A hitman is what we see in the movies. Neither you nor I will ever meet one in our natural life because they don’t go around boasting
about their profession. They stay incognito; they kill for money; no question
asked. They have no empathy for life; they can’t afford to have one. They ride
in motorcycle tandem lately; one to drive, the other to fire the lethal shot. Aim
for the head or the heart; one shot to kill.
USA’s latest killers are of a different breed; a different
evil. The CIA used to employ professional hitmen to kill enemies abroad. Now, they kill in broad daylight, and they laugh about it like they just killed terrorists in the Counter-Strike computer game. This is a new world. This is an accelerated
future. It is here to stay. It will evolve to let machines do the killing. It
will completely dehumanize wars; killing a million at the push of a button will
mean nothing because machines have no emotions. It is the reverse of fiction.
Machines dehumanizing humans, not humans humanizing machines.
Read this article: a guy on the job pins a photo of his wife
and two children on his computer monitor. In front of him are multiple satellite
monitors of targets 10,000 km away on the other side of the planet. He listens
to others thousands of miles away from each other. He received the command to fire
and pushed the button. Again, like a computer game…he sees a flash and buildings collapse. He smiles at the photo of his wife and children. Somewhere on
the other side of planet earth, he just killed someone’s wife and someone’s children, or killed a father that turned wives into widows and children into
orphans. He doesn't care; how can he feel for someone he has never met, 10,000 km away? Maybe he killed ten; perhaps a hundred. It’s all numbers that matter, not. Others
take care of statistics. He goes home, has a nice dinner, and plays with the
kids: this is what America has become.
Imagine the chaos, the wailing, screams and cries,
dismembered and mangled bodies, the flaming and collapsed buildings, 10,000 km
away. Death and destruction…America doesn't care; they laugh like blood sucking
vampires.
The Woes of an American Drone
Operator
By Nicola Abé
SNIP
Bryant
saw a flash on the screen: the explosion. Parts of the building collapsed. The
child had disappeared. Bryant had a sick feeling in his stomach.
“Did we just kill a kid?” he
asked the man sitting next to him.
“Yeah, I guess that was a kid,”
the pilot replied.
“Was that a kid?” they wrote
into a chat window on the monitor.
Then, someone they didn’t know
answered, someone sitting in a military command center somewhere in the world
who had observed their attack. “No. That was a dog,” the person wrote.
They reviewed the scene on
video. A dog on two legs?
SNIP
Bryant completed 6,000 flight hours during his six years in
the Air Force.
“I saw men, women and
children die during that time,” says Bryant. “I never thought I would kill that
many people. In fact, I thought I couldn’t kill anyone at all.”
SNIP
At some point, Brandon Bryant just wanted to get out and do
something else. He spent a few more months overseas, this time in Afghanistan.
But then, when he returned to New Mexico, he found that he suddenly hated the
cockpit, which smelled of sweat. He began spraying air freshener to get rid of
the stench. He also found he wanted to do something that saved lives rather
than took them away. He thought working as a survival trainer might fit the
bill, although his friends tried to dissuade him.
On uneventful days in the
cockpit, he would write in his diary, jotting down lines like: “On the
battlefield there are no sides, just bloodshed. Total war. Every horror
witnessed. I wish my eyes would rot.”
SNIP
Doctors
at the Veterans’ Administration diagnosed Bryant with post-traumatic stress
disorder. General hopes for a comfortable war — one that could be completed
without emotional wounds — haven’t been fulfilled. Indeed, Bryan’s world has
melded with that of the child in Afghanistan. It’s like a short circuit in the
brain of the drones.
Why isn’t he with the Air Force
anymore? There was one day, he says, when he knew that he wouldn’t sign the
next contract. It was the day Bryant walked into the cockpit and heard himself
saying to his coworkers: “Hey, what motherfucker is going to die today?”
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