I used to complain about the disparity in the value of human life between countries, how hundreds of civilians in a developing country count as “collateral damage” while the world can lose its mind over a half dozen dead Westerners. Nowadays, however, routine shootings by the mentally deranged seem to have evened the playing field by making us so numb that the value of a Westerner’s life is approaching the dismal value of a Middle-Eastern civilian killed by a drone.
I was hoping for the opposite: that the value of human life would be elevated overseas to match Westerners’ human life value. I was hoping that every time someone is killed, it becomes a big deal. I was hoping that the names of all the victims be commemorated, because one of these victims could be me or one of my children.
Instead, we’re all worthless now. Killing has become so mundane that we’re sick of even hearing about it. We wish to not even know it happened. People die just as easily as numbers are counted. One, two, five hundred and sixty three – it’s that easy. We’re all worth nothing more than the ink with which our names are written. We definitely count a lot to those who love us, but our demise leads to no change of policies, no reduction in killings, and not even a shaking of public conscience.
I’m so numb myself that I’m not even motivated to write more.
Is it divine payback for all the killing we’ve done overseas? It very well could be.