When Justice Becomes a Weapon: Lessons from Afghanistan and Milwaukee

"From Afghan Villages to American Courtrooms, False Accusations Threaten Justice"

When I served as an infantry officer in Afghanistan, I learned not to trust every intelligence tip the US forces received from locals. Villagers would occasionally come to our Forward Operating Base to claim their neighbor was Taliban, hiding a weapons cache or coordinating attacks. These allegations demanded attention, and we were starved for actionable intelligence, so we salivated at the chance for a quick win. In the resultant days, as we detained and questioned these supposed insurgents, another truth often emerged.

Many were not Taliban at all. The accusations were personal vendettas disguised as counterterrorism tips over water sources, grazing land, or generations long family feuds. People were using U.S. military power to settle disputes closer to HOA fights than insurgency.

The consequences were severe. Acting on false information alienated entire villages, damaged hard-built relationships, and sometimes created new enemy sympathizers. Every bad detention became enemy propaganda, feeding narratives that Americans were unjust and easily manipulated. It taught me how tribalism can weaponize justice and security for personal gain.

I was reminded of this lesson reading about a Milwaukee case involving Demetric Scott and Ramón Morales Reyes. Scott, incarcerated for armed robbery and aggravated battery, sent law enforcement a letter threatening to assassinate President Trump. The letter wasn't signed with his name. It was signed with Morales Reyes's name, a man Scott allegedly victimized who was scheduled to testify against him.

Morales Reyes, a 54-year-old dishwasher, doesn't speak English, cannot read or write proficiently even in Spanish, and has no history of political threats. Yet after ICE arrested him, DHS Secretary Kristi Noem condemned him publicly, calling the letter part of "dangerous threats" to the president. This happened despite local police already investigating the letter as likely fake. Scott later admitted writing it to have Morales Reyes deported before trial, hoping charges against himself would be dropped.

The parallels between Afghanistan and Milwaukee are striking. In both cases, an accuser weaponized authority, whether a U.S. infantry platoon or federal immigration system, to punish a rival. Authorities acted too quickly on unverified information. The accused suffered immediate harm before truth emerged.

In Afghanistan, rushing to act on bad information meant alienating communities and strengthening enemy narratives about American injustice. In America, it means eroding public trust and allowing tribalism to override due process.

Some may see Milwaukee as a local matter. It's not. Trust in institutions is a pillar of national security. When people believe government power can be weaponized against them by personal enemies or political opponents, they disengage, grow cynical, and sometimes radicalize. Just as wrongful detention in rural Afghanistan could push families toward the Taliban, wrongful arrest in American cities deepens divides and hardens attitudes toward justice.

Tribalism isn't unique to faraway conflict zones. It exists in our neighborhoods and cities. The difference is that in America we have tools to prevent it from undermining justice, if we choose to use them. That means building safeguards that slow prosecution machinery when stakes are high and evidence is thin.

First, we need independent verification. No single uncorroborated tip should justify detention or deportation. Every significant accusation should be cross-checked before action.This should at a minimum be considered part of the protections  enshrined in the due process clause of the Bill of Rights, and available to every person in America.  

Second, we need transparency and oversight. Agencies like ICE must respond to congressional inquiries and allow independent reviews of politically sensitive cases. In Milwaukee, Congress members were blocked from speaking to detainees during oversight visits and received no answers. Such opacity erodes public trust.

Third, we need public accountability. When mistakes happen, officials must quickly correct the record rather than double down. The longer false narratives stand, the harder it becomes to repair damage to individuals and institutional credibility.

The stakes aren't just legal but strategic. In counterinsurgency, wrongful detentions fueled by tribal rivalries became enemy recruiting tools. In democratic society, wrongful prosecutions fueled by political or personal animosity become recruiting tools for different kinds of extremism. Both feed on injustice. Both corrode bonds between people and protective institutions.

The First Amendment wasn't designed to shield us from criticism but to ensure truth has a fighting chance in the public square. But truth struggles when personal vendettas masquerade as legitimate threats and state power pursues them. History is littered with democracies that fell not to foreign armies but to citizens who weaponized their own systems against each other. We have the tools to prevent that fate, but only if we use them before the next false accusation becomes tomorrow's injustice.

In Afghanistan, I learned that protecting communities meant more than chasing every rumor. It meant knowing when to pause, investigate, and protect someone from false accusations. In America, it means remembering justice isn't just about punishing the guilty but about protecting the innocent from those who would use our systems against them.

Tribalism will always exist. The question is whether we let it hijack our institutions. Today it's Ramón Morales Reyes, a dishwasher who can't read English. Tomorrow it could be your neighbor, your colleague, or you. Once we allow personal vendettas to masquerade as national security, no one is safe from becoming someone else's convenient enemy.