The Parable of the Sexagenarian’s Surprise

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is the difference between insurgent terrorism and state terrorism?”

Josh spoke thus:

“Surprise!” the gathering shouted.

The sexagenarian hadn’t expected a party.  After a certain age, parties were fewer and farther between.  This seemed rather ironic to the sexagenarian, since after a certain age, having lived another year seemed more of a cause of celebration.

Members of the gathering emerged from hiding places.  There were those behind curtains.  Their were those behind doors.  There were some beneath tables, even.  These latter were clearly visible to the sexagenarian, but these were the young ones, those who were not yet learned in the arts of concealment, their sense of selves too primitive to appreciate others’ perceptions.  The sexagenarian not only forgave their clumsiness, the sexagenarian envied their lack of self awareness.  It was for the young ones that the sexagenarian exhibited the greatest surprise.  Their glee pleased the sexagenarian.

The sexagenarian would have preferred there be no cake.  The sexagenarian was not fond of cakes for celebrations.  Celebratory cakes were an affectation for the sexagenarian, a convention whose gaudiness was imported and inappropriate.

Surprises, also, seemed affected and inappropriate to the sexagenarian.  Plot twists were ubiquitous, to where the sexagenarian became restless by them.  No clue could be trusted, no confidant confided in.  All herrings were red.  All looking glasses were two-way.  All hatters were mad.

More rare than surprises now, and more rare than linear story lines, were family gatherings.  The modern family was vestigial.  There seemed a quarantine on meetings among generations.  Groups larger than nuclear were unsafe, it appeared.  Conflict demanded guerrilla families.  The modern economics, the modern politics, the modern religion comprised a trinity of diaspora.

“Who needs surprises?” the sexagenarian wondered, “The world is nothing but surprises.”

So it wasn’t a surprise to the sexagenarian that the surprise was interrupted by its own surprise.  Out of the clear September sky, an airplane, uninvited, descended on the gathering.

The sexagenarian had warned the others.  The weapon of insurgency was terror.  So why shouldn’t the weapon of counterinsurgency be terror also?

The sexagenarian, who had seen the children under the table, was the one who saw the American fighter bomber through the window.  

“Surprise!” the sexagenarian couldn’t help saying as the missile approached.