My son is dead...and I killed him

It is often said that war brings out the worst in people. The evidence is overwhelming that so too does religion. In a newly released book by Anthony Shadid (pictured at right) entitled "Night Draws Near: Iraq's People in the Shadow of America's War" details life during this ongoing war of everyday and quite ordinary Iraqi's. It doesn't glamorize or demonize but merely details on a personal level some of these lives, these deaths, these struggles.

Hearing an interview earlier today on NPR which can be found here:(http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4849396) I was impressed upon to revisit one story in particular for myself. Being a dad, I warn you up front, prejudices my reaction to the story. But after much effort to put myself in the shoes of the father in the story, I sympathize with his position. I do not believe, after much thought, that I could bring myself to justify my actions as he did.

In the story, a strong, young man named Sabah acted as an informant to the American forces. He provided information on militants and munitions caches. His data proved critical for a Raid in his home town. Many were arrested and much weaponry confiscated. After the raid , the Iraqi informer walked among detainees, pointing them out to U.S. troops. Despite being disguised with a bag over his head, the informer was recognized by his fellow villagers by his yellow sandals and his amputated thumb. Justice was about to be metted out by the Muslim Cleric and leaders. Kill your son or we will exact vengence on your entire family. The next day, his father and brother, carrying AK-47s, entered his room before dawn and took him behind the house. With trembling hands, the father fired twice... Sabah's brother then fired three times, once at his brother's head, killing him. Sitting with the father later, Shadid found himself unable to ask the question he knew that as a journalist he had to ask: Had he killed his son? "In a moment so tragic, so wretched, there still had to be decency. I didn't want to hear him say yes. I didn't want to humiliate him any further. In the end, I didn't have to." "'I have the heart of a father, and he's my son,' he told me, his eyes cast to the ground. 'Even the prophet Abraham didn't have to kill his son.' He stopped, steadying his voice. 'There was no other choice.'"

I felt such an extreme heartache as I read this synopsis of the events that transpired, far away; in a place I've only dreamt of visiting; in another world. It's not just a political liberation that these people need. How about the freedom from fear. From the same brutality dealt by Hussein and his sons and cronies. From ideals that man can never achieve.

The assassination of our sons and daughters is not the desire of a loving God. These are not His punishments. The use of threats and fear to exact judgement do not coincide with the teachings my muslim friends speak of studying.

I do understand the fathers grief, his fear; his burden. Dad's love their kids. Or should. But the dad was wrong. Dead wrong. There is always another choice. The choice to be made was to forgive and to love.