You were so young and naive. The adults around you were trying to protect you, hide the TVs, "You can't watch PBS today," they'd say. But you watched anyway. You were intrigued. When your teacher came in to class, her face was sullen and pale. You barely noticed, because you weren't worried. She gathered you and your classmates into a prayer circle to pray. To a God you no longer believe in. She told you something terrible had happened and that you must pray for the people stuck in the buildings. You did not want to pray. You wanted to go outside and play in the remaining hours of summer the world will ever know.
You were home now, sitting behind the couch. Watching. Your Mom didn’t know you were there. Watching. Images of blood, dust, fire, buildings falling, even hate, flashed before your eyes. You understood what was happening. You felt a strong sense of patriotism rise from within your body. A feeling that has since turned to resentment toward the hateful world you live in.
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Its amazes you now, when you watch the videos taken 10 years ago, a lost childhood gone by, the world you now live in, so different than the innocent world you were born into. The sound of the journalist’s shocked voices as they informed you a plane has hit the 1st World Trade Tower. It’s an accident, they said. A terrible accident. The seemly truth then, a joke now. You shake your head at the ignorance of the beginning of that day. Then, you shake your head and scold yourself. Those were different times, you tell yourself. You can only imagine if that were to happen now. Your country has changed from an apparent innocent nation, to an accusatory, quick to judge super power. Your fellow Americans are constantly thinking: Terrorism. Terrorist. Muslim. Terrorist. What did they do?
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You walked in the door, home from another day of school, another day of searching but never finding. Your mother thought you were downstairs, in your playroom, playing house with your barbies, like a normal little girl. You were not. Your eyes were once again glued to the television. We’ve invaded Iraq, the newsman says, to kill the bad guys. The bad guys who killed our good people. This will be a short war, a military looking man says, as his confident face flickers on your TV. The newsman was now showing you familiar images to you. Things exploding, blood, dust, and fire. Hate.
You could almost reach the counter tops in the kitchen now. The calendar said that it was spring, but outside it was still gloomy and cold. Too nasty to play in. The man you’d come to know as your president was on the TV again. His mouth was moving-he was saying something. But you were not even sure if he was speaking English. He’s the good guy, you’re grandfather told you. But you were not so sure. The man was telling you “Mission Accomplished,” but on the split screen, you still saw the fighting, the fire, the hate. It hadn’t gone away.
Christmas was almost here, you told your mom you wanted a doll house, but you were really not sure what you want. Nothing made sense anymore. You’re teacher had asked you to do a report on how great the country you live in is, your last thing to do before Christmas break. But you were not even sure your country is that great. Why would a good country kill people? You shook your head, trying to clear your brain of these thoughts, feeling guilty for thinking such things, and sat down on the living room floor. Once again your attention was drawn to the newsman on the TV. The scroll rolling across the bottom declares that there was breaking news. You cringed. You always did now. Breaking news was never a good thing. The screen changed from the newsman, to a bearded man, disheveled and wrinkly. The newsman comes back, joy showing in his voice. They caught him, he said, the man responsible for that bad day. They were showing you those images again. Images of blood, dust, fire, buildings falling, and hate. Violence. You were not even sure where they were taken, in New York, when those two towers fell, or in that far away country. The far away country that your president declared we had finished our mission in, months ago. So why were we still there?
Years have passed, you were older now. You could finally reach the kitchen cupboard. And you were disappointed. Christmas has just passed and the happy feelings of childhood had come and gone on the same day. And now you were left feeling as lost and confused as ever. That morning you had put on your snow boots and you’re heavy purple coat and made the long trek to the mail box to get the newspaper for your grandpa. When you got there, you yanked it off the hook it was hanging on, and opened the paper to the front page. You were aghast at when you saw.
A dead man staring back at you. A man killed in justice, yet killed in hate.
He was the same man you had seen years ago, but now he looked older, tortured, and lost. He was dead. Your country had killed him.
You are much older now, wiser. You are laying in bed, watching Sunday night football….you don’t remember what teams were playing, it seems so unimportant. The game was almost over, and by luck or by instinct you grabbed the remote to check the news channels, just in case. It’s become a natural instinct of yours by now, watching the news. Being involved. Searching for knowledge, answers. There was no breaking news, just a rerun, so you turned the channel back. What you didn’t realize was seconds later, there was breaking news.
At the end of the game, the screen turned red, the words in white, flashing. Presidential Address. You, of course panicked. An unwanted product of your childhood. You always, always, assume the worst. The man you’ve come to trust as your president, the man you told your mother, repeatedly, to vote for, walked out to his podium, and begins to speak. "Good evening. Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of al Qaeda, and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children(Obama)."
Your ears heard the word, you know they do. Your eyes watched his mouth move, telling you the words. But it takes you a few moments to process them. And once you do, like the last kick to your unconscious and dying childhood, you begin to sob. Big tears roll down your face, heavy with loss, confusion, anger, and joy. You feel happy, proud of your country for getting Osama. But then you suddenly stop sobbing, the tears dry up. Your country has once again killed. You know that you are supposed to feel joy, pride and comfort in this news, but you don’t. At first, you feel nothing. You are numb. Then, the anger comes. The questions come next. Then, the conclusions.
Your country justifies killing with killing. Your country thinks it’s better than everyone else, has power over everyone. You have grown up, living on an earth that you interpret as a misunderstood world.
You don’t cry anymore. You get angry. Your childhood can be deciphered by one word: confusion. Your coming adulthood is more complicated: It’s a search for answers. It’s a search for the truths, but even more, it’s a search for the lies.
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