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I don't know. I do know that our approach of bullying the Iraqi people hasn't produced peace, freedom , or liberty. That may not be our job. We may have squandered our credibility to dictate any morality, much less a government. If by trying you mean relinquishing all claims to the resources of Iraq and dismantling the installed 'authority', and bringing our troops home, I would consider that worth trying. If you mean that we should continue cowing the Iraqis into accepting our imposed ruling party there then I would oppose that.
We have relinquished our last thread of justification for invading and continuing our occupation there with the revelations of abuse and torture of detainees and the bombing and shooting of innocent civilians. There is no chance to win the hearts and minds of the Iraqis with our continued abusing presence there.
It's not our country. It's not even our region. The U.S. has no right, outside of our overwhelming forces, to invade and occupy a sovereign nation outside of a direct threat to our country or our allies. Iraq posed no such threat. It poses no such threat now.
To believe, as some do, that Iraqis will not forever hold resentment of our occupation is self delusion of the highest order.
"How say you, war or not?" "Not war, if possible, O king," I said,"lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, The smoldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel-all the common wrong- And smoke go up thro' which I loom to her Three times a monster: now she lightens scorn At him that mars her plan, but then would hate (And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, And every face she look'd on justify it) The general foe. More soluable is this knot, By gentleness than war. I want her love. What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd Your cities into shards and catapults, She would not love;- or brought her chain'd, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn The book of scorn, till all my fitting chance Were caught within the record of her wrongs, And crush'd to death: and rather, Sire, than this I would the old God of war himself were dead, Forgotten, rustling on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, Not to be molten out."
Excerpt from, "The Princess: A Medley" by, Alfred Tennyson
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