguished us all. It took a tremendous effort to pull two great powers back from the brink of mass nuclear suicide. It was done. But the threat is still present even now.

It is hubris to believe that we can simply pick up our toys and go home. There is no reason to believe that the "Islamic" State will somehow see our withdrawal as a "get out of jihad free" card. Their rhetoric suggests they see the United States -- and all Westernized societies -- as their enemy. They are willing to die for what they believe and more than willing to take as many of us as possible with them when they do. Right now, they are confined to a home they have carved from other nations, but are we seriously going to bank on them staying there. within their Arabic playpen?

Ideology is the worst offender in war, for the ideologue believes so wholeheartedly in the righteousness of their cause, they are willing to immolate themselves and their brethren in its defense, even when their situation is hopeless. Hitler wrecked Germany rather than admit defeat. The Japanese were willing to hurl themselves at ships in order to prevent the hated enemy from setting foot on their shore. The suicide bomber destroys himself in the belief that self-sacrifice wins him a ticket to Heaven for obliterating his enemies.

President Obama is taking the prudent steps he must to ensure that the "Islamic" State cannot present a greater threat to the United States and the world, that an organized state with greater resources would pose when wrapped up in self-destructive fanaticism. The man will not go to war, casually or without deliberation, if at all. He has used the tools at his command to end the wars we have been involved in and to attempt to prevent new ones from starting. He is perched precariously at the apex of a pyramid of Western interference in the Middle East that stains our reputation among Arabic nations, colors even our well-meaning our actions as suspect, and leaves us no good options when it is clear that a situation is of our manufacture.

The man has stood before the flag-draped caskets. He knows what he asks of our military and the nation. He knows there is risk with every move he makes. But he also knows that we, the United States, owe this region for centuries of bloodshed brought about by our machinations. It is a debt not so easily written off, especially where the payment for it may come in the deaths of American citizens on their home soil. We take a grave risk in ignoring a threat that is so transparent, when we did not take seriously the last threat, and allowed almost 3,000 names to be added to the butcher's bill as a result.

A day will come when the world will know true peace. To get there, we will still have to fight, until those who worship violence are vanquished. Human nature being what it is, we have a long road yet to follow.

Oh Sons And Daughters Of Israel!

I am indebted to one of my on-line friends, Emily L. Hauser, for a great deal of good information and insight into the current social conflict in Israel. I will not rehash her take on events there, but suggest you read her excellent blog to receive the unadulterated version. It has brought me, though, to try and formulate my own opinion on the subject; normally I do not delve into the conflict.

The Towers Fall Again

September 11th is being trampled on. It started with the conspiracy theorists and their wild, ridiculous, and unsupported accusations. It continued with an invasion of Iraq, a country that had nothing to do with the attack. It was sullied by Rudy Giuliani's insipid and infuriating use of that day as a rallying point for his Presidential bid. It has had dirt cast on it by the ignorant and hate-inspired ramblings of those who would oppose a Muslim cultural center in the same general area as Ground Zero, even though it would not be visible from the site, and would be there to promote peace and understanding. And now, as a pièce de résistance to the creeping morass that engulfs the day, a pastor of a fringe "Christian" sect has been allowed to co-opt the narrative with his reprehensible and ridiculous idea to burn Qurans on the anniversary, which has only served to inflame the passions of devout Muslims with its offensiveness.

The World Trade Center Towers, symbols of American preeminence and pride, linchpins of the lower Manhattan skyline, victims of hatred and hubris, are being torn asunder once again, not by planes loaded with volatile fuel, but people filled with volatile rhetoric. Unlike when Francis Scott Key was moved to write The Star Spangled Banner, this moment, which could have been made the rallying cry for further unity of purpose and of people, has been turned into a divisive and discordant event. The shock, and dismay, and grief of the day, has been replaced by hyperbole, bigotry, and hypocrisy.

Why?

I was there, in that city, on that day, miles from the epicenter of destruction, but still tied to it by the company I worked for, which had a large amount of office space in the World Trade Center, and by memories of the very first job I held in New York City, not far from it. I had lunched amidst their tall shadows. I had marveled at their sheer height, and bulk, and beauty against the sky. I had shopped in the Borders bookstore there, and still have the bookmark I received when I made my last purchase there. Those buildings were as much a part of me as anyone, for beneath them I had heaved a sigh as my first job in Manhattan went away, the company shriveling up as so many did at the end of the Dot Com bubble. On the day I filed for unemployment, I walked all the way from Midtown to Downtown, just to stand near them, and try to absorb, even minutely, their strength. Ever night, when I walked along the heights across the Hudson River in New Jersey, I would look longingly toward them, towering in the dark, hoping I would return.

Then they were gone.

As much as one can feel for those who lost loved ones that day, and my heart is forever scarred by the thought of the pain they suffered, especially those whose family and friends had to experience the suicidal plunges of the planes they were riding on, the death those people suffered was merciful and at least they know that those they loved are in a better place, brought to peace. For those of us who lived, even those of us who were not covered in dust, showered in concrete, or standing amidst the paper falling from the sky like snow, the death is slower, more tenuous, and more painful. For though we bear not a physical scar of the day, a part of us died that day, too. A small part, to be sure, but in us lies the death of our innocence and the world we know. Hopes, aspirations, peace, tranquility, shattered just as sure as steel was shattered by the force of an airplane impact.

Perhaps it was good that our naiveté died that day, that, not unlike Pearl Harbor, we were brought back to the reality of our place in the world. However, the price we paid was the opening of Pandora's box, loosing a new round of the evils of humanity into the daylight. Bigotry, hatred, intolerance, ignorance -- all these things that had lain dormant, not cast back upon the wind, to rain down on a hapless and anxious country. It was not long before those who lived by these negative associations began to absorb them, and turn them to their purposes. The end result: a country that could have used such a horrific event to fuse itself together even more tightly, is, instead, tearing itself apart and chewing itself away.

If the mass death of the innocent is not enough for us to demand better, if we do not see this as the opportunity to unite as one, stand atop our loftiest principles, and say to our foes "you cannot hurt us while we have our freedom and liberty," then the anniversary of that day is a sad one indeed, because beyond the toll of mortal beings, and the remaining collateral damage of those of us who still suffer with the memory, there is the damage to the American spirit. By casting aside that which made us strongest, our dedication to our principles and our belief in our Constitution as the blueprint for a truly democratic country, we cease to be an ennobled. If we wish to wallow in the mud of our enemies, so be it, but that removes any honor in our actions; to do precisely what our enemies say we do, is to hand them victory in their nonsensical and reprehensible war against us.

Life, Humanity, And Everything

The crowd that assembles under the umbrella of the "right-to-life" movement is extremely concerned with potential, soul-bearing life that resides in a woman's womb, to the extent of trying their best to strip a woman of her right to exercise the course of her pregnancy as she sees fit. Once the child is born of woman, feeling the Sun upon its skin, and filling its lung with air, it is no longer of as much consequence to them. That the child is born into poverty, to a mother who must subsist on public assistance and the kindness of strangers, or, worse, who looks at the child as a reminder of youthful indiscretion or brutal violation, does not seem to bother them that much.

In fact, when it comes to the fully-formed human, as child or adult, much is made to try and minimize the glory that is humanity. A human being is reduced from an instrument of God's crafting, master of Earth and its environs, to an inconvenience or nuisance or "one of them." Rather than accept the fact that all humans are of common stock, related in the greatest detail, many seek to categorize and minimize their fellow humans, to salve their sense of inferiority, or to enforce their sense of domination. That so many of us treat our brethren as the sum of their tags and categorizations and attributes, is a sign that we have not evolved far past our primitive ancestors.

One only has to look at the rhetoric flying about, to see it first-hand. The vitriol of some toward illegal immigrants, reducing them to nothing more than common, law-breaking curs. The "righteous" anger of some over abortion, treating the unborn fetus as sacred, while treating the frightened and confused mother as some sort of God-forsaken heathen, bent on the destruction of humanity. The fervent anger and thinly-couched slurs of some "patriots," aimed toward the President, over his attempts to rectify ills and provide security for all Americans. The invective of some brought out by the debate of health care reform, treating those without insurance or with preexisting conditions as if they deserve their fate.

Discourse in this country is a mockery, a shouting match engaged in by all comers, as if tearing each other down can possibly lead to the solution of the serious problems facing this country and the world. It is not simply the ignorant and boorish who are so engaged, but their detractors find it as easy to slap them with degrading and offensive appellations, as if compounding the problem somehow scores intellectual points in the debate. Where great oratory is called for, there is only mud-slinging, name-calling, and obstinacy.

When we look at another person, we cannot afford the luxury of seeing them for their surface attributes, for like an iceberg, who a person is is mainly hidden beneath. Clothing, make-up, jewelry, religious effects... these are all camouflage, a facade to hide behind, a barrier to protect our innermost workings, a wall to prevent others from seeing us as we truly are. We must learn to strip away the surface of those we meet, to delve into the depths, and to avoid the continued trap of judging the book by its cover. Only in this, can we even begin to being about true and universal peace and equality. For inequity exists only as long as we maintain the fiction that people are what they appear to be. There are times, when actions do not even tell us all there is to know, for sometimes people take actions based on forces propelling them from the depths of their soul, in ways we cannot fundamentally imagine.

No amount of age, intellect, breeding, or wealth obviates the fact that each of us, as individuals, has value as a living, breathing being, and that while we are different in many ways, we are the same in more ways than we know. Equality is the base measure of humanity, and our deviation from it is only brought about by our instinct to divide the world, and everything in it, into convenient categories. A survival instinct honed by millions of years of evolution now threatens to destroy our ascendancy; for humanity to survive and flourish, we must force our evolution on an intellectual level, harnessing our mental energies to turning aside instinct, and bringing humanity back to its level, that peace and harmony might reign.

Touching History

It was mid-afternoon. We had driven 5 hours from our home to Boston to be part of the throng that had made the pilgrimage to the John F. Kennedy library to pay last respects to Senator Ted Kennedy. We arrived around 2:30 pm, to find out that they had cut the line at noon. We were disappointed, but hung out anyway, looking at the flowers and gifts left there, chatting with others who had been through or had actually been there the previous day and had come back. We hoped to get a glimpse of the Kennedy family members. We saw a few remaining people being let in, and my wife wandered over to ask if there was any way we could get in.

And so we were allowed in.

The Kennedy family had been gracious throughout, keeping the library open till 2 am that morning to accommodate as many as they could from the day before. And here, now, approaching the time when they were to close down to prepare for the service at the library that evening, to be attended by the family and dignitaries, they accommodated one last request from some ordinary citizens. At that moment, something I had always heard but never known about the Kennedy clan was realized -- they really did care about everyone, and wanted no one to be left out if they could help it.

It was very quiet. The casket lay on its pedestal, the flag draped over it so crisp and vibrant in color, as to be unreal. At the the four corners, stood 4 members of the military honor guard, like wax statues standing there, in their silent guardianship. I was struck by a young woman in her Navy whites, boots laced up so precisely, a rifle, butt to the ground, next to her, almost like a museum display in her own right. It was hard to take it all in, what with the solemnity of the surroundings, the intensity of the scene, and fighting my own emotions, trying so very hard not to burst into tears.

Some members of the family sat before coffin; I believe I saw Ted Jr. there, but my attention was immediately snapped up by Kiki Kennedy, who was there at the velvet rope surrounding the coffin, shaking hands and chatting with my wife. Despite the gravity of the moment, she had a smile on her face, spoke to my wife as if she were an old friend, fawned a little over my daughter, and my stepsons. As I reached the spot, I took her hand, and found that my normal ability with words failed me. I'm not even sure what I said, but she thanked me and my family for coming, and her tone was so reassuring, that I felt a small wave of relief.

And then, just before the exit of the rotunda, stood Patrick, Ted Kennedy's youngest son and a Congressman in his own right. You could tell, for the family resemblance breeds true, and even with the passage of time the features that mark him as part of the clan stood out. Again, he chatted with my wife, and talked to my daughter so very forthrightly; we had dressed her in a shirt we had bought in Washington, D.C., which had a small American flag and the words "Future President" on it. It was my attempt at homage, for Ted Kennedy had fought for the rights of women amongst the many groups whose causes he championed, and what father doesn't believe his daughter won't be President, in this day and age?

My 4-year-old daughter stood there and looked up at him, with one of her beautiful smiles, and he beamed at her, and asked her "Could I be your Vice President? Just for an hour...", to which my daughter responded with the New England brevity she inherited from me, and said simply, "Sure." His face had a broad smile, and he shook hands with all of us vigorously. Again, words failed me, and I could only stammer out "Our condolences," though in my mind, I had so much more praise to heap on his father. He looked me in the eye and told me I had a beautiful family, and it took just about every bit of reserve I could muster not to cry. Here was a man before me, who I am sure would have liked to do the same, but showed remarkable self control, and to honor him, so would I.

The next day, I would watch Senator Kennedy's funeral service, hear the stirring words spoken by so many, and cry the tears I could not the day before. Whenever Patrick Kennedy appeared on the screen, I could not help but contrast the friendly out-going man I had met, with the now somber mourner I saw before me. At once, it was if the doors had closed, and the cloak of good will and honest appreciation could finally be shrugged off, and the import of the moment taken up and placed once more upon his shoulders. I only hoped that each hand he had taken during the previous two days had imparted to him some measure of strength, from each person who had so loved his father.

To listen to his voice, firm, strident, at times playful and emotional, coming as it did after his brother's impassioned remembrance, was so touching that, for a moment, it was if I could feel his life as he had felt it. It was a dam bursting, swallowing me up in a torrent of grief. I knew, if only for an instant, his loss. It was a feeling that surpassed the sorrow that washed over me after 9/11, for that was a shock, a terrible hour of destruction, and a long, slow aftermath. This was the weight of decades, a swirling river of devastation and loss, a boy, become a man, suddenly a boy again, trying to cope with the idea that the father he loved and respected, was gone.

All that day, every time I saw his face, etched by time, pain, and sorrow, I could feel the ache myself. Though our world's are light-years apart, we became connected, if only for a brief instant, in our grief -- his far, far greater than mine. Strangely, that is a gift, a gift that no doubt his father taught him, perhaps unconsciously, to give. For no matter how far apart people may be in this society, we are stripped of the trappings of our lives by things like death and devastation, by standing amidst poverty, or watching the suffering of others. In the end, we are human, and we must reach out a hand, to touch another, to bring them up from their sorrow, or bring them down to see a world they did not know of. In the end, we must share who we are with the world, and do our part to help others. And so Patrick Kennedy helped me, and perhaps, in a small way, I helped him.

That is the legacy that Senator Edward Kennedy leaves behind.