As college students around the world prepare for a big Friday night, Amanda Knox is preparing for a 26-year prison sentence. Minutes ago, an Italian jury convicted her of murder.
From an American perspective, the trial appeared to be a tragic, perversion-laced misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that would have been obvious if not for the clouds of sex, shame, honor, drugs, pressure, inconsistencies, dramatic license and religion. Especially religion–they called her a ‘Luciferina’ for God’s sake.
Tonight the Italian legal system appears conducive only to guilt, any guilt. So Amanda Knox is branded a witch and marched off, and nobody really knows what happened to Meredith Kercher.
Most of me believes that Amanda isn’t a murderer. However, it’s saddening to acknowledge that the caliber of bungling forces me to preserve a shred of suspicion.
Why? Because I’ve seen the changes that a place can catalyze. Because I know that mere travel can dredge up new deposits of character, let alone alcohol and romance-soaked student travel.
We’re quick to celebrate the positive effects of travel–self-reliance, altruism, compassion, etc. But travel can just as easily lead a person into their own darkness.
Drug trafficking, buying sex, fighting (my chin scar is a souvenir from Spain), and adultery are well-known hazards of the road. A handful of travelers must also discover their capacity for murder.
I just really want to believe that Amanda Knox wasn’t one of them.
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