I've been troubled recently by events surrounding the Syrian conflict. Particularly by the repeated calls for Western military intervention. When David Cameron and Barack Obama first began speaking of the need for action, like many others, I feared Iraq 2003 might happen all over again.
In the early hours of last Friday morning, when I learned that MPs in the House of Commons had rejected a motion by Cameron to launch military strikes against Syria, I felt a palpable sense of relief.
In the US, Obama is still in the process of attempting to convince Congress to approve such an action. It remains to be seen whether or not the US politicians will display the same restraint as their UK counterparts. Truthfully, it's unlikely that they will.
Watching a video like that, it is easy to understand why many people believe that President Bashar al-Assad and his regime should face the full weight of retribution for their actions.
I am not one of the people who believes that this retribution should come in the form of Western military intervention. This is primarily because more and more evidence is emerging to suggest that many of the rebel fighters are capable of the same kind of brutality and barbarity that Assad's regime has been accused of.
Indeed, there are some suggestions that radical Islamist groups such as the Nusra Front have jihadists embedded within the ranks of the Syrian rebels. And yet, recent reports suggest that Obama is considering providing US military trainers to assist the rebel fighters.
Recent history should be warning enough that misguided US intervention in Middle Eastern conflicts can inadvertently do just as much, if not more, harm than good. For example, funds and arms provided by the Reagan administration throughout the mid- to late-eighties helped mujahideen rebels in Afghanistan drive out Soviet forces, which in turn aided in the downfall of the Soviet-backed Najibullah government in 1992. Some four years later a group called the Taliban had seized power.
It worries me to contemplate just what the repercussions of Western involvement in Syria could be. After all, the Iranians have already warned that any US strikes could potentially plunge the entire Middle East into conflict.
Also, inevitably, I suppose, the whispers have already begun to suggest that the real motive for Western involvement in the crisis is an interest in Middle Eastern oil.
But, why do I even care about any of this? I suddenly asked myself while in the midst of scouring the internet for articles related to the Syrian conflict last Sunday afternoon. Why should I worry about events that are happening thousands of miles away from me, and which I can have no influence over? Why am I sitting here mulling this over instead of looking forward to tonight's episode of The X Factor?
Perhaps it has something to do with my Brethren Sunday school upbringing, and how recent events in the Middle East might be deemed by some to be signs of an impending apocalypse. Interpretations of obscure Biblical prophecies did come to mind. After all, isn't the sound of thunder said to have always struck fear into the heart of James Joyce because his aunt had once told him that it was a sign of God's wrath?
That might well account for my sense of apprehension. But what about that gnawing pain in my gut that I can't quite shake?
That dull ache that surfaces when I try to comprehend how one government could be responsible for causing so much pain and suffering for the very people it's supposed to protect and care for. That twinge that pops up again when I wonder if another government is trying to manipulate its people into believing that it has a moral duty to intervene, when in reality that duty may be no more than a financial one.
But, why can't I just be apathetic?
Why do things like this play on my mind?
Why am I the way I am?
I set about trying to figure out the answers to these questions, and I think I found them in a song. Or, more specifically, in the moment when I first heard that song.
There are five songs that I can think of which just completely knocked me for six the first time I ever heard them.
'Voodoo Child (Slight Return)' by Jimi Hendrix is one.
Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' 'Hurt' is another.
Then there was Jeff Buckley's rendition of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'.
And, most recently, 'Video Games' by Lana Del Rey.
None of them had quite the same impact as the first one, though.
In the early hours of last Friday morning, when I learned that MPs in the House of Commons had rejected a motion by Cameron to launch military strikes against Syria, I felt a palpable sense of relief.
In the US, Obama is still in the process of attempting to convince Congress to approve such an action. It remains to be seen whether or not the US politicians will display the same restraint as their UK counterparts. Truthfully, it's unlikely that they will.
Watching a video like that, it is easy to understand why many people believe that President Bashar al-Assad and his regime should face the full weight of retribution for their actions.
I am not one of the people who believes that this retribution should come in the form of Western military intervention. This is primarily because more and more evidence is emerging to suggest that many of the rebel fighters are capable of the same kind of brutality and barbarity that Assad's regime has been accused of.
Indeed, there are some suggestions that radical Islamist groups such as the Nusra Front have jihadists embedded within the ranks of the Syrian rebels. And yet, recent reports suggest that Obama is considering providing US military trainers to assist the rebel fighters.
Recent history should be warning enough that misguided US intervention in Middle Eastern conflicts can inadvertently do just as much, if not more, harm than good. For example, funds and arms provided by the Reagan administration throughout the mid- to late-eighties helped mujahideen rebels in Afghanistan drive out Soviet forces, which in turn aided in the downfall of the Soviet-backed Najibullah government in 1992. Some four years later a group called the Taliban had seized power.
It worries me to contemplate just what the repercussions of Western involvement in Syria could be. After all, the Iranians have already warned that any US strikes could potentially plunge the entire Middle East into conflict.
Also, inevitably, I suppose, the whispers have already begun to suggest that the real motive for Western involvement in the crisis is an interest in Middle Eastern oil.
But, why do I even care about any of this? I suddenly asked myself while in the midst of scouring the internet for articles related to the Syrian conflict last Sunday afternoon. Why should I worry about events that are happening thousands of miles away from me, and which I can have no influence over? Why am I sitting here mulling this over instead of looking forward to tonight's episode of The X Factor?
Perhaps it has something to do with my Brethren Sunday school upbringing, and how recent events in the Middle East might be deemed by some to be signs of an impending apocalypse. Interpretations of obscure Biblical prophecies did come to mind. After all, isn't the sound of thunder said to have always struck fear into the heart of James Joyce because his aunt had once told him that it was a sign of God's wrath?
That might well account for my sense of apprehension. But what about that gnawing pain in my gut that I can't quite shake?
That dull ache that surfaces when I try to comprehend how one government could be responsible for causing so much pain and suffering for the very people it's supposed to protect and care for. That twinge that pops up again when I wonder if another government is trying to manipulate its people into believing that it has a moral duty to intervene, when in reality that duty may be no more than a financial one.
But, why can't I just be apathetic?
Why do things like this play on my mind?
Why am I the way I am?
I set about trying to figure out the answers to these questions, and I think I found them in a song. Or, more specifically, in the moment when I first heard that song.
There are five songs that I can think of which just completely knocked me for six the first time I ever heard them.
'Voodoo Child (Slight Return)' by Jimi Hendrix is one.
Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' 'Hurt' is another.
Then there was Jeff Buckley's rendition of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'.
And, most recently, 'Video Games' by Lana Del Rey.
None of them had quite the same impact as the first one, though.
When I was a kid, I used to tag along with my dad to his work on the odd day during the school holidays. He's a lorry driver, so he starts work early - 7 o'clock some mornings. My mum would have to waken me to make sure I was up and dressed in time to go with him. I would sit up in the cab beside him and we'd talk about football and cars.
Sometimes I'd even help him with the deliveries, when whatever he was delivering wasn't too heavy for me to lift. Then, when it came time to eat, we'd stop at a hot food van in some lay-by somewhere about the country and he'd buy us sausage rolls or bacon and egg sodas.
One day, though, it just so happened that we were close to home around lunch time, so we stopped off at his house to get something to eat. He had Sky TV at a time long before it became as ubiquitous as it is now; at a time when it could still be considered a novelty of sorts.
My mum hadn't got Sky put into our house yet, so every time I went to my dad's I just binged on it. Usually I sat flicking through the smorgasbord of channels, mesmerised by the sheer volume of them. But, this particular day, something killed the flicking. A voice.
My mum hadn't got Sky put into our house yet, so every time I went to my dad's I just binged on it. Usually I sat flicking through the smorgasbord of channels, mesmerised by the sheer volume of them. But, this particular day, something killed the flicking. A voice.
A tortured, gravelly, rasping drawl of a voice. A voice that sang about friends, enemies, guns, and memories. Actually, I had no idea what it was singing about. Not then. The words weren't important to me. It was the way in which they were delivered that mattered. I had never heard a voice in which there reigned such intensity and sincerity.
And pain. There's no denying that this was a voice woven with pain. And weariness. The voice of someone who'd been asked to lug around some insupportable burden. A burden which they wouldn't be able to carry for much longer. That voice, it seemed to me that it belonged to someone who'd been shown all that was wrong with the world and then been told that there was nothing they could do to help put any of it right.
That voice belonged, of course, to one Kurt Donald Cobain. I had landed on MTV during my latest channel-hopping escapade, and it just so happened that Nirvana's MTV Unplugged in New York concert was being repeated that afternoon. And it just so happened that I had turned over to it just as Kurt was singing the opening lines of 'Come As You Are'.
And pain. There's no denying that this was a voice woven with pain. And weariness. The voice of someone who'd been asked to lug around some insupportable burden. A burden which they wouldn't be able to carry for much longer. That voice, it seemed to me that it belonged to someone who'd been shown all that was wrong with the world and then been told that there was nothing they could do to help put any of it right.
That voice belonged, of course, to one Kurt Donald Cobain. I had landed on MTV during my latest channel-hopping escapade, and it just so happened that Nirvana's MTV Unplugged in New York concert was being repeated that afternoon. And it just so happened that I had turned over to it just as Kurt was singing the opening lines of 'Come As You Are'.
I had never heard of Kurt Cobain or Nirvana before that day. I had, however, been introduced to rock music prior to that (by my dad), and I was already beginning to develop a deep-seated hatred for sugary pop music (primarily through a mild obsession with Oasis's (Whats the Story) Morning Glory? album).
It's no surprise, then, that Nirvana's sound, and Cobain's anguished howl in particular, instantly resonated with me. What was unusual, though, was the way in which that song completely captivated me. Not just aurally, but spiritually as well. Everything else around me seemed to fade out at that moment and I was left in a sort of stupor. Everything that I'd heard before then seemed to have been rendered absolutely irrelevant.
Of course, Kurt's voice wasn't really the catalyst for all these thought processes I've mentioned; about carrying burdens, and seeing all that was wrong with the world. Not then. Just as I didn't really understand what he was singing about, so I also couldn't really grasp the complexity of the emotions that his voice had stirred up in me. I was probably only 11 or 12 then. Maybe 13.
What I had understood, though, was that his voice had had a profound effect on me. It had birthed something in me. I mean, forget all the depth and complexity of it for a minute. Its rawness - that alone just punched me right in the centre of my gut. And I suppose that's a blow I'm still reeling from today.
It was like a loss of innocence, a watershed moment in my life; I knew then, even then, that I would never be able to look out at the world in quite the same way again. I had developed a taste for authenticity. I had made a decision, whether conscious or unconscious, that I was going to concern myself with things that actually matter.
That's where the pain comes from.
That's why I can't just be apathetic.
That's why I am the way I am.
My friends often wind me up about the 'cut-your-wrists' music that I listen to. It's depressing, they say, and maybe some of it is. But it also awakens me to the things of consequence. Besides, maybe blindly coasting through life in a happy little bubble of self-imposed obliviousness is an even more depressing way to exist.
It's no surprise, then, that Nirvana's sound, and Cobain's anguished howl in particular, instantly resonated with me. What was unusual, though, was the way in which that song completely captivated me. Not just aurally, but spiritually as well. Everything else around me seemed to fade out at that moment and I was left in a sort of stupor. Everything that I'd heard before then seemed to have been rendered absolutely irrelevant.
Of course, Kurt's voice wasn't really the catalyst for all these thought processes I've mentioned; about carrying burdens, and seeing all that was wrong with the world. Not then. Just as I didn't really understand what he was singing about, so I also couldn't really grasp the complexity of the emotions that his voice had stirred up in me. I was probably only 11 or 12 then. Maybe 13.
What I had understood, though, was that his voice had had a profound effect on me. It had birthed something in me. I mean, forget all the depth and complexity of it for a minute. Its rawness - that alone just punched me right in the centre of my gut. And I suppose that's a blow I'm still reeling from today.
It was like a loss of innocence, a watershed moment in my life; I knew then, even then, that I would never be able to look out at the world in quite the same way again. I had developed a taste for authenticity. I had made a decision, whether conscious or unconscious, that I was going to concern myself with things that actually matter.
That's where the pain comes from.
That's why I can't just be apathetic.
That's why I am the way I am.
My friends often wind me up about the 'cut-your-wrists' music that I listen to. It's depressing, they say, and maybe some of it is. But it also awakens me to the things of consequence. Besides, maybe blindly coasting through life in a happy little bubble of self-imposed obliviousness is an even more depressing way to exist.
'You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid.'- Franz Kafka
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