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never met Danny Pearl, but during his captivity read about him and
like many people came to admire the life he led. He was a real journalist
— that is, he went about the world reporting stories —
and appears to have had a profound dedication to understanding the
Islamic world as well as other cultures, with the hope of bringing
peace through understanding. In that he seems to have been an idealist,
a rare quality in his line of work. Mr. Pearl wrote his stories
in ink, but unfortunately ran afoul of a movement that writes its
stories in blood. The good man is gone; the bad men are left to
deal with.
His friends
and colleagues will no doubt be writing a great deal about their
dear friend in the days to come, but for some of us outside that
circle there are things about Danny Pearl's life and death that
made him emblematic of our times. For some of us, at least, his
murder personalizes this war in which we are engaged. The attacks
on the World Trade Center and Pentagon were so massive as to still
be overwhelming; their death toll is something of a gruesome statistic.
Slitting a gentle person's throat brings the matter into much sharper
focus.
 Through
the weeks we came to know Danny Pearl's face; he photographed well
and the pictures showed a jovial soul with a twinkle in his eye.
Stories pointed out his dedication to humanity, one shared by his
beautiful and pregnant wife. In an editorial mourning his death,
the Wall Street Journal made references to these qualities,
just as the paper earlier pointed out that his captors had much
more to gain by letting him live to tell their story.
But his murder
is another reminder that the people we are up against are not interested
in having us understand them, nor are they interested in living
in peace. Quite the contrary. They are interested in destroying
their enemies and advancing their idea of the proper society, a
society that makes no room for those who do not bow to their creed.
Danny Pearl had everything going against him. He was a journalist,
and an American, and as one suspect in his abduction said in a courtroom,
he was a Jew.
That last designation
is worth keeping in mind as we are reminded, time and again, that
much of our trouble with Islamic radicals can be laid at the feet
of our friendship with Israel. It is further insisted that once
a Palestinian state has been created there will be peace.
The murder
of Danny Pearl tells a much different story. For these radicals,
the issue is not merely a Palestinian state. They do not believe
Israel should exist. For them, there is no room in this world for
the Jews. By killing Danny Pearl, who no doubt approved of a Palestinian
homeland, they reminded us, if we indeed need reminding, that when
they chant "kill the Jews" between chanting "death
to America," they mean what they say.
For understandable
reasons, well-meaning people continue to believe that with the correct
aid package and enough economic development, all will be well. Once
their bellies are full, we are told, their minds will radiate Karma.
The horror of this conflict is that our opponents are not speaking
from their stomachs and brains, but from their souls. Hatred is
their soulcraft. It may well be true that they comprise only 10
percent of the Islamic population, but that still means 100 million
people. A large legion is at the gate.
No
disrespect is inherent in saying that had he lived, Danny Pearl
would not have been so central a character as he is in death. He
would have been another reporter — a very good one, to be sure
— filing stories from the Middle East. But he is something
much more than that now. We came to know him during the weeks of
his captivity. The particulars of his life struck different people
in different ways. There was his beautiful wife who offered herself
up as ransom, and the fond remembrances of his colleagues, who spoke
of his sense of humor and joy of life, which included a love of
fiddle music.
The fiddle
made an instant connection with me. One story told of his love of
bluegrass, which took him to jam sessions at a Washington club.
He was fond of a song entitled "Red Haired Boy" —
a classic with a bouncing and instantly recognizable melody. It
is so well known that a fiddler can kick it off without warning
and within a few notes the guitarists, mandolin players, and bassists
standing nearby will kick in. Suddenly, a quiet room is rocking.
I never met
Danny Pearl, but I know people like him: The guy in the room sawing
out Red Haired Boy, with a day job and a wife and a kid on the way;
smiling when he hits his runs and swaying in the harmony he has
brought out of a roomful of strangers. You may not know his name
but he is your friend. Now they have taken a friend and slit his
throat. Tell me no more.
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