Pete Hegseth was asked yesterday about the four U.S. service members who had already lost their lives at that point due to Trump's illegal Iran bombing. (Now, it's up to six.) He blithely responded: "War is hell and always will be."
War? What war? I thought we were just engaged in a "strike" or a "special operation" of some sort. If this is a war, then the U.S. Constitution is very clear who has the authority to make it: Congress, not the president.
It goes without saying that there is no rational, legal, moral, or humanitarian justification for Trump's murderous war of aggression in Iran—which has so far taken the lives of four American service members and hundreds of Iranian civilians—many of them apparently elementary-age schoolchildren.
If you search for a logical answer to the question: why are we are war with Iran?, you will find none. But if you search for explanations at the level of the nether-reaches of psychology—you will suddenly find a surfeit. From the standpoint of the libido and the Id, Trump's war suddenly seems over-determined.
In recent days my dad has had a bad case of "ICU delirium" in the hospital—by all accounts not an uncommon condition, when someone has been trapped in an unfamiliar setting for days, with irregular sleep and meals, and a rotating cast of faces.
The result, whatever its cause, is that dad's subconscious self is coming out into full view, in the form of hallucinations and misconceptions about his surroundings.
The thing is: it turns out to be practically the same as his fully conscious self.
When we were waiting in the hospital the other night, my mom said that her go-to way to feel better in an emergency was to watch bird videos on her phone. Live streams of nesting egret families are her form of digital comfort food.
Likewise, one of my dad's happiest nights before he went into the hospital was when we went out for a picnic amidst the Florida wetlands and watched the varieties of avian life at sunset. I spent minutes filming a roseate spoonbill that came by, as it made its curious swinging sweeps in the water for food.
I woke up shivering this morning with the weight and misery of my dad's deteriorating health condition seemingly concentrated into a little ball in the center of my gut. I curled up into a fetal position and wrapped myself more tightly in the down comforter to feel better and get more warmth. But it didn't do much good.
"Comforter," I apostrophized to myself, "where, where is your comforting?"
I get that G.M. Hopkins wasn't talking about bedclothes when he wrote that line. He was talking about Jesus, or God, or whatever. But I never believed in any of those characters. I know I have not been abandoned or forsaken—because there was no one to do the abandoning and forsaking.
The CIA was reportedly involved in providing key intelligence to enable the hit this week on an alleged cartel boss in Mexico. And even as Mexican authorities sought to downplay the level of U.S. involvement in the strike—perhaps for internal political reasons—Trump bragged about it openly.
Given that the U.S. has murdered 150 people and counting in ongoing strikes on civilian vessels in the Caribbean and the Pacific—not to mention all those earlier U.S. drone strikes—it may seem that the taboo against extrajudicial killings and foreign assassinations has simply vanished.
Like everyone else, I am unsure what to make of the reported incident yesterday, in which an American-registered speedboat apparently exchanged fire with the Cuban coast guard.
The Secretary of State of course immediately disavowed any U.S. government involvement in the incident. And indeed—it must be said—if this was a CIA op, it was an even more obviously foolhardy and doomed one than the Bay of Pigs. Ten people on a motor boat in the Gulf were not going to incite a revolution that would topple the Castroist regime.
