Why ?
Yes why?
What for?
What does it say about you? What does it say about your countries? What does it say about your institutions? What does it say about your governments, your "culture", your "civilization", your history, your "progress", your "values", your concepts...?
Have you ever stopped and pondered these questions? Have you ever stopped and asked yourselves ; how come?
How come we are so advanced, how come we are so democratic, how come we are so great, how come we are so free...And how come we allow so much murder, oppression, abuse, go unaccounted for ?
Have you ever asked yourself this question ?
I was just listening to the BBC World radio. A report from Oxfam - and in your eyes that makes it credible - over 70 % of us Iraqis, no longer have access to clean drinking water.
What for?
What does it say about you? What does it say about your countries? What does it say about your institutions? What does it say about your governments, your "culture", your "civilization", your history, your "progress", your "values", your concepts...?
Have you ever stopped and pondered these questions? Have you ever stopped and asked yourselves ; how come?
How come we are so advanced, how come we are so democratic, how come we are so great, how come we are so free...And how come we allow so much murder, oppression, abuse, go unaccounted for ?
Have you ever asked yourself this question ?
I was just listening to the BBC World radio. A report from Oxfam - and in your eyes that makes it credible - over 70 % of us Iraqis, no longer have access to clean drinking water.
I say no longer have because I remember not so long ago, one could turn on the tap and drink. As simple as that.
The report goes on to say that over 50% of Iraqis are under nourished and 1 out of 3 is literally starving. And that 50% live in abject poverty. 50% !!!
Again, I remember a time, even during the "civilized" sanctions that your countries imposed upon us, everyone had to eat. Not much, but there was food.
The Iraqi government had developed a system of rationing that, to this day, still leaves your top U.N reps in awe.
When I mention that in my posts, I am accused of waging a war of disinformation, psy-ops and being a paid agent.
Now you listen to me and you get off your butts and read. Educate yourselves, oh great people of the West.
A few years back, you could not even locate Iraq on a map . Now you have all suddenly become experts on Her.
Prior to your liberation, there was no starvation in Iraq. Prior to your liberation, there was no abject poverty, the kind we witness today. Prior to your liberation, kids did not stutter out of fear. Prior to your liberation, they went to free schools, learned, grew up and became full functioning adults, with degrees, diplomas and expertise. No, we did not have learning impediments before your liberation.
Today 92 % of Iraqi children suffer from it. Today, 99% of Iraqi children are traumatized for life.
So I ask you again - Why ?
What have Iraqis done to you? Did they invade you? Did they steal your homes? Did they imprison you? Did they torture you? Did they rape you? Did they occupy your lands?
Of course, some of you will come and present me with your usual condescending, paternalistic, patronizing lists of political theories, attempting to explain the inexplicable.
Save your time and energy. I know all about your theories.
I know all about your theories of imperialism, neo-cons, zionists...I also know all about your handy explanations regarding oil, cartels, monopolies, globalization...
None of that satisfies me. I still need to know why?
Why us? why Iraq? why this? why now?
If you fail to answer that question, then you would have not learned one single thing about yourselves.
And I say yourselves, because your governments are a reflection of who you are, your aspirations, your mindsets, your thinking, your illusions...You are part of it and it is part of you.
And all I can see right now are nothing but murderous thoughts - yours.
A few days ago, I was reading an article about a french film producer called Alain Tasma who has just finished directing a film on the Rwandan Genocide.
During "Operation Turquoise", between 700'000 and 900'000 Rwandans perished.
None of you, not a single one of you, had any objections to calling it a Genocide.
It was a given, it was accepted, it was fact. And rightly so, because it was a genocide.
But when it comes to Iraq, all sorts of counter figures pop up. All kinds of other statistics are put forward to try to prove "well, yes but"...
Again my question is why ?
Why did you accept it without questions in the case of Rwanda, why did you accept it without questions in the case of the Holocaust, why is it when it comes to Arabs and Arab Muslims in particular, it becomes a topic for debate and nit picking? And "it" refers to Genocide.
Can you answer this question?
Why is it that what happened over 60 years ago in your lands, still makes you grovel in mortification and supplications of forgiveness but when it comes to us, you have so many "red flags"?
Your phrases are almost always qualified with a "yes but..."
What does that tell me about you? It tells me exactly what I said earlier on, you and your governments are one and the same.
And you will come and say "yes but... I did not vote", "yes but, I sent an email", "yes but....yes but...yes but..."
I don't care for your "yes buts". I truly don't.
And that applies to all of you. All of you whose goverments have a finger in the Iraqi pie.
If you had really wanted, you could have easily gone out en masse, in front of your government's offices...
If only 5 million of you, not more, only 5 million, had done that and had thrown your passports in a huge bonfire in front of your White house, 10 Downing sreet or wherever the hell you happen to be, then I am sure, we would not be experiencing what we are experiencing now.
There are also mass pickets, sit ins, huge demonstrations, strikes...
There are ways, many ways. You just need to get your "creativity" going. Or maybe you are just creative in killing us?
I don't care much for your opinions and comments anymore. Actually I don't give a damn.
All I know is that you have participated directly or indirectly in the crime. That is all I know.
But there is still a little hope left.
Go and sit with yourself for a little while and ask yourself why and then ask yourself what am I supposed to do next?
I can assure you, answers will come to you.
For those of you who prefer to sit and engage in quid pro quos of ifs and buts, then I can already tell you in advance, you are a hopeless case. And I will not even bother to ask why.
Painting : Iraqi female artist, Afifa Laabi.
The report goes on to say that over 50% of Iraqis are under nourished and 1 out of 3 is literally starving. And that 50% live in abject poverty. 50% !!!
Again, I remember a time, even during the "civilized" sanctions that your countries imposed upon us, everyone had to eat. Not much, but there was food.
The Iraqi government had developed a system of rationing that, to this day, still leaves your top U.N reps in awe.
When I mention that in my posts, I am accused of waging a war of disinformation, psy-ops and being a paid agent.
Now you listen to me and you get off your butts and read. Educate yourselves, oh great people of the West.
A few years back, you could not even locate Iraq on a map . Now you have all suddenly become experts on Her.
Prior to your liberation, there was no starvation in Iraq. Prior to your liberation, there was no abject poverty, the kind we witness today. Prior to your liberation, kids did not stutter out of fear. Prior to your liberation, they went to free schools, learned, grew up and became full functioning adults, with degrees, diplomas and expertise. No, we did not have learning impediments before your liberation.
Today 92 % of Iraqi children suffer from it. Today, 99% of Iraqi children are traumatized for life.
So I ask you again - Why ?
What have Iraqis done to you? Did they invade you? Did they steal your homes? Did they imprison you? Did they torture you? Did they rape you? Did they occupy your lands?
Of course, some of you will come and present me with your usual condescending, paternalistic, patronizing lists of political theories, attempting to explain the inexplicable.
Save your time and energy. I know all about your theories.
I know all about your theories of imperialism, neo-cons, zionists...I also know all about your handy explanations regarding oil, cartels, monopolies, globalization...
None of that satisfies me. I still need to know why?
Why us? why Iraq? why this? why now?
If you fail to answer that question, then you would have not learned one single thing about yourselves.
And I say yourselves, because your governments are a reflection of who you are, your aspirations, your mindsets, your thinking, your illusions...You are part of it and it is part of you.
And all I can see right now are nothing but murderous thoughts - yours.
A few days ago, I was reading an article about a french film producer called Alain Tasma who has just finished directing a film on the Rwandan Genocide.
During "Operation Turquoise", between 700'000 and 900'000 Rwandans perished.
None of you, not a single one of you, had any objections to calling it a Genocide.
It was a given, it was accepted, it was fact. And rightly so, because it was a genocide.
But when it comes to Iraq, all sorts of counter figures pop up. All kinds of other statistics are put forward to try to prove "well, yes but"...
Again my question is why ?
Why did you accept it without questions in the case of Rwanda, why did you accept it without questions in the case of the Holocaust, why is it when it comes to Arabs and Arab Muslims in particular, it becomes a topic for debate and nit picking? And "it" refers to Genocide.
Can you answer this question?
Why is it that what happened over 60 years ago in your lands, still makes you grovel in mortification and supplications of forgiveness but when it comes to us, you have so many "red flags"?
Your phrases are almost always qualified with a "yes but..."
What does that tell me about you? It tells me exactly what I said earlier on, you and your governments are one and the same.
And you will come and say "yes but... I did not vote", "yes but, I sent an email", "yes but....yes but...yes but..."
I don't care for your "yes buts". I truly don't.
And that applies to all of you. All of you whose goverments have a finger in the Iraqi pie.
If you had really wanted, you could have easily gone out en masse, in front of your government's offices...
If only 5 million of you, not more, only 5 million, had done that and had thrown your passports in a huge bonfire in front of your White house, 10 Downing sreet or wherever the hell you happen to be, then I am sure, we would not be experiencing what we are experiencing now.
There are also mass pickets, sit ins, huge demonstrations, strikes...
There are ways, many ways. You just need to get your "creativity" going. Or maybe you are just creative in killing us?
I don't care much for your opinions and comments anymore. Actually I don't give a damn.
All I know is that you have participated directly or indirectly in the crime. That is all I know.
But there is still a little hope left.
Go and sit with yourself for a little while and ask yourself why and then ask yourself what am I supposed to do next?
I can assure you, answers will come to you.
For those of you who prefer to sit and engage in quid pro quos of ifs and buts, then I can already tell you in advance, you are a hopeless case. And I will not even bother to ask why.
Painting : Iraqi female artist, Afifa Laabi.
Comments
The occupying powers, are so confident in the Dawa, SCIRI and co's ability to govern thmeselves, never mind a country that the running of the process had to be done by "outside agencies".
Unlike the original idea of allowing them to collectively chose.
Another confidence booster, was the fact that few public buildings for the abroad elections, did not even allow the elections to be held in their facilities, with most councils etc preferring to keep them "hidden".
Ofcourse, the reasons why, were proven at several of the out of country voting posts, where members of the US chosen parties decided to "butt fuck" each other, amidst the violence towards one another and the fact that people were voting not just once or twice but up to four and five times per person.
Even Zeinabs "studs" decided to hold all the training and much of the elections outside of the control of DAWA, SCIRI and comapny.
And as for your Pentagon "studs", many now refer to their own presence as being an "expensive taxi service" for DAWA, SCIRI, Allawi and Chalabi.
How much longer do you think they will be protecting you Zeinab?
You are right. I will not allow more "Iraqi - American" trash pollute my blog.
I have enough of the yankees at home do not need a sectarian shia persian flavor to it.
I have never banned anyone from this blog. Zainab will have the honor and the privilege to be the first to be BANNED here. This says quite a lot about Zainab's "background."
Trash is trash and her sort cannot even be recycled. Alas, it is not biodegradable.
Iraqs regional and national intergrity were and have always been guarenteed under international law and this remains in place to this day.
Legally, the the head of state and the "legitimate Iraqi government", have been kidnapped and the legitimate president has been lynched.
All contracts relating to Iraq's resoruces, which were signed after 2003, you will also find to be both null and void, under international law.
You will also find that the Iraqi resistence has both the legal right to exist and carry out activities, as stipulated also under international law, see below:
The UN General Assembly Resolution 33/24 of December 1978:
"…reaffirms the legitimacy of the struggle of peoples for indepena
dence, territorial integrity, national unity and liberation from colonial domination and foreign occupation by all means available, particularly armed struggle”.
Iraqi Democrat, that's a really good post, and absolutely right. According to international law, the current 'government' is illegitimate, and any 'laws' passed during occupation are null and void. Hopefully, at some point, the International Court of Justice can be brought into this - if it does not get manipulated by the devious US, and those who have committed these crimes brought to justice, starting with those who betrayed Iraq followed by all the war criminals involved in this genocide.
(dreaded word verification is back..sighs)
You understood perfectly well that by "legitimate government" I was referring to the Baath Party and its close allies in the Iraqi Resistance leadership.
Again, everybody knows that you and your exile buddies of the kindergarten-like "opposition" still nurse petty feelings of rancor and rivalry against them and intend to sabotage the National Unity Front that will be restored after the Liberation.
Shame on you !
what you raise in relation to the International Courts, is absolutely right and under the Neuremburg Principles the concept of "only following orders", is not a valid defence for any member of the "Iraqi Government" or even any of the Occupation Troops.
What many people in the anti-war movements of the West don't realise, is that both British and American (or any occupying)troop could ultimately end up in the international criminal courts and face prosecution for war crime charges.
It should also be noted that many of those who "betrayed Iraq", are still allowed to maintain their British and American passports, yet neither government has either had their passports revoked or had them arrested for High Treason, a charge which can still be upheld within the UK.
Even more fascinating, is that similar to the case of the Judge at the Saddam Trial, who is now claiming Asylum in the UK, many Western governments allowed members of the "exiled", "Iraqi" now British/American community to vote in what is fundamentally an illegal election and yet they can still maintain their status as "refugees".
Interesting elements in relation to these "elections" include the fact that you did not actually need to be an "Iraqi Citizen" or have lived in Iraq to cast a vote either.
What you claim is both subjective and lacks foundation.
"What you claim is both subjective and lacks foundation"
Prove me wrong.
Prove me, yourself and the whole world that you and your fellow-exiles are actually capable to place the People's good above your own personal feelings.
Swear allegiance to the Baath-led Resistance and, after your enemies have finally surrendered, go back to your country, join the legitimate government and work all together at the reconstruction in a spirit of comradeship, unity and harmony.
Will you ?
As far as I could gather about you from your comments, I personally would tend to doubt it very much.
It's you sunnis who'll be cleaning the streets, shining shoes and pimping their daughters across Arabia now.
You can't get back the south and kurdistan now, can you? The 'honourable' resistance has spilled much blood for a land locked desert without oil
HAAA HA!
Eat shit and die, Layla. Can't tolerate any dissent from fellow iraqis? Zeinab puts a lie to your claim that you speak for all Iraqis, doesn't she?
gentleman, frankly, only because I am trying to be polite, for that is
certainly not how I saw him at the time. He owned and ran what he
called a "pork production facility." I, on the other hand, would have
called it a pig Auschwitz.
The conditions were brutal. The pigs were confined in cages that were
barely larger than their own bodies, with the cages stacked on top of
each other in tiers, three high. The sides and the bottoms of the
cages were steel slats, so that excrement from the animals in the
upper and middle tiers dropped through the slats on to the animals
below.
The aforementioned owner of this nightmare weighed, I am sure, at
least 240 pounds, but what was even more impressive about his
appearance was that he seemed to be made out of concrete. His
movements had all the fluidity and grace of a brick wall.
What made him even less appealing was that his language seemed to
consist mainly of grunts, many of which sounded alike to me, and none
of which were particularly pleasant to hear. Seeing how rigid he was
and sensing the overall quality of his presence, I-rather brilliantly,
I thought-concluded that his difficulties had not arisen merely
because he hadn't had time, that particular morning, to finish his
entire daily yoga routine.
But I wasn't about to divulge my opinions of him or his operation, for
I was undercover, visiting slaughterhouses and feedlots to learn what
I could about modern meat production. There were no bumper stickers on
my car, and my clothes and hairstyle were carefully chosen to give no
indication that I might have philosophical leanings other than those
that were common in the area. I told the farmer matter of factly that
I was a researcher writing about animal agriculture, and asked if he'd
mind speaking with me for a few minutes so that I might have the
benefit of his knowledge. In response, he grunted a few words that I
could not decipher, but that I gathered meant I could ask him
questions and he would show me around.
I was at this point not very happy about the situation, and this
feeling did not improve when we entered one of the warehouses that
housed his pigs. In fact, my distress increased, for I was immediately
struck by what I can only call an overpowering olfactory experience.
The place reeked like you would not believe of ammonia, hydrogen
sulfide, and other noxious gases that were the products of the
animals' wastes. These, unfortunately, seemed to have been piling up
inside the building for far too long a time.
As nauseating as the stench was for me, I wondered what it must be
like for the animals. The cells that detect scent are known as
ethmoidal cells. Pigs, like dogs, have nearly 200 times the
concentration of these cells in their noses as humans do. In a natural
setting, they are able, while rooting around in the dirt, to detect
the scent of an edible root through the earth itself.
Given any kind of a chance, they will never soil their own nests, for
they are actually quite clean animals, despite the reputation we have
unfairly given them. But here they had no contact with the earth, and
their noses were beset by the unceasing odor of their own urine and
feces multiplied a thousand times by the accumulated wastes of the
other pigs unfortunate enough to be caged in that warehouse. I was in
the building only for a few minutes, and the longer I remained in
there, the more desperately I wanted to leave. But the pigs were
prisoners there, barely able to take a single step, forced to endure
this stench, and almost completely immobile, 24 hours a day, seven
days a week, and with no time off, I can assure you, for holidays.
The man who ran the place was-I'll give him this-kind enough to answer
my questions, which were mainly about the drugs he used to handle
swine diseases that are fairly common in factory pigs today. But my
sentiments about him and his farm were not becoming any warmer. It
didn't help when, in response to a particularly loud squealing from
one of the pigs, he delivered a sudden and threatening kick to the
bars of its cage, causing a loud "clang" to reverberate through the
warehouse and leading to screaming from many of the pigs.
Because it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide my distress, it
crossed my mind that I should tell him what I thought of the
conditions in which he kept his pigs, but then I thought better of it.
This was a man, it was obvious, with whom there was no point in
arguing.
After maybe 15 minutes, I'd had enough and was preparing to leave, and
I felt sure he was glad to be about to be rid of me. But then
something happened, something that changed my life, forever-and, as it
turns out, his too. It began when his wife came out from the farmhouse
and cordially invited me to stay for dinner.
The pig farmer grimaced when his wife spoke, but he dutifully turned
to me and announced, "The wife would like you to stay for dinner." He
always called her "the wife," by the way, which led me to deduce that
he was not, apparently, on the leading edge of feminist thought in the
country today.
I don't know whether you have ever done something without having a
clue why, and to this day I couldn't tell you what prompted me to do
it, but I said Yes, I'd be delighted. And stay for dinner I did,
though I didn't eat the pork they served. The excuse I gave was that
my doctor was worried about my cholesterol. I didn't say that I was a
vegetarian, nor that my cholesterol was 125.
I was trying to be a polite and appropriate dinner guest. I didn't
want to say anything that might lead to any kind of disagreement. The
couple (and their two sons, who were also at the table) were, I could
see, being nice to me, giving me dinner and all, and it was gradually
becoming clear to me that, along with all the rest of it, they could
be, in their way, somewhat decent people. I asked myself, if they were
in my town, traveling, and I had chanced to meet them, would I have
invited them to dinner? Not likely, I knew, not likely at all. Yet
here they were, being as hospitable to me as they could. Yes, I had to
admit it. Much as I detested how the pigs were treated, this pig
farmer wasn't actually the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler. At least
not at the moment.
Of course, I still knew that if we were to scratch the surface we'd no
doubt find ourselves in great conflict, and because that was not a
direction in which I wanted to go, as the meal went along I sought to
keep things on an even and constant keel. Perhaps they sensed it too,
for among us, we managed to see that the conversation remained,
consistently and resolutely, shallow.
We talked about the weather, about the Little League games in which
their two sons played, and then, of course, about how the weather
might affect the Little League games. We were actually doing rather
well at keeping the conversation superficial and far from any topic
around which conflict might occur. Or so I thought. But then suddenly,
out of nowhere, the man pointed at me forcefully with his finger, and
snarled in a voice that I must say truly frightened me, "Sometimes I
wish you animal rights people would just drop dead."
How on Earth he knew I had any affinity to animal rights I will never
know-I had painstakingly avoided any mention of any such thing-but I
do know that my stomach tightened immediately into a knot. To make
matters worse, at that moment his two sons leapt from the table, tore
into the den, slammed the door behind them, and turned the TV on loud,
presumably preparing to drown out what was to follow. At the same
instant, his wife nervously picked up some dishes and scurried into
the kitchen. As I watched the door close behind her and heard the
water begin running, I had a sinking sensation. They had, there was no
mistaking it, left me alone with him.
I was, to put it bluntly, terrified. Under the circumstances, a wrong
move now could be disastrous. Trying to center myself, I tried to find
some semblance of inner calm by watching my breath, but this I could
not do, and for a very simple reason. There wasn't any to watch.
"What are they saying that's so upsetting to you?" I said finally,
pronouncing the words carefully and distinctly, trying not to show my
terror. I was trying very hard at that moment to disassociate myself
from the animal rights movement, a force in our society of which he,
evidently, was not overly fond.
"They accuse me of mistreating my stock," he growled.
"Why would they say a thing like that?" I answered, knowing full well,
of course, why they would, but thinking mostly about my own survival.
His reply, to my surprise, while angry, was actually quite articulate.
He told me precisely what animal rights groups were saying about
operations like his, and exactly why they were opposed to his way of
doing things. Then, without pausing, he launched into a tirade about
how he didn't like being called cruel, and they didn't know anything
about the business he was in, and why couldn't they mind their own
business.
As he spoke it, the knot in my stomach was relaxing, because it was
becoming clear, and I was glad of it, that he meant me no harm, but
just needed to vent. Part of his frustration, it seemed, was that even
though he didn't like doing some of the things he did to the animals-
cooping them up in such small cages, using so many drugs, taking the
babies away from their mothers so quickly after their births-he didn't
see that he had any choice. He would be at a disadvantage and unable
to compete economically if he didn't do things that way. This is how
it's done today, he told me, and he had to do it too. He didn't like
it, but he liked even less being blamed for doing what he had to do in
order to feed his family.
As it happened, I had just the week before been at a much larger hog
operation, where I learned that it was part of their business strategy
to try to put people like him out of business by going full-tilt into
the mass production of assembly-line pigs, so that small farmers
wouldn't be able to keep up. What I had heard corroborated everything
he was saying.
Almost despite myself, I began to grasp the poignancy of this man's
human predicament. I was in his home because he and his wife had
invited me to be there. And looking around, it was obvious that they
were having a hard time making ends meet. Things were threadbare. This
family was on the edge.
Raising pigs, apparently, was the only way the farmer knew how to make
a living, so he did it even though, as was becoming evident the more
we talked, he didn't like one bit the direction hog farming was going.
At times, as he spoke about how much he hated the modern factory
methods of pork production, he reminded me of the very animal rights
people who a few minutes before he said he wished would drop dead.
As the conversation progressed, I actually began to develop some sense
of respect for this man whom I had earlier judged so harshly. There
was decency in him. There was something within him that meant well.
But as I began to sense a spirit of goodness in him, I could only
wonder all the more how he could treat his pigs the way he did. Little
did I know that I was about to find out. . .
We are talking along, when suddenly he looks troubled. He slumps over,
his head in his hands. He looks broken, and there is a sense of
something awful having happened.
Has he had a heart attack? A stroke? I'm finding it hard to breathe,
and hard to think clearly. "What's happening?" I ask.
It takes him awhile to answer, but finally he does. I am relieved that
he is able to speak, although what he says hardly brings any clarity
to the situation. "It doesn't matter," he says, "and I don't want to
talk about it." As he speaks, he makes a motion with his hand, as if
he were pushing something away.
For the next several minutes we continue to converse, but I'm quite
uneasy. Things seem incomplete and confusing. Something dark has
entered the room, and I don't know what it is or how to deal with it.
Then, as we are speaking, it happens again. Once again a look of
despondency comes over him. Sitting there, I know I'm in the presence
of something bleak and oppressive. I try to be present with what's
happening, but it's not easy. Again I'm finding it hard to breathe.
Finally, he looks at me, and I notice his eyes are teary. "You're
right," he says. I, of course, always like to be told that I am right,
but in this instance I don't have the slightest idea what he's talking
about.
He continues. "No animal," he says, "should be treated like that.
Especially hogs. Do you know that they're intelligent animals? They're
even friendly, if you treat 'em right. But I don't."
There are tears welling up in his eyes. And he tells me that he has
just had a memory come back of something that happened in his
childhood, something he hasn't thought of for many years. It's come
back in stages, he says.
He grew up, he tells me, on a small farm in rural Missouri, the old-
fashioned kind where animals ran around, with barnyards and pastures,
and where they all had names. I learn, too, that he was an only child,
the son of a powerful father who ran things with an iron fist. With no
brothers or sisters, he often felt lonely, but found companionship
among the animals on the farm, particularly several dogs, who were as
friends to him. And, he tells me, and this I am quite surprised to
hear, he had a pet pig.
As he proceeds to tell me about this pig, it is as if he is becoming a
different person. Before he had spoken primarily in a monotone; but
now his voice grows lively. His body language, which until this point
seemed to speak primarily of long suffering, now becomes animated.
There is something fresh taking place.
In the summer, he tells me, he would sleep in the barn. It was cooler
there than in the house, and the pig would come over and sleep
alongside him, asking fondly to have her belly rubbed, which he was
glad to do.
There was a pond on their property, he goes on, and he liked to swim
in it when the weather was hot, but one of the dogs would get excited
when he did, and would ruin things. The dog would jump into the water
and swim up on top of him, scratching him with her paws and making
things miserable for him. He was about to give up on swimming, but
then, as fate would have it, the pig, of all people, stepped in and
saved the day.
Evidently the pig could swim, for she would plop herself into the
water, swim out where the dog was bothering the boy, and insert
herself between them. She'd stay between the dog and the boy, and keep
the dog at bay. She was, as best I could make out, functioning in the
situation something like a lifeguard, or in this case, perhaps more of
a life-pig.
I'm listening to this hog farmer tell me these stories about his pet
pig, and I'm thoroughly enjoying both myself and him, and rather
astounded at how things are transpiring, when once again, it happens.
Once again a look of defeat sweeps across this man's face, and once
again I sense the presence of something very sad. Something in him, I
know, is struggling to make its way toward life through anguish and
pain, but I don't know what it is or how, indeed, to help him.
"What happened to your pig?" I ask.
He sighs, and it's as though the whole world's pain is contained in
that sigh. Then, slowly, he speaks. "My father made me butcher it."
"Did you?" I ask.
"I ran away, but I couldn't hide. They found me."
"What happened?"
"My father gave me a choice."
"What was that?"
"He told me, 'You either slaughter that animal or you're no longer my
son.'"
Some choice, I think, feeling the weight of how fathers have so often
trained their sons not to care, to be what they call brave and strong,
but what so often turns out to be callous and closed-hearted.
"So I did it," he says, and now his tears begin to flow, making their
way down his cheeks. I am touched and humbled. This man, whom I had
judged to be without human feeling, is weeping in front of me, a
stranger. This man, whom I had seen as callous and even heartless, is
actually someone who cares, and deeply. How wrong, how profoundly and
terribly wrong I had been.
In the minutes that follow, it becomes clear to me what has been
happening. The pig farmer has remembered something that was so
painful, that was such a profound trauma, that he had not been able to
cope with it when it had happened. Something had shut down, then. It
was just too much to bear.
Somewhere in his young, formative psyche he made a resolution never to
be that hurt again, never to be that vulnerable again. And he built a
wall around the place where the pain had occurred, which was the place
where his love and attachment to that pig was located, which was his
heart. And now here he was, slaughtering pigs for a living-still, I
imagined, seeking his father's approval. God, what we men will do, I
thought, to get our fathers' acceptance.
I had thought he was a cold and closed human being, but now I saw the
truth. His rigidity was not a result of a lack of feeling, as I had
thought it was, but quite the opposite: it was a sign of how sensitive
he was underneath. For if he had not been so sensitive, he would not
have been that hurt, and he would not have needed to put up so massive
a wall. The tension in his body that was so apparent to me upon first
meeting him, the body armor that he carried, bespoke how hurt he had
been, and how much capacity for feeling he carried still, beneath it
all.
I had judged him, and done so, to be honest, mercilessly. But for the
rest of the evening I sat with him, humbled, and grateful for whatever
it was in him that had been strong enough to force this long-buried
and deeply painful memory to the surface. And glad, too, that I had
not stayed stuck in my judgments of him, for if I had, I would not
have provided an environment in which his remembering could have
occurred.
We talked that night, for hours, about many things. I was, after all
that had happened, concerned for him. The gap between his feelings and
his lifestyle seemed so tragically vast. What could he do? This was
all he knew. He did not have a high school diploma. He was only
partially literate. Who would hire him if he tried to do something
else? Who would invest in him and train him, at his age?
When finally, I left that evening, these questions were very much on
my mind, and I had no answers to them. Somewhat flippantly, I tried to
joke about it. "Maybe," I said, "you'll grow broccoli or something."
He stared at me, clearly not comprehending what I might be talking
about. It occurred to me, briefly, that he might possibly not know
what broccoli was.
We parted that night as friends, and though we rarely see each other
now, we have remained friends as the years have passed. I carry him in
my heart and think of him, in fact, as a hero. Because, as you will
soon see, impressed as I was by the courage it had taken for him to
allow such painful memories to come to the surface, I had not yet seen
the extent of his bravery.
When I wrote Diet for a New America, I quoted him and summarized what
he had told me, but I was quite brief and did not mention his name. I
thought that, living as he did among other pig farmers in Iowa, it
would not be to his benefit to be associated with me.
When the book came out, I sent him a copy, saying I hoped he was
comfortable with how I wrote of the evening we had shared, and
directing him to the pages on which my discussion of our time together
was to be found.
Several weeks later, I received a letter from him. "Dear Mr. Robbins,"
it began. "Thank you for the book. When I saw it, I got a migraine
headache."
Now as an author, you do want to have an impact on your readers. This,
however, was not what I had had in mind.
He went on, though, to explain that the headaches had gotten so bad
that, as he put it, "the wife" had suggested to him he should perhaps
read the book. She thought there might be some kind of connection
between the headaches and the book. He told me that this hadn't made
much sense to him, but he had done it because "the wife" was often
right about these things.
"You write good," he told me, and I can tell you that his three words
of his meant more to me than when the New York Times praised the book
profusely. He then went on to say that reading the book was very hard
for him, because the light it shone on what he was doing made it clear
to him that it was wrong to continue. The headaches, meanwhile, had
been getting worse, until, he told me, that very morning, when he had
finished the book, having stayed up all night reading, he went into
the bathroom, and looked into the mirror. "I decided, right then," he
said, "that I would sell my herd and get out of this business. I don't
know what I will do, though. Maybe I will, like you said, grow
broccoli."
As it happened, he did sell his operation in Iowa and move back to
Missouri, where he bought a small farm. And there he is today, running
something of a model farm. He grows vegetables organically-including,
I am sure, broccoli-that he sells at a local farmer's market. He's got
pigs, all right, but only about 10, and he doesn't cage them, nor does
he kill them. Instead, he's got a contract with local schools; they
bring kids out in buses on field trips to his farm, for his "Pet-a-
pig" program. He shows them how intelligent pigs are and how friendly
they can be if you treat them right, which he now does. He's arranged
it so the kids, each one of them, gets a chance to give a pig a belly
rub. He's become nearly a vegetarian himself, has lost most of his
excess weight, and his health has improved substantially. And, thank
goodness, he's actually doing better financially than he was before.
Do you see why I carry this man with me in my heart? Do you see why he
is such a hero to me? He dared to leap, to risk everything, to leave
what was killing his spirit even though he didn't know what was next.
He left behind a way of life that he knew was wrong, and he found one
that he knows is right.
When I look at many of the things happening in our world, I sometimes
fear we won't make it. But when I remember this man and the power of
his spirit, and when I remember that there are many others whose
hearts beat to the same quickening pulse, I think we will.
I can get tricked into thinking there aren't enough of us to turn the
tide, but then I remember how wrong I was about the pig farmer when I
first met him, and I realize that there are heroes afoot everywhere.
Only I can't recognize them because I think they are supposed to look
or act a certain way. How blinded I can be by my own beliefs.
The man is one of my heroes because he reminds me that we can depart
from the cages we build for ourselves and for each other, and become
something much better. He is one of my heroes because he reminds me of
what I hope someday to become.
When I first met him, I would not have thought it possible that I
would ever say the things I am saying here. But this only goes to show
how amazing life can be, and how you never really know what to expect.
The pig farmer has become, for me, a reminder never to underestimate
the power of the human heart.
I consider myself privileged to have spent that day with him, and
grateful that I was allowed to be a catalyst for the unfolding of his
spirit. I know my presence served him in some way, but I also know,
and know full well, that I received far more than I gave.
To me, this is grace-to have the veils lifted from our eyes so that we
can recognize and serve the goodness in each other. Others may wish
for great riches or for ecstatic journeys to mystical planes, but to
me, this is the magic of human life.
sorry to say that your over a decade out of touch on this one.
We started going back to Iraq after the Gulf War, in opposition to the sanctions and to provide assistance, in areas where we could be useful.
We also worked to get journalists, campaigners and many, many others, to also go over and expose the cruelty of the sanctions, which were imposed upon by the UN.
Having met many who have sworn and upheld their alliegences, we tend to find that actions speak louder than words.
Turns out that while the Janjaweed Arab militia is raping the women in black villages, these Janjaweed women, sort of backup singers, sing songs making fun of the women getting raped.
Some of the insults in the songs are a little surprising. For example, one song goes, "You are gorillas, you are black, and you are badly dressed." Who would've thought these Sudanese peasants were such fashion snobs? It's not bad enough being raped and killed, but insulting somebody's clothes -- that's a low blow, ladies. Somebody better call the UN about this.
Well, for starters, there's that embarrassing name, "Shi'ite." I can't help it if it reminds me every time I see it of a certain four-letter word. But that's not their fault either. I don't claim to speak Arabic -- my Spanish isn't even that good -- but from what I've read, in Arabic, "shiat" means something like "party," as in political party, and "Shi'ite" is short for "Shiat Ali," which means "the Party of Ali."
Ali was Muhammad's adopted son. He saved the Prophet's life and became his favorite. Muhammad even gave Ali his favorite daughter, Fatima. But the most important thing to remember about Ali is -- he lost. And Ali's son Husain, another loser, was killed in battle charging the Caliph's whole army with a few friends -- a couple dozen riders against a horde.
To us, that's just stupid. To the Shi'ites, it's glorious. That's what's hardest for Americans to understand about the Shia: they don't think winning is everything. It'd be closer to the truth to say that they think losing is everything, that losing is a sign of being in the right.
The point is, they don't think like us. A whole lot of what's gone wrong in Iraq comes from thinking that everybody in the world wants to be like us. That's just plain wrong. Hell, I'm not sure I even want to be like us. And I know for certain the Shi'ites don't.
We believe in winning. Remember the beginning of Patton, when George C. Scott stands up in dress uniform and says, "No son-of-a-bitch ever won a war by dying for his country -- he won it by making some other poor son-of-a-bitch die for HIS country"? That sounds pretty obvious to us, but it's not the only way you can think about war.
In fact I'd say Patton (Patton in the movie, not the real Patton) is wrong. You can kill twenty of the enemy for every guy you lose -- and still lose the war. That's what happened to us in Nam. We made a million or so of them die for their country, vs. 60,000 of us, and still lost. The British killed dozens of Kikuyu for every settler or soldier they lost fighting the Mau-Mau, and they still got run out of Kenya. Body count is the WORST way to figure out who's winning a guerrilla war.
If the Shi'ites wrote the script for Patton, George C. Scott would get up and say something like, "Go ahead and kill us -- you'll be sorry!" We're talking about a martyr culture here, where dying makes you stronger. You know, that shouldn't be so hard for us to get, because we've got Christ, who won by losing, by dying. But that was a long time ago, and it's so prettified by now that Mel Gibson had to make a whole movie to remind people that martyrdom actually hurts.
The Shi'ites' martyrs are a lot more recent. Their favorite disaster happened in 680 AD, at the battle of Karbala. Yup, THAT Karbala -- the same city where we've been fighting Shi'ites for the last few months. Karbala means "anguish." That should tell you something about the way Shi'ites see the world, that they named one of their holiest cities after something we'd call "clinical depression." They're not smiley-face optimists. If a Shi'ite coached your kid's soccer team, he'd start every practice with a video of the team's biggest defeat: "Yet again we see Jason missing the goal! Truly we AM/PM Minimart Big Gulps are out of the playoffs forever and a day!"
For the Shi'ites, the battle of Karbala is like Christ's crucifixion and the Alamo, all rolled into one: a doomed last stand with God on the losers' side. Karbala was a fight over leadership, the kind you get when an empire based on one man has to deal with that man's death. Muhammad's armies blasted out of the desert in the early seventh century and ended up in control of most of the Middle East. When he died, he left a power vacuum like a black hole centered on Baghdad, the capital of the Islamic world. The winner would become "Caliph" -- a pretty cushy job, sort of like Pope and Emperor rolled into one, with total control over everything, religion and government both.
With that kind of power at stake, the feuding got pretty intense. Ali got himself assassinated, which was a tradition for Caliphs -- life insurance salesmen ran from Caliphs like they were motocross riders. His killers, a rich, mean clan called the Umayyads grabbed the Caliphate. This is the key moment for the Shi'ites. The Umayyads won, Ali's family lost. It's time to face facts, right? You can't argue with success, right?
Wrong. The whole Shia psychology is that you CAN argue with success, and you DON'T have to face facts. Ali's son, Husain, stayed calm when the Umayyad killed his dad; he even accepted the first Umayyad Caliph. But when that Caliph died and the Caliphate went to another Umayyad, Husain realized he had to take back the Caliphate or die trying. Husain was riding to a rendezvous with some rebels with only about 30 men guarding him when he found himself facing the Caliph's whole army near Karbala.
Victory was impossible. Escape was impossible. So Husain did what any red-blooded boy would do: he charged. And naturally, the Caliph's soldiers did a Benihana on Husain and his men.
That's the key moment for Shi'ites. The way they see, everything that happened after Husain's martyrdom is sleazy, dirty, worthless. The real world is trash; the only good people are the martyrs. In Shia culture, you ain't nobody till you're dead. The world won't be worth living in until the return of the "Mahdi," the messiah. (You may remember that Sadr's posse is called the "Mahdi Army.") The Shia are the Travis Bickles of Islam: "someday a real rain will come, to wash the scum off the streets," and if they can help it along with a car bomb or two, so much the better.
They have a huge death wish, so naturally their holiest places are tombs. That's why Shi'ites make that pilgrimage to Karbala, to visit the tomb of Husain. Shi'ites commemorate Husain getting himself sliced and diced for ten days every year, slashing themselves with knives and bashing themselves with chains to celebrate that glorious defeat. Ayatollah Khomeini, the biggest Shi'ite hero of the 20th century, used to preach "Every day is the anniversary of the battle, and every place is Karbala." The inspirational message was: wherever you are, go get yourself massacred. What are you doing sitting around breathing? Why ain't you out there getting slaughtered, you lazy godless bum?
And these are the people we're picking off one by one, then bragging about body counts. Still wonder why the war's going so badly?
At the moment, Sadr and the Mahdi-ettes are withdrawing, and Bush's PR guys are claiming Sadr's going into politics to play nice. You have to wonder if they really believe that. I hope not; I hope they're not really that dumb.
Any guerrilla war has lulls, slowdowns, little coffee breaks that last a week, a month, sometimes years. It doesn't mean the war's over. The VC used to go home when it was time to harvest the rice crop; every time they did, the Saigon PR office would declare that the insurgency was beaten. Sadr and his boys are going to work us the way you work a can lid: back and forth, over and over, sheer metal fatigue. They've got a whole new crop of martyrs to worship, and all they have to do is wait for another policy mistake to outrage all their followers. One thing you can be sure of, if you're an Iraqi Shiite: outrages are like buses, there'll always be another one coming along. When it arrives, they'll get on board, fight us again, lose again, win the propaganda battle again, and come back a little stronger, with more of the Shi'ite poor on their side. After a half dozen lost battles, they'll be so strong we'll be glad to catch the last chopper out of Najaf and let'em martyr each other, instead of paying hundreds of billions of my tax money to be their Santa-Claus bogeyman.
- Gary Brecher
I wonder who'll pay for the reconstruction if the Baath party is doing it.
The mistake being made is assuming that only soldiers would be subjected to the system, but once the door is open it's only a matter of time before anyone else is thrown in.
Tell me. How many countries living under Sharia Law would allow their imans, citizens, soldiers, etc. to be subjected to an unislamic court? Muslims have fits over something as simple as the hijab and you think someone would want to open themselves up to the international court? No way in hell.
The ONE WORLD ORDER starts with the 'international courts'. Once each country is convinced to use international law, their own laws play second fiddle and you can best be assured, it's a matter of time before that group rules the world.
'Be careful what you wish for, you just may get it'
I only published your comment because you took pains in writing it. I wish you could make your comments shorter next time. Courtesy oblige!
Nice picture, Still creating I see.
The answer is because they have a jealous god who created nothing in his entire existence, and just sold a load of suckers a story that he did.
Haven't you noticed, real creators create things and then give them away for nothing. Jealous ones claim the creations are theirs and then sell them, because they love money. Didn't you know that the love of money is the root of all evil?
And that answers your other question; they do nothing because they are being kept in luxury, however a bird in a golden cage is still in a cage.
Only ten minutes?
Love and kisses
Maitreya
Skip to the middle. Hilarious shit.
What a bunch of freaks these muslims are!
There is no apology that I can make, nor any depth of shame that I can feel that will ever be able to make up for what my Country has done, not only to Iraq, but to the world.
There is only one chance for any type of healing to begin, and that would be for us to prove that we can change our ways, then and only then, perhaps someday we would be worthy of even asking for forgiveness not with words, but with actions. Word's mean nothing.
At this point in time, I do not see it happening. No amount of anger, no reasoning, no pleading, no lashing out in rage will wake up these spiritually dead. Oh, some think they are doing something, but they do not understand the full depth of the problem. They are still willing to work with this corrupt system. They are afraid of what they have to do because they have no idea how to live without this system which now controls them.
We have not understood the LAW. We have thought ourselves to be so powerful, so knowledgeable that we would be able to create what we desired. Instead of seeking WISDOM, we continued on our quest for knowledge. We were fools.
The answerers are all around us to questions that we never sought to ask. I can see them but it appears at this point I am the only one, at least amongst those who have heard my voice and labeled me insane.
Too many are still willing to work with this Beast, when I try to explain to them, I am speaking to the deaf. They cannot hear.
We have lost control of our creation. This system we have allowed has become corrupted beyond possibility of repair. We have gone from being the creators to the slaves of this system, this creation. We fed it and allowed it to grow, foolishly ignoring the warnings which we received. Now it is to late. We must kill it and begin anew, hopefully this time with an understanding of the dangers.
Unfortunately, I think it is too late. Time will tell, but right now the flow I see is leading to destruction.
I will continue to shout until either they come to get me or I die. Other than that, I am a lone voice shouting in the wilderness.
This Beast is about to raise it's head fully within our midst. I raise my sword and pray my blade be true.
This is a battle for humanity. I have arrived late and for that I will apologize. Now I must find a way to make up for it.
CrimsonEagle.
http://www.informationliberation.com/index.php?id=23235&comments=0#6458
The "go back to Iraq" bit was only a part of my advice, you clever one ;-)
What about the rest ??
Is that really so tremendously difficult for you to talk about your sentiments towards those people ??
my love and enthusiasm for Iraq, is like that for a long lost relative.
We said it before the war and invasion, the Iraqi people will not be slaves to anyone.
The "chains of the masses" will be untied and the "voice of the people, cannot be and will not be denied!"
You keep speaking in generalities and evading the point.
Must I deduce that it is a "sore" one ?
For the nth and last time, I would ask you to be kind enough to confirm or refute my statement that you and your fellow-"opponents" still nurture old grudges and dreams of revenge against the Baath Party in spite of all its resistance efforts and sacrifices.
Thank you in advance for answering !
I think in truth, you have us confused with another group because if we did "still nurture old grudges and dreams of revenge", we would have supported sanctions, supported the invasion and would support the current political process.
http://unveilingthem.com/SecretCovenant.htm
You can find it at various others sites on the web too, but notice it ends:
"This covenant must NEVER, EVER be known to exist. It must NEVER, EVER
be written or spoken of for if it is, the consciousness it will spawn will release the fury of the PRIME CREATOR upon us and we shall be cast to the depths from whence we came and remain there until the end time of infinity itself."
Now, as I told you before, my darling wife, who died from cancer, caused by the Yankee nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll, what with her dad serving in their detested navy for so many years to the detriment of his, and his children's health; well she taught me about "Apo Langit", which kinda explains this idea of a "Prime Creator"
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Temple/9845/spirit.htm
The Ilokanos (My wife was Ilokano) believed in three souls in the body. The eternal soul that continued after death was known as Kararwa according to Calip, while Alingaas the soul that is found at places one has been previously; and Karma the soul that inhabits the living body. Sometimes, Karma is seen as a vapor that leaves the body either as an invisible vapor or in the form of an insect travelling to far places. Sometimes, the karma even left the body while the individual was awake. For example, those returning from the forest would make recitation Intayon, Intayon, or Intayon kaddua, while striking the chest with the palm, invoking the Karma to return from the forest to the body.
Sometimes, the good soul, rather than ascending to heaven, would take residence in a local tree or similar spot to watch over their loved ones, or take care of unfinished business. There also existed an idea of dying persons leaving a "portion" of themselves with other family members, followers or students.
Believe me Layla Anwar, my sister, and believe me well. My wife passed away ten years since, and yet she remains here, with me, and she still has unfinished business with America. There shall be no forgiveness for Yankees.