media

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Responding to Terror

“It’s war,” bawled Donald Trump, showing how little he understands modern terrorism. It is nothing like war. It is human anguish on the steroids of media attention. It is desperation with an audience, mental brokenness on the world stage. It is far from coherent aggression. It is incoherent exhibitionism.

Attention is what feeds the beast, so we are in the puzzling plight of provoking the madmen and madwomen of the world by reporting their carnage. Contrary to the Trump narrative, this is not a problem with a three-word cause and effect. It is mental illness complicated by a world-wide audience.

What do the terrorists in Orlando, Dallas, Nice and Baton Rouge have in common? Virtually nothing, but some perverse need for an audience for their sickness. One hated LGBT persons, two others hated white law enforcement officers, another victimized an undifferentiated Bastille Day crowd. One invoked ISIS, one the Black Lives Matters movement, the others no explicit blame. It would be a mistake to link their mass murders to any of these causes. They are merely the costumes worn to stage a command performance.

The perpetrators likely have their own socio-pathology, so the ultimate cause is whatever demons these men fought. Most often war, drugs, and child abuse drive men and women to act out their anger and pain.

But a proximal cause is the witnessing of the ghastly performance this summer, international exhibits of the power of the powerless. It can’t be coincidence that one follows upon the other. The spectacle in the world media is too suggestive for the deranged mind. It opens possibilities and invites competition for the unwilling audience. Terror feeds on the spectacle of terror.

The merchandise of the media is news, and terror is the news that never stops breaking. We are submerged in media that amplify terror merely by reporting it. As the consumers of media we are all complicit in the story. We are the appalled, yet fascinated audience.

So I asked myself this morning, as an unwilling spectator, how do I stop feeding the beast? Should I stop watching it? Stop buying the products that fund the spectacle? Write about the over-exposure of terrorists? Stop talking about it? Take arms against the bastards? No, I refuse to buy into the push-button solutions. As the political convention season begins, I stand against the simplistic answers for controlling terror suspects: lock ’em up, shoot ’em, kick ’em out.

I started thinking about my own appetite. How much of my watching is gawking? How much of my attention is based on entertainment? I am always on verge of becoming a voyeur of violence, however much I deplore it.  Can I observe without feeding on the spectacle?

I started watching Game of Thrones this summer, because it gets so much attention on talk shows and in  popular culture. I learned a lot in the first four seasons, but I began to realize that the high points of the epic were about treachery and betrayal of family and rivals. Enduring images included heads on sticks, bodies crucified, and axes splitting skulls. At the end of the fourth season there is an entire episode devoted to carnage. It is the one where Castle Black and the Wall is stormed by the Wildings, savage men and one savage woman from the north beyond the Wall.  The directors themselves admitted their imaginations were challenged by inventing numerous ways to kill over an hour-long episode.  I would give them high marks for creating personal drama within the overall carnage.

Game of Thrones is amazing theater, and graphic violence contributes to its appeal. Why? Do we have an appetite for it? Are we fascinated by how brutal our species can be? Is it merely catharsis, as Classical tragedy would have it? Or do we need to watch to meet some inner lust for power? I don’t have the answer to this either, and I am no advocate for media censorship.

But I know what I will do. I will stop watching Game of Thrones at the end of the fourth season. I will abandon these characters, who display complicated motives of compassion and blood-lust. I will not make myself immune to the horror of violent death. I am not violent by nature, but I think I could become inured to it. And I could begin to accept terror as routine and lose my sense of shock. When people say, “I am no longer shocked by things like this,” I shake my head. If we lose our shock and horror, we lose our souls.

I am not blaming HBO or the news media for feeding our appetite, but I am inviting us to think about our own appetites for the spectacle.  Is it important to desensitize our souls to survive in this violent world? Should we become so worldly- wise that we absorb brutality with philosophical detachment? Should we prove how tough we are by an obligatory moment of rage followed by a search for scapegoats? None of this addresses our relationship with violence.

And I have no answer to the problem of media exposure. We have to cover these events, but how can we avoid becoming voyeurs of terror? How can we stop feeding the beast?

It makes me think of how baseball addressed the problem of streakers on the ball field. They stopped showing the streaker himself and just offered derogatory verbal commentary. Although streakers continue to distinguish themselves on the baseball field, I am pleased that our interest in watching them has been quelled by a simple media policy. Would that the coverage of terrorism was that simple.

As the season of political spectacle accelerates, it is good to remember there are no panaceas for terror.  There is no need to blame Game of Thrones or CNN’s endless epic of “Breaking News.”  As much as I would like to, there is no reason to pin it on the NRA. The responsibility for the spectacle of horror has to be shared. There are no scapegoats, because we are all participants in media coverage.

Bear responsibility, don’t deflect it on your private adversaries.Whatever it takes: starve the beast of public carnage wherever it roams.  It may mean starving your own appetites, as well as the insane hungers of terrorism.

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The Tale of Tebow

Once there was a  young man of devout faith who courageously led warriors to victory on Florida’s football fields.  For his feats he received the Trophy of Heisman. The scribes and songsters variously reported that the young man was an inspirational leader, a powerful runner and blocker, a mediocre passer, and an athlete with talent ill-suited to professional football.

The scribes marveled at the young man’s constant faith, his devotion to the needy, his confidence in his athletic prowess, and his determination to succeed as a leader of men.  They went out into the countryside and questioned every relative and acquaintance of the young man, known as Tebow, and reported everything in the outlets of media.

In short, young Tebow became a phenomenon.

The young man journeyed to the land of Denver where he acquitted himself heroically in some contests, but erratically in others. The sports prophets quarreled among themselves about Tebow’s potential in the kingdom of National Football.  The phenomenon grew to a mighty wind, but the Lord was not in the wind.

After a year’s sojourn in the west, Tebow ventured east to the land of Babel (also called “New York”), where the scribes and prophets and chroniclers were numerous.  They filled many pages and hours with stories and prophecies. The name of “Tebow” echoed in every field and temple, an earthquake of commentary. But the Lord was not in the earthquake.

God looked down on the Tebow phenomenon and said, “Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other” (Genesis 11:7). And it was so.  The priests and scribes, the captains and bowmen, the fathers and mothers, the daughters and sons were questioned about young Tebow. Is Tebow a good teammate?  Will Tebow replace the captain of eleven warriors? Will Tebow cause the downfall of the commander of 50? Will Tebow become a new part of speech? Their language became a raging firestorm. But the Lord was not in the fire.

In the din of Babel, the young man remained steadfast in his dream of leading professional warriors in battle. He spoke respectfully of his captain and commander and fellow warriors.  He visited the temple and continued to serve those in need. He perceived God was testing him.

In the fullness of time, Tebow encountered the High Priest Belichick of New England, who was wise in the ways of scribes and prophets and songsters.  Belichick often confounded the questions of the scribes with his empty words. Throughout the kingdom he was known for faithfully revealing nothing.  The high priest offered young Tebow  a lowly position among his regiment of 90, a great demotion for the former winner of the Trophy of Heisman.

But Tebow knew he had been called by the still, bland monotone of Belichick. He accepted the call to be clipboard-carrier for Brady, the vaunted prince of the forward pass. He retreated to the wilderness of  Foxboro, land of the inscrutable Patriots, solemn warriors who spoke only the cryptic language of the High Priest Belichick.

And  he sojourned there for a season.