"Heroes"
After the "Event" of this weekend, I'd like to cast my cynical eye on heroism in America. I have no issue with the shuttle astronauts loss being called a tragedy. Accidental loss of life is never anything but. On Thursday last, four North Carolinians were killed when the manufacturing plant they worked at exploded. 35 of their co-workers were injured, 18 critically. And two days later, all coverage stopped. Because seven people, also just doing their job, died during reentry. It's nearly 48 hours later, and mainstream press coverage has not returned to normal. The only story to grace the front page of the Sunday New York Times was the Columbia accident.
On Friday, reports came out of Afghanistan that four special forces soldiers died in a helicopter accident. I ask you to name one. Now, how many of the astronauts can you name? How many of these soldiers, fighting our country's war against terrorism, how many North Carolina factory workers, receive long, individual obituaries in the Times a day later? None.
The astronauts aren't heroes (excepting Ilan Ramon. He was a hero to many Israelis prior to his death due to the fact he was the first Israeli in space.), any more than the lost factory workers or the dozens killed on America's highways each day. America can only face tragedy through myth. Were all of the thousands that died on September 11th heroes? I have no doubt many who died did so as heroes; helping a co-worker through the smoke and debris; a fireman or policeman searching floor after floor, always looking to save one more. But many more were tragic victims; perhaps a scared airline passenger, or the person who was always a little early and made coffee for the office. I mourned and cried for them all and applauded and marveled at the stories I heard of individual heroism.
The media, the government, my co-workers and people on the street spoke only of the heroes. There were no victims, for Americans aren't victims; we're all heroes. But only if we die tragically, on national TV. Because if you die with the cameras rolling your Memorial never ends. We can always rewind and watch it, again, and again, and again. And the more times we see you die the bigger the myth grows.
On March 4, 2002, seven American soldiers were killed and 11 wounded at the outset of Operation Anaconda. They were fighting for our country, and by extension us. I don't know their names, and probably never will. Rick Husband, William McCool, Laurel Clark, David Brown, Michael Anderson, Ilan Ramon, Kalpana Chawla. I know these seven names. And I sympathize with their families, and and am truly sorry they were lost. But please don't call them heroes.
On Friday, reports came out of Afghanistan that four special forces soldiers died in a helicopter accident. I ask you to name one. Now, how many of the astronauts can you name? How many of these soldiers, fighting our country's war against terrorism, how many North Carolina factory workers, receive long, individual obituaries in the Times a day later? None.
The astronauts aren't heroes (excepting Ilan Ramon. He was a hero to many Israelis prior to his death due to the fact he was the first Israeli in space.), any more than the lost factory workers or the dozens killed on America's highways each day. America can only face tragedy through myth. Were all of the thousands that died on September 11th heroes? I have no doubt many who died did so as heroes; helping a co-worker through the smoke and debris; a fireman or policeman searching floor after floor, always looking to save one more. But many more were tragic victims; perhaps a scared airline passenger, or the person who was always a little early and made coffee for the office. I mourned and cried for them all and applauded and marveled at the stories I heard of individual heroism.
The media, the government, my co-workers and people on the street spoke only of the heroes. There were no victims, for Americans aren't victims; we're all heroes. But only if we die tragically, on national TV. Because if you die with the cameras rolling your Memorial never ends. We can always rewind and watch it, again, and again, and again. And the more times we see you die the bigger the myth grows.
On March 4, 2002, seven American soldiers were killed and 11 wounded at the outset of Operation Anaconda. They were fighting for our country, and by extension us. I don't know their names, and probably never will. Rick Husband, William McCool, Laurel Clark, David Brown, Michael Anderson, Ilan Ramon, Kalpana Chawla. I know these seven names. And I sympathize with their families, and and am truly sorry they were lost. But please don't call them heroes.
