What’s WRONG with us?

What’s wrong with us?

So, the 23-year-old physiotherapy student, who was gang-raped in Delhi, has died. Her intestines had to be removed due to damage from the iron rod they used to sodomize her. She suffered brain damage and heart failure (no kidding!). Six men–SIX–have been charged with the crime.

Her father, a poor farmer from the north of India, sold all his land to help pay for her education. The family has endured incredible deprivation as a result of this sacrifice–so that they could allow the first member of their family to have an education. Their dream has been brutally destroyed by six vicious animals masquerading as men.

Anyone who has ever read one of my books knows how I feel about the subjugation, suppression, and persecution of women. But there’s a darker part of me–a vengeful part–that only appears when the level of brutality toward innocent women strays into the subhuman. There are no words to describe what those “men” did. There is no possible justification–no defense of it.

I want them put up against a wall. NOW.

What does that say of me? We are told that enlightened people try to forgive, that they don’t exact retribution, that they must never take a human life. The death penalty, we are told, runs counter to the principles of enlightened people. Usually, I agree with them.

Then some evil, twisted, reprehensible excuse for a human being turns all that on its head by perpetrating a crime SO vile that, in my opinion, there is no death painful enough. These evil creatures need to be eliminated from society–they have forfeited their rights as humans in my mind. There’s only one way to ensure that no one ever suffers at their hands again.

I’m sure that, once I’ve had time to reflect on it, I’ll sag back into the complacent, understanding mire of tolerance. And that’s probably a good thing…I guess. But, if those six “men” were placed against a wall in front of me right now, and I were handed a firearm, could I pull the trigger?

If the answer is “yes”, what does that say of me?