War-Lust and Vicarious Death

At the first Battle of Manassas (Bull Run) in 1861, Washington bigwigs, lawmakers and socialites were so enthralled by the idea of WAR between the North and South, so eager to witness bloodshed and, of course, to celebrate the thrill of victory, that curious coteries of looky-loos and wannabe warriors packed picnic baskets, hopped in their landaus and journeyed to nearby Manassas for a jolly afternoon of “picnic basket tailgating” and battle watching on the banks of Bull Run.

 Alas, as Super Bowls go, the Bull Run Bowl was a real disappointment to the fans of the boys in blue. It was a rout. And that picnic! Well, it was absolutely ruined! Thoroughly discombobulated, before they had even finished the chicken wings, the panicked picknickers had to hitch up their horses, grab their spyglasses and parasols and beat a hasty retreat back to Washington in the wake of the even hastier Union troops.

 

So, this wasn’t going to be a “fun” war after all. What a disappointment to the Washingtonian beau monde.

 

Human beings love war, don’t we? Indeed, we love it even more than we love the many other forms of death-making that we have so ingeniously invented: beheadings, hangings, firing squads, crucifixions, stonings, impalings, auto da fés, etc.—many of which, when publicly-sanctioned, have also been creatively turned into spectator events. But a nice war, well, that’s really “da bomb.”

 I’ve adopted a sarcastic tone (in case you haven’t noticed), but I am actually pretty distressed by this undeniable human trait—which I, to my bemusement, share. I, too, am fascinated by the prospect of a new war—one of which is currently brewing in Ukraine, a former “affiliated state” which Russia apparently wants to reclaim and on whose borders the Russian army has built up an impressive striking force. At this moment, all that remains is for President Putin to give the signal to invade. Everyone is waiting breathlessly, picnics at least metaphorically packed, ready to watch on our home screens (thanks to “embedded” journalists) the incarnadine spectacle of masses of Ukrainians being slaughtered by Russians (and perhaps a bit vice-versa).

And since, for once, Americans will not be directly involved—merely Ukrainian and Russian homo sapiens with whom we have only the most tenuous of biological links—we can unabashedly enjoy the killing. It’s them, not us.

Of course, if it isn’t our guys out there dying, the actual outcome will be somewhat less thrilling—it will be someone else’s victory—but we’ll still have the adrenaline rush of witnessing the death of others while not dying ourselves.

Call it “vicarious death.” 

 

Because war isn’t just about “solving” otherwise insoluble conflicts—as we are sometimes told by dotty political scientists seeking rational explanations for nonsensical human behavior. Rather, wars are sometimes—indeed often—manufactured merely because human beings passionately need to watch others die in order to more thoroughly enjoy being themselves alive. 

 

That isn’t an entirely neighborly thought, is it? Well, never mind. Shut up, Ken, and prepare your picnic for the upcoming Ukrainian Bowl.