April 9, 2003
Three weeks ago, I felt guilt about invading Iraq.
Today, I felt grateful that, at least for a few hours, scores of humans would not be torn apart by screaming metal and searing fire.
Today, also, I am sad. I am sad for the loved ones in San Diego and Karbala, in Twenty-Nine Palms and Tikrit, in Des Moines and Al Kut. I am sad for the children of Basrah, released from five years’ captivity, only to rejoin a world of looting and vengeance. I am sad for the well-meaning anti-war souls whose legitimacy can be somehow toppled like a statue. I am sad for the young warrior who will be the last to die in Iraq.
Today, to, I am worried. I am worried that apparent “victory” will reinforce the doctrine of preemptive strike, when what are needed are preemptive education and preemptive medicine and preemptive food.
Three weeks ago I feared that, for one modern-day, Arabic-speaking FDR, the first dropped bomb perhaps marked our own day of infamy.
Today, I am trying not to think of it – any of it.
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