Looking for a Brawl with Fascism

Christopher Hitchens, the inimitable atheist, elegant writer, and principled gadfly, among other superlatives, has esophageal cancer. I am not going to pretend as if I know the man, but after reading his delightful and erudite attack on religion, God is Not Great, and watching him excoriate the deceased Jerry Falwell in front of men very sympathetic to Falwell, I can say that hearing of Hitchens' illness brought me uncontrived sadness.

As a critic recently said of Hitchens, "if (he) did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." His writing sets out to shock you and challenge your convictions. He rightly argues that cruel rituals such as genital mutilation and the taking of child brides would scarcely be tolerated if stripped of their religious pretext. And his indictment of religion certainly isn't scant on historical detail or exegesis of scripture. Hitchens has gladly debated scholars of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam in many a public fora.

Mr. Hitchens does not see a contradiction in being at once a freewheeling drinker, a dispenser of insults and also a person of great character. He, like his hero George Orwell, sees the fight against fascism and its present day derivatives as the final test of someone's morality. At the age of 59, he welcomed a beating from a fascist militia in Beirut when he defaced one of its swastika-stamped posters. Hitchens later matter-of-factly told a media outlet, "My attitude to posters with swastikas on them has always been the same. They should be ripped down."

David Brooks sees Hitchens as unique in the field of American journalism in that he underpins his opinions with a literary perspective that values "psychology, context, courage, and virtue - important things that are hard to talk about in policy jargon or journalese." This is precisely why, in a field so sorely in need of resolve, it will be necessary to revive and reinvent Christopher Hitchens as time passes.

A Distant Land, A Distant Hope

"Whither Iran?....."

About a year ago, I was itching to go to Iran. I sent out a rousing and somewhat satirical email to friends who might be interested in going, boasting that the “mullahs won’t know what hit them.” To be successful, any such trip would have to be meticulously planned and executed with high caution. But I wanted to whip up support with some cavalier language. I wrote that “ideally, we would be there for the June elections when there is a palpable but distant chance that Ahmedinejad will get upset.” It is a good thing that I wasn't able to get into the country then. Foreign journalists with actual credentials were bullied, harassed, detained, or deported. But any freelancing fool, especially an American, might have it worse.

It does not get worse than Evin Prison, where so many blameless Iranians have wasted away. The dungeon sits right in Tehran, and many accounts of the abuses within have reached Western audiences. The Iranian theocracy takes much the same attitude with Evin as it does with its nuclear bomb-making: “What will you do about it?” We can at least listen to the many tortured voices that ring forth from the prison gates. One such voice is that of Roxana Saberi, an Iranian-American journalist who, in her new book, evokes the many layers of sorrow residing in that monstrous jail. By the end of Ms. Saberi’s 100-day captivity, her plight was finally in the international spotlight. But this was not before she languished for weeks without word to the outside world.

Perhaps it was Saberi’s unique ability to report to the West from Iran that so riled her captors. A comely blend of Persian and Japanese parents (she's probably sick of those preoccupied with her good looks), Saberi carries an American passport and a tongue fluid in Farsi. She arrived in Iran in 2002 to research a book she planned to write on Iranian society. While doing so, she was drawn to the people and decided to stay in the country after her press credentials were revoked. In the early pages of the book, one gets the sense that, despite being a foreigner, Saberi felt somewhat at ease in Iran and unencumbered by the authorities. There was the occasional snooping from the intelligence ministry, but nothing that signaled she was in grave danger.

And then something snapped. Her life was blindsided by self-deluding men accusing her of espionage. The game played by these thugs is frighteningly cynical: "We know you are working for the CIA. Admit this and agree to spy for us, and you will be freed. Deny it and you will stay in prison indefinitely." The "evidence" presented against Saberi was laughable. By the end of the psychological warfare waged upon her, Saberi's captors admit to knowing of her innocence all along.

Why carry out this fakery? I think it was simply an exercise in power for the Iranian secret police. They were angered by Saberi's ability to move about the country without a translator doubling as a snoop. And once they had Roxana in their clutches, they got personal. "How long do you want to be in here?" one of the agents asked her in first day of captivity. "In a couple of years, you will lose your looks." They were trying to reduce her to a pretty face, and a fleeting one at that. As the reader finds out, Saberi is no brittle belle. She forces Evin's hand with a hunger strike and instead offers nourishment to her cellmates with her stories from America. After three months of prison, she emerges a haggard reflection of her former self. Yet despite enduring the evil of Evin, and inspiring many along the way, Roxana is dogged by her conscience. What of her acquaintances and contacts whom the secret police may now take a keener interest in because of her? What of the cellmates she was leaving behind to rot while she resumes life in America? Ms. Saberi will be hard-pressed to find an antidote for her anguish, but she deserves one.

International attention was the tipping point in Saberi's case. Despite all of their suffocating methods, the authorities could not keep Saberi completely hidden from the public eye. Once, in transit between courtroom and prison, a young woman caught her eye and smiled subtly while saying, "You must be Roxana. The whole country knows about you. We are praying for you." The support of the Iranian and American people sustained Saberi, and showed that shared compassion can sometimes outmaneuver politics to good effect.

With Iran being the steel trap to Americans that it is now, I am forced to read about the country from the safety of my dust-ridden couch. Most of this reading will be rather depressing tales of persecution and suppressed talent. But I look forward to using this blog to highlight examples of a resilience that will hopefully carry the Iranians through this perilous time. No one knows when it will come to pass.

Roxana Saberi with Mohammad Khatami, Iran's president from 1997 to 2005 and a current member of the opposition movement.

Broadway Makes Waves

In a bid to broaden his repertoire, your correspondent donned the cap of a theater critic and boarded the Intrepid, a massive carrier docked off the west side of Manhattan for "Fleet Week". The occasion was an hour-long medley of Broadway hits performed by the casts of The Addams Family, American Idiot, Hair, Million Dollar Quartet, and Promises, Promises. Having heard about the rip-roaring energy of American Idiot, I envisioned a swell of boisterous sailors moshing to this punk-rock opera. That this vision failed to materialize did not make the American Idiot cameo any less jolting. The frontwoman was flanked by three of her female colleagues on each side. The lead singer carried the day, as much with her inimitable expressions as with her scorching vocals. It felt like Green Day with a slap of femininity across the face.(The promoters of Idiot tell us that you don't have to like Green Day to like the musical. I'm the wrong person to test that theory on, but there appeared to be many people aboard the Intrepid who didn't know "Basket Case" from "Brain Stew". The idea to expand Broadway from the teeming Theater District to the shores of Manhattan was a hit.)

The Periscope has a seat at Monday's performance of Idiot on Broadway. Your correspondent expects the energy he saw at Fleet Week to be magnified on stage.

Let His Name Sink In

Abdullah Abdullah stood dapper before his Upper East Side audience, one arm resting regally on the podium. But his face was grim and words measured when he told us: “He thinks you will be there forever.” The “he” was Afghan President Hamid Karzai, and the “you” the American military. Throughout his appearance at the Asia Society in Manhattan, Abdullah scarcely referred to the man who evidently stole the presidency from him by name. He chose a distant tone, as if he were speaking of an estranged relative. This solemn, sobering voice grew more evocative when it spoke of the many young Americans, and many more Afghans, who have perished in his great pasture of a country.

Abdullah Abdullah deserves a bigger stage for his message. This isn’t to call the Asia Society quaint, but to call for a greater understanding among Americans of exactly whom we are defending in Afghanistan. It is more for men like Abdullah Abdullah than for an abstraction like “freedom” that we fight. Abdullah has been resisting the tyranny of the Taliban for decades. He knows that American troops will never be able to completely drain the swamp of extremism, so we might as well acknowledge what is at stake for Afghans in this war.

“The worst thing the U.S. can do is blur the line between the friend and the enemy,” said Abdullah Twice. Discern, do not alienate, he beseeches us. Most Pashtuns (the ethnic group from which the Taliban draws most of its recruits) do not want the Taliban back in power. They want respite from the clutches of barbarism. Nor do Pashtuns want to live side-by-side with NATO soldiers the rest of their lives. This is a simple yearning for dignity. It should not have taken the American command eight years to place the utmost importance on avoiding civilian casualties. When it comes to their livelihood, people will prefer the occupiers who kill less of their children. Sadly, between drone strikes and checkpoint fiascoes, the score is closer than it should be.



Abdullah Abdullah talks with Joe Klein of Time Magazine at the Asia Society in New York. This photo was obviously not taken from press row.

Start Befriending Imams

The failed bombing of Times Square has reopened a debate in the mainstream American press about the roots of radicalization. The would-be bomber, Faisal Shahzad, was a gentrified and presumably “well-integrated” Pakistani-American living in Connecticut. His father was a high-ranking officer in the Pakistani air force. The boy attended a school in Peshawar famous for sons of the wealthy. Then he won a scholarship to study in the United States.

Shahzad did not live the life of an ascetic in his first few years as an exchange student in Connecticut. According to a New York Times profile, he stood out from the 14 other Pakistani students on the University of Bridgeport campus. Shahzad “walked with a confident air, showing off his gym-honed muscles in tight T-shirts”, “had a wider circle of friends and a fuller social calendar (than his compatriots)”, and “hit New York City’s Bengali-theme nightclubs” on the weekends. Rounding out this portrait of machismo is a quote from a former classmate saying that “(Shahzad) could drink anyone under the table.” Sounds like a good candidate for any self-respecting fraternity.

But next, of course, comes the plunge into extremism. Well, not just yet. First, Faisal marries a Pakistani-American from Colorado and has two children by her. He earns a master’s degree in business at the University of Bridgeport and grows more affluent at a new job. He barbecues and tends to his lawn. He lives American.

With Shahzad, there never really was a “plunge into extremism.” His anti-Americanism seems a long time festering. He reportedly watched the Twin Towers burn with a sense of justice. “They had it coming,” he told a friend. Who exactly are “they”, Mr. Shahzad? Do the 9/11 victims who were from Muslim countries give you any cognitive dissonance?

The last two attempted terror attacks on U.S. soil came courtesy of upper-class jihadists. (The Underwear Bomber is the son of a prominent Nigerian banker.) They are two men who sucked from the teat of Western capitalism and open societies, only to spit their privileges back out in indignation. “Can you tell me how to save the oppressed?” Shahzad wrote to a group of friends in 2006. “And a way to fight back as rockets are fired at us and Muslim blood flows?”

Some radicals are irreversible. They have chosen martyrdom and there is nothing we can do about it. But the delusion of some has been helped on less by ideological factors than by material ones. Endless poverty or the loss of a loved one might spin these impressionable youths out of society's orbit and into the arms of extremism. We must do what we can to catch these wayward souls before they ricochet back into us to devastating effect.

One man up to the task is Hesham Shashaa. Mr. Shashaa is an Egyptian of Palestinian extraction who makes his living as imam of the Darul Quran mosque in Munich. Imam Shashaa follows the strictest form of Islam, Salafism. Yet unlike some of his colleagues across Europe who have denounced terrorism but sympathized with the causes of Al Qaeda and Hamas, Mr. Shashaa declares these groups to be violators of Islam. He visits Muslim communities across Europe to preach the incompatibility of violence with the Muslim faith. He had the courage to go to Pakistan to inform students at a madrassa that bin Laden and Mullah Omar (the head of the Afghan Taliban) were phonies. "It must be the head of state or caliphate who announces jihad", said Mr. Shashaa, adding that jihad must also be limited to self-defense. "What they (bin Laden and Omar) do is not jihad." A man in the audience stood up in a rage and called for Shashaa's head. The globetrotting imam responded resolutely, "If you can show me in the Koran or the Sunnah that I am wrong, then I will be the first one who would take a gun and join them, but you won't be able to find something like that." Shashaa knows that scripture vindicates Islam as a religion of peace. Let him win as many doctrinal arguments with the brainwashed as he can.

We hear a lot about how Muslims are confined to the margins of European societies. The gruesome murder of Dutch filmmaker Theo Van Gogh and the French quest to ban the burqa are two flashpoints in post 9/11 Islamo-European relations. Because of the proximity of Europe to the “Muslim world”, a different kind of tension permeates the immigration debate across the pond. Authors like Ian Buruma write of “Eurabia”, or the coming tectonic collision between these two civilizations. But people like Imam Shashaa can help quiet the tremors. His sense of humor is a start. The man looks like Osama bin Laden and has been heckled by Westerners for it. So Shashaa shuffles through the streets of Munich wearing a sign that reads, “I am not Osama bin laden. I am Hesham Shashaa.” He also charms his onlookers by God-blessing them in the German tongue.

The German police coordinate well with Imam Shashaa. But they should not see the imam as a means to an end. For cross-cultural trust to grow we must cross these lines anytime we can, not just to gather intel. Muslims in Europe and America feel unfairly targeted by authorities. Counter-terrorism efforts have involved bugging mosques and placing agents among the congregation. This is sometimes necessary work, but it should be avoided when possible and complemented by an unclenched fist to Muslim communities. This outreach is not just about combating terrorism; it’s about realizing a brotherhood of man. Imagine it.

I am Hesham

Bradley Lays Down His Cards (Part I)

If I felt so compelled, I could launch an offshoot of this blog dedicated solely to soccer, both the electronic and real-life versions. That has yet to happen, so my legions of readers better gear up for a summer of incisive reporting on the biggest party on the planet.

For starters, have you seen the ad previewing the World Cup narrated by Bono? It has a slick lyrical rhythm to it and crescendoes nicely to get you excited for the matches. The premise of the ad, however, is debatable. "It's not about politics..." Soccer is very often political. I have written about this in a previous post, and don't feel like going into detail now. Plenty more on that in forthcoming soccer posts.

In this first installment of my preview of the World Cup, I will focus on the initial 30-man roster that U.S. national team coach Bob Bradley selected this week. This group will be trimmed to 23 by the end of the month as each peripheral player goes under the microscope.

On the whole, Bradley has made some sound choices:

Starting in goal, Tim Howard has two sturdy back-ups in Marcus Hahnemann and Brad Guzan. Goalkeepers are America's biggest export in soccer goods, and this is one position where we top the English (our first opponents of the tournament).

Injuries convolute our back line. When all are healthy and in good form, the starting four should be Jon Specter at right back, Oguchi "Gooch" Onyewu and Jay DeMerit in the middle, and Jonathan Bornstein on the left. Carlos Bocanegra, a savvy player who often wears the arm band, is too slow to play on the flanks and should come off the bench for one of the center backs. Specter is an effective passer, while Bornstein offers something going forward.

The U.S. midfield may be our biggest shortcoming. The Yanks are particularly stretched when it comes to defensive midfielder, a crucial position that, when played right, eases pressure on the back line by gobbling up the opposition's attack. Michael Bradley, the coach's son, is versatile and our best bet in the middle. He is a strong tackler and can rip a shot from distance. But he needs more help than is available. The physicality of Jermaine Jones, a German-American who recently switched allegiance to the U.S. national team, would have allowed Bradley to venture forward without worrying about leaving his back line vulnerable to a counter-attack. But chronic injuries mean Jones will miss the World Cup.

We turn to three talented but unpredictable players in search of Bradley's midfield partner. Maurice Edu would be a solid anchor. He won "Rookie of the Year" in the MLS in 2007 (a more competitive award than it used to be) and gained important international experience with the U.S. at the summer Olympics. Ricardo Clarke has spent more time on the field with Michael Bradley and his tenacity would be welcome. But Coach Bradley should be leery of starting someone who tends to end up in the referee's book. A turning point for America in the last World Cup came when defensive midfielder Pablo Mastroeni was ejected for an idiotic tackle against a short-handed Italian side. Another option in the middle is Benny Feilhaber, a creative player whose first instinct is not to defend. How Bradley designs his midfield may be the biggest determinant of America's fate in South Africa.

The venerable veteran Brian McBride has finally retired, and it is good to see some fresh legs up front. Jozy Altidore is blessed with power and pace. He will likely start, along with Landon Donovan, America's all-time leading scorer. I am happy to see Donovan playing with more conviction these days and he must not wilt on the big stage. Clint Dempsey is a unique player who thrives as a secondary striker and not as a midfielder. Dempsey brings swagger, cunning, and a knack for finding the net (he was our only scorer last World Cup). And, in his own words, "thanks to soccer, I rock more ice than a hockey skate" (click here to watch the explosive music video). Rap may be more closely associated with a sport like basketball, but Deuce proves capable of bringing it to the sidelines of a soccer practice.

A final thought in this abbreviated preview: Charlie Davies should still be on the roster. The diminutive spark plug was the best player in the United States' run to the Confederation Cup final last year. He is remarkably fleet of foot and has the grit that Donovan sometimes lacks. But just as Davies' career was taking off, he was in a disfiguring car crash that left one of his friends dead. This was last October. Doctors and physical therapists understandably ruled him out of the World Cup. Davies had fractured bones in his leg and face. He is lucky to be alive.

Just five months later, Davies was running through drills and vowing to be ready for South Africa. It was to be a rousing return, one that would surely motivate his teammates. But Coach Bradley has decided to leave him off the 30-man roster to allow Davies to make a full recovery. This is a reasonable enough decision, but it hollows out some of the spiritual unity on the team. Bradley knows how this tragedy has affected his team, and he would be right to have Charlie in training camp, even if he will not be ready for the World Cup. Besides, Davies is better on one leg than Eddie Johnson.

The Periscope will be on hand to watch the U.S. team play its final match before heading to South Africa in about two weeks. Since we are not playing a Latin American country, there is a good chance the crowd will be for the home team.

A Paean to Zou

The phrase “unsung hero” is overused and has a cheesy gloss to it. The reason some players are “unsung” is that sports commentators suffer from monomania when looking at a game. They salivate over the superstars and overlook the “role players”. It’s a disservice to the game, a mere marketing tool.

Many commentators would apply the label of “unsung hero” to Brian Zoubek, our bearded gladiator who stands 7’1. In his first couple years on the team, Zouby often gave the impression that he wore two buckets of cement for shoes. Here was another underwhelming white stiff, a player who could contribute by taking up space rather than using it deftly. It was especially difficult for Zoubek because, after the departure of Shelden Williams in 2006, Duke has not had much talent in the frontcourt. Our guards have been a lot easier to watch and rarely have we turned to someone of Zoubek’s dimensions. Coach K has preferred “small ball”, which has been effective, to a point. When Zoubek stepped into the rotation, our fans had high hopes for an interior force. There is nothing more emasculating than watching your team give up offensive rebound after offensive rebound. Assert yourself inside, protect the house, and let’s get back to raining 3’s.

Zoubek has also been haunted by injuries, spending two summers on crutches. Some fans did not rue his time out and wrote him off. Others jeered when he entered the game. But the man knew how to set a screen, and he knew how to take a charge. That Zoubek was keenly aware of his limitations allowed him to economize his time on the floor.

Zoubek always had the “Zou” cheer, the one that fans do with players’ names that sound like “boo”. Amid his struggles, it was often a shout of pity rather than one of appreciation. But the Zou-ing grew more frequent (and genuine) the last two months of this season, just when we needed to gel for a run at the title. Zoubek turned out to be a crucial anchor inside for a team of potent three-point shooters. He learned that leaping ability is often irrelevant when you’re starting six inches above your opponent. He was also more rousing in the huddle than his teammates. (Greg Paulus and Lance Thomas were bobble heads, while Zoubek knew how to galvanize with bear hugs and terrifying clenches of the jaw.) He could serve as a thoroughfare for our offense and a defibrillator on the boards. In short, Zoubek was the missing piece from ’04, the big man who was able to navigate foul trouble and haul down that last rebound to bring the title back to Durham.

The press conference after the title game was a fitting coda to Zoubek’s career. Reporters, in effect, asked Zou if he was just as incredulous as they were about his success. A “who would’ve thought?” consensus permeated the room. Coach K snarled at one reporter who described Zoubek as having an “up and down” career. But the media was right. The only one who could’ve possibly known about the redemption of Brian Zoubek in advance was the man himself. He defied us all.

Cracks in the Junta

The Burmese junta is probably the second most repugnant regime in Asia after the slave state of North Korea. Burma is ruled by a band of aloof generals who recently moved the capital from the biggest city, Yangon, to an artificial one as if to emphasize their estrangement from the people. I had the privilege of visiting this beautiful country five years ago. I call it Burma and not Myanmar because the latter name was introduced by the junta in a campaign of cultural homogenization. “Burma” is a relic of British colonialism, so pick your poison.

Back to the dawn of 2005: My family had tried unsuccessfully to book a trip to Phuket for New Year’s. Fate spared us when a giant wave ripped up the coastline and left a thousand tourists dead there. We were instead airborne on our way to Burma when the tsunami hit. At our hotel in Yangon came rumors that several Burmese had died in the wave. No one knew how many or where exactly because the country has no press. The junta has you, in life and in death.

While the rest of Southeast Asia held its breath for the tsunami postmortem, Burma slept in the junta’s steel embrace. It was a kingdom of muted monks, frail farmers, and hushed hawkers. The regime seemed to have the order it sought. I am not sure I saw a policeman, soldier, or any other authority in my ten days in Burma. Billboards were the thought police. One read:

“People’s Desire:
OPPOSE THOSE RELYING ON EXTERNAL ELEMENTS, ACTING AS STOOGES, HOLDING NEGATIVE VIEWS
OPPOSE THOSE TRYING TO JEOPARDIZE THE STABILITY OF THE STATE AND THE PROGRESS OF THE NATION
CRUSH ALL INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL ELEMENTS AS THE COMMON ENEMY.”

Burma’s is a drowsy, stifled hinterland. The economic malpractice of the junta keeps poverty at a suffocating level. Little in the way of commerce flows through those dirt roads. And while the hinterland lies motionless, civil war flares on Burma’s frayed edges. The Shan states have been unruly subjects of the junta for decades. Most of the rebel encampments are across the border with Thailand as the Burmese military brutalizes its own landscape.

It is a whole lot of misery against a breathtaking backdrop. A bleeding sun scales the pagodas to kiss the bald heads of monks on their way to work. Lithe old fishermen bow to the current as they comb the depths of Inle Lake for their next catch. Clouds of ash drift above treetops as supper is prepared and the sun scars the sky in descent.


Aung Aan Suu Kyi is Burma personified. She has been imprisoned in her own house since winning election twenty years ago. She is worth much more than a bumper sticker for Westerners who read about her in the paper. Rather than flee the country, she suffered alongside her people as the junta’s squeeze tightened. The legitimacy gap between the kleptocrats who rule the country and the dissident who holds its soul is screaming for international attention. China, the Burmese regime’s principal benefactor, has been largely silent in the face of this suffering. The junta’s heavy-handedness is all too familiar to Beijing. The United States, meanwhile, has been principled but ineffective in not engaging the Burmese generals. Sanctions have failed to bring the country out of isolation.

We have to start exploiting the cracks in the junta, especially those opened up by the regime itself. The New York Times reports of “guarded hope among business people and diplomats” that Burma “may be moving away from years of paranoid authoritarianism and Soviet-style economic management that has left the majority of the country’s 55 million people in dire poverty.” A new constitution may come alive at the end of the year, perhaps followed by the first elections since the one stolen by the junta in 1990.

Other reasons for optimism include some privatization of state-owned factories, the lifting of ownership restrictions on cars, and the way in which Nobel economist Joseph Stiglitz was eagerly received by the junta in December. The generals are now interested in reviving a rice industry that they watched drown in a cyclone two years ago.

Any election held while 2,000 potential candidates sit in jail is a sham. But it will mark a diffusion of power that could be a watershed for Burma. This Gorbachev-esque move is why I give the Burmese regime second place to Pyongyang on the list of the most draconian in Asia (some of the “-stans” in Central Asia are a close third). Sadly, despite Kim Jong-Il’s poor health, North Korea isn’t much closer to cracking the way Burma apparently has.

Are We Getting Any Better at Combating Genocide?

It is the time of year on Capitol Hill when lawmakers consider calling the first genocide of the 20th century what it was. This should be straightforward. The Ottoman Empire’s mass deportation of Armenians in 1915 led to over one million dead, eviscerating large traces of a people. The American ambassador to Constantinople provides a damning account in a caption to a photo showing scores of Armenian corpses:

"Scenes like this were common all over the Armenian provinces in the spring and summer months of 1915. Death in its several forms - massacre, starvation, exhaustion - destroyed the refugees. The Turkish policy was that of extermination under the guise of deportation."

But then again, some feel it more important not to embarrass an ally. Turkey is about as secular as they come in the Middle East and can help Iraq stagger to its feet. I am not sure how bad the diplomatic fall-out would be should Washington find its balls here. Perhaps the same spastic fits we see from China vis-à-vis the Dalai Lama and then back to business; maybe deeper consequences. But none of these possibilities scare me when silence on genocide is the alternative.

At the very least there have been six cases of genocide since the Holocaust. Chronologically, the chief perpetrators and victims are:

1) The Khmer Rouge on their own people

2) Saddam Hussein on the Kurds

3) Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic on the Bosniaks

4) The Hutus on the Tutsis

5) Slobodan Milosevic on the Kosovars

6) Omar Bashir and the Janjaweed on the Fur people

In all of these instances, thousands were slaughtered before the “international community” considered intervening, if it did at all. So benighted was Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge that it was several months into the bloodbath before eyewitness accounts emerged. The evidence was much swifter in implicating the Bosnian Serbs, but this did not prevent General Mladic’s men from digging mass graves that showed up on the satellite images of U.S. intelligence. Our ability to combat genocide has not improved with our means of documenting the crime.

During the Bush years, many liberals pined for the foreign policy of Bill Clinton. At least Clinton didn’t get us stuck in two wars, they said. But two genocides went unchecked on Clinton’s watch. He waited three years while civilians in Sarajevo were pounded with artillery before ordering a tepid bombing of Serbian military positions. And after the nightmare of Black Hawk Down, President Clinton did not fancy involving the American military in Rwanda’s inferno, where an average of 5,000 were butchered every day for three months.

Bosnia shocked the Western media more so than Rwanda or Darfur because it happened in Europe. Genocide had returned to the continent fifty years after the Third Reich. Banja Lunka was the new Auschwitz, Mladic the new Himmler. Here was mass murder in the backyard of a Europe reconciled. Franco-German relations were better than ever; dictatorships in Spain and Greece had given way to agreeable democracies; the European Union was on the march. But the Balkans were an inconvenient outlier for European mandarins punch-drunk with peace. For some, the words never again meant never again thinking that genocide was possible in Europe after the Holocaust.

Also clouding the Western conscience was the idea that the Balkans were hopelessly resigned to conflict. On President Clinton's nightstand was Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts, a book that paints ethnic strife in the region as routine and eternal. The Slavs and Muslims had been going at it for centuries, wasn't this all natural and beyond our control?

Politics pulled the strings for Clinton's Bosnia policy. In his 1992 campaign for president, Mr. Clinton blasted President George H.W. Bush for not deterring the Bosnian Serbs. One was led to believe that a President Clinton would be willing to use force to stop the killing. But the new administration did not move outside a policy of denial of the facts on the ground until the war was in its fourth year. Until then, it often laid blame on all sides (Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks) while using the charade of consultation with European allies.

The Clinton Administration went to great lengths to avoid the word "genocide" because using it might have suggested a responsibility to intervene. When Secretary of State Warren Christopher tiptoed up to Congress to testify on Bosnia, he went as far as to say that the atrocities committed by Bosnian Serbs were "tantamount to genocide". Apparently that word, "tantamount", was just enough of a face-saver for Christopher and the Administration. But what useless rhetoric for the hundreds of thousands terrorized by the Yugoslav Army, for the UN personnel taken captive by the marauding Mladic.

The tragedy in Bosnia reminds us of the limits of relying on a deeply flawed United Nations or a self-interested United States to prevent genocide. Mladic and Karadzic dared the West to stop them and the mass-murderers prevailed. There are many explanations for America's inaction. The simplest is a reluctance to call it genocide, a powerful word that changes the debate. A crime against humanity is one that cannot be countenanced by human beings. But it is a crime that won't leave us unless we are clear about its manifestation. Srebrenica was genocide. Al-Anfal was genocide. And yes, the Armenian Genocide was genocide.

*Samantha Power's A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of the Genocide was a source for this post. I strongly recommend it and so does the Pulitzer Prize committee.

**Update: The Swedish parliament voted to recognize the Armenian genocide, while the U.S. House Committee on Foreign Affairs said as much in a non-binding measure. Turkey recalled its ambassadors to both countries and warned of "serious damage" to ties in the case of Sweden.

Jan Baalsrud

The story of Jan Baalsrud makes me proud to have a double A in my last name. To hell with Quisling and Knut Hamsun, this is the stuff the Norge are made of.

Valparaiso

There was just one blemish on my time in Valparaiso, one a bit more personal than stepping in one of the many mounds of dog excrement that litter the city. I left a futbol café with a place in mind for live music. It was closed. Remembering the guidebook’s description of the bars east of Plaza Sotomayor as popular with the sailors come to port, I went looking for a seafarer’s haunt. I found nothing but eerie buildings and buses on their way home. I came to a dimly lit square. As I passed through, someone from a group of teens said god knows what to me in Spanish. For discretion’s sake, I consulted my map behind a statue. I had just laid my bag at the foot of the statue when a hoodlum from that group swooped it up and sprinted off the square. Still holding my photocopied sheets of Neruda poems, I sprang my step and hauled ass after him. My adrenaline was whipping me into a frenzy as I lengthened my stride. We were making our way up the mazy streets of Valpo and it was high time for me to retain my camera and dignity. Now only a few yards behind him, I began clawing the air to try to collar him at full speed. He heard my crazed breathing and must have known he had it coming; just then he flipped the bag over his head to me and ran off into the Chilean night. I had scarcely noticed an accomplice running alongside him, ready to play a game of catch with my satchel. I fumed and shouted after them and took several seconds to remember I was in a back alley in Chile. A couple of abuelitas gawked at me as they shuffled home.

My newfound insecurity rattled me all the way up the hill, where I sought refuge in the night-time panorama of the city. I didn’t want a fluke incident to blight my conception of Concepcion, one of the wondrous thoroughfares that led me up to my hostel. I put my feet up on a banister overlooking the harbor and, after a smoke and a coffee, the city’s luster seeped back into me as my sweat began to dry. I gaped for awhile at the port that had once been the western hemisphere’s busiest. Sometimes it’s necessary to jostle with the mayhem down below to appreciate such a vista.

I scoffed aloud at the amateurism of the thief – as petty as they come, ill-prepared for a tourist willing to tussle. Neruda’s moonlight cut through billowing clouds casting out to sea. I reached into my bag for the poems I had saved for my last night in Chile, but then realized that the thief really had succeeded in robbing me. In switching to survival mode to chase him down, my hand had involuntarily let slip the Neruda poems. So goes the loss of innocence in a city cloaked in serenity. I closed my eyes to inhale the crisp air and forgive all that was below me. The moon was watchful, the ships docked for the night, and somewhere up the hill in La Sebastiana, Neruda’s ghost promised me a second reading.