From a Distance
From a distance, all you hear is the persistent drone,
barely audible, like somebody else’s mosquito. I guess that’s why they call
them drones. They can linger up there for days, watching and waiting, probably
relieving each other like on-duty patrol cops — like slow-motion tag-team
wrestling — like owls, waiting for a mouse to make a careless move.
From a
distance, the sound recedes into the background cacophony of fans running,
children playing, dogs barking, and the shrill horns of motor scooters in
traffic. It blends into the sound of life that reassures grandmothers that all
is well when they wake momentarily from their afternoon nap. It is the sound of
sudden and inescapable death — the thunderbolt of foreign gods thrown from
heaven in retribution for unknown sins.
From a
distance, remote operators watch, and guide, and drink Coca Cola, and decide
who will live and who will die and when. You cannot know the faces of these
nameless watchers. You cannot invite them to your daughter’s wedding or your
uncle’s funeral.
