Back when Yugoslavia fell into genocidal civil war, I worked with a young Croatian kid. He was built like a full-sized pickup, but he was a sensitive soul, a painter in his spare time. And what his lifelong friends had become was torturing him. He told me these Canadian-born kids, barely into their 20s, mocked him because he refused to join their secular jihad to the fragmented Yugoslavia, to fight for the culture their parents or grandparents left behind. They called his manhood into question. They went. He stayed. When they returned, some were unalterably changed. They drank more. Lots...