Note: I have been struggling for a week now; struggling to find language that would capture my feelings on the downing of the Ukrainian airliner with the loss of so many lives, including fifity seven Canadians. Language seldom fails me, but this time it has. This is the best I can do.
We’ve all been there. Those few moments after lift off where the worries, anxieties, fears all begin to gradually recede. When the chaos of the terminal is now settling into something like order. The babies are still crying but then why wouldn’t they, experiencing the pain of changing air pressure for the first time. But they are held tightly in their mothers’ arms, their eyes locked in an embrace of absolute love and security. Older children are still having trouble containing their excitement as the lights below burst out in a magnificent display and then begin to shrink as the distance grows and they recede. After the initial bumps of takeoff; after the barely suppressed fear of subjecting yourself to those superhuman forces that hurl you into the air, you begin to relax. Maybe it would be okay to recline the headrest a little? What does that bell mean…probably someone hitting the wrong button. The captain announces we’ve just passed six thousand feet, climbing to thirty two thousand before levelling off and heading west. The energy, the anxiety, the tension; now slowly replaced with memories. Was the trip what you expected? Did you have fun? Are you sad to be leaving? Are you looking forward to home? When will you get back again?
And far below, a faceless, nameless technician is staring at a radar screen, tracking something that looks like an incoming missile. He’s on high alert because Iran fired rockets at an American base in Iraq a few hours ago. And now they are waiting for the American response. Perhaps he should check with civil aviation before reacting. But there isn’t time. Just ten seconds. He reaches up, pushes a button or two, turns a dial, pulls a lever, or whatever. And instantly the Russian Tor missile springs to life, a bit like a grasshopper as it jerks into place and then leaps off its launch pad. And, just for good measure, thirty seconds later he does it again.
For a few seconds, it is quite a pretty sight; the paths of the Tor missiles. They create perfect purple arcs against the dark but starlit sky. In fact, at first, it’s hard to notice that they’re heading for what looks like the brightest star. But then there’s an explosion, a brief burst of light and energy. And then another. And then nothing.
The Tor missile is not designed to penetrate the target. No, once its radar locks on to the target it hurdles towards it with deadly accuracy before exploding just before impact, perhaps twenty or thirty feet away. That way, the entire target will be engulfed in firey shrapnel and exploding rocket fuel. It will tear through the fuselage of the aircraft and then through everything and everyone inside it.
Imagine if you can, but of course none of us can, that moment of indescribable, unthinkable horror as the quiet scene inside the plane is instantly transformed into something not even Dante of Breugle could conjure. Limbs torn off. Heads torn off. Blood everwhere. The baby who seconds before was secure in its mother’s arms, now a lump of bloody screaming pulp, while in the aisle another is incinerated in howls of agony.
And for how long did this agony last? Well, for some at least, an eternity. But for the immediate victims, certainly minutes. A minute is a very long time. Double that. Triple it. It really doesn’t matter. It is forever.
And on the outside, the plane rumbles, twists and then falls. Until it is all over in a shower of light, of flames, of bodies, of metal. What did it smell like at that moment? Burning rubber? Check. Burning fuel? Check. Burning flesh? Check. Whatever it smelled like there, it was nothing compared to the nauseating stench that rose and spread from Tehran to Moscow to Washington.
As all around, the tiny innocuous signifiers of life are scattered, some barely scarred by the tragedy: a child’s slipper; a school notebook; a stylish stilletto pump; a shirt.
And this was done by men. There are times I deeply wish I could believe in Hell.
And now the blame game is in overdrive. Fingers pointing. Vehement denials. False accusations.
While all the while, fifity seven innocent Canadians and nearly a hundred other souls with some connections to this country, lie dead and dismembered on a soccer field on the outskirts of Tehran; the wavelets of grief sweeping everywhere across the world but nowhere more than here, in Canada, their home.
Look at their pictures. Read their names. Spend a moment on their stories. All, seemingly without exception, the best and the brightest amongst us; all stepping forward to contribute to their country and the world; and now all senselessly taken in a grotesque act of violence that followed another grotesque act of violence that followed another grotesque act of violence and on and on and on.
The first impulse is rage; then grief; then despair and finally disgust. How could this have happened? How could it not have? Despite all our glorious progress, human beings are still base animals, capable of the unthinkable and able to return to cycles of hatred and violence as if at the flip of a switch.
The conflict that led to this tragedy didn’t begin with the killing of an American contractor or the storming of the U.S. embassy in Bahgdad or the killing of General Soleimani or the launch of the Iranian missles in response to that killing. In fact, it didn’t even begin at The Battle of Thermopylae twenty five hundred years ago. People and tribes; beliefs and religions; dogmas and hatreds, ever more deadily as mankind “advances”.
We try to overcome, to organize, to channel the dark into a single human community. But still we have the bodies in the soccer field outside Tehran. And it keeps happening.
There is now no doubt the plane was shot down by Iranian ground to air missiles (made in Russia) when Iranian air defence determined it was an incoming cruise missile, presumably in retaliation for the firing of the Iranian missiles at the U.S. and Canadian military base several hours earlier. How that could have possibily happened defies understanding. Why was the airspace even open to commercial airliners if an attack was imminent? How could there have been so little information shared between the Iranian military and their civil aviation authorities about the flights in and out of the busy international airport? And, because we know they were there in the sky, what did the Americans know and when did they know it?
There is so much blame to go around. The Iranian state and its mullah leaders have gone rogue for years, attempting to foment conflict all over the middle east with the goal of pushing the western powers out and then consolidating itself as the predominant and Shia power in the region. In this regard, it seeks more than even Cyrus. It is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent ciivlians, both in the middle east and elsewhere, not to mention thousands of soldiers, including Canadians. It thrives on the type of sectarian hatred civilization struggles to put behind it. General Suleimani was one of its architects and had blood all over his hands. None of us should mourn his death.
But what about America? Even the slightest hint it might share some of the responsibility is being met by outraged howls of protest, whether from the rabid voices on right wing “talk” radio or Republican leaders in Congress. In their narrative, this is all on Iran. America has no guilt whatsoever. Really? None? Pardon my astonishment at the utter moral blindness.
Actually, I shouldn’t be surprised. America is led by a man with no moral centre. A man whose sole focus is on himself and what might make him look stronger, brighter, braver. None of which he is or will ever be. How could I expect him to empathize with the victims?
As the days and weeks pass, it is increasingly clear there was no “imminent” attack on U.S. assets that might have justified the assassination of General Soleimani or, at least, given it some veneer of legality. This was done on impulse without any proper consideration of what the short and long term consequences would be and without any broader strategic context to place it in. Just an impulse; one intended to bolster polls; add to the President’s self esteem; silence his critics; make him feel manly.
Donald Trump has Canadian blood on his hands. A lot of it. And nothing will ever wash that stain away. Never forget.
Just sayin.
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