Suspect # 2: nineteen years old; younger brother of a radicalized activist; son of a newly converted Muslim; nephew of Americanized and Canadianized uncles and aunts-- who both support him and who remain condemning his actions--obviously shocked and frightened for their families; a teen-ager with feet in two realities: torn by divided loyalties and cultures; a kid who tried to fit in by Americanizing himself for a decade--even changing his name.
Suspect # 2: coolly following his older brother down the street during the Beantown Marathon; carrying a backpack much like his brother's; holding his face upwards, towards security cameras and crowds; a nineteen year old "bopping" down the street--athletic, clean-shaven, white-hatted normal teen in a sweatshirt and jeans; making phone-calls; tweeting song lyrics; posting to Facebook; showing up at all the usual places, talking with classmates, friends; taking his own photos and sending them into the world.
Suspect # 2: buying a Red Bull and a snack at a convenience store, picked up by security cameras, smiling...
Suspect # 2: killing an MIT cop, with his brother; car jacking a Mercedes SUV and then letting the victim out, unharmed; engaged in a firefight in Watertown using hundreds of rounds of ammo and grenades and homemade bombs against police; being hit by bullets and trying to run away; watching his brother killed and then, hitting the body, as he tries to escape police.
Suspect # 2: pouring blood; wounded; driving a quarter of a mile until he can't drive or the car won't go; bailing from the vehicle; stumbling down the first streets open to him; seeing a shrink-wrapped large boat, shimmering white and shiny in the street-lights in someone's driveway; hauling himself up a ladder, slicing the plastic tarp and dragging himself inside, spurting blood, just like his victims.
Suspect # 2: alone; in pain; bleeding out; left only with a failed attempt at martyrdom; a guilty conscience he must now deal with, forever; the ghosts of his victims; his own, and countless other families he has adversely affected, forever; the loss of his beloved older brother, which he must also deal with, forever; his brother's widow and young child, now fatherless--much like several of his victims--their lives all altered for the worse--by him and his choices--never to be taken back or undone.
Suspect # 2: in the broiling shadow, suffocating for a whole day in that bloody boat, dehydrated, in and out of consciousness, in pain and possibly dying, slowly, the paranoia and panorama of his entire nineteen years parading before him: what led him to that unholy point of no return? What demons or threats or promises? What pain pushed him to the brink of insanity? What broken hearted dream was unfulfilled--what horrendous pressure or promise of salvation or simply, a better life--was offered? What warping control was inside his head, even as he helped carry-out the murderous last week? Who was with him as he lay bent and bleeding, suffering, himself, in that backyard boat?
Does he even know?
**********************************************************************************
I am saddened and numb, over the events that played out...even as they are overtaken by other tragedies world-wide (yesterday's Chinese earthquake; the Texas fertilizer plant explosion; the continuing wars and famines in Africa; the rising waters of the newest Mississippi floods...the list goes on and on and it is mind-boggling...).
Even as I am frightened what this newest serpent of terror will bring to my country, my town, I am also overwhelmed with how the cities of Boston, and surrounding Boston, came together and flushed out, as a great group of aid, the perpetrators of these mad killings--or, should we say, the SUSPECTS in these events--for they still must stand trial and be found to be solely guilty.
But there was something in the "celebrations" that spilled out, last night, in Boston, that didn't set well...I understand the exhalations of relief when one can come out of one's home, after being held "prisoner" by the terror and having the enormity of cities actually closed down--closed down!--to contend with. Of course when one is told to "come out come out", there is elation. There is also thankfulness to the first responders who patrolled the streets and searched out the terrorists--as well as gratitude to neighbors who aided each other and actually led police to the "villain". Of course.
Boston is a college town. It was a mild Friday night after a horrendous week. Perhaps that, too, contributed to the overpouring of bodies into the Common? To the waving of flags, the drinking of beers, the screaming and crying and parading down the streets...but there was something that didn't sit right when so many politicians and field officers and "heads" of organizations against terror crowded around the microphones and congratulated themselves and each other at every press conference and photo op..
Did it really need to be played out that way? Was it re-assuring to citizens to hear these same speeches, for hours, over and again? Something in the fact that it was one, already wounded, semi-conscious, bleeding-out, non-suicide bomb outfitted, nineteen year old, cornered under a boat tarp, surrounded by hundreds of armed sharp shooters, armored bomb experts, National Guard and FBI and DEA agents, among the hundreds of local police and armed forces on site, too, with all the press mongers crowding around, that, at the end, was pathetic...like the hunt for the last wolf alive in Massachusetts...
Yes, this nineteen year old had possibly done horrendous things. Yes, he had held, possibly, (remember, we are all innocent until PROVEN guilty in this country--even the worst among us...)a group of cities hostage, causing the nation a collective panic attack. Yes, he had possibly maimed and killed innocent women and children and men--changing the entire landscape of public events in America. But, he hadn't accomplished this alone. There were other "suspects"--one dead and others, still at large...possibly.
To see the overkill surrounding that boat--a boat the owner had approached, unarmed, and alone, after noticing the blood and the torn tarp, when he had emerged from his house to finally enjoy a cigarette, after being hunkered down, all day, inside--was frightening, in a different way.
My brothers and sister are first responders. I understand what happens when the adrenaline rises and the frustrations boil over. It is even difficult to pull back trained attack animals when they have cornered a suspect. Being allowed "a bite" is often, their only real reward. The fact that this nineteen year old boy was NOT killed, but allowed to finally surrender, is a miracle, for sure. I believe that, too. But it didn't erase the images of the tightening hundreds encircling the boat. Nor did it make easy the cheers and parades and the self-congratulatory politicos on hand so quickly, to stand before the cameras and speechify the events.
A part of my brain kept flashing on the inside of that shrink-wrapped vessel, where a dying teen-ager huddled, alone, facing God- only- knows- what demons and ghosts, knowing he would have to continue to face those monsters, forever hated and alone, as long as he continued to walk this planet.
Or, perhaps, he simply "rested"...pleased at what he had accomplished...sure he would slip away, after dark...
Maybe I am a bloody liberal. Or maybe I am a privileged American who has never had to go to war. Or maybe I am just a high school teacher who specializes in teens who are lost and make poor choices--mistakes that affect them, and the people around them, for the rest of their lives? As I've shared: this numbed out confusion continues...
Whatever this mélange of emotions settles into, we are finally, forever changed.
Again.
Suspect # 2: coolly following his older brother down the street during the Beantown Marathon; carrying a backpack much like his brother's; holding his face upwards, towards security cameras and crowds; a nineteen year old "bopping" down the street--athletic, clean-shaven, white-hatted normal teen in a sweatshirt and jeans; making phone-calls; tweeting song lyrics; posting to Facebook; showing up at all the usual places, talking with classmates, friends; taking his own photos and sending them into the world.
Suspect # 2: buying a Red Bull and a snack at a convenience store, picked up by security cameras, smiling...
Suspect # 2: killing an MIT cop, with his brother; car jacking a Mercedes SUV and then letting the victim out, unharmed; engaged in a firefight in Watertown using hundreds of rounds of ammo and grenades and homemade bombs against police; being hit by bullets and trying to run away; watching his brother killed and then, hitting the body, as he tries to escape police.
Suspect # 2: pouring blood; wounded; driving a quarter of a mile until he can't drive or the car won't go; bailing from the vehicle; stumbling down the first streets open to him; seeing a shrink-wrapped large boat, shimmering white and shiny in the street-lights in someone's driveway; hauling himself up a ladder, slicing the plastic tarp and dragging himself inside, spurting blood, just like his victims.
Suspect # 2: alone; in pain; bleeding out; left only with a failed attempt at martyrdom; a guilty conscience he must now deal with, forever; the ghosts of his victims; his own, and countless other families he has adversely affected, forever; the loss of his beloved older brother, which he must also deal with, forever; his brother's widow and young child, now fatherless--much like several of his victims--their lives all altered for the worse--by him and his choices--never to be taken back or undone.
Suspect # 2: in the broiling shadow, suffocating for a whole day in that bloody boat, dehydrated, in and out of consciousness, in pain and possibly dying, slowly, the paranoia and panorama of his entire nineteen years parading before him: what led him to that unholy point of no return? What demons or threats or promises? What pain pushed him to the brink of insanity? What broken hearted dream was unfulfilled--what horrendous pressure or promise of salvation or simply, a better life--was offered? What warping control was inside his head, even as he helped carry-out the murderous last week? Who was with him as he lay bent and bleeding, suffering, himself, in that backyard boat?
Does he even know?
**********************************************************************************
I am saddened and numb, over the events that played out...even as they are overtaken by other tragedies world-wide (yesterday's Chinese earthquake; the Texas fertilizer plant explosion; the continuing wars and famines in Africa; the rising waters of the newest Mississippi floods...the list goes on and on and it is mind-boggling...).
Even as I am frightened what this newest serpent of terror will bring to my country, my town, I am also overwhelmed with how the cities of Boston, and surrounding Boston, came together and flushed out, as a great group of aid, the perpetrators of these mad killings--or, should we say, the SUSPECTS in these events--for they still must stand trial and be found to be solely guilty.
But there was something in the "celebrations" that spilled out, last night, in Boston, that didn't set well...I understand the exhalations of relief when one can come out of one's home, after being held "prisoner" by the terror and having the enormity of cities actually closed down--closed down!--to contend with. Of course when one is told to "come out come out", there is elation. There is also thankfulness to the first responders who patrolled the streets and searched out the terrorists--as well as gratitude to neighbors who aided each other and actually led police to the "villain". Of course.
Boston is a college town. It was a mild Friday night after a horrendous week. Perhaps that, too, contributed to the overpouring of bodies into the Common? To the waving of flags, the drinking of beers, the screaming and crying and parading down the streets...but there was something that didn't sit right when so many politicians and field officers and "heads" of organizations against terror crowded around the microphones and congratulated themselves and each other at every press conference and photo op..
Did it really need to be played out that way? Was it re-assuring to citizens to hear these same speeches, for hours, over and again? Something in the fact that it was one, already wounded, semi-conscious, bleeding-out, non-suicide bomb outfitted, nineteen year old, cornered under a boat tarp, surrounded by hundreds of armed sharp shooters, armored bomb experts, National Guard and FBI and DEA agents, among the hundreds of local police and armed forces on site, too, with all the press mongers crowding around, that, at the end, was pathetic...like the hunt for the last wolf alive in Massachusetts...
Yes, this nineteen year old had possibly done horrendous things. Yes, he had held, possibly, (remember, we are all innocent until PROVEN guilty in this country--even the worst among us...)a group of cities hostage, causing the nation a collective panic attack. Yes, he had possibly maimed and killed innocent women and children and men--changing the entire landscape of public events in America. But, he hadn't accomplished this alone. There were other "suspects"--one dead and others, still at large...possibly.
To see the overkill surrounding that boat--a boat the owner had approached, unarmed, and alone, after noticing the blood and the torn tarp, when he had emerged from his house to finally enjoy a cigarette, after being hunkered down, all day, inside--was frightening, in a different way.
My brothers and sister are first responders. I understand what happens when the adrenaline rises and the frustrations boil over. It is even difficult to pull back trained attack animals when they have cornered a suspect. Being allowed "a bite" is often, their only real reward. The fact that this nineteen year old boy was NOT killed, but allowed to finally surrender, is a miracle, for sure. I believe that, too. But it didn't erase the images of the tightening hundreds encircling the boat. Nor did it make easy the cheers and parades and the self-congratulatory politicos on hand so quickly, to stand before the cameras and speechify the events.
A part of my brain kept flashing on the inside of that shrink-wrapped vessel, where a dying teen-ager huddled, alone, facing God- only- knows- what demons and ghosts, knowing he would have to continue to face those monsters, forever hated and alone, as long as he continued to walk this planet.
Or, perhaps, he simply "rested"...pleased at what he had accomplished...sure he would slip away, after dark...
Maybe I am a bloody liberal. Or maybe I am a privileged American who has never had to go to war. Or maybe I am just a high school teacher who specializes in teens who are lost and make poor choices--mistakes that affect them, and the people around them, for the rest of their lives? As I've shared: this numbed out confusion continues...
Whatever this mélange of emotions settles into, we are finally, forever changed.
Again.
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