Radical Islamist Christian Judaic Terror

Radical Islamist Terror. Why won’t Barack Obama say those three words? His failure to do so, I read, is why we are forever vulnerable to attack from radical Islamic terrorists. And his failure to do so keeps alive all the whispered conspiracy theories about his background, his motivations, his true beliefs. It’s clear that many of the terror groups with whom the U.S. is engaged are driven at least in part by their Islamic identity. Scott Atran, a French and American anthropologist and a leading authority on terrorism, contends that, however brutal and repugnant ISIS is to us and most Muslims, it speaks directly to people who “yearn for the revival of a Muslim Caliphate and the end to a nation-state order the Great Powers invented and imposed.”

But, he notes, “what inspires the most lethal terrorists in the world today is not so much the Koran or religious teachings as a thrilling cause and call to action that promises glory and esteem in the eyes of friends.” Or, in the case of lone-wolf mass killers, an outlet for their murderous anger.

If Islam provides a rationale for terrorism, why not just say so? And then why not also say that the Baptist pastor who said from the pulpit that “the tragedy [of Orlando] is that more of them didn’t die” speaks for Christianity? Or the KKK practices Protestant terror? Or the Revolt, which seeks the creation of a Jewish kingdom based on religious laws and expulsion of all non-Jews from Israel, Jewish terrorism? After all, that’s what they are.

But it is also what they are not. These groups want us to believe they speak for their religions. But they don’t, and Obama is right to say so.

The Language of an Empty Suit

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.” “The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”

“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master – that’s all.”

Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

A lot of the attacks on Donald Trump miss the point. By labeling him a racist, a misogynist, a nativist, they play into his strength, which is character assassination, and very few people can play that game like the presumptive Republican nominee.

Trump may well be all those things, and then again he may not. And that is the dangerous point. He is whatever he pleases to be, whatever he thinks will get him the most attention and the most adoration from his base. A racist? Don King endorsed me. A misogynist? “I’ve hired a lot of women for top jobs.” A nativist? “And you know, the Latinos love Trump and I love them.”

Most of us choose words to try to make our meaning clear. But Trump uses words that send a message and enable him to him to deny it at the same time – such his infamous description of Gonzalo Curiel, the U.S. District Judge overseeing two class-action lawsuits brought against the defunct Trump University: “The judge, who happens to be, we believe, Mexican, which is great.”

Here is a sentence (it’s actually not a sentence, but never mind) that means nothing, can easily be denied (“I never said I believed”), and isn’t true (Judge Curiel was born in Indiana). Trump, the straight talker, attacks by innuendo – and we all know where he is going.

This is the language of demagoguery: "Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it."

Earth’s Old and Weary Cry

We don’t have time to mourn the dead. Tragedies such as the carnage in Orlando should bring us together to grieve for those who died, to pray, however we pray, for the wounded, and to support those whose lives have been devastated. But we don’t have time. Too quickly we turn human tragedies into political events, into opportunities to advance our own agendas, to reinforce our hardening divisions. Yes, I believe we must ban assault weapons and pass sensible gun laws. But I don’t need an email from moveon.org asking me to sign a petition before the dead have even been identified.

I believe we need to confront the evil that is ISIS. But I don’t think we need calls for the president to resign because he won’t say, “radical Islam,” two words that have become, like so much else these days, politically loaded.

I believe it matters that the victims were gay and that they were killed celebrating life in a nightclub called Pulse. But more importantly, they were people whose lives ended horrifically and unexpectedly.

We should stop and grieve together for those people, at least for one day, and not just rewrite Monday’s speech to score a point. This is a time to put our differences aside and come together.

Today is the birthday of William Butler Yeats, the Irish poet and revolutionary. On this morning’s Writer’s Almanac, Garrison Keillor read a Yeats poem. It’s called The Sorrow of Love; its last stanza seems applicable to today.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves, Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

Converging Lives

This morning’s paper brought news of the sudden death of Dennis McCullough, a doctor who pioneered the “slow medicine” movement, which seeks to let elderly patients live out their last days as they wish to, instead of as the recipients of well-meaning medical interventions – what my mother called “heroics” – aimed at prolonging their often-lonely and anguished lives. He chronicled his own path to enlightenment in his book, My Mother, Your Mother. I recognized the name. Dennis McCullough was my classmate at college, where we had a nodding acquaintance. Raised by a single mother on welfare in a poor mining community on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, he went on to captain Harvard’s hockey team and graduate from Harvard Medical School. He died in Bar Harbor, Maine, just down the road from where I write, where he had come to a conference of community nurses to talk about slow medicine.

His description of his mother crying out, near the end of her life, “Why is dying so hard?” reminded me of my own mother asking, in both bemused wonder and exasperation, “How did I get to be so old?” She no longer wanted to be “encouraged” to walk painfully down the hall, to eat food she’d never liked, to be awakened when all she wanted to do was live in her dreams. As my sisters and I came to understand that, we watched her anger turn into acceptance, and we had some of our best moments together in the little time she had left.

I wish I’d known Dennis McCullough better. I think Mum will like him.

Smiley

Colleagues called him “Smiley” because he almost never smiled.

David Gilkey, a photographer for NPR, died Sunday in southern Afghanistan when the Taliban ambushed the convoy in which he was riding and incinerated his vehicle with a rocket-propelled grenade. He was 50 and had covered conflicts around the world, as well the earthquake in Haiti and Ebola in Africa.

As the presumptive Republican nominee ratchets up his denunciations of the press, calling its practitioners “sleazes” and “unbelievably dishonest”, let’s remember Gilkey and Afghan interpreter and journalist, Zabihullah Tamanna, who were killed while embedded with Afghan Special Forces in one of the world’s most dangerous places. They were seeking to tell a story they believed was important and largely untold. And they knew the dangers. Gilkey and Tamanna brought the number of journalists killed since 1992 to 1,193.

After covering the 2010 earthquake in Haiti, Gilkey said: “It’s not just reporting. It’s not just taking pictures. It’s do those visuals, do the stories – do they change somebody’s mind enough to take action?”

And there is the fine line of good journalism. You don’t risk your life, time after time, simply to entertain. You do it because you believe that the stories need to be told, that the images need to be seen. So you go where others can’t or won’t in the hope that you can arouse an often indifferent world. And in the case of David Gilkey, you send back images that evoke, not just the horrors of war, but the pathos of our common humanity.

A Government of Laws?

“The judge, who happens to be, we believe, Mexican, which is great.” This sentence (well, actually it’s not a sentence, but never mind) tells much about the presumptive Republican nominee, who made the comment in a rambling rant against Gonzalo Curiel, the U.S. District Judge overseeing two class-action lawsuits brought against the defunct Trump University

First, what’s up with the “we”? I’m guessing it’s both the royal we and the deniability we (“Hey, I never said I believed”).

Then there is the stereotype with faint praise, a favored rhetorical device of the candidate. Suffice it to say that the state of relations between Donald Trump and Mexicans is not “great”. It’s also hard to imagine Trump saying such things about others. “Rudy Giuliani, who we believe is Italian” or “Sheldon Adelson, who we believe is Jewish” or “Barack Obama, who we believe is . . .” OK, maybe that’s the exception.

Third, the conflict of interest. Much has been made of the potential conflicts presented by the Clinton Foundation – and rightly so – but what about the Trump Organization? Has anyone asked Trump how he plans to separate his personal interests from the public trust? He certainly hasn’t done so in this campaign in which he’s been a walking billboard for his businesses. Now he’s threatening a federal judge over Trump University, one of his most egregious enterprises.

Fourth, the personal attack accompanied by the bullying threats. “Wouldn’t that be wild if I am president and come back and do a civil case?”

And last, but hardly least, the statement is untrue. Judge Curiel was born in Indiana.

“¡Three EGOs!”

Like an aging athlete who was upset in the last Olympics, Hillary Clinton desperately pursues her last chance for the record books. And as Republican politicians and donors get increasingly comfortable with their candidate, the other party now threatens to implode. Bernie Sanders, who raises a critical issue – the wealth gap – without providing a solution, is becoming a bald and rumpled edition of Trump, driven by ego, feeding off his crowds, hammering Hillary; while Trump remains empty and dangerous – dangerous precisely because he is so empty. The email affair is deeply troubling, and it isn’t going away. In fact, it could get a lot worse. A friend who served in the state department years ago told me that Clinton’s handling of classified material, even if well-intentioned, might still be an indictable offense. Meanwhile, the wagons have circled and her apologists do what they always do – obfuscate, split hairs, deny. They even blame the state department, although Clinton ran the place.

She has a far deeper problem than likability. In fact, those who know Clinton seem to like her, and while she may make a good president, she is proving a terrible candidate, driven by a toxic combination of entitlement and concealment. She could lose the California primary, and who knows what will happen at the Democratic convention in July?

In this election the road not taken is the high road. It’s not on Donald Trump’s map. If Hillary Clinton were to take responsibility for her actions, she could still find it.

Alexander and David

To enter the Metropolitan Museum of Art you walk across the David H. Koch Plaza to the museum’s entrance, which stirs questions about the relationships of art and money and power. Such questions resonate forcefully at the current Pergamon show, whose 264 works of art span the classical world from the reign of Alexander the Great (336-323 BC), whose empire stretched from India to Gibraltar, to the suicide of Cleopatra three centuries later.

Pergamon, once a major city in Asia Minor, known for its massive altar and a library that rivaled Alexandria’s, disappeared over a history of conquests and sackings until its buried remains were discovered and excavated in the late-19^th century. Some of the works of stone and metal are intact, but most are fragmented, the remnants of a civilization that vanished. The artworks exalt the deeds of the powerful – and enable their subjects to bask in the reflected glory. Later, as the growth of empire produced unprecedented wealth, the newly rich commissioned private pieces that, while wondrously crafted, seem devoid of meaning beyond the decorative.

I saw little hint of art as subversive of power – no Guernica to question the glory of the empire or reveal the suffering of ordinary people. And yet the monuments of Pergamon, with their the smashed noses and broken torsos, ultimately capture, not the immortality of the rulers but the evanescent ambitions of men.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 - 1822

Talking Past Each Other

“What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” Cool Hand Luke. “I’m so glad I would kiss the captain’s feet . . . now my child can actually play in the park.” Eukeysha Gregory, after the arrest of 120 gang members in the “largest gang takedown” in New York City history.

In a speech a friend sent me, conservative writer Heather MacDonald excoriated the Black Lives Matter movement for “the current frenzy against the police” and the ensuing rise in urban crime, calling it a smokescreen to evade the “taboo topic” and “uncomfortable truth” of black-on-black crime. Since Macdonald can be a poster woman for the unapologetic right – opposing food stamps and welfare, minimizing campus rape, defending religious profiling and torture – I was reflexively prepared to dismiss her arguments.

But I can’t.

Yes, there’s much to disagree with. She paints with a broad brush, simplifying and vilifying a complex movement. And she ignores the personal experiences of a legal system riddled with racial injustice described by Ta-Nehisi Coates (Between the World and Me), Michelle Alexander (The New Jim Crow) and Bryan Stevenson (Just Mercy).

So who’s right? For Eukeysha Gregory, black-on-black crime is not a taboo subject. Nor was it for my late friend, Charity Hicks, who witnessed “a generation of young [Detroit] men so marginalized they would kill you without thinking about it.”

If we talk only to those with whom we agree, we end up choosing sides and standing in judgment above the fray. Our political purity is intact, although our neighborhoods may be burning. If we really want solutions, we need to open our minds and our hearts.

The Terrible Tyranny of Tastelessness

Should a man be held accountable for the actions of his valet? This 19th-century question is hardly one I expected to be asking in the 21^st – until I read Anthony Senecal’s Facebook rants, in which, among other things, he called for the president and first lady to be dragged from the “white mosque” and hanged. Senecal, who was recently the subject of a bizarrely fawning profile in The New York Times, was Donald Trump’s butler at Mar-a-Lago for years; and many of his Facebook themes – demonizing Muslims, Obama’s citizenship, incendiary language, racism – resonate with the boss's campaign.

Trump’s spokeswoman disavowed Senecal’s “horrible statements,” saying he “has not worked at Mar-a-Lago for years” – apparently overlooking that, at Trump’s insistence, he gives daily tours at the mansion and serves as its unofficial historian. Trump has yet to tweet on the matter.

These revelations came simultaneously with news that George Zimmerman will auction off his Kel-Tec PF-9 pistol. What he advertises as “a piece of American History” is the gun he used to kill Trayvon Martin in 2012.

In the war against political correctness, the pendulum has swung way too far; it’s time to reflect on what gave rise to the movement in the first place. It began as an effort to address the offensive stereotyping long endured by minorities and the powerless. Whatever its excesses, it arose out of respect and empathy, two traits now in short supply. It is, as Jeeves, a wiser, more civil butler, understood, a matter of good taste.

The Klanbake Convention

Thinking of traveling to Cleveland in July, I did a little research on that city’s first Republican convention and the election that followed. The three-day event took place in June 1924 and produced the first-ballot nomination of Calvin Coolidge, who had succeeded to the presidency on the death of Warren Harding less than a year before. It was the first Republican convention at which women had equal representation, and the only hint of disgruntlement was the defection of Senator Robert LaFollette, who ran – and won almost 5 million votes – as a third-party Progressive.

In contrast to the civil Republican convention, its Democratic counterpart in New York’s Madison Square Garden was a disaster. It required 16 days and 103 ballots to nominate the little-known-nor-long-remembered John W. Davis. The preconvention favorites, Al Smith and William Gibbs McAdoo, bowed out after a stalemate driven largely by the power of Ku Klux Klan, which had resurfaced as a vehicle for white working-class anxieties over the perceived threats posed by immigrants, African Americans, and the growing political power of Catholics and Jews.

After knocking off Smith, the Catholic governor of New York who had denounced lynching and racial violence, thousands of hooded Klansmen – including hundreds of delegates – held a rally at which a speaker denounced the "clownvention in Jew York," while the crowd hanged Smith in effigy and set fire to a cross.

That was the “Klanbake” convention, and surely such a thing could never happen today.

Coolidge was elected easily – although he failed to carry a single southern state.

American Soul

With Donald Trump, who is the sort of demagogue the founders feared, now the leader of the Republican Party, it’s time to examine our “exceptional” credentials. And it’s not just Trump who reveals a country at odds with its self-image. In New York, the Democratic Assembly Speaker is on his way to prison, with the Republican Senate leader close behind. In Chicago, a judge pronounced the former Speaker of the House a “serial child molester.” In two new books, Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy and Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow, the authors describe a nation with the highest rate of incarceration in a world that includes Russia, China and Iran; where one of every three native-born black men will go to jail; where three times as many mentally ill people are in prison as in a hospital; where economic disparity and voter repression proceed unabated.

I’m happy that Trump will be the nominee. Not just because the singularly repugnant Ted Cruz has departed, at least for now. Not because I think Trump will be trounced in November, because I fear he won’t. But because the overarching American myth on which we have been nourished for generations is unraveling before our eyes – and it should, for while it may have reflected our aspirations, it does not describe our reality.

We now have a candidate who appeals to the basest parts of our national character, and if that doesn’t galvanize the rest of us to get involved, I don’t know what will.

“Let’s Do the Numbers”

From a talk this week by David Miliband, head of the International Rescue Committee and former British Foreign Secretary:

• 20 million refugees have fled their country in fear of persecution for racial, ethnic or political reasons.
• 40 million people are internally displaced within their country.
• 200+ million migrants have left their country in search of a better life.
• 1% of all refugees went home last year.
• 17 years is the average duration of exile.
• 86% of refugees and displaced people are in poor countries.

With states collapsing, particularly in the Middle East and Africa, the increase in horrendous violence and disrespect for humanitarian law, and “the absence of legal routes to hope and dignity,” this is a crisis no wall can contain. Globalization isn’t just a political policy, it’s an international reality; and “America First” code language is not the answer – particularly if you consider these numbers from Steve Phillips’ Brown is the New Black:

• In the last 50 years, people of color have increased from 12% to 37% of the U.S. population.
• Latinos have grown from 9 million to 54 million; Asians from 2 million to 18 million.
• Our population increases by 8,000 people a day, 90% of whom are non-white.

Clearly these are unsettling numbers for the dwindling white majority – even if they are a fulfillment of America’s self-image: a melting pot; a nation of immigrants; a land where all men are created equal and anyone can grow up to be president. Maybe it’s a cause for celebration instead of fear. And it seems a good time to recognize how much we have in common with the rest of the world.

Anzac Day

One-hundred-one years ago today began the Gallipoli campaign, a devastating eight-month battle that produced over half-a-million casualties and yet remains the defining national myth for both sides: Turkey and Australia and New Zealand. Such is war, a time of carnage and valor – and the central reality of human history. “If we were to take any random hundred-year period within the last five thousand years,” writes Caroline Alexander in the introduction to her new translation of the Iliad, “we would find on average ninety-four of that hundred to have been occupied with large-scale conflicts in one or more regions of the globe.”

By chance, I was reading her words when an old friend sent me “My Vietnam Song,” his 46-year journey home from Vietnam, where he had arrived as a Marine 2^nd lieutenant not long after his college roommate had been killed. It’s a moving story of his struggle to understand himself and make sense of his war, a poignant antidote to today’s reflexive “Thank you for your service,” five words he never heard. Achilles would understand, writes Alexander. Far from “glorifying war’s destructive violence,” the Iliad “makes explicit the tragic cost of such glory, even to the greatest warrior.”

“I am tired and sick of War,” said William Tecumseh Sherman, a warrior who scorched the earth from Atlanta to the sea. “Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have never fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.”

And it endures.

Trading Up

The $20 bill just got more valuable, not, to be sure, as a measure of exchange, but in its intangible value for America – because yesterday Treasury Secretary Jack Lew announced that a likeness of Harriet Tubman will replace that of Andrew Jackson on the bill’s face. An escaped slave who was cruelly beaten as a child, Tubman returned frequently to the South and guided so many slaves to freedom along the Underground Railroad that William Lloyd Garrison dubbed her “Moses.” During the Civil War she became a Union spy and an armed scout, leading an expedition that freed over 700 slaves. Jackson, the nation’s seventh president, was considered one of its greatest in the history books of my youth. But his star has rightly dimmed, particularly because of the 1830 Indian Removal Act, which forced tens of thousands of Native Americans from their ancestral homelands to Oklahoma along the deadly “Trail of Tears,” one of the saddest, most shameful events in our history.

There will, no doubt, be cries of political correctness, as we replace a white man, both president and general, with a black woman – laments that, in our efforts to conform to multi-cultural demands, we are rewriting our history.

Well, good for us. We are recognizing a part of our history we have too long ignored. We are honoring a woman of courage, faith and accomplishment who dedicated her life to equal rights and women’s suffrage. And maybe we are insisting, in a small way, that our money reflect our values.

Patriots’ Day

As a one-time American history teacher, I wrestled with the deficiencies of textbooks, which are as much the product of Texas politics as historical scholarship and challenge teachers to breathe life into dull prose and dead people. In fairness, the text is hard to put together. When I was in school, ours ended with the Korean Conflict, traced the westward movement of Europeans across the continent, and relied on documents written by educated white men. Quite a bit has happened since then, including an array of tools enabling historians to uncover the long-stifled voices of marginalized peoples. Such changes have not sat well with everyone. In the recent tiff over Advanced Placement history standards, for example, some school boards, and the Republican National Committee, demanded changes in textbooks to extol patriotism and “American exceptionalism” and to show America in a more positive light – what we used to call propaganda.

Which brings me to newly unearthed histories at two of America’s most prominent universities: Georgetown’s sale of 272 slaves to plantations in the Deep South to raise operating funds and Harvard’s embrace of a eugenics movement that promoted racial purity and the forced sterilization of those who, in the words of U.S. Chief Justice – and Harvard pillar – Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., “sap the strength of the State.”

Shouldn’t the historian’s role be to uncover and confront the truth of our past, however painful, as Georgetown, and, I hope, Harvard, is doing, rather than airbrush it? True patriotism can’t be built on lies.

Grace, ‘The Final Chapter’

Winston Moseley died last week. He was 81 and had spent the last 51 years in prison for killing Kitty Genovese the night of March 13, 1964 in Queens, N.Y. It was a murder that seared America. Dozens of people heard Kitty’s screams but “didn’t want to get involved,” a response now known as the “Genovese syndrome,” which led to the adoption of 911. The original reports are in dispute, but not the horrific rape and murder (and not necessarily in that order) nor the hours-long agony of the 28-year-old woman. Kitty’s brother Bill was 16, and the murder of the sister he adored affected every aspect of his life. Not wanting to be an 'apathetic bystander,' he enlisted in the Marines out of high school and lost his legs in Vietnam. He spent the rest of his life trying to understand what happened that night in Queens, always seeking closure.

Yesterday his search came to an extraordinary end, which I lift verbatim from The New York Times.

To the Editor:

With Winston Moseley’s death comes, maybe, the final chapter in the tragic story of the events of the early morning of Friday, March 13, 1964.

As my mother would have wished, my family’s “better angels” do now express our condolences to the Moseley family, most especially to the Rev. Steven Moseley, one of Winston’s sons, a man of faith, love and courage, who struggled in his formative years with a stain and dilemma undeservedly forced onto his being.

May the spirit, in whom I believe that Kitty, and now Winston, reside, help resolve the eternal question: What do we owe to all our fellow beings? This is a question that each human being must strive to answer, one moment at a time. Let us join with the hope of shared egalitarian equanimity.

William J. Genovese

Washington, Conn.