When Osama bin Laden was fatally shot by members of US Special Forces it was hardly surprising that people wanted photographic proof of his death. This can partly be explained by the fact that the USA is an image culture, and a culture of revelation. On the whole we need to see to believe.
But there are also those who feel that they need to see the picture not because they doubt the authenticity of US intelligence, but because the spectacle of bin Laden's death encapsulates a new 9/11 narrative in which America is no longer scared, distrustful and hurt but victorious.
Accounts of bin Laden's recent life and death are heavily detailed. We know that he drank Pepsi, watched satellite television, slept in bed with his young wife, took walks within the walls of his compound. He had a cow and a hundred or more chickens. He ate eggs, nuts, dates and dried meat. He had central heating. He was a man and like all men he was mortal. On May 1st two bullets proved that.
But what of the men who fired those guns? The mysterious Seal Team 6, made up of unknown men from the Naval Special Warfare division, the team that does not officially exist. They are an elite counter-terrorism squad - one of the only special forces units authorised to use pre-emptive measures against terrorists and their associates; risking death to undergo training in survival, evasion, resistance and escape including stress shooting and close-quarter combat. They are undeniably bad ass; rumoured to drink snake venom they can kill you with a paperclip and swim 50 metres with their feet and hands bound. Their activities aren't commented on by the White House or the Department of Defense. There are no written records of their operations. We don't know who they are.
In the same way that details about bin Laden's everyday life remind us of his mortality, the lack of details about Team 6 as people render them superhuman. They don't drink coffee and eat pizza and watch TV and have unpaid bills and get divorced and attend their kid's nativity plays and go to bed without brushing their teeth. Although their anonymity is essential to protect their lives and the integrity of US security, it also serves the need of the millions of Americans (and not only Americans) who were effected by 9/11 and the subsequent war on terror, who grew weary of the failures of the government at home and abroad, and who started to imagine bin Laden as a dark shadow, beyond reach. These people needed something to believe in and trust wholeheartedly, without caution or inhibition. Truth, justice and the American way just weren't cutting it anymore. Without anynonymity, with the mortal complexity of each SEAL exposed, this belief and trust would be hard to maintain. And that would be more catastrophic for America than al-Quaeda has ever been.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Sunday, 15 May 2011
the sights 16:30
There are rivers, lakes and mountains here. You can snowboard, ski, hike, camp, bike, climb and fish. A survey of local wildlife includes deer, moose, cougars and heavy-footed bears. There are woods dense with tall tall trees and tangled ferns and forty-two species of native orchid - fairy slipper, phantom and coralroot. There are places with old-sounding names like Wenatchee, Snoqualmie and Issaquah, their roots buried deep in native land, lush forests and the sound of birds.
Of course, these are all things I've read about on the internet because I don't have a car. Actually, despite a few expensive and demoralising lessons, I can't drive.
In England not driving is almost a mark of distinction and not something that requires frequent justification. It's assumed that you take your environmental responsibilities seriously, or have better things to spend your money on or would rather spend your valuable commuting time bettering your mind by reading Proust and doing cryptic crosswords. At the very least public transport is so cheap and comprehensive, especially viewed against increasingly busy roads and exorbitant petrol prices, that just not bothering to learn looks perfectly reasonable. In America though, especially in this small town where there are miles of road punctuated only by identikit housing complexes and strip malls, not driving reads like a wilful act of negligence and self-sabotage. There is one bus that runs from 5.30am to 8am on weekdays and that's it. All of my complex human needs must be met at the local grocery store, Starbucks and nail salon.
Since I've been reduced to a level of immobility most Americans don't experience after their sixteenth birthday, I've been making discoveries of a small order. I have seen a grown man wearing sweatpants tucked into cowboy boots. I've seen women in stripper heels with acrylic nails sipping cocktails at the local casino, the kind of long-haired women who look like teenagers until they turn around. I have seen a man covered from the curve of his shaved head to the band of his socks in graphic black tattoos. I've seen a raccoon looking shifty at the side of the road, and an enormous green dragonfly whip past my face on it's way through the trees. I have seen a man in a wheelchair wearing an oxygen tank happily smoke a cigarette. And I have seen a stocky little dashund go whizzing by in the basket of a bike wearing a tiny waistcoat and a tiny fedora, his ears flapping in the breeze. And that, my friends, is something I would trade all the fresh mountain air in the world to see.
