Democratically-dropped bombs
From democratically-trained pilots
I had decided to
give up on men for awhile.
This was after the
guy I had fallen in love with confessed he had fantasies of urinating on me in
the shower.
"It's not
degrading. It's an honor. It's like marking my territory." Even though I was appalled at his words, I
was turned on by his Russian accent.
Earlier that day I
had played a video clip on ABC News Online website which showed Russians
burning miniature American flags and one-dollar bills, throwing eggs at the
American Embassy in Moscow, and urinating on the Embassy wall. This was during the height of the Kosovo
crisis. The American position was not
popular in the Russian Federation. I
didn’t know much about the U.S. was doing but, according to the newscaster, the
U.S. general in charge explained that while it was true we were dropping bombs,
they were only “democratically-dropped bombs from democratically-trained
pilots.”
"What part of
me would you actually urinate on?" I asked.
“You could draw a
little target, or an American flag on your butt-cheek,” he said.
“Okay.” I couldn't think of anything else to
say.
***********************
A year later. I began to wonder if the bombings in Moscow
that immediately followed Kosovo had been planned by NATO allies rather than
the Chechen rebels they were blamed on.
Whatever it was, it
worked. Not a single Muscovite bothered
to picket the U.S. Embassy. Everyone
was too busy worrying about Chechen rebels planting bombs in apartment buildings
and high-traffic areas.
Terror is so
psychological it’s difficult to manage – however, I think that hysteria is
surprisingly easy to instill in a populace.
It was suddenly very easy to believe that Chechens (or Muslim
fundamentalists) were running around with bombs in lunch bags and the Russian
equivalent of Ryder trucks.
A Muslim was scape-goated
in Oklahoma City after the bombing. He
was released after they found a different pair of culprits. They were white and working-class.
Perhaps the answers
are unknowable. Conspiracy theories are
sometimes more attractive than the quotidian.
I ran into the guy
who had shared his shower fantasy with me.
I was more in love with him than ever, but more afraid than ever to let
him know. For that reason, I hadn’t
seen him in a few months.
“I want to be rich,”
he said. “I want to have my own
business, just like all Americans.”
“What kind of
business?” I asked.
“One with lots of
employees.”
“Have you thought
of a Doomsday cult? Make it look like a
resort, and promise you’ll take care of them. All they have to do is become a member of the club.”
“Sounds
complicated.”
Later that night,
we decided to rent a movie & see if we could rekindle old times. We were watching the news, and I saw grim-faced
Muscovites watching a Russian police officer check the documents of a Muslim
man.
“I used to do some work
for a small Turkish trading company -- offices in Vevey, Switzerland. I was good friends with Hilmi – the son of
the founder. People were rude to him
because he looked Turkish.”
“But he was
Turkish, wasn’t he?”
“But he was educated
and he contributed to society. I liked
him. His mom said she was sorry we
weren’t dating – I was the only decent woman he seemed to meet.”
“That was just your
blue eyes and bleached hair,” he said.
“Yeah, if I were
kidnapped for someone’s harem, they’d have to beat me after a few weeks. Dark roots.
I’m not a natural blonde,” I said.
“Would you let me
beat you up?” He looked interested.
“Hey. I’ve got to go home. I want to take a shower,” I said.
He didn’t remember
last year’s request. Just as well. It was late. The streets were dark, and it
had been five years since our own bout with terrorism. I felt complacent and mildly angst-ridden. I remembered last year’s Kosovo bombings, and
our own “democratic and democratically-trained” SWAT teams who conducted “democratically-correct”
interrogations – all the allowable atrocities when a populace is held in the
grip of terror, rage, and useless longing for what can’t be ever guaranteed – a
place to live, things to eat, ways to feel happy, and at the end of it all,
Heaven, or at least a comfortable spot on a UFO.
“I know it’s stupid
of me, but I love you,” I said, as I was walking out the door.
He didn’t hear
me. It was probably for the best.