I don’t want to talk about bombing Syria. I don’t want to talk about innocent deaths in the name of a violent gesture against a violent gesture that can only produce more violent gestures. I don’t want to talk about the mothers, the fathers, the brothers, the sisters. I don’t want to even think about the images of young Syrians looking around in despair at the rotten carcass of their homes, their heritage, their world. An open wound.

And what about the martyrdom? The ideology that cannot die, not when successors watch their predecessors perish at the hands of their already enemy. Let us look to the birth of Daesh, the Taliban, Al Qaeda. And then look away, blinded, and carry out the guns. Our brilliant solution. Our. This is not ours. This is not mine. I do not sign my name anywhere near this idea.

“We need to think of our service men and women and their families at this time” Yes. And the people of Syria who didn’t have time to escape to our unwelcoming island. Think of them also.

I bet you all four of my limbs that these airstrikes will not be successful in eliminating the “enemy”. I am not very well politically educated on the topic of war, but I have never seen anyone truly benefit from mass death, mass sorrow, mass destruction. Not in my short life, in which war in the Middle East has never really ceased. This is a twisted, sadistic response and exactly what our enemy was asking for. Here you go, Isil, have our anguish on a plate.

I don’t want to think about bombing Syria. But, oh look, I just have.