This morning my mom and I were discussing all the world’s problems, as we do. (Solved. Every one of them. Who knew it was so easy?)
My mother and I were discussing what it means to be a terrorist.
What causes terrorism? An imbalance of power and an underdog fighting for their own cause.
It’s incels and white supremacists feeling that they are losing power in their own futures, and bringing guns into it. But it’s also District 13 in the Hunger Games, with Katniss Everdeen, fighting for the rights of their children to stop being sacrificed as political pawns.
Being a “terrorist” simply means you don’t belong to the party in power, and you’re willing to fight against that power. History is written by the victors. “Terrorists” are defined by those same victors - but that doesn’t mean they’re right.
After all, wasn’t throwing tea into that harbor an act of terrorism?
You can weigh out good and evil by your own moral judgements, but ultimately, the other side has their own moral judgements and reasonings in opposition to your own.
Watching the news this morning I saw an awful lot of usage of the word “terrorist.” As a Millennial kid who grew up following 9/11, I also heard a lot of the word “terrorist.” For us, the word is emotionally charged, with many connotations. But perhaps we need to see the word in a different light. Perhaps we need to use that word with a different understanding, when it comes to appreciating motive. Terrorists are not motivated simply by destruction for chaos’ sake.
I watched an interview, once, with a woman who had gone undercover for the United States Government, seeking intel on “terrorists.” She said something that has stuck with me more than a decade later, that changed the way I saw and did literally everything. She said, “No one is the bad guy in their own story.” She was undercover with a group of people that she talked to, that she understood, and she appreciated where they were coming from and what they were fighting for. We can disagree, but ultimately, terrorists have their reasons, too.
I bought a peace sign necklace the other night, considering the current status of the world and my feelings. I envied the songs of my mother’s generation and the powerful lyrics that have changed minds and inspired a time dedicated to peace. “Last night I had the strangest dream I’ve ever had before. I dreamed that all the world agreed to put an end to war.” “Red, white, and blue, and the victory sweet, but we left him to die like a tramp on the street.” “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free? Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?” “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us and the world will live as one.”
Ceasefire. I’ve seen the call for it, and I have to agree. “We can’t bomb our way to peace.”
I was listening to more of my mother’s hippie music tonight, while watching dishes, and was shook when I listened to the lyrics of yet another song I knew by heart, from years of my mother singing, but had never fully digested.
“Show me the country where the bombs had to fall. Show me the ruins of the buildings once so tall.
And I’ll show you a young land with so many reasons why there but for fortune go you and I.”
We are not so different from each other, as humans. One flap of a butterfly’s wing, a twist of fate, could make us bankrupt, or refugees, all.
There are things that even I would fight for. There are things I would kill for.
There but for fortune.
It’s only been fortune.
