The celebration of a massacre, be it the Victory Day or public outings on the occasion of Osama bin Laden’s execution, is always an ambiguous orgy on coffins. On one hand, could a blood catharsis be anything else, and is it not natural to rejoice at opponent’s death, banishing the pain he had caused one? On the other hand, a triumphant crowd celebrating death seems to be demanding the flesh of his very body, and a cup of wine made with his lymph and tears.
The mass erection occurs every time the Other is staked. Only the hypocrisy and social contract limit the public will to hang and rape the downtrodden opponent’s children. Yet the point here is to try to kill the killed again, for the pure pleasure of it, and to scratch one’s nails against the dead eye sockets again and again.
Nevertheless, what is the joy of someone being dead? A dead man is the most serene creature in the universe. He has no fears, no inconstancy of his spirit, and no encounters with his own self. A dead killer dwells in the paradise of eternity and void, and hell belongs to the living whose intestines are still filled with woe and bile.
Does not the evolution demand the change in the human nature after which we are no longer rejoice at the victory through the escalation of bloodshed? Alternatively, is the real violence there in denying us that natural evil that brings joy to us at the sight of the hateful Other’s torment?
One way or the other, when celebrating the killing of any enemy, it would be honest to remember the aesthetics of killing, the image of horror and pain. The procession that had impregnated our raptorial happiness.