Why Can't I Hate You?
Recently, I have found myself unable to hate some of those who we probably should. It started with Adam Lanza. I hated what he did. The loss of six-year-old children is deplorable. But the more that I learned about Lanza's life and trials and challenges, the less I hated him. He seemed so helpless. So lost. When it all came down to it, I came to hate his mother and her inability to help her son much more than I could ever hate him.
Then, my inability to hate came to a head with the Boston Marathon Bombings. I first heard about them as I passed by the CNN TV in the Wilkinson Student Center. It was at the very beginning of the incident. It was still at the moment when no one was really sure what had happened--they didn't even know at that point if the explosions were accidents or what they were. At that moment, they only knew that six people were injured, and that was merely from what they managed to hear from some passerby who had said, "I've seen six injured people." Perhaps it was because I don't have school with which to occupy myself at the moment. Perhaps it was something else. But as the numbers climbed and I learned of all the destruction that those bombs actually caused, I started to ask myself, "How could someone do that to other people?"
But then, Friday came. I learned that they had found them. And I was more confused than before they had found them. Why? Because I wanted a motive. And with the older brother, there was a motive. As much as I had hoped that it wasn't Radical Islam, that's what the explanation was. But, it didn't make sense with the younger brother. I kept reading more articles about both brothers as the story unfolded. The older brother, Tamerlan, started to make more and more sense. He was the classic story: was alienated from the American world, became radicalized, FBI got tips about him in 2011, etc. But the younger brother, Dzhokar, started to make less and less sense. Everyone who knew him found him nice. He fit in with American culture. He was an American citizen. He was Muslim, but he wasn't even really that devout, let alone radical. It didn't make sense. As my roommate said when they showed his picture, "He doesn't look like a killer." And it haunted me. Because I can almost hate Tamerlan. But I cannot even begin to hate Dzhokar. He seems lost.
Today, I noticed that The Onion, a satirical "new-source" had made an article on their front page called, "I guess when my older brother said 'Let's bomb the Boston Marathon,' I should have said no." It was supposedly written by Tsarnaev. I think that this is the best summary of the situation. I don't know for sure, but my Belarussian roommate tells me that Chechens have an almost obscene sense of loyalty to their families. She believes that that was really his only motive.
I do not excuse what he did. He is an adult. He can make his own choices. He is over the age of eight, and therefore, according to my Mormon theology, completely accountable. But, there is a part of me that believes that he didn't really choose it. And for that reason, I can't hate him. I kind of want to. But he just seems to lost and alone for me to do that.
Then, my inability to hate came to a head with the Boston Marathon Bombings. I first heard about them as I passed by the CNN TV in the Wilkinson Student Center. It was at the very beginning of the incident. It was still at the moment when no one was really sure what had happened--they didn't even know at that point if the explosions were accidents or what they were. At that moment, they only knew that six people were injured, and that was merely from what they managed to hear from some passerby who had said, "I've seen six injured people." Perhaps it was because I don't have school with which to occupy myself at the moment. Perhaps it was something else. But as the numbers climbed and I learned of all the destruction that those bombs actually caused, I started to ask myself, "How could someone do that to other people?"
But then, Friday came. I learned that they had found them. And I was more confused than before they had found them. Why? Because I wanted a motive. And with the older brother, there was a motive. As much as I had hoped that it wasn't Radical Islam, that's what the explanation was. But, it didn't make sense with the younger brother. I kept reading more articles about both brothers as the story unfolded. The older brother, Tamerlan, started to make more and more sense. He was the classic story: was alienated from the American world, became radicalized, FBI got tips about him in 2011, etc. But the younger brother, Dzhokar, started to make less and less sense. Everyone who knew him found him nice. He fit in with American culture. He was an American citizen. He was Muslim, but he wasn't even really that devout, let alone radical. It didn't make sense. As my roommate said when they showed his picture, "He doesn't look like a killer." And it haunted me. Because I can almost hate Tamerlan. But I cannot even begin to hate Dzhokar. He seems lost.
Today, I noticed that The Onion, a satirical "new-source" had made an article on their front page called, "I guess when my older brother said 'Let's bomb the Boston Marathon,' I should have said no." It was supposedly written by Tsarnaev. I think that this is the best summary of the situation. I don't know for sure, but my Belarussian roommate tells me that Chechens have an almost obscene sense of loyalty to their families. She believes that that was really his only motive.
I do not excuse what he did. He is an adult. He can make his own choices. He is over the age of eight, and therefore, according to my Mormon theology, completely accountable. But, there is a part of me that believes that he didn't really choose it. And for that reason, I can't hate him. I kind of want to. But he just seems to lost and alone for me to do that.
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