because "the debate" is so productive of...of...of...what, exactly?
Nits make lice. The players are different, the play is the same.
http://community.livejournal.com/unitarian_jihad/98322.... <Haditha, Atrocity and a Poem
The other day one of the apparently dozens of readers of this blog asked me why I had not written about the war for a while. More particularly he was concerned that I had not said anything about the atrocity apparently committed by Marines in Haditha. Of course, in confronting the reality of the current regime (in America, I mean) there are so many daily outrages that it is hard to maintain that laser like focus on Iraq. It is easy to be distracted.
But you cannot keep your head turned forever. The screaming and anguish will eventually penetrate any other preoccupation and demand attention.
So it is with Haditha. An atrocity. Again.
War itself, even when it can be justified on some level of self defense or noble sacrifice to higher ideals, is always an ongoing atrocity. The purpose of war is to kill, maim and destroy, to sap the will of the enemy to resist in any way. Even if conducted by the set-piece rules and traditions that respect civilian and non-combatants it is a brutal business. Modern warfare hardly pretends there is a distinction.
Some historians trace the modern trend to the British when they loosed the Royal Navy to bombard Copenhagen during the Napoleonic wars simply because they had the power to do so and the Danes would not side with them. But of course in North America the Red Coats had used Indian allies and axillaries to depopulate French colonies and later the American frontier. But that was far away and the nobles of the court and the Commons need hardly to acknowledge the bloody business. <snip>
"Somewhere in Africa a small boy lies,
his mother’s reedy arm stretches over him
the perfect picture of sweet repose
until a closer look reveals his spilling brains
and is mother’s head, half severed,
stares backward at her crumpled feet.
The horror of that dead child shakes us,
taps well springs of pity
and of blank incomprehension
at alien ferocity.
Yet…
“Nits make lice,” the old hero said
when some irksome scribe inquired
about the latest massacre on the plains—
about the private parts of mere squaws
cut out and stretched over trooper’s pommels,
about limp and tattered ragbag babes
tossed from saber tip to saber tip
in a macabre game of polo.
Nits make lice.
And in the relentless logic of war,
it is utter and irrefutable truth
that today’s laughing toddler may,
in fifteen years or so, draw a bead
upon your own beloved child.
Nits make lice.
Better, after all, much better
to kill him now to save lives later,
to cast off foolish sentiment,
that useless relic of Victorian ladies
swooning with the vapors
over the lost innocence of youth.
Nits make lice.
And so our resolve firms
and our method, honed by enlightened science
far out-strips the stumbling, drunken troopers’
wild careen against a sleeping village
until whole cities of breeding, pestilential vermin
may efficiently be incinerated.
Nits make lice.
Yet…
Something in us stirs still at that
dead Hutu child, yearning to save his life,
or failing that, to end the carnage
before the play of others is macheteed away.
Nits make lice.
Impossible, impossible to save that child alone—
the mother, too, aunts and grandmas,
brothers, cousins, fathers—
even the wild-eyed ones who first
wet their knives on Tutsi babes
and opened Pandora’ Box of sweet revenge—
all, all must be as valued as the boy,
to save one all must be saved.
Nits make lice.
To save the nit,
we must even love the louse."