Dirty Hands
The dawn breaks the darkness of night and the sky glows. I know that in time dawn will break within me today. I am in a dark mood. I’ve been thinking of the killing of the Washington Post journalist, Jamal Khashoggi. Thinking that he was safe in Istanbul he walked into the Saudi consulate two weeks ago. He has not been seen since. I will be surprised if the Saudi’s can produce a body. Our president offered a speculation about “rogue killers.” It is surreal, and depressing. A man enters the embassy of his country and then ceases to exist. Two weeks have passed and the Saudi’s are still working to make up their story. The President of the United States lends a helping hand. Maybe I should not care about this because Khasoggi is not a relative, and I did not know him. But I do read the Washington Post. The killing of a journalist makes my blood run cold.
A friend sent me an essay entitled “The Problem of Dirty Hands.” The essay was a logicians attempt to find justification for all of the heinous acts, the willful sacrifice of others that we have approved for what seemed “good reason” to ourselves. I am sure the Saudi King thought that the “disappearing” of this critic of his policies was for the “good” of his country.
That is the same reasoning that rationalized the Vietnam War. We bombed villages with napalm, and poisoned the fields of that country to save the people from communism. The dead no longer need to be saved from anything. In a bizarre fashion those that we killed were saved as we intended.
I lived in Japan for several years during the Vietnam conflict. Due to the kindness of friends I witnessed some very large demonstrations against American use of bases on Japanese soil to forward supplies and men into the war. Japan, under terms of occupation at the end of World War II had a constitution that repudiated war making. Students that took to the streets in Shinjuku could see the contradiction.
I remembered the scene in Japan while participating in the Women’s March in Chicago this past Saturday. Here I am now, protesting the same kind of murderous rationalization, that my friends objected to over 40 years ago.
Some things don’t change.
