The Bush administration seems to hold fast to the belief that the harsh tactics used in detaining and torturing Al Qaeda members are justified. This reasoning is supported by the dreadful belief that the methods practiced in these detention facilities have principally led to the capture and annihilation of Osama bin Laden (America’s most hated terrorist leader). This naïve idea tends to be the root of the justification of many of the world’s most heinous ethical crimes.
Take for example the treatment of German citizens during the Second World War. Would it have been ethically justifiable if the Allied forces had used brutal means to torture and interrogate German citizens supposing that they had ties to the Nazis?
Though the US has gained one success—killing bin Laden—from the unethical practices in Guantanamo Bay and other detention facilities, how far beyond ethical boundaries will they be willing to go to get the information they require?
Many doctors have even begun irritable concerning the inhuman methods used by the United States in order to gain information from their captives. In a letter to The Lancet, doctors from 16 countries, including Britain and America, say the failure of the US regulatory authorities to act is “damaging the reputation of US military medicine”.
The doctors wrote: “No healthcare worker in the War on Terror has been charged or convicted of any significant offence despite numerous instances documented including fraudulent record-keeping on detainees who have died as a result of failed interrogations ... The attitude of the US military establishment appears to be one of ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil’.”
The US is a rules-based system — it has a Bill of Rights and a strong Supreme Court. However, the events that have transpired in its detention facilities (especially Guantanamo bay) present serious questions. How can such a system be so damaged? How can legality be so destroyed? How can due process be so appallingly ignored?
One lesson to be learned is that even the best constitution and strongest institutions in the world are of no protection if those in power, and their influential allies, are determined to proceed with a meticulous course of action.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Is one's character defined by context?
Early on in my childhood I had wondered what makes a person ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Can a God-fearing Christian, who is “good” in every way, become “evil” if he/she commits an act of sin? As I grew older I began to realize that mortality is much more complex than simply ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ and that like experiences can have a great impact on one’s notion of this matter.
My name is Kris Mercer. I am a slightly privileged boy of 17 who studies hard in hopes of becoming the son my parents are so determined to see. I work part-time at a local grocery store-Freshco. I got up from bed one morning to the sounds of birds cheerfully chirping at their highest pitches, and the wind blowing very serenely in the small town of Hanverst.
This town, like any other, has its share of drunks, thieves, rich people, poor people and those in the middle. I would describe my family as being in the latter position, though my grandfather from my mother’s side of the family is said to have been a very wealthy man who even had servants at his command. He wasted all his money however, on the pleasures of life, leaving his children with no inheritances.
As I was saying, I got up from bed on this particular morning to a bright, beautiful day, unaware of what would be disclosed to me before dusk. I got ready, ate breakfast, which my mother had so lovingly prepared for once, and headed out to school.
I got to the Illyrian Academy, a high school for privileged children whose parents want only the only the best education for the so-called “leaders of tomorrow.” My parents, though not having a great deal of money, worked overtime so that they could send me to this school in hopes that I could acquire a good start for my future career as a hopeful surgeon. I still marvel at how my parents were able to afford to pay my monthly tuition. Thinking back, they gave me numerous opportunities to learn, despite not always being financially stable. They also taught me most of what I know to be valuable life lessons. Those were some of the richest moments of my life. The most defining moment of my life, however, took place on this ordinary day, which initially didn’t seem to have any significance whatsoever.
As I walked into the schoolyard, I could hear the engines of my peers’ cars—luxuries which were so easily afforded by their parents. And while walking towards my locker I could smell the faint odour of pricey hairspray and sweet perfume gloomily hanging in the air: another sign that wealthy children walk these halls. To the left of my locker was the locker of a rich boy named Matt Crock. He didn’t talk much and was often secluded from the rest of the horde. To the right of my locker was that of the beautiful and absolutely striking Keira Soren, who I’d lustily admired since middle school. We were once quite close you know; but upon reaching high school, I began focusing more on my lessons and made schoolwork my priority whereas cheerleading was hers. In the case of any other girl, I wouldn’t be so understanding, as cheerleading doesn’t exactly qualify one for a rewarding career, but Keira did it so gracefully that even the harshest critics would find it difficult to criticize her. Her sheer passion and chasteness in whatever she did had a strange pull on me.
This morning however, Keira seemed to have abandoned her normally blissful and optimistic attitude and took on a rather daunting one. Little did I know that she had broken up with the captain of the rugby team, Troy, whom she had been dating for over a year. Troy is a tall but surprisingly muscular individual who did not do so well academically and probably figured sports was his way to establish a place for himself in the history of “our generation.” I had always hated Troy, perhaps out of sheer jealousy for his handsome figure, and his expensive cars which he seemed to damage almost every weekend; but most importantly, his possession of Keira- that doesn’t make me a bad person does it? I’ve always been a good guy. Every friend of my parents’ used to tell me things like: “you’re such a nice boy Kris, not like the ones we see these days.” I guess being told this constantly made me believe that I truly possessed a righteous character and would not succumb to evildoings. I still wondered whether there was a straight line between ‘righteous’ and ‘wicked’ , or between ‘good’ and ‘bad’. These questions continued to plague my thoughts as I began to question my character about every lie, mistake, or negative thought that I could perpetrate. I constantly asked myself if there truly is a separation between ‘good’ and ‘bad’; would I be a ‘bad’ person for making mistakes. After lengthy consideration I became more open to asking others their opinion of this seemingly mind-boggling question. When I asked the priest of my church he provided nothing more than a bunch of riddles which I never did understood- but would soon learn the hard way.
He said: “think about this way my son, if a man robbed a bank, would you consider him a bad person?”
I readily replied: “yes!”
Then he nodded and said very well, then added: “what if that same man committed this robbery because his family would have starved otherwise. Would you still consider him a bad person?”
I soon answered, “No, because he only did it so that he could feed his family.” He then exited in a mysterious manner as all priests do.
But where was I? As Keira walked towards her locker, I couldn’t stand watching her so cheerless. Ignoring the newfound barrier due to our social strata I said: “Are you feeling well Keira?” Surprised, she replied, “why do you care, you haven’t talked to me in years,” with an icy edge.
That hurt. Feeling shame I said: “Well it’s a little hard to talk to you when you’re constantly guarded by jocks from the rugby team.”
Having lost her edge she responded softly: “That’s not gonna be a problem anymore.”
Anxious and a little relived I inquired, “what do you mean?”
“I mean I broke up with Troy last night.”
“Really, sorry to hear that,” trying to mask my true feelings I silently jumped for joy deep inside.
“You don’t seem that sorry for me.”
“I really am,” I said defensively, “truthfully, I really don’t think he’s the right guy for you.”
“Who is”. She said. “I’m starting to feel like I’ll never meet the right guy.”
“You might not know it yet, but he might be under your nose and you haven’t realized it”, I cunningly replied. I felt a little ghastly telling her this after she had just broken up with Troy but it was something that I needed to say. After all, time was short; we only had a month before we headed our separate ways post-graduation.
Holding her hand gently I said, “If you ever need to talk to anyone about anything, even cheerleading, I’ll be here to listen.” As she was about to reply, a sharp pain interrupted my thoughts. I felt the inside of my cheek scrape against my teeth, drawing blood. I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet. The sheer shock of the blow knocked me backwards. Having never been struck before, I experienced a very uneasy feeling of vulnerability.
In a fit of anger, he screamed: “get your fucking hands off her!” I scrambled to right myself while Keira tried to explain to him that they were no longer dating, and that he should stop harassing her. Incensed, Troy pushed her into one of the lockers with such brute force that some students later admitted that they had heard the echo from the opposite hall. Hearing her scream, everything became clear to me. I had to do something, whatever it was, to stop Troy. Burning with anger and a cold resentment, I pulled out my work knife, a blade so clean that one could see their own reflection, and stabbed Troy in the chest. In pain, he forcefully clutched the knife to stop the bleeding and soon fell unconscious.
The long-awaited answer which I had been curiously searching for had been answered. No matter how righteous one may seem or try to believe they are, they can still commit acts which make them no less ‘evil’ than a criminal. Being a naïve boy of 17, I discovered these truths by experience. After three years in a juvenile correction center, and further probation, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that one’s character can be molded by their subconscious to fit a specific context. Being so innocent all my life, I never thought that I’d be the one to stab and kill another human being.
I will return to writing this letter at a later time as Keira is supposed to visit soon. Thinking about it now, the terrifying incidents which occurred at the Illyrian Academy on this ordinary day drew me and Keira closer together as she realized that I would go to any length to protect her. Our relationship grows stronger everyday and I can’t wait to get out of probation so we can finally have an intimate relationship.
My name is Kris Mercer. I am a slightly privileged boy of 17 who studies hard in hopes of becoming the son my parents are so determined to see. I work part-time at a local grocery store-Freshco. I got up from bed one morning to the sounds of birds cheerfully chirping at their highest pitches, and the wind blowing very serenely in the small town of Hanverst.
This town, like any other, has its share of drunks, thieves, rich people, poor people and those in the middle. I would describe my family as being in the latter position, though my grandfather from my mother’s side of the family is said to have been a very wealthy man who even had servants at his command. He wasted all his money however, on the pleasures of life, leaving his children with no inheritances.
As I was saying, I got up from bed on this particular morning to a bright, beautiful day, unaware of what would be disclosed to me before dusk. I got ready, ate breakfast, which my mother had so lovingly prepared for once, and headed out to school.
I got to the Illyrian Academy, a high school for privileged children whose parents want only the only the best education for the so-called “leaders of tomorrow.” My parents, though not having a great deal of money, worked overtime so that they could send me to this school in hopes that I could acquire a good start for my future career as a hopeful surgeon. I still marvel at how my parents were able to afford to pay my monthly tuition. Thinking back, they gave me numerous opportunities to learn, despite not always being financially stable. They also taught me most of what I know to be valuable life lessons. Those were some of the richest moments of my life. The most defining moment of my life, however, took place on this ordinary day, which initially didn’t seem to have any significance whatsoever.
As I walked into the schoolyard, I could hear the engines of my peers’ cars—luxuries which were so easily afforded by their parents. And while walking towards my locker I could smell the faint odour of pricey hairspray and sweet perfume gloomily hanging in the air: another sign that wealthy children walk these halls. To the left of my locker was the locker of a rich boy named Matt Crock. He didn’t talk much and was often secluded from the rest of the horde. To the right of my locker was that of the beautiful and absolutely striking Keira Soren, who I’d lustily admired since middle school. We were once quite close you know; but upon reaching high school, I began focusing more on my lessons and made schoolwork my priority whereas cheerleading was hers. In the case of any other girl, I wouldn’t be so understanding, as cheerleading doesn’t exactly qualify one for a rewarding career, but Keira did it so gracefully that even the harshest critics would find it difficult to criticize her. Her sheer passion and chasteness in whatever she did had a strange pull on me.
This morning however, Keira seemed to have abandoned her normally blissful and optimistic attitude and took on a rather daunting one. Little did I know that she had broken up with the captain of the rugby team, Troy, whom she had been dating for over a year. Troy is a tall but surprisingly muscular individual who did not do so well academically and probably figured sports was his way to establish a place for himself in the history of “our generation.” I had always hated Troy, perhaps out of sheer jealousy for his handsome figure, and his expensive cars which he seemed to damage almost every weekend; but most importantly, his possession of Keira- that doesn’t make me a bad person does it? I’ve always been a good guy. Every friend of my parents’ used to tell me things like: “you’re such a nice boy Kris, not like the ones we see these days.” I guess being told this constantly made me believe that I truly possessed a righteous character and would not succumb to evildoings. I still wondered whether there was a straight line between ‘righteous’ and ‘wicked’ , or between ‘good’ and ‘bad’. These questions continued to plague my thoughts as I began to question my character about every lie, mistake, or negative thought that I could perpetrate. I constantly asked myself if there truly is a separation between ‘good’ and ‘bad’; would I be a ‘bad’ person for making mistakes. After lengthy consideration I became more open to asking others their opinion of this seemingly mind-boggling question. When I asked the priest of my church he provided nothing more than a bunch of riddles which I never did understood- but would soon learn the hard way.
He said: “think about this way my son, if a man robbed a bank, would you consider him a bad person?”
I readily replied: “yes!”
Then he nodded and said very well, then added: “what if that same man committed this robbery because his family would have starved otherwise. Would you still consider him a bad person?”
I soon answered, “No, because he only did it so that he could feed his family.” He then exited in a mysterious manner as all priests do.
But where was I? As Keira walked towards her locker, I couldn’t stand watching her so cheerless. Ignoring the newfound barrier due to our social strata I said: “Are you feeling well Keira?” Surprised, she replied, “why do you care, you haven’t talked to me in years,” with an icy edge.
That hurt. Feeling shame I said: “Well it’s a little hard to talk to you when you’re constantly guarded by jocks from the rugby team.”
Having lost her edge she responded softly: “That’s not gonna be a problem anymore.”
Anxious and a little relived I inquired, “what do you mean?”
“I mean I broke up with Troy last night.”
“Really, sorry to hear that,” trying to mask my true feelings I silently jumped for joy deep inside.
“You don’t seem that sorry for me.”
“I really am,” I said defensively, “truthfully, I really don’t think he’s the right guy for you.”
“Who is”. She said. “I’m starting to feel like I’ll never meet the right guy.”
“You might not know it yet, but he might be under your nose and you haven’t realized it”, I cunningly replied. I felt a little ghastly telling her this after she had just broken up with Troy but it was something that I needed to say. After all, time was short; we only had a month before we headed our separate ways post-graduation.
Holding her hand gently I said, “If you ever need to talk to anyone about anything, even cheerleading, I’ll be here to listen.” As she was about to reply, a sharp pain interrupted my thoughts. I felt the inside of my cheek scrape against my teeth, drawing blood. I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet. The sheer shock of the blow knocked me backwards. Having never been struck before, I experienced a very uneasy feeling of vulnerability.
In a fit of anger, he screamed: “get your fucking hands off her!” I scrambled to right myself while Keira tried to explain to him that they were no longer dating, and that he should stop harassing her. Incensed, Troy pushed her into one of the lockers with such brute force that some students later admitted that they had heard the echo from the opposite hall. Hearing her scream, everything became clear to me. I had to do something, whatever it was, to stop Troy. Burning with anger and a cold resentment, I pulled out my work knife, a blade so clean that one could see their own reflection, and stabbed Troy in the chest. In pain, he forcefully clutched the knife to stop the bleeding and soon fell unconscious.
The long-awaited answer which I had been curiously searching for had been answered. No matter how righteous one may seem or try to believe they are, they can still commit acts which make them no less ‘evil’ than a criminal. Being a naïve boy of 17, I discovered these truths by experience. After three years in a juvenile correction center, and further probation, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that one’s character can be molded by their subconscious to fit a specific context. Being so innocent all my life, I never thought that I’d be the one to stab and kill another human being.
I will return to writing this letter at a later time as Keira is supposed to visit soon. Thinking about it now, the terrifying incidents which occurred at the Illyrian Academy on this ordinary day drew me and Keira closer together as she realized that I would go to any length to protect her. Our relationship grows stronger everyday and I can’t wait to get out of probation so we can finally have an intimate relationship.
Children's Words
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
Their screams piercing the night.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
It’s hard to envisage he lived right uptown,
And no one ever knew.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
No one would have expected these things from such a clown.
Their town was lively and peaceful too.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
With eyes swimming of innocence their children walked with crowns.
Their ABCs and 123s were their main concerns.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
Upon seeing bruises on their children’s bodies, parents began talking in the town.
The children all had a unanimous story: “it was James the janitor.”
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
At sunset they made their journey, their children wearing tea gowns.
Sleeping soundly on his pillow, James had no idea.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
Their screams piercing the night.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
It’s hard to envisage he lived right uptown,
And no one ever knew.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
No one would have expected these things from such a clown.
Their town was lively and peaceful too.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
With eyes swimming of innocence their children walked with crowns.
Their ABCs and 123s were their main concerns.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
Upon seeing bruises on their children’s bodies, parents began talking in the town.
The children all had a unanimous story: “it was James the janitor.”
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
At sunset they made their journey, their children wearing tea gowns.
Sleeping soundly on his pillow, James had no idea.
With sticks and stones they hunted him down.
“Kill him, kill him”, they shouted with a frown.
'My Fortress of Solitude'
The door of this teenage fortress is of particle board, with a wood veneer finish. On the other side of it lie both my squash and Badminton rackets hanging on a custom-made racket holder.
The walls, painted light blue (one of the only parent-sanctioned colors available), bestows a calming effect to the overall atmosphere in the cramped room and matches well with the white pitted tile floor. Lately, one can barely see the fading paint on the wall as it has been covered with wallpapers and posters of different sizes and content—some dealing with religion, others about music, and a few of countries I wish to visit.
My dresser, which stands across from the foot of my bed, and is also made of particle board, compliments the door. The dresser itself is brown with six drawers, sets of three side by side. A square-shaped mirror stands at the top of the dresser. The face of this old antique mirror projects the entirety of the room.
My study desk, positioned transversely from my dresser, has a hutch in which I display a collection of 2010 Olympic coins. The hutch is enclosed by thick see-through glass protecting it from collapsing as it is often covered with numerous academic textbooks.
Looking from my door inward, you can see my queen-sized bed, its sheets, blankets and pillows positioned perfectly every morning by my mother. The comforter on my bed is orange, white, and dark blue, and it’s made by Lauren Ralph Polo. Two pillows rest at opposite ends covered by cases made of turquoise cloth, the essence of untroubled sleep. This colour forms a pleasant matching contrast with the darker blues that plainly compromise the colouring of the bedspread.
Blue curtains cover the wide fixture of my window from the brightness of the outside, and my neighbours’ wife.
Across from the head of my bed protrudes a mini-fridge which contains all of my unhealthy food cravings; namely, Doritos chips, Red Bull, double cheeseburgers, etc.
All my shoes lie in perfect alignment on the floor across from my bed. The newest-Cole Haan, Sandro Moscoloni, Merrell, Joseph Seibel- are to the right while the used and old ones are to the left.
Slightly on top of my headboard lies one of my favourite quotes, engraved on a plaque: What is the meaning of life? To be happy and useful-Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama. Beside this quote stretches a map with blue pins detailing all the cities and countries that I’ve visited and an accumulating number of red pins, indicating places I wish to visit.
At the foot of my bed stands a desk which holds my 30 inch LCD TV along with a Blueray DVD player adjacent from it. Oddly, a number of video cassettes sit next to the DVD player; however, they don’t come with video cassette players anymore.
The smell of cheap potpourri air freshener is like oxygen in my room.
On my dresser stands what I deem to be my most important athletic and academic trophies and awards (mostly for best athlete and Subject awards), which are chrome plated, while the rest are in the basement.
A miniature book shelf also stands below the foot of my bed. It’s divided into two sections: the left side contains academic textbooks and the right side contains the books which my mom constantly suggests I should read but have never gotten to.
It’s a shame that soon I will be leaving this room which has nurtured me during my toughest years. It has truly been my fortress. It does not judge me; it’s impartial; it’s the safest place I know; imagination, sanity, love, hope, and personality is contained in this room; it is a refuge from all my enemies; and it is my strong suit. My room is the one place I can be free.
The walls, painted light blue (one of the only parent-sanctioned colors available), bestows a calming effect to the overall atmosphere in the cramped room and matches well with the white pitted tile floor. Lately, one can barely see the fading paint on the wall as it has been covered with wallpapers and posters of different sizes and content—some dealing with religion, others about music, and a few of countries I wish to visit.
My dresser, which stands across from the foot of my bed, and is also made of particle board, compliments the door. The dresser itself is brown with six drawers, sets of three side by side. A square-shaped mirror stands at the top of the dresser. The face of this old antique mirror projects the entirety of the room.
My study desk, positioned transversely from my dresser, has a hutch in which I display a collection of 2010 Olympic coins. The hutch is enclosed by thick see-through glass protecting it from collapsing as it is often covered with numerous academic textbooks.
Looking from my door inward, you can see my queen-sized bed, its sheets, blankets and pillows positioned perfectly every morning by my mother. The comforter on my bed is orange, white, and dark blue, and it’s made by Lauren Ralph Polo. Two pillows rest at opposite ends covered by cases made of turquoise cloth, the essence of untroubled sleep. This colour forms a pleasant matching contrast with the darker blues that plainly compromise the colouring of the bedspread.
Blue curtains cover the wide fixture of my window from the brightness of the outside, and my neighbours’ wife.
Across from the head of my bed protrudes a mini-fridge which contains all of my unhealthy food cravings; namely, Doritos chips, Red Bull, double cheeseburgers, etc.
All my shoes lie in perfect alignment on the floor across from my bed. The newest-Cole Haan, Sandro Moscoloni, Merrell, Joseph Seibel- are to the right while the used and old ones are to the left.
Slightly on top of my headboard lies one of my favourite quotes, engraved on a plaque: What is the meaning of life? To be happy and useful-Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama. Beside this quote stretches a map with blue pins detailing all the cities and countries that I’ve visited and an accumulating number of red pins, indicating places I wish to visit.
At the foot of my bed stands a desk which holds my 30 inch LCD TV along with a Blueray DVD player adjacent from it. Oddly, a number of video cassettes sit next to the DVD player; however, they don’t come with video cassette players anymore.
The smell of cheap potpourri air freshener is like oxygen in my room.
On my dresser stands what I deem to be my most important athletic and academic trophies and awards (mostly for best athlete and Subject awards), which are chrome plated, while the rest are in the basement.
A miniature book shelf also stands below the foot of my bed. It’s divided into two sections: the left side contains academic textbooks and the right side contains the books which my mom constantly suggests I should read but have never gotten to.
It’s a shame that soon I will be leaving this room which has nurtured me during my toughest years. It has truly been my fortress. It does not judge me; it’s impartial; it’s the safest place I know; imagination, sanity, love, hope, and personality is contained in this room; it is a refuge from all my enemies; and it is my strong suit. My room is the one place I can be free.
Tragedy
A vigorous young damsel named Miley,
Her future so playful and smiley;
Her father got shot,
Her mother got caught
But she’s still so very lively
Her future so playful and smiley;
Her father got shot,
Her mother got caught
But she’s still so very lively
Mankind
Butterball,
Fatso,
Fatty,
Roly-poly,
Stout,
Pudgy,
Rotund,
Portly,
Fleshy,
Plump,
Chubby;
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scrag,
Skin and bones,
Lean,
Thin,
Slender,
Societal Reject.
Fatso,
Fatty,
Roly-poly,
Stout,
Pudgy,
Rotund,
Portly,
Fleshy,
Plump,
Chubby;
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scrag,
Skin and bones,
Lean,
Thin,
Slender,
Societal Reject.
'My soul of Music'
Thy beautiful sound,
The melody of my mind,
Compels love for you.
Thou art true beauty,
The music of my person,
In all solitude.
Shine your gracious light,
Thy poison which makes me hope,
Which I keep always.
This is my calling,
The love which I hold dearest,
This is my music!
The melody of my mind,
Compels love for you.
Thou art true beauty,
The music of my person,
In all solitude.
Shine your gracious light,
Thy poison which makes me hope,
Which I keep always.
This is my calling,
The love which I hold dearest,
This is my music!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)