Aint I good?

How refreshing it is now logging on Facebook and seeing people pour buckets of Icy water over their heads for charity. A great improvement over the graphic horrific pictures people have been posting of the bomb torn bodies of dead babies and children with what some more critical souls than myself would consider somewhat moral pornography and allowing us here in Scotland or anywhere in the western “civilization (lol)” , (me in Falkirk) to sit in front of our computers to feel and express a pleasurable emotion of concern, and to let off steam against the allegedly evil adult of the Middle East: Israel who surely must be psychopathic bullies picking on the pitiable, allegedly childish nation that is Palestine. It is awful that Palestinian children have been killed; it’s also awful that the minute they die they become photographic fodder for the Facebookers who want to holler their hatred for Israel and their pity for Palestine. There is also something dehumanising in the constant sharing of photos of screaming or distressed or dead Palestinian children, in the speed with which they have been turned into memes or political products to be swapped between web-surfers and tweeters. Is there a danger that these terribly unfortunate children, victims of a war not of their making, have been transformed in death into props for the expression of a cheap online emotionalism, turned into mass-produced and mass-shared images for use by people who are determined to show the world how sensitive we are to other people’s suffering? It is one thing to show us the reality of war. photographers have a tendency to zoom in on children in disaster zones and warzones and why such photos prove popular among us viewers – it’s because, (now whisper this) they provide us with an emotional buzz, a moral kick. As the children in the image reveal their vulnerability, we long to protect them and provide for their needs. Paradoxically, while we are moved by the image of the sorrowful child, we also welcome it, for it can arouse pleasurable emotions of tenderness, which in themselves confirm adult power… In the act of looking at presentations of these dead little bodies we recognise ourselves as both adults and sheltered individuals with the ability to change a child’s life for the better but we are attempting to turn the spotlight on to ourselves so that we can narcissistically declare to anyone who will listen: This photo made me weep. Aint I good?