This past week, as is true of most of the United States, and, indeed, much of the world, my attention has largely belonged to the aftermath of the destruction of the World Trade Center, the attack on the Pentagon, and the failed hijack which crashed in Pennsylvania.
For centuries, and, in fact, millennia, the Middle East has been a tempest of violence, anger, and sorrow. However, it has in general remained the issue and the pain of those indigenous to that region; all those who lay claim to it.
For reasons most generously described as foolish and reprehensible, and less generously as supreme social myopia, idiocy, and aggravated barbarism beneath the contempt of animals in forfeit of all claim to humanity--for such reasons, certain elements of the Middle East have made the region's issues and pain our own.
These elements, scum of the vilest order, have slit the throats of women any of us could have loved or called family. They have used those dearest to us in execution of mass murder on the grandest scale. They have done this to accomplish a nebulous and untenable goal. They did not kill for reasons of specific vigilante justice; they did not kill for personal retribution; they did not kill to defend against a threat. They killed in the utmost disinterest for those they murdered, borne out of unfounded sociopathological hatred and blindness. They killed to hurt us.
They have succeeded, and in their success, have ensured their own destruction with extreme prejudice. As of a week ago, I saw the Middle Eastern terrorists as criminals to be brought to justice by their own or by those they so cruelly victimized, yet there was no personal stake in it: merely an enlightened appreciation for the necessity of justice. Today, I will delight in their destruction; their death will lift my heart. I will feel satisfaction as each of them is made to hurt as they have made each of us to hurt.
The following is quoted from Newsweek.
In Brooklyn Heights, one man was walking the opposite way, toward the Brooklyn Bridge heading into Manhattan. He had his two daughters with him, and both their backpacks slung around his neck. "I live over there," he said, pointing across the river. "Two blocks from the World Trade Center. The minute I heard the crash I jumped on the subway before they shut it down to get over here and get my girls. They go to school in Brooklyn. I know 40 people who work on the 106th floor. They’re just not there anymore. I saw five people jump from the building. It was horrible." When he was told he’d performed a heroic action, he said, "I’m not doing squat. I’m just trying to get to my family. Say a prayer." As he walked on, one of his daughters said, "But Mommy works in the World Trade Center." He gripped her hand tighter and said, "Well, we hope Mommy’s all right."
I'm not particularly fond of the prospect of leaving the country, and I have no more wish to die than most, nor have I liked being repeatedly awakened in the middle of the night to go stand in the cold, wearing a flak jacket and carrying a very loaded M-16A2.
I like even less living in a world where those responsible for ordering the attacks of Tuesday, September 11, 2001 still breathe the same air I do, and experience the gift of life. What must be done will be done by those willing, and by God, I am willing.
For you who are hurt, and afraid, I pray for you. In turn, look to the One Who never fails, Whose love is beyond understanding. If you do, whatever happens, come war, come accident, come old age . . . we will see each other, in time.