It is a measure of the safety and luxury in which most of us in the West live — and a measure of our conceit, as well — that we can demand war be choreographed and scheduled, that its timeless brutality be sanitized according to increasingly fussy standards, that ‘understanding’ an enemy’s language and culture (beyond what it takes to defeat him) so as not to cause offense carries any sort of moral authority.

The over-the-top hysterics and hyperbole about ‘losing our souls’ over Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo (where, apparently, halal meals and holy books handled with white gloves were a diversionary ruse) and fictional atrocities like Haditha, illustrate my point.

My uncles didn’t bone up on bushido or learn Japanese cultural ettiquette before wading into unspeakable violence on islands across the Pacific in order to put an end — by whatever means necessary — to a vicious and evil regime. That they came home to raise families and build the world around us, and that their countrymen helped bring a defeated enemy back into the human fold tells me all I need to know about ‘becoming just like our enemies’ when we fight fire with fire.