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RE: Destruction of Kurram Village, Afghanistan

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I haven't been able to come up with anything original to say to Mr. Masroor,
so I'll use some one else's words:

------------------[QUOTE MODE ON]---------------
>>>Only Foreigners Bleed<<<

Source: Mercurial Times
Published: October 15, 2001
Author: Anna Z.

It has begun.

The bleeding foreigners and bleeding hearts will make it difficult for the
Western media to figure out which ones should get air time quicker, slicker
and longer, but figure it out they will. (Once the anthrax stories
dissipate, of course.)

"Your media is funny," said a woman from Spain. "On TV in Madrid I have seen
them passing the buckets filled with the pieces from the towers. But not
here."

No, not pieces of walls or of glass or desk debris or of what was once a
fire engine, but pieces of those who felt sheltered by those walls, looked
through those panes of glass, sat at those desks, rode in courageously on
that engine.

A friend of ours just returned from a trip back home to Manhattan. A police
officer friend of hers took her down to Ground Zero. She is still crying.

She saw what the media here thought she shouldn't. And it didn't make her
want to run away, it made her want to stay. It is one thing, from the
priveleged perch of news executiveship, to call a terrorist an "alleged
hijacker". It is quite another when, upon seeing one of a million bricks
being turned over and lifted up for removal, and seeing upon it a face, just
a woman's face, with nothing else attached, staring back at you, to call a
terrorist anything but a confirmed cold-blooded murderer.

Multiple units of rescue teams, at least eleven, went into those towers
after they had been struck. Multiple units of rescue teams never came out.
There weren't enough rescue teams left on the outside to rescue the
rescuers. It would have been a job for Superman. Or maybe Hercules. However,
for the most part, it is people who are rescued, pieces of people just need
to be picked up.

After the collapse the dispatchers frantically ran up the list of teams that
had gone in. Once busy frequencies were silent. "Unit one. Come in, unit
one." Silence. "Unit two?" Silence. "Unit three?!" Silence. Crackle. Fuzz.
"Unit four?" And so on.

And then a voice came through. "I can't move!" Another voice, frantic, "It's
black. I can't see anything. I'm stuck." A woman's voice, "My arm! My arm's
gone!!" And so on.

Yes, this story is redundant. It has already been related. But this is the
story which must remain, which must reside within us, must remind us to
remember to never forget. And we must do that on our own, because I fear our
professional storytellers may not.

There's a sad story I read yesterday of a wailing Afghan man mourning the
loss of his five year-old son, a man who saw the insides of his child, a
sight no one, no where, should ever have to see.

But that man was given notice, over three weeks of it, ample time to try and
protect his family from things that go "boom". I wonder what people in New
York and in the air, on September 11th, would have given for a fraction of
that time of warning.

We will hear of each casualty "over there". We will be convinced of our
complicity, berated for boorishness, warned not to warmonger. Each corpse
will convict us. But if you talk to those on the ground and in the know in
NYC, we've only been told of half the deaths right here in the homeland.

Apparently there were some who knew, by the way, who had prior notice, who
were unsurprised when the atrocity occurred. Local folk. Feeding off of the
Great Satan, though, has failed to engender their respect or loyalty, and
not even their mercy. People went to work in those towers, and part of the
income they earned went to educate these ingrates, light up their streets at
night, police their neighborhoods. But money really can't buy love.

And now, post-attack, if twenty ungroomed people show up with some peace
signs and other recycled sentiments, it's news. As a veteran of countless
L.A.-based protests, this bugs me. Because I know that if a placard-waver
hits the pavement and Channel 4 News isn't there to record it, the protester
doesn't really make a sound.

No one really heard us denounce the war in Kosovo, they failed to film us
pleading for Elian, our Saturdays -- when we numbered in the hundreds and
the props, oh, what great props! -- in November, and into December of last
year, in support of Bush's win in Florida never really made it to primetime
(although the dirty dozen across the street, the Gorons, did.) Yet now,
somehow, shouting, among other things, "Workers of the world unite!" is
interesting enough for airplay. "Workers of the world unite!" indeed. What
loons. As if any of them actually have real jobs. They do, however, have the
networks' lights, cameras, and action.

And so that is why I'm writing this, why I strive to keep fresh the WTC
wounds, why my eyes still dampen daily, why I've bought a spotlight so my
flag can wave all night.

Because I do mourn the five year-old whose insides saw the light of day,
because my own five year-old tearfully accepted the President's offer to
earn a dollar to help those on the other side, because all blood that's
spilled deserves, at the least, our solemn respect, even, or, yes, because
I'm biased, especially when it's innocent and bleeds red, white and blue. In
this age of relativity, where mommas sue ballet companies to accept their
chubby girls instead of looking for diet plans, that's not a kosher
statement. But I had a powdered sugar donut for breakfast this morning and
I'm feeling a little reckless so I'm just going to say it -- all may be
created equal, but some grow up to be better.

Mercurial Times exclusive commentary. Reprints must credit the author and
Mercurial Times.

------------------[QUOTE MODE OFF]--------------


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