I am a Terrorist

March 12th, 2009 | by Steve Osborn

Some years ago, I spent quite a bit of time trying to get into the mind of a “terrorist,” to see if I could articulate what makes him tick. Finally, I wrote I am a Terrorist. Then, later, I read a story in the local paper. It was an interview with a young American soldier, a sniper. That led to I am a Terrorist-2. I never published either one, but thought I would here on the blog. Perhaps worthy of some comment?

I am a Terrorist

I am a terrorist.
Where I come from does not matter.
Who I kill and maim is unimportant.
Only the end justifies the means.

Sometimes I am the tool of the State.
I may snipe for the military,
Or be a clandestine operative
Sowing fear and dissension for my country.

I may kill for God, Jehovah, Allah, or Kali,
Out of revenge or to smite the infidel.
Or to demonstrate that my God is the stronger
Or that my might ensures my cause is right.

I may have drifted into this life,
Or had it thrust upon me
By loss of family or loved ones,
Blasted and burned by “them.”

Some people wish to solve these problems
By diplomacy, by talk, by compromise,
But they are weak and beneath contempt.
The only way is to kill and kill and kill!

We kill our own if they negotiate.
We kill the others because they exist.
We kill in memory of our dead.
Our lives have no other value.

Some speak of love, home, children,
But I have none of these, they are long dead.
Once my heart had caring and love, but now
My heart is made of fire, ice and stone.

I kill without thought.
The enemy is not human,
Just a thing to be destroyed.
That is what I do.

Steve Osborn
22 April 2004

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I am a Terrorist - 2

Once I was a hunter.
My rifle and I were one.
My stealth became a legend,
I never failed to bag my game.
All through my youth,
The larder was always full.

I watch him grazing, watching over his herd
His eyes are alert, but he watches for wolves,
Panthers, coyotes, skulkers close at hand.
He doesn’t know I am watching him
From a quarter mile away.
I caress the trigger and watch him leap and sag and die.

I am still a hunter,
But now my game is man.
The army said I am a natural.
They trained me well
And gave me precision weapons.
They call me a sniper.

I look through the scope at my distant foe,
Smiling to myself at his unsuspecting face.
I watch him as he goes about his business
Then I caress the trigger and watch his expression
As the slug slams home and he realizes his death.
Just like shooting deer in the valley, it’s fun.

What will I do when there is no war or my enlistment is up?
Work in some damned office or wind up pumping gas?
Somehow, wild game has lost its luster, but I am still a hunter.
I know there will be a place for me, the right agency, the mob,
Some country that needs my skills.
All I need to do is watch the right want ads.

Sometimes I’ll gutshoot my target,
Let him scream for a while to shake up all his friends,
But then I’ll fire again and put him out of his misery.
It is not a nice thing to do, but they tell me it is war,
And all things are fair in war they say.
I know nothing about love.

I no longer care, for it is all one to me.
Right now I am a patriot, but that means nothing
I win medals for doing what I love.
Some day I may find myself the hunted
With a bounty on my head, but that makes no difference

For I am a hunter and I live to kill.

Steve Osborn
16 May 2004
This was inspired by an interview with a young American sniper that appeared in a local paper.

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I’ll finish this up with a poem I wrote after the Blackwater mercenaries were killed, that led to the destruction of Fallujah

—————————————————————-

Perhaps it is Time to Break the Wheel

Blood, burned bodies hanging.
Outrage! Revenge! Barbarians! Savages!
Kill them until they surrender!
Give them no quarter!

Music to Bush and Company’s ears,
This cry for revenge and destruction.
If this is the people’s mood,
His forces may kill at will.

What of the Iraqi, holding a burned body,
That represents his hopes and dreams?
He sits on the ground before a burned out home,
Cradling wife or child and watching the soldiers.

What may be passing through his mind?
Outrage! Revenge! Barbarians! Savages!
Kill them until they surrender!
Give them no quarter!

Thus is this horror perpetuated
In war after war, year after year,
From Richard Cœur De Lyon
To the current tragic bloodbath.

Steve Osborn
10 April 2004

And so it goes, war after war, year after endless year…