Friday, March 22nd, 2020
It was the first time I killed a man, and I can’t say that I regret it. In his death, I felt peace. In his death, I felt freedom. Solace. Satisfaction.
Oh God! What have I become? Has war against ISIS and the Al-Qaeda turned me into a bloodthirsty tyrant, seeking revenge on those who are only fighting for their god? How can I be mad at them when they act out of true belief and devotion, as do I with my God?
Sometimes, forgiveness just isn’t enough.
I can’t forgive all. I can’t forgive ISIS for beheading children.
I can’t forgive innocent lives being taken in France.
And so I’ll kill again. I’ll kill those bastards–each and every one of them. I don’t care if their families cry or their children go fatherless. My dad was murdered by the likes of them. It’s only justice’s form of equality, right?
ISIS must die so that freedom may rise. Is my form of justice harsh? Maybe so.
But what other choice do I have?
I’ve been fighting this war for twenty years, and after a while, my stomach’s twisting and turning grows into a hatred so great that not even rationality can stop it. I–the real me–do not wish to hate, but after all the international attacks, random deaths, and outrageous plotting against neutral situations, I’ve just had it. What if it was my daughter working in the twin towers? What if it were my son shopping in that Kosher store in France?
It was someone’s child somewhere that died. It always is. And as a father, that just makes me sick.
I pray to my God that war would end, that peace would be restored, but it seems the only form of “peace” these days is a gun between these calloused, cracked hands.
I grow weary from the war.
2020 is not a year of hope, by any means. It may symbolize perfect vision, but all I see is blind rage on both ends of the war, turning my brothers and I into the very people we are fighting against.
And this is the irony of it all.