Mark Bowden’s The Lessons of Mogadishu examines the recent incident in Falluja through the lens of history:
The picture is haunting. The bodies of the dead dangle overhead, twisted and grotesque, while the living frolic beneath them, posing for the camera. The joy and laughter on the faces of the celebrants is unmistakably genuine. These are people exulting in hate, glorying in their own cruelty.It was taken on Aug. 7, 1930, and it shows the bodies of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith, two black men falsely accused of rape who were beaten, tortured, mutilated and then strung up by a mob in Marion, Indiana. The picture is remarkably similar to the ones we saw last week from Fallujah, or those we saw nearly 11 years ago from Mogadishu. Mobs reduce human nature to its lowest common denominator, whether American, Iraqi or Somali. They are savage and ugly, but they are not irrational.
On Oct. 4, 1993, mobs of outraged Somalis dragged the bodies of American soldiers through the streets of Mogadishu, mutilating and dismembering them. The initial U.N. intervention nine months earlier had been welcomed by most in the war-torn, starving city, but the subsequent efforts at nation-building had gradually worn out the mission’s welcome. Efforts by the U.S. to target the most belligerent local warlord, Mohammed Farah Aidid, had prompted several bloody incursions into the city, and had transformed the humanitarian intervention into outright war. In the battle that had just ended that morning, many hundreds of Somalis had been killed or wounded. The dead American soldiers were dragged from the site of a downed Black Hawk helicopter in neighborhoods sympathetic to Aidid.
In Fallujah, reports indicate that four American private security men, all former military men who had accepted dangerous work in Iraq, were ambushed when they tried to drive down a street in that city. Unlike most of Iraq, Fallujah remains defiant of the U.S. occupation and efforts to build a free and democratic society there, and it has been the focus of many violent U.S. incursions searching for resistance cells and Saddam loyalists. The four Americans were reportedly shot, doused with gasoline and set afire before the mob engaged in its repellent horseplay with their bodies.
Lynching is deliberate. It is opportunistic rather than purely spontaneous, and it has a clear intent: to insult, to challenge and to frighten the enemy, and to excite and enlist allies. The mutilation and public display of bodies follows a distinct pattern. The victims are members of a despised Other, who are held in such contempt that they are considered less than human. Respectful treatment of the dead is the norm in all societies, and a tenet of all religions. Publicly flouting such basic dignities is a communal expression of hatred designed to insult and frighten. Display of the mutilated remains must be as public as possible. In Fallujah they were strung high from a bridge. In Mogadishu, where there were no central squares or bridges, the bodies were dragged through the streets for hours. The crowd, no matter how enraged, welcomes the camera — Paul Watson, a white Canadian journalist, moved unharmed with his through the angry mobs in Mogadishu on Oct. 4, 1993. The idea is to spread the image. Cameras guarantee the insult will be heard, seen and felt. The insult and fear are spread across continents.
The other message at a lynching isn’t as obvious. It is also an appeal. It is a demonstration of potency designed to sway and embolden those who are sympathetic but fearful. It says, Look what we can get away with! Look what we can do! The sheer horror asserts the determination of the rebel faction, and underlines the seriousness of the choice it demands from its own community. It draws a line in the sand; it is a particularly graphic way of saying, You are either for us or against us. With the potential for further such atrocities afoot, critics of the rebels are frightened into silence and acquiescence.