William Rivers Pitt | Now, I Am the Terrorist

Baghdad is a city of 5 million people, half of whom are under the age of fifteen, most of whom are too poor to flee.

As I sit here, I can hear my two children playing in the other room. They’re setting up my daughter’s doll house — talking together about where each piece of furniture should go, how the house should be configured, where the dolls should sit and sleep.

My daughter sings as she works, a song (perhaps of her own invention) called “Take Me Down The Elevator, Mommy.” My son is planning out little stories and situations for the dolls, offering them up for his sister’s approval or veto.

My children are playing today.

There are no airplanes flying overhead, there are no bombs falling, our city is not in flames, our house stands quiet and safe.

When a B-2 bomber drops a 2,000 lb. JDAM munition, everyone and everything within a 120 meter radius is instantly killed.  Anyone within a 365 meter radius risks severe shrapnel wounds.  To be totally safe, one must be 1,000 meters away from the epicenter of the explosion.  Imagine how many homes can fit into 1,000 meters, and never mind the firestorm.

Whatever you believe, whatever your politics, whatever you think about the president or this war . . . when you pray (if you pray) pray for the people of Baghdad.

God help them.

And God help us too.

Because, after this, no one else will.