A village somewhere in Afghanistan; mud-brick huts and several small, walled compounds lay nestled near a flat spot by a river. The village is surrounded by small, orderly fields of grape-vines, the sweet, pungent smell of the fruit hanging in the drying huts tells of a good raisin harvest.
A beat-up Toyota truck lurches slowly up a rutted track that detours from the single-lane road running along the river and stops by one of the houses in the village. Two adult, turbaned males get out of the cab and two young boys jump out from the pick-up's bed.
The men have come from a nearby village to discuss the purchase of some livestock from an elder of this village. Children run out and stand off in the distance. Looking at the newcomers, they enjoy a break from the dullness of village life.
The quiet of the afternoon is suddenly shattered by the spluttering of exploding rounds of ammunition, blasting the sandy soil into a swirling cloud, a staccato thunk, thunk, thunk echoes from the stricken truck, interspersed with the sounds of stray rounds thudding into the ground. Then, silence; the only sound the pattering of small debris raining down.
Seconds tick away in a deafening silence and, as the dust thins, the villagers peer from the uncertain safety of their homes, looking out onto a scene of carnage; bodies torn lifeless, mangled parts strewn about, ripped torsos surrounded by pools of blood seeping into the sand, fragments of cloth fluttering to the ground.
There is nothing to give substance to this messenger of Death; there is only the sudden moaning of one of the victims, as his body shakes and struggles back from the brink of eternity.
The eyes and ears of the villagers, filled with the horror before them, do nothing to help the injured man. His moans of supplication bring no response from those who hear him; for the villagers know it is certain death to come to the injured man's aid, that once they approach the victim, another volley of explosive ordinance will rip them to shreds too.
Let's call him Frank. He is up at 6 A.M. helping his wife to get the kids ready for school. Frank pours their cereal and chides the sleepy children to hurry and finish their breakfast. He drives his SUV through a quiet suburban tract somewhere in the mid-West and, pulling up to a primary school, he drops off his kids, giving each a hug, a kiss and a promise to pick them up after school.
Frank drives up to the window of a coffee shop, picking up a medium latte and a bagel with cheese to eat on the fifteen minute drive up the mountain road to the gates of a secured military facility, whose purpose is shrouded behind a surrounding wire fence and a one-lane road that goes seemingly nowhere, disappearing over a hill between dried scrub and sand.
Frank drives past a row of quonset hangars, aircraft silhouetted against the harsh sunlight lie dormant in their shade.
Hanging up his coat in a locker, Frank takes his coffee and goes to a dimly lit, windowless room and sits himself down in a cushioned chair to begin his day's work.
Fourteen thousand miles away, at an air-force base in Afghanistan, two airmen roll a drone, a small pilotless aircraft. Out on the tarmac; they start the engine and wait for the revs to smooth out. They give the drone a helping push to get it rolling and stand back to watch as the pale grey sets off alone to the end of the runway.
Frank, sitting in front of his console in America, takes a sip of his coffee, clicks on the console of multiple screens and takes over control of the drone as it reaches its take-off point.
After a half-hour in the air, Frank reaches his designated area, Frank works in conjunction with another drone piloted by the person seated next to him. The drone Frank operates has a missile capacity and a cannon. The other person is Frank's eyes, scanning the Afghani countryside from an altitude of six thousand feet, the powerful telephoto lens on the drone's underbelly bringing distant details as small as a foot in diameter up onto Frank's screen.
Frank receives word that a vehicle with possible insurgents is traveling along a small road. Once the vehicle is identified as "the enemy" Frank locks his cannons on the target and presses a button. The thrill of the kill permeates the room as a cloud of dust appears on the monitor in front of Frank, heralding a strike. The others in the room murmer approval, the technology still novel to them..
In the afternoon, Frank picks up the kids and heads home to Dinner at six.
Let us suppose that the brother of one of the dead men lived in America; and had the capacity to find Frank and kill him in revenge.
Which one is the terrorist, the murderer; is it the one who killed the innocent civilians from a distance, or the one who killed the murderer of his innocent brother...?
What will ever justify the killing of human beings with mindless machines operated from 12,000 miles away, by a person sitting in an armchair, who goes home as if nothing of any significance happened that day.
