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By Ward Thomas, department of political science
 As a political scientist I am humbled to confess that, for
me, the abiding meaning of Sept. 11 has little to do with
politics.
The memories of that morning's events are, of course, indelible.
I was preparing for my morning class when my wife called
to say that two planes had flown into the World Trade Center
towers. The grainy photos on the online news page provided
only a surreal hint of what was going on in New York. Walking
to class, I was starting to sift through the political implications
of these acts when I was intercepted in the hallway by one
of my first-year students. A shy and deferential young man
in only his third week on campus, he seemed almost embarrassed
to be bothering me.
"Professor, I was wondering if, uh ... I kind of have
a, a ..."
A what? A doctor's appointment? An out-of-town game?
"Well, my brother works in the World Trade Center."
At that instant, I realized how inadequate any geopolitical
analysis I could offer was going to seem to the students
in that classroom. As professors we aspire to have our students
feel a personal stake in what we're teaching them, to believe
that their education is a matter of some intellectual, even
moral, urgency. But in the face of tragedy, academic virtues
of dispassion and objectivity can seem trivial and unsatisfying.
While I later learned that the student's brother was unharmed,
bad news about others close to the Holy Cross community flowed
in over the days and weeks that followed. In that time, I
was moved by the depth of our students' desire to understand
the political, cultural and religious dimensions of the crisis.
But it was clear that this desire was driven by a complex
mix of emotions, as well as a palpable sense of loss.
For all the ways in which it has changed the political
landscape, I suspect that for most Americans the legacy of
Sept. 11 will be a deeply personal one. The visceral significance
of Sept. 11 is, indeed, likely to compound some of the challenges
that our government and our society now face. One such challenge
is to keep the attacks from casting too long a shadow. If
safeguarding the United States and its citizens from terrorism
has become the highest priority issue on both the international
and domestic fronts, it would nevertheless be a mistake to
allow it to subsume the national political debate. While
the new security landscape will doubtless shape choices on
matters such as immigration, energy and economic policy,
we must not dismiss competing concerns. Internationally,
this means taking a long view of our national interests and
being wary of striking bad bargains. During the Cold War,
the priority of containing communism tended to obscure other
interests and values, occasionally leading to counterproductive
choices. The struggle against terrorism will surely create
similar pressures. Striking the right balance will be difficult,
but critically important over the long run.
Another challenge will be to maintain an appreciation of
the complexity of international relations (and indeed, human
relations) when it is tempting to reach for simple answers.
It is a natural human response to seek clarity and certitude
in painful and confusing times. The problem is that this
impulse often does more to distort the world around us than
to shed light on it. A former professor of mine used to caution
that if the entirety of your approach to a complicated problem
could fit on a bumper sticker, you were probably missing
something. I've been reminded of his words as I've read competing
commentaries that suggest either that the attacks were the
natural consequence of decades of U.S. arrogance and injustice,
or that they are no more than the acts of evil men bolstered
by a violent civilization, to which the only necessary response
was the punitive application of overwhelming military force.
My sense is that most Americans reject such stark interpretations,
and they should. Coming to terms with the implications of
Sept. 11 requires an honest appraisal of both the shortcomings
and the considerable accomplishments of the United States
in the world. Neither hubris nor self-flagellation is a useful
basis for foreign policy.
Of course, as some have pointed out, the depth of America's
shock at Sept. 11 in many ways reflects our insularity from
the hardships with which many people throughout the world
live. In his 1796 Farewell Address, George Washington extolled
the "detached and distant situation" that separated
the United States from its likely enemies. This geographical
blessing has allowed the American homeland to remain insulated
from the violence that so often defines international politics,
even as the nation emerged as a dominant global power in
the 20th century. The troubles of the rest of the world seem
a lot closer since Sept. 11. This is, of course, not an altogether
bad thing. It has often been complained that Americans are
too parochial to empathize with others for whom insecurity
and suffering are daily realities. With the trauma of the
attacks may ultimately come a keener perspective on our place
in the world, which may serve the nation well over time.
Nonetheless, it is a perspective that has been gained at
a terrible cost.
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