AMERICA, Through Drone Videos, Darkly
For over a decade now in combat zones, a weapon of choice for the US military has been death by remote control. Technology has allowed America’s “War on Terror” to move deeper into the clouds, operate farther from the battlefield, and cloak itself in a menacing yet deadly form of invisibility. Boots on the ground have transformed into eye in the sky and the perpetual hum of 24/7 warfare.
While the Predator and Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle programs weren’t even officially acknowledged by President Obama until 2013, the argument has long been that drones keep our servicemen and women out of physical danger, while hyped as being more effective at targeting militants and minimizing collateral damage. NATIONAL BIRD by Sonia Kennebeck surveys the human toll on both ends of long-distance warfare while providing first-hand testimony that questions the morality and effectiveness of armed surveillance. In the words of whistleblower turned attorney Jesselyn Radack, the documentary brings us up close and personal to the “clusterfuck…that is the drone program”: the trauma of United States veterans, the tragedy of innocent civilians maimed or killed, and the breathtaking secrecy around the issue due to the draconian Espionage Act used to deter whistleblowers.
In another way, NATIONAL BIRD is about the trauma of seeing, albeit somewhat obliquely, since by this point we are familiar with the pixellated, lo-fidelity aesthetic of drone videos that only contribute to their dread. So what is it to participate in and witness atrocity — remotely and zoomed in at the same time — repeatedly? One of the film’s characters, a former drone imagery analyst named Heather is terrorized by the what she has seen. In a Guardian editorial, Heather writes chillingly about the impact of seeing death on screen as a routine part of her job: “…when you are exposed to it over and over again it becomes like a small video, embedded in your head, forever on repeat, causing psychological pain and suffering that many people will hopefully never experience.”
Later in the film, Heather anguishes over the publication of her editorial and the slim likelihood of it having any political impact. Most of all, she desperately wants the military to recognize the dehumanization and post-traumatic stress of herself and fellow veterans, despite working in thousands of miles from the battlefield in places like Nevada. Yet, sharing her bleak experience becomes fodder not only for callous fly-by commenters, but also, it attracts the attention of the military. They warn her that she should keep a lower public profile and stay off social media for her own safety, claiming that her name has popped up in the chatter of militants. The real message being the not-so-subtle reminder that the government’s reach extends far beyond the field of combat.
Which brings us to Daniel, whose experience and inside knowledge working as an intelligence contractor has politicized him. Knowing too much can lead to an ideological awakening, but it also can be a liability. After his last day on the job, he recounts how he headed home only hours later to have his house raided by over 30 FBI agents. Do they suspect he is another Edward Snowden? He seeks the counsel of Radack, while his life descends into a Kafkaesque nightmare — where the government can indict him of the Espionage Act at any time. Measuring every word, unable to speak openly to family or friends about his situation, Kennebeck details his hunted loneliness and deepening anxiety, already becoming its own kind of prison, while the very real threat of extended incarceration hovers over him like a drone ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
The third person profiled is Lisa — a thoughtful, mild-mannered former Air Force analyst in the program — who has been celebrated for identifying over 120,000 insurgent targets in a two-year period. She regretfully remarks that if you extrapolate those numbers for the duration of the decade-long drone program, then it almost certainly has extended way beyond its intended scope. At a book signing, she politely asks Gen. Stanley McChrystal’s opinion of the drone program. He offers a veneer of skepticism before forcefully reminding her: “Drones are here to stay…they are neither moral or immoral.” While a technology may not be a matter of morality, the power it affords to annihilate, and the blind faith in it to protect us is worth pondering.
Which is what Lisa does. Deeply ashamed of her participation in the program, she joins a friend on a humanitarian trip to Afghanistan. Her journey prompts the film to visit a hospital overflowing with amputees who were victims of drone strikes. It is difficult but necessary viewing, and one haunting cutaway in particular lingers over shelves of binders — each with the name of amputee written on it. While “surgical” is often used to describe drones, the unintended victims most certainly have a much different understanding of the word.
Finally, we are invited to experience drone trauma as described by Heather ourselves, as Kennebeck faithfully re-enacts the events of one devastating strike in 2010 that killed 23 unarmed civilians including a 4-year old child. Relying on declassified transcripts, Kennebeck dramatizes the casual and cynical conversation of drone operators over whether to eliminate a caravan, as blotchy drone video tracks their movements. Juxtaposed by heartbreaking testimony from the real Afghani survivors of the strike, the wanton and pointless murder becomes a contemporary case study in the banality of evil. Cue McChrystal, who pops up again, this time to apologize on national televion to the Afghani people about the devastating incident, promising to do better next time.
The thing is, better is not good enough, as one Afghani amputee poignantly pleads. After all this death and destruction, he just wants it to stop. For her part, Lisa boils it down to a fundamental moral question: How would you feel if it were you and your family?
Kennebeck’s film reminds us that smart technology like drones may appear to render moral considerations and victims invisible or mute, but the voices from the deserts in Nevada and Afghanistan speak profoundly — if we are prepared to listen.
