Today is a day like any other.

I wake up.  I drink coffee.  I get breakfast ready.

I check my e-mail.

This is weird.  An e-mail from a friend says she’s thinking of me.

Huh.

Oh-kaay.

Another e-mail from Mike in response to ideas for our next episode says something to the effect of, “We could talk about what happened in the news this past weekend.”

More huh.

A quick conversation at preschool drop off reveals what I would have found out at around 10:30 a.m. when I normally catch up on the weekend news.

Navy SEALS stormed a mansion in Pakistan and shot Osama bin Laden dead, and DNA evidence seems to confirm that it was, in fact, really him.

Oh.

OOHHH.

Except.

I feel nothing.

Not a thing.

Not joy, not sadness, not relief, not fear.

Nothing.

I feel bad that I don’t feel anything.

I feel like I should feel something, you know?

But, I don’t.

The rest of the day is spent wondering why I don’t feel anything.  The rest of the day is spent trying to assign meaning to this event.  The rest of the day was essentially spent living in my head and stressing myself out.

Because, for me, this doesn’t really change anything.  Not a thing.  Today went by like yesterday.  Tomorrow will be more of the same.

Forgive me, I don’t mean that this should mean nothing to everyone.  I mean that it means nothing to me.

I understand that for the people in New York City, for the survivors of the WTC, soldiers and their families and the families of those lost at the WTC, that this is a day that must hold closure.  I understand that, I acknowledge that, I respect that, and I am grateful if this event brings some sense of peace to them.

But, for me?  All I can think about is how this means very little in the grand scheme of things.  I’m not just talking about foreign policy, the “War on Terror,” or Al Qaeda.

I’m talking about it all.

Everyone’s life has one beginning and one ending.  What happens in the middle is so important. Every moment, every choice and every value affects us.

Today, I thought about a young Osama bin Laden playing pick up soccer games in Saudi Arabia when he was a teenager.  I thought about him becoming disaffected with the nation he was brought up in when political expedience transpired against his personal moral code.

I thought about how he answered this dissatisfaction by answering what he believed to be a “higher calling” when he became a mujahideen in Afghanistan, fighting against the Russians… with the Americans.

I thought about all the moments that led up to Osama bin Laden’s total and unrelenting commitment to his world view.

I thought of the demon who whispered in his heart under the guise of the Almighty and told him that the costs associated with victory of his world view were necessary, and that they had to be done.

Tonight, I’m thinking about Osama bin Laden’s dead body lying on the floor of some mansion in north Pakistan, and, finally, I feel sadness.

RELAX, I’m not sad for Osama bin Laden.

(But, if you are, I get that.  But.  You know.  I’m not.)

Frankly speaking, outside of the people who have been directly affected by the act of violence at the World Trade Center or are in the midst of being shot at in Afghanistan and Iraq, I have been affected by this man and all that he represents in the most egregious of manners.

Where once I was just an American, I am now a Muslim American.

Where I was once trusted, I now feel suspect.

Where I was once blissfully ignored, I am now meticulously examined.

Where I was once unquestioningly part of my own community, I am regarded as an apologist for trying to bridge gaps in understanding.

In the best case scenarios, where I was simply once pretty much just like you except for all that ham eating, not fasting during Ramadan and such, I have now become, “See, they’re not all like that, some of them are pretty much just like us.”

So, no, I don’t feel sad that Osama bin Laden is dead because of Osama bin Laden.

I feel sad because the demon that whispered to Osama bin Laden still lives.  And, no, Pollyanna, I’m not talking about Islamic fundamentalism.

As I hear of people singing ding dong the witch is dead, I realize that we are so damned far off from understanding the real lesson here that it’s simply dangerous.

What is it that makes me so sad?

I wonder.

Do you think Osama bin Laden called himself a radical Islamist?  I don’t.

I think he called himself a plain old Muslim, just like I call myself a plain, old (okay, not so old) Muslim.

The difference between Osama and me, of course, is that I don’t think that every person who lives on this planet besides me that isn’t a Muslim is somehow inferior or deserving of less compassion than myself or other Muslims.  The difference between Osama and me is that I lack the self righteousness, the arrogance and the coldness of spirit that allowed him to walk a path that I suspect he never intended to walk in the beginning.

On this day, that for me started and finished like any other, I wonder if you will do me the favor of considering the following:

If you ask a racist if they are a racist, they will generally say no.

This is also true, I suspect, of xenophobes, homophobes, and others who choose intolerance over inclusion.

I think this is the case because their awareness is shrouded by unwavering belief that a choice is not a choice, but rather a moral certainty that must be upheld, defended and fought for no matter what the cost.

No matter WHAT the cost.

So, yes, I am saddened on this day.

But not by that which has died, but by that which still lives.