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Master of Stupidity

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Toba Beta

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“Think about what it would mean to fight," he said. "Say we barricade ourselves here in the hotel and refuse to leave. They come at us with their Weapon, whatever it is. Some of us are hurt, some die. We go out to meet them with whatever weapons we can find - sticks, maybe, or pieces of broken glass. We battle each other. Maybe they set fire to the hotel. Maybe we march into the village and steal food from them nad they come after us and beat us. We beat them back. In the end, maybe we damage them so badly that they're too weak to make us leave. What do we have? Friends and neighbors and families dead. A place half destroyed, and those left in it full of hatred for us. And we ourselves will have to live with the memory of the terrible things we have done.”

“This morning there s first a predictable story about Darfur; an expert on African affairs notes that seven thousand African Union troops patrolling a region the size of France have been ineffectual in preventing continued janjaweed terror. Funding for the troops is about to run out, and it seems that no one, including the United States, is ready to put forth more money or come up with new ideas to stop the killing and displacement. This is not surprising to those of us who lived through twenty years of oppression by the hands of Khartoum and its militias.”

“There are a dozen different ways of delivering destruction in impersonal wholesale, via ships and missiles of one sort or another, catastrophes so widespread, so unselective, that the war is over because that nation or planet has ceased to exist. What we do is entirely different. We make war as personal as a punch in the nose. We can be selective, applying precisely the required amount of pressure at the specified point at a designated time . . . . We are the boys who go to a particular place, at H-hour, occupy a designated terrain, stand on it, dig the enemy out of their holes, force them then and there to surrender or die. We're the bloody infantry, the doughboy, the duckfoot, the foot soldier who goes where the enemy is and takes him on in person. We've been doing it, with changes in weapons but very little change in our trade, at least since the time five thousand years ago when the foot sloggers of Sargon the Great forced the Sumerians to cry "Uncle!" Maybe they'll be able to do without us someday. Maybe some mad enius with myopia, a bulging forehead, and a cybernetic mind will devise a weapon that can go down a hole, pick out the opposition, adn force it to surrender or die--without killing that gang of your own people they've got imprisoned down there. I wouldn't know; I'm not a genius, I'm an M.I. In the meantime, until they build a machine to replace us, my mates can handle that job--and I might be some help on it, too.”

“- Suntem într-un loc, de care nu aparținem, făcând lucruri pe care nu demult nu mi le-aș fi imaginat, fiind parte din acest război care nu este al nostru. Dar pentru ei, totul pare normal, ai omorât de-ai mei, voi omorî mai mulți de-ai tăi. Mi-ai violat femeile, voi viola mai multe de-ale tale și așa mai departe. Am văzut și am făcut lucruri pe care mi-a fost greu să le accept, iar eu nici măcar nu sunt un combatant ca tine. Chiar nu te înțeleg cum poți tu trece zi de zi prin toate astea, fără să-ți pierzi mințile, pentru că eu simt că încep să o iau razna.”

“Cu cel care îți este camarad de arme, împarți și bune și rele. Împarți căldura sufocantă a verii și soarele arzător ce-ți bate-n cap în timp ce mărșăluiești. Împarți ploile toamnei, ce transformă în noroi drumurile, tranșeele și gropile individuale. Împarți frigul și asprimea iernii, iar atunci când totul e înghețat în jurul tău, orice sursă de căldură fizică sau sufletească, o împarți cu el. Primăvara, când natura revine la viață, împarți dorul de cei dragi, de casă, de viața de dinainte de război. Cu cel ce îți este camarad, împarți bucurii și suferințe, posibil chiar și groapa comună de la sfârșit, dar mai ales viața în cele mai improprii și vrăjmașe condiții. Simion adresându-i-se lui Paul”