Twenty years ago, I watched Saddam Hussein's execution on satellite TV. I have never forgotten that moment. My mother sat on the sofa. My father and I stood. The three of us stared at the screen, frozen.
Saddam was the demon of my childhood and my parents' young adulthood. The former Iraqi leader bombed us for eight years. We could hardly believe he would finally face justice.
But none of us celebrated. We did not laugh, dance or cheer. The execution was barely shown - just a rope being placed around his neck - but it was still horrifying to watch another human being die.
We were stunned. We never spoke about it afterwards.
I think about that moment whenever I see how some “pro-democracy” activists in the West celebrate violent deaths today.
