THE SCRIPT IN THE DUST
The Script in the Dust The script was written in the dust of the desert long before the first missile ignited the sky. We sat in the stone tiers of the world, a global chorus with our hands over our mouths, watching the actors march toward the fire with the heavy rhythm of men who believe they are walking toward glory when they are really walking toward the grave. We saw red lines drawn in the sand, crossed, drawn again, and finally washed away in blood. Every final warning was a drumbeat. Every diplomatic success was a mask hiding the fury that was coming. Then pride rose. The swelling chest of the axis, coiling like a serpent, dreaming of a chokehold, met by fury launched like a thunderbolt, dreaming of a clean end, a surgical strike. But tragedies never end cleanly. The strike that kills the lead actor only drives the understudies screaming to the front of the stage. And we, the chorus, are the most tragic of all. We comment, we watch, we record. We...