In my younger days I used to like to claim that I was twice put into prison during my gap year, & that the second time I had truly expected to face a firing squad in the morning
Ludicrous exaggerations of course for what were basically simple visa problems. Fed by teenage romanticism. And that Alec Guinness film about the bigamous sea captain
I spent a night in a police station in what was then Yugoslavia. Lying on the rather uncomfortable wooden bed I crossed my arms on my chest & imagined my fate
We were perhaps better acquainted with the reality of death then. But that didnt stop me feeling romantic about it, not really grasping the finality. Imagining all the nice things that would be said about my bravery. In short, believing that I would still be around
So I am a bit surprised that people are surprised about suicide bombers
And, coming at it from the darker side, does not America have its own equivalent in those who go on mass killing sprees with guns?
