ῥοδοδάκτυλος

On March 19, 2011, United States and United Nations coalition forces launched 112 Tomahawk missiles against loyalist forces in Libya. While nominally “enforcing a no-fly zone” in order to prevent Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi (Kadafy? Qaddafi?) from further tyrannizing his own people, the coalition missile strikes effectively bolster a band of rebel fighters who seek to overthrow the Libyan government. An admirable goal, if one ignores the rebel’s expressly anti-American views as well as strong indications that they have been collaborating with Al-Qaeda. At least they’re not slaughtering children and violating women. Gaddafi and his troops are.

The Pentagon calls the US military’s involvement in Libya “Operation Odyssey Dawn.” I think there’s a nice poetry to the image of dozens of rosy-fingered missiles streaking out from the horizon, illuminating the sky with violent light and promises of freedom. Four months ago in Tunis, fate and circumstance forced a vegetable seller’s hand. Today, in the same country where Dido once set herself on fire to mourn departed love, men now fight so that protest does not have to mean self-immolation. The Libyan battles are ones of epic allusions, if not proportions.

I enjoy these grand allusions. But there are ten year olds in America today who have never known America not to be at war. I wish that Gaddafi would stop harming his own people, so that we didn’t feel the need to blow things up anymore. And I can't help but wonder if we’re really helping. Two wars, I thought, was enough.