I know your pain and to the parents, I understand there is no loss like that of a child. Two and a half years ago my son, too, was brutally murdered by Muslim fanatics. Truly, I understand.
You have just begun a journey no one ever wants to take. Make no mistake this journey of grief will take you places, cast you on rocky shores you weren’t aware could exist, filled with more pain than any believe it is possible to endure. Yet, you will endure. Your son will endure, in the hearts and minds of countless people across continents who witnessed his death at the hands of savages.
I have long said there is nothing more obscene than sticking a camera in the face of a grieving mother, father, widow or loved one. I’ve always felt this is evil sensationalism incarnate. It makes for compelling viewing, boosts ratings and psychically rapes the bereaved.
I unintentionally caught a few moments of an interview where the cold, uncaring eye of the camera watched the track of each tear down your faces. And I am furious. My heart is broken for you and with you as one who truly understands your loss, yet my sympathy is at the moment drowned in a sea of rage.
I pray for peace for you, in whatever measure you may find it in the days, months and years ahead. And I’m sorry for what you have experienced, for your loss and for the pain of having to relive these moments in the future, thanks to how your understandable desire to tell the world about your son has thrust you into the center ring of the circus that is the modern media.
Those moments of a family utterly bereft, floundering in emotions most cannot and should not ever want to experience are now part of the cultural cesspool that passes itself off as journalism. They will be replayed ad nauseum by calculating producers and media executives who claim they are only giving the public what they want. The boost in ratings, the additional points in polls that will be spun into higher advertising rates are of course never part of their decision making process.
What these media carrion fail to take into consideration, the part of the equation they are either unaware of or choose to ignore is the aid and comfort they give to the enemy.
Right now, in places filled with denizens whose 7th Century cultural mentality celebrates evil while professing religious devotion, they are holding raucous celebrations. The two sub-humans who perpetrated this gruesome and cowardly attack have attained the status of hero. If they die, they will be elevated to the pantheon of martyrdom.
I’ve been there. I’ve had my face on camera, talking about my son and about my loss, but more about who he was. I’ll say that because I’ve been able to control the focus of my face-time, kept the focus on my son’s life and not my grief, I’ve been able to appear strong. Perhaps not completely dry-eyed, but not completely broken.
I’ve long said that my grief is private, my emotions and the pain I feel are not for public consumption. I’ve never fully been able to explain why I feel and have chosen to behave this way publically. The answer that has been my fallback position for some time now is simply that all I have left of my son are my memories and feelings and I’ve shared as much of the personal side as I intend.
After seeing even a few moments of the raw, undiluted grief of the family of Lee Rigby on TV, I suddenly understand the deeper reason, the truth of my revulsion at even the thought of sticking a camera in the face of a grieving family whose loved one has died from the poison that is Muslim Fundamentalism.
To those who commit these acts and those who celebrate them, this is proof of their success. They want to cause pain, uncounted sorrows, immeasurable suffering. I choose not to let them gloat. I admit they have caused me heartache I will carry for the rest of my life, but I also choose not to let them feed off my tears, like psychic vampires seeking nourishment.
Instead, I offer them the cold, hard resolve that only those of us who know this loss understand as a prerequisite for continued living. I will only show them my disgust, disdain and loathing, and a measure of pity for their misguided thinking that such acts will do anything but strengthen our will to overcome their hate.
How we will ultimately defeat them and all who think as they do is a conversation for another day. Whether or not our politicians attempt the road of appeasement or the course of annihilation, there will be debate amongst us, the survivors. But there is no question, no wavering in our conviction that we, the forces of freedom and enlightenment will ultimately win.
In the end, all those who subscribe to this version of Islam, either actively or passively, represent an evolutionary backwater, a stagnant toxic gene pool that in the fullness of time will go the way of the dinosaur. And for the same reasons.
Whether the dinosaur extinction was brought on by a single, cataclysmic event or a slower die-off in the face of a changing world climate is up for debate. Eons after the great, monstrous behemoths roamed the earth as the apex predator, their descendants, birds of incomparable beauty and grace now soar through the sky, bringing joy to all who gaze upon them in flight.
Hate, the apex predator of our day will ultimately lose out to creatures of higher intelligence who have the ability to evolve and will supplant all their kind if they cannot learn to coexist. Make no mistake, you are the dinosaurs. The world climate is changing to one in which your kind will no longer be able to feed and procreate. Your time is nearly at an end.
I’d like to meet your descendants, those who rise from the ashes of your culture, but that is not a requirement. For me, it is enough to know you will cease to exist and your loss will be mourned by none. In the meantime, I pray for strength for all the families of the fallen not to feed the hate, not to nourish the psychological blackmailers who call themselves followers of the religion of peace.
They’ve tasted the salt of our tears, now let them savor the pot of rage seasoned with resolve they have stirred.
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