Atrocity (n.) can be a sign of progress: Central America drew no notice while it was quiet, all atrocity and no resistance; the killing grew when the organizing did.
An Atrocity (n.) has a strange scale for the Western powers: genocide in East Timor can be supported, but asking the World Court about nuclear weapons cannot be tolerated.
Atrocity (n.) committed by the wrong agent — ourselves — shrinks in memory: Americans guessed Vietnam's dead at about 5 percent of the official toll, as if Germans put the Holocaust at 300,000.
An Atrocity (n.) weighs morally by what can be done to stop it: Timor, which Washington could have halted, mattered more than Cambodia, though the outcry ran the other way.
An Atrocity (n.) earns a place in the news only when its victims can be put to some other use.
Atrocity (n.) goes where victims have no voice: chemical weapons fell on the South Vietnamese the U.S. claimed to protect, not on the North, whose foreign links would have broadcast the crime.
An Atrocity (n.) can be reported without being seen as one when your own side commits it; the horror and outrage are saved for the enemy's.
Atrocity (n.) can serve as a lightning rod: indignation fixes on one crime and thereby buries the far greater ones around it.