Torture and Me

At dinner this evening, my host mother and I were watching the news on Romanian state television. Midway through the news, there was a report on the latest American soldier to be convicted of detainee abuse. The short report discussed the means of torture and abuse that soldiers were—and mostly still are—using in Iraq. It also showed the infamous pictures of Lynndie England holding a prisoner on a leash, the hooded prisoner with cables attached to his body and other evidence of misshapen military policy.

It stings most Americans to see these pictures, but to fully understand the shame, you must live in a foreign country and be the only American that many people will meet in their lifetimes. When the report came on, IВ subconsciouslyВ slouched and bent my head down, averting my eyes at various times and sighing, perhaps to show my host mom that I too was offended by the pictures. I couldn't talk, and I'm glad I couldn't, because in hindsight, I wanted Maria to watch and understand the entire report.

When it was over, I turned to Maria and asked her if it was hard for her to talk with an American every day and then see on the news what other Americans do. Her one word answer:

"Da."