When the news broke the other week that Dick Cheney had died, I didn't, at first, know what—if anything—I wanted to say about it.
On the one hand, I could say—with Shelley—"I hated thee, fallen tyrant!" This man was, after all, one of the bete noires of my youth—a dark wizard of the Bush administration who was at least partially responsible for the torture program, extraordinary rendition, the invasion of Iraq that cost a hundred thousand civilian lives, the fact that there are still human beings pining in Gitmo to this day with no charge or trial or prospect of release, and more.
It would feel shamelessly partisan on my part to say: just because Cheney endorsed Kamala Harris at the end of his life and campaigned against Trump, therefore—all of that is now forgiven.
I probably would forgive him for it, by the way, if he asked. But he never did ask. He didn't renounce or apologize for any of these acts. And besides—these are not my offenses to forgive. Ask the people detained in Guantanamo whether they forgive him. Or rather—maybe they ought to be released—or at least, given an actual fair trial—before we start pestering them with such questions.
That's one take I could have offered on his passing, at any rate.
On the other hand—it does mean something to me that, in the end, Cheney put the Constitution above party—especially given that so many others did not. Even if he was in some ways the architect of the expanded executive powers that Trump has so abused—at least he was honest enough to recognize that these powers in Trump's hands were a dangerous thing. At least he went to his grave believing that we should still have democratic elections and respect the peaceful transfer of power in this country.
It's not a lot. It's a low bar. But so many others in our political and business life have failed to clear it. So, it has to mean something that Cheney kept this last shred of integrity intact. Maybe it doesn't mean that all is forgiven. Maybe it's asking a lot to say: let us now praise Dick Cheney; when so many worthier people who didn't instigate torture programs or illegal renditions have gone to their graves unknown and unmourned.
But still, "there is more rejoicing in heaven over one lost sheep," etc. And so—I'm inclined to say, with Yeats: "I number him too in the song"—even if he had "done most bitter wrong." Whatever his sins and war crimes, he was at least willing to say to his party: I draw a line here. He was willing to say: that far, yes; but no further.
Maybe it was not enough. Maybe it was too little too late. But we cannot pretend it was nothing.
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