In the late 19th century, British explorer Henry Morton Stanley embarked on a journey that he believed would solidify his legacy: the notorious Emin Pasha Relief Expedition. Stanley envisioned himself as a hero, destined to traverse Africa, rescue an isolated governor, and return to Britain hailed by a grateful empire. However, the reality of his expedition proved to be far from noble.
Stanley’s caravan became infamous for its brutality, as it pillaged villages for provisions, ignited fires in those that resisted, and took the lives of many Africans who opposed his advance. His expedition was marked by the devastation of disease and starvation among his own porters, leading to a grim tally of loss. What he perceived as determination and strength was viewed by his contemporaries as a troubling display of violence and disregard for human life.
When Stanley published his account, “In Darkest Africa,” in 1890, he recounted these harrowing episodes with an astonishing confidence. He expected to garner admiration from the British public, who had initially celebrated his return. Instead, many recoiled at the brutality he described. Shifting attitudes revealed a growing discomfort with imperialistic violence, contrasting starkly with the earlier excitement surrounding his famous expedition to meet Dr. Livingstone.
This shift marked the beginning of Stanley’s decline from national hero to a figure that served as a cautionary tale. His belief that strength justified his actions ultimately alienated him from those who had once celebrated his exploits.
Fast forward to contemporary times, recent revelations have emerged regarding the Trump administration’s controversial campaign of boat strikes in the Caribbean and eastern Pacific. This program involved targeting small vessels suspected of drug trafficking with military-grade munitions, often without warning or attempts to detain those aboard. In one disturbing instance, the strikes persisted even after a boat was destroyed, leading to further casualties among survivors.
Former officials have expressed serious concerns about the choices made under this program, reflecting on the longstanding principles of lethal force guidelines they had upheld during their tenures in Congress and on the global stage. The implications of these boat strikes extend beyond mere tactics; they challenge the very standards of morality that democratic societies strive to maintain.
The administration’s hesitance to disclose full video footage of these incidents, citing national security concerns, suggests a deeper political and moral unease. The fear likely stems from understanding the potential public outcry that would arise upon viewing such visuals. Americans, while often passionate about addressing drug trafficking, largely oppose the killing of individuals attempting to survive at sea, raising questions about the legality and ethical justification of such actions.
This situation draws a parallel between President Trump and Stanley. Both men appeared convinced of the righteousness of their missions, believing that their toughness would be universally admired. However, in democracies, citizens tend to value humanity even amid strong stances. The act of inflicting death on the vulnerable can never be considered a display of strength; instead, it inadvertently reveals a loss of purpose.
Even within the current administration, there seems to be an awareness of the moral implications behind these strikes, as indicated by the reluctance to share footage with the public. Americans, regardless of political differences, typically can differentiate between necessary military action and senseless killings, expecting their leaders to recognize this distinction.
The question remains whether our leaders are at risk of repeating Stanley’s historical misjudgment, mistaking cruelty for heroism. The public deserves the opportunity to assess these actions for themselves. Transparency is fundamental; the release of the video footage is essential for informed judgment and accountability.
