There come times in your life when you’re made to confront something you hoped, perhaps, to avoid-something so uncomfortable, or intimidating, that you wish you could just postpone altogether. About a year ago, one of those moments came to me.Sentiment against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had been a large elephant in the room during my stay in Stockholm. I avoided the subject, not one to try and debate something that might incite a divisive argument when we could otherwise have a nice dinner or chat about lighter things. After all, most of my neighbors weren’t political science majors and weren’t keen to talk politics, anyway. It was the last thing on my mind one cold morning as two companions and I made our way downtown to check out the city’s Kulturhuset, or Culture House, a kind of public place where you could make different arts and crafts, complete with an adjacent comic book library (awesome!).No sooner had we arrived around the city center, however, when one of my friends pointed towards what seemed to be the vanguard of some kind of parade, complete with banners. Is today a holiday, or something? I wondered until the signs came into closer view and the ranks of marchers swelled. I couldn’t read Swedish perfectly, but it didn’t take much guessing to assume what “USA UT UR IRAK” meant, especially when that banner was followed by marchers bearing mock coffins draped in Iraqi flags. By the hundreds, they entered down into the central plaza and filled it. Now they lay directly between me and my destination.My companions shifted a bit as we stood looking at this mass. It was unspoken, but it was obvious we were all probably thinking the same thing: we should take the extra time out of our day to detour a block or two. Yet, as the thought crossed my mind, I shunted it aside. My dream is to someday be a diplomat in the service of the United States, and it would have been cowardly for me to skulk away in the face of a demonstration. I love my country and have never been ashamed of it, so instead, we pressed directly through the crowd.It’s difficult for me to explain how it felt to be a sole American pushing through a throng like this. It was scary knowing that there might be some protester who, had they realized where I was from, might accost me. It was also somewhat eye-opening. Swedes weren’t the only people in this crowd. I saw Chileans who fled their country in the wake of Pinochet’s regime, Somalis who had sought refuge from the lawlessness of their country, and even Iraqis who had abandoned their old homes to start a new life elsewhere. These were folks who had been displaced from their homelands due to events beyond their control and were protesting, I suppose, out of a need to vent frustration. What I knew, though, was that their anger was focused upon something that was a distorted caricature of the America I know.Halfway through the morass, I stopped. The signs, slogans and banners so offended me that even my attempts to try and see what made these people assemble that day were tossed by the wayside. I thought, if I would just stand, here, in the middle of this crowd, speak and open a dialogue, then they could see that my home is not some malevolent force-that while everyone makes mistakes and nobody’s infallible, the United States and its people are not their enemy but a good influence in the world. As I prepared to open my mouth though, an indignant-looking young woman wearing a large pink scarf took a microphone, and began a diatribe, issuing a positive response from the ranks of protesters. I saw then that I risked my own welfare and that of the two ladies with me. As incensed as I was-my left hand was clenched so tightly in my pocket that my nails dug into my palm-I guess I made the mature decision to just hurry up and push my way out of there. We quickly finished navigating through the crowd to the Kulturhuset where we could safely talk.I’ve been pleased over the past couple of months, as many of the people so quick to criticize the United States while I was in Sweden have seemed to magically recall the beauty of American democracy. As I smugly chide them, I suppose they forgot, in the heat of the politics of the day, that the land I proudly call home has institutions so treasured and principles so loyally upheld that not one man, not even a sitting president, can tear them away from the fabric of our Republic. At the same time, this experience showed me that with great power come consequences. The failure of the global community to help build up Somalia’s state institutions were the reason those refugees were living in Stockholm and the same reason that pirates have now found a safe haven to operate along its coast, to the detriment of us all. I’ve seen now, firsthand, that decisions made by committees at various conferences or debates in far-flung legislatures have a very direct impact upon the lives of average people. Whether you act or don’t act, there are repercussions. This connection is something we should all recognize and keep in mind when we find ourselves in a position of responsibility.