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I understand the British showing the culprits of the latest bomb attack a tough face. We want to catch those responsible, we want to ward off anyone who might feel emboldened by the (success?) of this bomber, and we need to keep each other calm, keep to our schedules, keep from letting the terrorists disrupt our 'normal' lives.
But shouldn't we be afraid? I welcome Blair's talk of addressing the root causes of this type of terror. His reaction, however has been a mix of Bush-like bravado, and that British stoicism that has characterized past generations of Britons in the face of terror. But, I also sensed more than a twinge of despair from the prime minister. And, at least, a hint of separation from the unyielding bluster of our administration's 'war on terror' in his mention of the underlying conditions that have brought us to this point of enmity with so many who have made it their ambition to kill Americans and our agents, often sacrificing their own lives to do so.
Britons should be afraid. A good deal of the underlying cause of this continuing terror is fueled by our own president's aggression, and his threats of expanding his 'war' to other Arab states. 'Bring it on' is the official Bush battle cry. Blair has echoed that cry as he stands shoulder to shoulder with Bush in his arrogance. But, Blair and his country folk are smack in the way of wave of resentment that Bush has stirred up with his invasion and occupation of two Muslim dominated countries, as are other smaller nations who lined up behind these Bush and Blair's misadventure in Iraq. And Bush is still swaggering.
I think the denial of fear plays into that myth of invincibility that was the hallmark of the United States foreign policy- post-cold-war- after the fall of the Soviet Union. But, we are vulnerable to future attack. There is no one country, no other country, that we could destroy and dominate (if we had the troops) that would result in a halt to future terrorist attacks here or elsewhere. We need these countries to cooperate in helping to root out the threatening factions and help bring those responsible for the terror to justice. But, we have/are creating more enemies than allies.
I think our denial of fear will only serve to allow Bush and Blair to continue their manufactured war in Iraq and lump all of the subsequent resistance in their 'war on terror' basket. To date, that terror war has been a cover for whatever military aggression that Bush has directed. It's been used as a cover for all of the violations of human rights of those we have imprisoned in Iraq, Afghanistan, Gitmo, and here at home. There is are lifetimes, generations of resentment that will only fester and erupt behind Bush's arrogance, our arrogance.
I fear. I am afraid that Bush has yoked us to decades of conflict, decades of reprisals from the survivors of our indiscriminate bombings and our destruction of Arab homelands. I'm afraid that our leaders haven't had enough of their swaggering and blustering. That's all Bush has. And we're not really the bad asses that they make us out to be. We can get the shit kicked out of us, again. We are still losing soldiers. Britain was just attacked, and . . . we will never end the cycle of violence with more violence alone.
Better we did not war. Lots of hate for us out there. Lots more to come our way.
"How say you, war or not? Not war, if possible, O king," I said,"lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, The smoldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel-all the common wrong- And smoke go up thro' which I loom to her Three times a monster: now she lightens scorn At him that mars her plan, but then would hate (And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, And every face she look'd on justify it) The general foe. More soluable is this knot, By gentleness than war. I want her love. What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd Your cities into shards and catapults, She would not love;- or brought her chain'd, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn The book of scorn, till all my fitting chance Were caught within the record of her wrongs, And crush'd to death: and rather, Sire, than this I would the old God of war himself were dead, Forgotten, rustling on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, Not to be molten out."
Excerpt from, "The Princess: A Medley" by, Alfred Tennyson
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