Take the Myanmar tragedy, with the complications of the cyclone [disease, water and food unavailability, rainy season] projected to take a million lives; relief is still being kept out generally, but the junta continues to vigorously export rice to Bangladesh and other points, while throwing their citizens the spoiled leftovers. The “election” went on as planned, even though 100,000 people are dead or unaccounted for and the country is in chaos. Fearing backlash, McCain’s pick to lead the GOP convention quit due to ties to the junta, as well as two of his aids. Busy, BUSY little Pubs! That ANYone on this side of the hemisphere would lobby for these brutes tells us how low humans will go to make a buck.

We’re focused on the cyclone — while behind the scenes, there’s rot.

China had a whiz-bang of an earthquake, reported at 7.8 [which will rattle your teeth right out of your head.] Early estimates indicate 3-5,000 dead, and you know how those grow. Added to the outcry of the Tibetan issues, this is going to add big PR and logistical problems to the joy-joy Olympic occasion they had planned, their entry into ‘civil society.’ It will be interesting to see how the People’s Republic calms the international concerns, immune to the propaganda machine. I’d suppose there will be humanitarian efforts — in this country, we’d have to borrow money from them to send something along, wouldn’t we.

We’re focused on the idealism of a sporting event among competing nations — while behind the scenes there’s calamity.

Here in the US of A, 20 people were killed in the latest storm and tornadic event … they’re like pearls on a string, now, one right behind another separated by weeks … and one little town in Oklahoma isn’t even going to try to rebuild. The touchdown that killed 15 was about an hour away from the Pea Patch. These things don’t faze us anymore — well, think Katrina and all; doing nothing is our default position. The moral issues don’t get our blood running anymore; we’re exhausted, they all seem like one dark event that’s pounding us.

Survival issues are resonating our chakra’s now. We’re preoccupied with the economy and the election, busy putting “food on our families.” If we needed a little pick-me-up, we could read about the Bush wedding this weekend, with Jenna marrying her Pub loyalist, and former aid to Karl Rove. [Many feel this is an inappropriate time for nuptials, across partisan lines — but I’m cutting them slack. Love wins out, and they didn’t rub our noses in it with a giant BBQ gala at the White House; this article is symbolic of any number of others I’ve read.]

Yes, we’re focused elsewhere — and meanwhile, behind the curtain …

Jude

Kitty Hawk air wing commander removed for ‘loss of confidence’
Teri Weaver, Stars and Stripes
Sunday, May 11, 2008

TOKYO — The U.S. Navy air wing commander for the USS Kitty Hawk’s strike group was relieved of duty Friday after an admiral said he lost confidence in the commander’s ability, according to a Navy spokeswoman.

Capt. Michael P. McNellis was relieved as commander of Carrier Air Wing 5 by Rear Adm. Richard B. Wren, commander of Commander Task Force 70, the Navy said in a news release.

The admiral’s mast, a nonjudicial punishment proceeding below the level of court-martial, was held Friday at sea aboard the Kitty Hawk, according to Cmdr. Jensin W. Sommer, CTF-70 strike group spokeswoman.

Sommer declined Friday evening to give any details about the circumstances leading to McNellis’ nonjudicial proceeding.

Sommer described Wren’s findings as a removal from command “due to a loss of confidence, not a punishment.”

McNellis left the Kitty Hawk on Friday, Sommer said. McNellis, who graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1982 and trained as an EA-6B Prowler pilot, was preparing for retirement, she said.

Capt. Michael S. White, the former air wing deputy commander, assumed command, Sommer said.

McNellis took command of Carrier Air Wing 5 in September 2006 from Capt. Garry Mace, who commended McNellis at the time for his experience.

“Since I started working with [McNellis], he’s always been a moral compass for me, keeping me pointed in the right direction,” Mace said in 2006. “I’m sure as a leader, he’ll do great things for this air wing.”

The air wing is based at Naval Air Facility Atsugi and includes seven aircraft squadrons and two smaller aircraft detachments, consisting of about 70 aircraft and 2,000 people. It is part of the Kitty Hawk’s strike group, the largest in the Navy.

The USS Kitty Hawk Carrier Strike Group is conducting training and operations in the Philippine Sea, Sommer wrote in the news release. ++

[snipped from] Disturbing Stirrings - Ratcheting Up For War On Iran
Stephen Lendman, OpEdNews
May 12, 2008

[…] No one can predict US and Israeli plans, but certain things are known and future possibilities can be assessed. Consider recent events. In mid-March, Dick Cheney toured the Middle East with stops in Israel, the West Bank, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Oman, Afghanistan and Iraq. It came after Centcom commander Admiral William Fallon “resigned” March 10 (a year after his appointment) after reports were that he sharply disagreed with regional administration policy.

Public comments played it down, but speculation was twofold - Fallon’s criticism of current Iraq policy and his opposition to attacking Iran. Before the March 10 announcement, smart money said he’d be sacked by summer and replaced by someone more hawkish. It came sooner than expected, and, even more worrisome, by a super-hawk. One with big ambitions, and that’s a bad combination. More on that below.

First, recall another Pentagon sacking last June, officially announced as a “retirement.” George Bush was said to have “reluctantly agreed” to replacing Joint Chiefs Chairman Peter Pace because of his “highest regard” for the general. At issue, of course, was disagreement again over Middle East policy with indications Pace was far from on board. He signaled it on February 17, 2006 at a National Press Club luncheon. Responding to a question, he said: “It is the absolute responsibility of everybody in uniform to disobey an order that is either illegal or immoral.” He later added that commanders should “not obey illegal and immoral orders to use weapons of mass destruction….They cannot commit crimes against humanity.”

These comments and likely private discussions led to Pace’s dismissal. This administration won’t tolerate dissent even by Joint Chiefs Chairmen. It’s clear that officials from any branch of government will be removed or marginalized if they oppose key administration policy. Some go quietly while more notable ones make headlines that omit what’s most important. For one thing, that the Pentagon is rife with dissent over the administration’s Middle East policy.

For another, the law of the land, and there’s nothing more fundamental than that. The administration disdains it so it’s no fit topic for the media. Law Professor Francis Boyle champions it in his classroom, speeches, various writings and books like his newest - Protesting Power: War, Resistance, and Law.

Boyle is an expert. He knows the law and has plenty to cite - the UN Charter; Nuremberg Charter, Judgment and Principles; Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide; Universal Declaration of Human Rights; Hague Regulations; Geneva Conventions; Supreme and lower Court decisions; US Army Field Manual 27-10; the Law of Land Warfare (1956); and US Constitution.

He unequivocally states that every US citizen, including members of the military and all government officials, are duty bound to obey the law and to refuse to carry out orders that violate it. Doing so makes them culpable. Included are all international laws and treaties. The Constitution’s supremacy clause (”the supreme law of the land” under Article VI) makes them domestic law. General Pace, Fallon and others on down aren’t exempt. Neither is the president, vice-president, all administration members and everyone in Congress.

Before Fallon’s sacking, things were heating up. Three US warships (including the USS Cole guided-missile destroyer) were deployed to the Lebanese coast - officially “to show support for regional stability (and over) concern about the situation in Lebanon.” It’s been in political crisis for months, and it’s got Washington and Israel disturbed - because of Hezbollah’s widespread popularity and ability to defend itself.

Any regional US show of force causes concern, especially when more is happening there simultaneously. Russia’s UN Ambassador Vitaly Churkin criticized it, and Hezbollah said it “threat(ened)” regional stability - with good reason. It believes conflict will erupt in northern Occupied Palestine close to the Lebanese border. It’s also preparing to counter Israel’s latest threat - an Israeli Channel 10 News report that the IDF is on high alert “inside and outside Israel” and is prepared to launch a massive attack if Hezbollah retaliates for the assassination of one of its senior leaders, Imad Fayez Mughniyah, by a February 12 Damascus car-bombing.

Then came Cheney’s Middle East tour with likely indications of its purpose - oil, Israeli interests and, of course, isolating Iran, Syria, Hezbollah, Hamas further, and rallying support for more war in a region where Arab states want to end the current ones. What worries them most, or should, is the possibility that Washington will use nuclear weapons. If so, consider the consequences - subsequent radioactive fallout that will contaminate vast regional swaths permanently.

After Cheney left Saudi Arabia, the state-friendly Okaz newspaper reported that the Saudi Shura Council (the kingdom’s elite decision-making body) began formulating “national plans to deal with any sudden nuclear and radioactive hazards that may affect the kingdom” should the Pentagon use nuclear weapons against Iran. It’s a sign Saudi leaders are worried and a clear indication of what they discussed with Cheney.

Saudi, Iranian and other world leaders know the stakes. They’re also familiar with Bush administration strategy and tactics post-9/11… ++

Attack Iran? Why Not Just Paint Targets on the Backs of Kids Like Those on PBS’s “Carrier”?
Russ Wellen, SmirkingChimp
May 12, 2008

After the National Intelligence Estimate last November which reported that Iran had no nuclear program since 2003, many of us breathed a sigh of relief. It was official: When it came to attacking Iran, the administration hadn’t a leg to stand on.

But, as with Iraq, it was used to that. Once anointed lame duck, it didn’t skip a beat and continued to stumble forward.

In a recent post at his blog “Early Warning,” Washington Post security analyst William Arkin writes: “Those predicting war with Iran or some Bush-Cheney October surprise attack on Tehran are constantly looking for signs of military preparations.”

He cites the unauthorized transfer of nuclear warheads from Minot to Barksdale Air Force bases, extra aircraft carriers sent to the Persian Gulf, and the B-1 that crashed in Qatar last month.

Then Arkin recalls a secret mission conducted last August over Afghanistan. He claims it “tells us everything we need to know about the ability of the U.S. military to conduct a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack in Iran.”

It seems that four F-16CJ fighters completed a mission that won the prestigious Mackay Trophy for the “most meritorious” Air Force fight of the year. They flew from Iraq to Eastern Afghanistan, where they dropping more than a dozen “precision-guided” bombs on Taliban targets. It “was the equivalent of flying from New York to Los Angeles and back,” Arkin explains.

In other words, like a 10-K runner logging a hundred miles a week, they might have been training for a strike on Iran, which is just the next country over from Iraq.

Meanwhile, on May 2, Andrew Cockburn (author of a new book, “Muqtada,” called “required reading” in the New York Times Sunday Book Review today) reported on Counterpunch that, six weeks before, President Bush signed a secret directive authorizing a covert offensive against Iran.

Supposedly, it surpasses in scope anything attempted before. Assuming, that is, that you don’t count the CIA’s work to destabilize Iran’s democratically elected prime minister, Mohammad Mossadegh’s, in 1953.

The directive, Cockburn writes, funds (to the tune of $300 million), “actions across a huge geographic area –- from Lebanon to Afghanistan -– but is also far more sweeping in the type of actions permitted. . . including the assassination of targeted officials.” Presumably by the terrorist MEK, the Iranian anti-Islamic Republic group that, despite its designation as a terrorist group by the State Department, we’re only too glad to make use of.

But, on his blog, Pen and Sword, outspoken Military.com columnist Ken Huber calls Cockburn’s Counterpunch piece “counterproductive.” “Cockburn seems to want us to get excited that this Lebanon-to-Afghanistan offensive may involve assassination,” he writes. But “we’re already assassinating people in Somalia with freaking cruise missiles. We’re doing the same thing in Pakistan with Hellfire missiles fired from pilotless spy planes; the folks who pickle off the missiles are dweebs sitting at consoles in an Air Force base in Nevada.”

Pickle off, indeed. Huber concludes: “The door to this barn has been open for a long, long time. That the horses are gone shouldn’t be news to anybody.”

However, the threat has since been kicked into a higher gear by respected security analyst Philip Giraldi, who was a former CIA officer and is now foreign policy advisor to the Ron Paul campaign.

In his latest blog at the American Conservative, “War With Iran Might Be Closer Than You Think,” he writes: “There is considerable speculation and buzz in Washington today suggesting that the National Security Council has agreed in principle to proceed with plans to attack an Iranian al-Qods-run camp [near Tehran] that is believed to be training Iraqi militants.”

“Secretary of Defense Robert Gates,” he adds, “was the only senior official urging delay. . . . [The decision] is the direct result of concerns [over] the deteriorating situation in Lebanon, where Iranian ally Hezbollah appears to have gained the upper hand against government forces.”

After contacting Iran and reading them the riot act, the White House decided that “some sort of unambiguous signal has to be sent to the Iranian leadership, presumably in the form of cruise missiles.” Unambiguous, thy name is cruise missile. Of course, President Bush “will still have to give the order to launch after all preparations are made.”

PBS has been running a series titled Carrier, about life aboard the USS Nimitz. Imagine Iran retaliating to an air strike by blowing a mega-tub like this, along with its crew of over 5,000 mostly young people, out of the water? Iran’s state-of-the-art Shahab-3 missiles are able to reach parts of the Arabian Sea and even the Mediterranean.

In other words, not only is the Persian Gulf, but total war, a hop, skip and a jump away. ++

Early Warning
A Secret Afghanistan Mission Prepares for War with Iran
William M. Arkin, Washington Post
08/05/08

Those predicting war with Iran or some Bush-Cheney October surprise attack on Tehran are constantly looking for signs of military preparations: a B-52 bomber that mistakenly takes off from North Dakota with nuclear-armed cruise missiles; a second or third aircraft carrier entering the Persian Gulf; a B-1 crashing in Qatar.

Since the most likely path to war with Iran is not Marines storming the beach but a strike on nuclear facilities and “regime” targets, signs such as these can often just be mirages. The true strike is not necessarily going to come with any warning, and the U.S. military has developed an entire system called “global strike” to implement such a preemptive strike.

A secret mission conducted last August over Afghanistan caught my eye because it tells us everything we need to know about the ability of the U.S. military to conduct a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack in Iran. It also tells us how useless such a strike might be.

On Aug. 12, 2007, four F-16CJ fighters took off on an 11-hour mission from Iraq to Eastern Afghanistan, crossing the airspace of six different nations, before dropping more than a dozen precision-guided bombs on Taliban targets. The crews of the record-breaking flight received the coveted Clarence MacKay Trophy for 2007, an award given annually for “the most meritorious flight” of the year.

The secret mission had never before been attempted, according to the Air Force, and the pilots were allotted a two-minute window of attack at the end of their 2,100-mile flight. The entire non-stop mission, which took 13 aerial refuelings, was the equivalent of flying from New York to Los Angeles and back.

The mission was a success, according to the Air Force: It resulted in “direct hits” that allowed coalition ground forces to “conduct raids on Taliban positions.”

However, a check of the news out of Afghanistan for the week of Aug. 12 reveals no real air strike of significance. On Aug. 12, the wire services reported fighting near the Pakistani border and the death of three U.S. soldiers and their Afghan interpreter from a roadside bomb. Further fighting was reported on Aug. 13 and Aug. 14, but no significant bombing missions in support of U.S. or Afghan forces.

On Aug. 15, the Afghan government announced a large scale three-day operation in the area of Tora Bora, an operation launched in response to the killing of three U.S. soldiers by IED earlier that week. Officials said nearly 50 suspected Pakistani and Taliban militants were killed in air and ground operations. Coalition aircraft carried out two sorties to target the Taliban positions in that area, an Afghan official said.

I don’t doubt that the F-16CJ night mission was complicated and historic, as well as physically and mentally demanding. The crews, according to the Air Force, worked with new operating instructions and went into the unknown. The squadron commander had only 18 hours to plan and prepare for the attack. The mission was so secret, furthermore, it was not listed on the daily Air Tasking Order, the daily schedule distributed throughout the U.S. military, further complicating aerial refuelings and overflights.

If on Aug. 12, 2007, the United States had killed Osama bin Laden or scored some major victory in Afghanistan, one might fully appreciate the mission and the award of the MacKay Trophy. But I suspect that what was important here is that the mission went like clockwork, not that something important in Afghanistan was destroyed.

None of this is to besmirch the effort or the achievement. But if this was really a rehearsal to attack Iran, it was a mission where getting the airplanes over the target was more consequential than what was actually bombed. ++

War With Iran Might Be Closer Than You Think
Philip Giraldi, The American Conservative
May 9th, 2008

There is considerable speculation and buzz in Washington today suggesting that the National Security Council has agreed in principle to proceed with plans to attack an Iranian al-Qods-run camp that is believed to be training Iraqi militants.

The camp that will be targeted is one of several located near Tehran. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates was the only senior official urging delay in taking any offensive action. The decision to go ahead with plans to attack Iran is the direct result of concerns being expressed over the deteriorating situation in Lebanon, where Iranian ally Hezbollah appears to have gained the upper hand against government forces and might be able to dominate the fractious political situation.

The White House contacted the Iranian government directly yesterday through a channel provided by the leadership of the Kurdish region in Iraq, which has traditionally had close ties to Tehran. The US demanded that Iran admit that it has been interfering in Iraq and also commit itself to taking steps to end the support of various militant groups. There was also a warning about interfering in Lebanon. The Iranian government reportedly responded quickly, restating its position that it would not discuss the matter until the US ceases its own meddling employing Iranian dissident groups. The perceived Iranian intransigence coupled with the Lebanese situation convinced the White House that some sort of unambiguous signal has to be sent to the Iranian leadership, presumably in the form of cruise missiles. It is to be presumed that the attack will be as “pinpoint” and limited as possible, intended to target only al-Qods and avoid civilian casualties. The decision to proceed with plans for an attack is not final. The President will still have to give the order to launch after all preparations are made. ++

Hizbollah Rules West Beirut In Iran’s Proxy War With US
Robert Fisk, TheIndependent
10/05/08

Another American humiliation. The Shia gunmen who drove past my apartment in west Beirut yesterday afternoon were hooting their horns, making V-signs, leaning out of the windows of SUVs with their rifles in the air, proving to the Muslims of the capital that the elected government of Lebanon has lost.

And it has. The national army still patrols the streets, but solely to prevent sectarian killings or massacres. Far from dismantling the pro-Iranian Hizbollah’s secret telecommunications system – and disarming the Hizbollah itself – the cabinet of Fouad Siniora sits in the old Turkish serail in Beirut, denouncing violence with the same authority as the Iraqi government in Baghdad’s green zone.

The Lebanese army watches the Hizbollah road-blocks. And does nothing. As a Tehran versus Washington conflict, Iran has won, at least for now. Walid Jumblatt, the Druze leader and MP and a pro-American supporter of Mr Siniora’s government, is isolated in his home in west Beirut, but has not been harmed. The same applies to Saad Hariri, one of the most prominent government MPs and the son of the murdered former prime minister Rafik Hariri. He remains in his west Beirut palace in Koreitem, guarded by police and soldiers but unable to move without Hizbollah’s approval. The symbolism is everything.

When Hamas became part of the Palestinian government, the West rejected it. So Hamas took over Gaza. When the Hizbollah became part of the Lebanese government, the Americans rejected it. Now Hizbollah has taken over west Beirut. The parallels are not exact, of course. Hamas won a convincing electoral victory. Hizbollah was a minority in the Lebanese government; its withdrawal from cabinet seats with other Shias was occasioned by Mr Siniora’s American-defined policies and by their own electoral inability to change these. The Lebanese don’t want an Islamic republic any more than the Palestinians. But when Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, the Hizbollah chairman, told a press conference that this was a “new era” for Lebanon, he meant what he said.

Mr Hariri’s Future Television offices were invested by the army after Hizbollah surrounded it on Thursday night, its staff evacuated and the station switched off. When I turned up there yesterday morning, I joined a queue for manouche – Lebanon’s hot cheese breakfast sandwiches – at Eyman’s bakery in Watwat Street. I patiently waited behind four black-hooded gunmen from Hizbollah’s allied (but highly venal) Amal movement only to find uniformed Lebanese soldiers representing the government patiently queuing at the next window. Law and disorder, it seems, both have to eat.

But I found far more powerful symbolism in Hamra Street, one of west Beirut’s two main commercial thoroughfares. More than 100 Hizbollah men were standing or patrolling the highway, clad in new camouflage fatigues, wearing new black flak jackets and new black, peaked, American-style baseball caps and – more to the point – what appeared to be equally new American sniper rifles..

No, this is not a revolution. No, this is not a “hijacking” of west Beirut or the airport, which remains cut off by burning tyres on roads guarded by Hizbollah militiamen. But the government’s supporters deserve some space. Several pointed out that the Israelis closed Beirut airport in 2006. So what right did Hizbollah have to do the same to the Lebanese now? And, according to Saad Hariri, Mr Nasrallah – when he called Mr Jumblatt “a thief and a killer” – was “authorising his murder and clearly stating that, ‘I am the state and the state is me’.” No wonder, then, that Mr Jumblatt fears for his life and that Mr Hariri claims the Hizbollah’s coup de folie is a form of fitna, the Arabic for chaos. “I invite you, Sayed Nasrallah, to take back your fighters from the streets and to lift the siege of Beirut to protect the unity of Muslims,” he said. “Israel will be rejoicing at the blockade of the country and the collapse of its economy.”

Marwan Hamade, Mr Siniora’s Telecommunications Minister – and victim of an attempted assassination in 2004 – admitted he had turned a blind eye to Hizbollah’s underground phone system but could no longer when he realised that Hizbollah now maintains 99,000 numbered lines.

Mr Nasrallah also insisted on the reinstallation of Brigadier General Wafiq Chucair as head of security at Beirut airport, since he was not a member of Hizbollah. General Chucair was suspended after Mr Jumblatt claimed he worked for Mr Nasrallah’s outfit, a demand which prompted Mr Jumblatt to say he did not know General Chucair was so important to Mr Nasrallah that it was worth closing the international airport.

And so it goes on. There was an unusually good editorial in the French-language daily L’Orient Le Jour, which asked how the Hizbollah – literally “the party of God” in Arabic – could have war as its raison d’etre yet be a factor of stability and security in Lebanese domestic affairs. “And this party, can it really call itself the ‘Party of God’ without creating, in the long term, the distrust of all those other children who count themselves to be from the same unique and one God?”

No, this is not a civil war. Nor is it a coup d’etat, though it meets some of the criteria. It is part of the war against America in the Middle East. The Hizbollah “must stop sowing trouble,” the White House said rather meekly. Yes, like the Taliban. And al-Qa’ida. And the Iraqi insurgents. And Hamas. And who else? ++

Iraq: No Evidence Iran Is Arming Shiites
Top Official Says Reports That Militants Received Weapons From Tehran Are Not “Conclusive”
AP via CBS News
May 4, 2008

(AP) BAGHDAD — A top Iraqi official said Sunday there was no “conclusive” evidence that Shiite extremists have been directly supplied with some Iranian arms as alleged by the United States.

Government spokesman Ali al-Dabbagh said Iraq does not want trouble with any country, “especially Iran.”

Al-Dabbagh was commenting on talks this week in Tehran between an Iraqi delegation and Iranian authorities aimed at halting suspected Iranian aid to some Shiite militias.

Asked about reports that some rockets made in 2007 or 2008 and seized in raids against militias were directly supplied by Iran, al-Dabbagh replied: “There is no conclusive evidence.”

Al-Dabbagh said Iraq wants friendly ties with Iran and stressed both countries share common interests.

“We can’t ignore or deny we are neighbors. We do not want to be pushed in a struggle with any country, especially Iran,” he told a news conference.

“We are fed up with past tensions that we have paid a costly price for because some parties have pushed Iraq (in the past) to take an aggressive attitude to Iran.” ++

‘NYT’ vs McClatchy on Iran’s Link to Iraqi Insurgents
Greg Mitchell
May 05, 2008

NEW YORK — Michael Gordon, the military writer for The New York Times who contributed several false stories about Iraqi WMD in the runup to the U.S. attack on Iraq in 2002, has written several articles in the past year about Iran’s alleged training of Iraqi insurgents — or supplying them with weapons to kill Americans. He produced another major report on this subject for today’s Times – based solely on unnamed sources — which is at odds with an account from McClatchy’s Baghdad bureau.

Gordon asserts that “Militants from the Lebanese group Hezbollah have been training Iraqi militia fighters at a camp near Tehran…An American official said the account of Hezbollah’s role was provided by four Shiite militia members who were captured in Iraq late last year and questioned separately.

“The United States has long charged that the Iranians were training Iraqi militia fighters in Iran, which Iran has consistently denied, and there have been previous reports about Hezbollah operatives in Iraq.

“But the Americans say the reports of Hezbollah’s role at the Iranian camp offer important details about Iranian assistance to the militias, including efforts Iran appears to be making to train the fighters in unobtrusive ways.”

But McClatchy has a quite different take.

Leila Fadel, the bureau chief, and Shashank Bengali report: “The Iraqi Government seemed to distance itself from U.S. accusations towards Iran Sunday saying it would not be forced into conflict with its Shiite neighbor. And Prime Minister Nouri al Maliki ordered the formation of a committee to look into foreign intervention in Iraq.

“As the government appeared to back down from its hardening stance against Iran, four marines were killed in Anbar in the deadliest attack in the Sunni province in months.

“The government spokesman, Ali al Dabbagh, told reporters Sunday that a committee was formed to find ‘tangible information’ about foreign intervention, specifically Iran’s role in Iraq rather than ‘information based on speculation.’

“‘We don’t want to be pushed into any conflict with any neighboring countries, especially Iran. What happened before is enough. We paid a lot,’ Dabbagh said, referring to the eight years war between the two nations in which an estimated 1 million people died.”

Also today from Agence France-Press: “Iraq said on Sunday it has no evidence that Iran was supplying militias engaged in fierce street fighting with security forces in Baghdad.

“Government spokesman Ali al-Dabbagh said there was no ‘hard evidence’ of involvement by the neighbouring Shiite government of Iran in backing Shiite militiamen in the embattled country. Asked about reports that weapons captured from Shiite fighters bore 2008 markings suggesting Iranian involvement, Dabbagh said: ‘We don’t have that kind of evidence… If there is hard evidence we will defend the country.’”

Here is a list of Gordon’s sources in his Times article:

– “An American official”

–”An American official”

– ditto, and so on ++

“So keep fightin’ for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don’t you forget to have fun doin’ it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin’ ass and celebratin’ the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was.”
~ Molly Ivins, 1944 - 2007

In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, this material is distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes.

Then Garrison Keillor, Cindy Sheehan and other interesting reads about what motherhood was and is … the heartbeat that keeps it all going.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Jude

Johnny’s Mom

~ from Chelsea Clinton

You and I both know my mom will make a great president. I’m so blessed to have her as the best mom I could imagine — at 8, 18, and 28. As we approach Mother’s Day, I want to share a few memories of my mom with you.

Take a look.

Thank you again for your support of the person I am so proud to call my mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Chelsea ++

Sharing dreams from his mother
Ellen Goodman, Boston Globe
May 9, 2008

FROM time to time during this primary, I’ve wondered about Obama’s mama. In a race that was so much about biography, about beliefs rooted in her son’s “DNA,” she’s made only cameo appearances.

She was the “mother from Kansas” balanced alliteratively with the “father from Kenya.” Or she was the white parent whose genes combined with the black parent. Or she was the woman dying of cancer “more worried about paying her medical bills than getting well.” And on Tuesday night when her son all but sewed up the nomination, she appeared again as the “single parent who had to go on food stamps at one point.”

I have been thinking of her not just because it’s nearly Mother’s Day but because Obama will soon have to reach out to Hillary Clinton’s supporters, especially to women of a certain age who attached their hopes to having a woman in the White House. Obama has not yet had a “gender conversation” with those women.

What better link does he have than his mother, Stanley Ann Dunham, the girl whose own father expected and wanted a boy child? Ann Dunham, a nonconformist, a woman of the world who traveled a trajectory of change so associated with Hillary’s generation?

Last week, my eye lit on an odd correction in The New York Times. It read: “The assertion that Mr. Obama had ‘never known’ his Kenyan father should have been that he had ‘barely known’ him.” Surely it was a distinction without a difference.

It’s no surprise that Obama wrote an entire memoir dedicated to his “barely known” parent: “Dreams from My Father.” It was only after his mother’s death that he wrote in a new preface, “I think sometimes that had I known she would not survive her illness, I might have written a different book - less a meditation on the absent parent, more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life.” He added that “she was the kindest, most generous spirit I have ever known, and that what is best in me I owe to her.”

From all accounts, this daughter of a family that kept traveling west in restless pursuit of the American dream took no part in Eisenhower-era conformity. She was a teenager in Hawaii when she fell for the charismatic Kenyan in her Russian class and married him six months before her son was born. This was a time when interracial marriage was still illegal in parts of the country.

The rest of the story is known: a divorce, a marriage to an Indonesian, a second divorce. She was a mother who kept her children focused as well as fed. But what’s less known is the woman in her own right, the one who became an anthropologist, the woman who spent years as the respected head of research for Women’s World Banking, bringing micro-financing to poor people in Indonesia.

Nancy Barry, who was the head of Women’s World Banking and knew Ann well, has been bewildered by the way she’s been reduced to a stick figure. “She was stubborn, hard core, decisive, convincing, deep-thinking, rigorous in her analysis,” says Barry. “When I hear Barack talking about how we are not red states, blue states, but the United States, I think he gets that from his mother. The other core capability he gets from her is the desire for healing.”

Indeed, the Obama we see may be the offspring of “Dreams from My Mother.”

If Ann were alive today she would be the age of Hillary Clinton’s most devoted demographic. She would be among those women who have gone through enormous transitions, making and remaking the female script. Dreaming big.

I am not suggesting Obama drag out his mama as a prop. But he’s staked his case for the presidency on his ability to bridge racial, cultural, party divides, to lead a post-partisan America. Now he’s faced with another divide: women who identified their success with Hillary’s and who are unsure they will vote for him.

What better way to begin reaching out, holding the ‘gender conversation,’ showing women he “gets it” than by sharing the dreams he inherited and the dreams he understands. The dreams from his mother. A girl named Stanley. ++

Nobody Loves You Like Mama Does
Garrison Keillor, Cagle
5/6/2008

The last time I witnessed a woman becoming a mother, it wasn’t anything like the frilly sentiments of Mother’s Day. She lay on her back, perspiring heavily and yelling, “Oh my God, why did you do this to me? I’ll never forgive you in a hundred years. I hope you hurt like this someday. Give me another epidural, you sadists. And get this thing out of me!” and looking up at me as if she were burning at the stake and I had lit the fire. And when the Infant appeared and was placed on the Madonna’s chest, she said, “What in the world am I supposed to do with that?”

It begins in innocence. Music is playing, the night smells of lilacs, she asks if he would like to come in for a minute, and he does, and little does she know what cataclysm awaits her inside: the loss of individuality as she joins the Holy Order of Maternity.

Mothers were, at one time, young women with Possibilities who might have taken a different route and become glamorous and powerful figures in size-two dresses and instead found themselves cleaning up excrement and jiggling colicky babies to get them to stop screaming. They hardly ever get to London anymore or have time to read James Joyce. They sit down to dinner with adults and feel brain-dead. A bouquet of flowers hardly seems compensation enough. How about a million dollars and a house in the south of France?

My mother appears in a photograph of five young women in white summer dresses walking hand-in-hand, grinning, on a country lane near Cottage Grove, Minnesota, in 1932 when she was 17, not long before she met my father, and they all look so fresh and happy, as if in a careless paradise all their own. She is willowy, shy and beautiful and she might’ve modeled evening gowns at Dayton’s Sky Room and maybe been spotted by a Hollywood scout and wound up in pictures, playing the village girl who charms the world-weary tycoon stranded in Littleville by the blizzard. Instead, she became a suburban pioneer, making a home in a muddy cornfield, putting up the stewed tomatoes and canned beans every fall, raising six children, slogging through bouts of mumps and flu, whomping up big Christmases, fishing the laundry out of the washing machine and putting it through the wringer and hanging it on the line. Is that what the smiling girl of 1932 had in mind?

The cruel injustice of motherhood is that, out of devotion to her brood, she sacrifices so much of her own life that her children grow up to find her a little boring in comparison to the maiden aunt who is a little rebellious and more fun to be around, whereas Mom is just the lady who runs the vacuum. As Erma Bombeck said, the kids walk in and ask her, “Is anybody home?”

But she loves you. You could come home with snakes tattooed on your face and she still would see the good in you. Most great men were mama’s boys. She encouraged them long before anybody else could see any talent there.

Your mother is on top of the situation. Your father has a hard time remembering your birthday or even your Christian name, but your mother knows you by scent, thanks to years of doing your laundry. She knows when you’re in trouble. And you will get into deep trouble someday. Count on it. Someone will file a lawsuit against you and subpoena your e-mail and it will all come flooding out, your dark secrets, your nefarious dealings, and your friends will cross the street to avoid you and your brothers and sisters will fade into the woodwork, but your mother will still love you. Like an old lioness, she’ll come running even if you’re two thousand miles away.

That is why you pay homage to the old lady on Mother’s Day. You entered this cold world causing her more pain than she thought possible and now she won’t ever give up on you. Those old ladies you see being wheeled onto airliners are the mothers of children facing imminent indictment for terrible things. Mama will be in the courtroom for you, baby. She will look the jury in the eye and her look may get you acquitted.

Buy her something nice, like a set of gold ingots. Or a black car with a chauffeur. She’s your mama, honeybuns. At least you could write her a note. ++

Was It Easier Being a Mother in 1908?
On the first Mother’s Day 100 years ago, moms had a tough — but rewarding — job, just as they do today.
Marilyn Gardner, Christian Science Monitor
May 10, 2008

Motherhood ranks as one of the hardest jobs to do, yet one of the easiest to romanticize.

This Sunday, May 11, as families shower mothers with cards, gifts, and superlatives, they will be part of an observance that had its humble beginnings 100 years ago. On Sunday, May 10, 1908, simple church services in Grafton, W.Va., and Philadelphia honored the nation’s mothers. A bill introduced in the US Senate that year failed to establish an official Mother’s Day, but it set the stage for a successful measure in 1914.

With their tightly laced corsets, long skirts, heavy shoes, and upswept hair, the mothers of 1908 bear little physical resemblance to their counterparts in 2008, dressed in shorts, Spandex, and sneakers. But as today’s busy mothers savor their holiday, some might think longingly of simpler times, before women spoke of “juggling” or “balancing” work and family. They might even be tempted to idealize mothers of a century ago, whose serene images grace family photo albums.

But wait. “It’s not a time to be romanticized,” says Stephanie Coontz, a historian and author of “Marriage: A History.” “Mothers in 1908 spent less time mothering than they do today. Even in the middle classes, they spent much less time with their kids than we would have imagined.”

One reason for this time deficit involves work. “Most families needed several wage earners,” Ms. Coontz says. “Women took in boarders, did sewing at home, cleaning, and all sorts of jobs that weren’t counted as jobs on the Census but were time-consuming.”

A photo from that era shows a mother balancing a baby on her lap while she assembles cigarettes at her kitchen table. Two other children stand nearby.

Even mothers without paid employment labored endlessly doing housework. In 1908, a New York settlement worker estimated that the average woman, even in middle-class families, spent 40 hours a week just cleaning and shopping. Laundry was an arduous, two-day task, washing one day and ironing the next. Wood and coal stoves required tending and cleaning.

In 1908, Hoover introduced the electric suction sweeper, revolutionizing housecleaning. “It’ll sell itself if we can get the ladies to try it,” Mr. Hoover said. Assuming, of course, that the ladies had electricity. A majority of women still lived on farms. Until the New Deal Rural Electrification program was implemented in the 1930s, electricity was unavailable to huge sections of the country.

Although the birthrate was falling in the early 1900s, women still bore an average of 3.5 children. Farm women averaged closer to five.

The mothers of 1908, like their counterparts today, received advice from pediatricians. Emmett Holt, author of “The Care and Feeding of Children,” was the Dr. Spock of his era, Coontz says. His advice to women: Don’t pick babies up when they cry, and do not breast-feed. And a noted psychologist, Dr. J.B. Watson, cautioned against using pacifiers or indulging in displays of affection. He wrote, “When you are tempted to pet your child, remember that mother love is a dangerous instrument.”

Historians warn against romanticizing marriages of the early 20th century, when women still had to wed out of economic dependence. Husbands had the final say about domestic decisions and controlled family income. A mother could not be the natural guardian of her children unless they were illegitimate.

In the early 1900s, about 10 percent of families were single-parent households, partly because of death and partly because of a high rate of abandonment. “A lot of women were living apart from their husbands,” says Steven Mintz, a historian at Columbia University.

Despite the challenges, Coontz does not suggest that there were no happy families. “If you had a husband who was a good person as well as a good provider, you were fortunate,” she says. “If you were a wealthier mother in the city, you probably had a nanny and a housekeeper. And if you were in a small town, we might be envious of the neighborly interactions. It was a time when people still sat on front porches and did a lot of visiting.”

Even so, Professor Mintz says, “Life was tough in ways we don’t appreciate.” Life expectancy was 51. Infant mortality was high. Most women could not vote.

In 1907, Laura Clarke Rockwood wrote poignantly in The Craftsman magazine about the need to simplify housekeeping: “This mother of to-day hurries from kitchen to nursery and over the other parts of the house, performing as best she can the many home duties of our times. But she is so overwearied in the doing of it all that the deep well of mother love which should overflow, flooding the world with happiness and cheer, runs well nigh dry at times.”

As one solution, Mrs. Rockwood proposed moving meal preparation out of the home: “There should be food kitchens easily accessible to every home where cooked foods can be bought cheaply because of consolidation, and delivered hot to our homes with promptness and regularity in pneumatic tubes perhaps, or by whatever means the master mind shall decide is the cheapest and the best.”

Her pneumatic tubes remain a dream. But cooks of 2008 have an alternative. It’s called “takeout” and “home delivery.”

Two months before the first Mother’s Day observances, President Theodore Roosevelt addressed 200 delegates who gathered at the White House for the first International Congress on the Welfare of the Child, organized by the National Mothers’ Congress.

Speaking of “the supreme dignity, the supreme usefulness of motherhood,” he said, “The successful mother, the mother who does her part in rearing and training aright the boys and girls who are to be the men and women of the next generation, is of greater use to the community, and occupies, if she only would realize it, a more honorable, as well as a more important, position than any successful man in it.”

A century later, his lofty idealism might serve as a fitting tribute to mothers everywhere this Sunday as they celebrate — simply or lavishly — a day that is theirs alone. ++

Mother’s Day 2008: Peaceful Idealism v. Political Pragmatism
Cindy Sheehan, CommonDreams
Sunday, May 11, 2008

As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil
At the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace…
(From Julia Ward Howe’s 1870 Mother’s Day Proclamation)

Sadly, this is the fifth Mother’s Day since Casey was killed in Iraq on April 04, 2004. The people who told me that “time will heal” were wrong, or maybe it just takes more time? I have spoken to many mothers who buried their child years ago, however, that tell me it does not get any easier. I suspect the mothers who have buried children are probably right.

On this Mother’s Day, though, I am reflecting on all kinds of moms. Some women never have children and it seems that their lives are complete. Some women desperately want to have children, but for some reason, cannot. Some women have lost their only child to the ravenous war machine and they somehow go on.

One specific mother has her family intact and can callously sign blank checks to pay for war (that are really nothing but death warrants for other people’s children) with only the life and health of her political party in her heart. Another mother can talk about “obliterating” an entire innocent country filled with mothers and children without even blinking her eyes that only shed crocodile tears at the appropriate moments.

Some of us are lucky enough to have had loving moms and some of us have had mothers who were cold and distant. Other moms are abusive, while some have been abused. Our world is made up of all kinds of women some of which are suited to be mothers some of which are suited to political life; some both: many neither.

I am a mother of four children. I planned on every one of them outliving me. When I thought of growing old, I imagined being surrounded on holidays by four children, children-in-law, grandchildren and great grandchildren. In the natural order of things, children should always bury their parents, but in our unnaturally violent, war torn world where shopping malls, schools, the streets and entire innocent nations are turned into bloodbaths, the situation is reversed and too many parents must tragically bury their children.

Today, one mother joyously watched her daughter marry at a pig farm in Crawford, TX. The mother’s husband, the daughter’s father, proudly looked on the scene that his actions have denied to so many of us. The daughter wore an Oscar de la Renta gown and it has been reported that there will be dancing throughout the night. Because of her father’s lies and greed, too many people the daughter’s age have been buried in their military dress uniforms (if there was enough of the body left to be buried) while their mothers and fathers watched in heartbroken grief as their child’s body was lowered into a cold, cold grave for eternity.

Too many mothers today in Iraq will have their babies blown to bits by American bombs or an insurgent’s last desperate act. If an Iraqi mother is fortunate enough to have all her children around her, she will be scraping for food, clean water and praying for a few minutes of electricity, or at least one day of peace and quiet.

Recently, I was confronted by a man at a farmer’s market in San Francisco. He is not “pro war” but he is pro-Pelosi because he is a “political pragmatist.”

Apparently, Ms. Pelosi funding the war for another year is “politically pragmatic” because it is worth murdering tens of thousands of more innocent people so that Democrats can gain the White House and more seats in Congress. I wish I had the luxury of being a political pragmatist, but I must do everything in my power to save other mothers from the life of never ending grief that I have been condemned to by men and women some of whom are mothers and fathers who have forgotten that other people’s children are precious to their parents, too.

On Mother’s Day this year, while mothers all over America are being taken out to brunch or being served breakfast in bed, I would like us to take time out of our day to reflect on the mothers who have been harmed by the last six years of bloody wars that are waged by neocon-Republicans and paid for by complicit-Democrats. I want us in the US to remember that we are a nation, if not in a legal, moral or declared war: at least a violent occupation that seems like a war to those that have been adversely affected by it.

I am luckier than many mothers whose only child has been stolen from them for lies, because I will be surrounded by my three surviving children and their partners on Mother’s Day and we will spend the time staring at my daughter’s belly which is fat (and one week past due) with my first grandchild. My grandson will never meet his Uncle Casey but he will know him because of the love that is left in his family.

I challenge us all to reject “political pragmatism” and embrace “peaceful idealism” for the love of all the world’s children.

Julia Ward Howe’s Mother’s Day Proclamation should be enshrined in our war-soaked national consciousness as our economy, ecology and our communities are being ravaged by the rapacious war machine:

Say firmly:

“We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.” ++

Mother’s Day Veteran: Moms Wear Combat Boots, Too
Eli PaintedCrow, CommonDreams
Saturday, May 10, 2008

At the age of twenty, being a mother of a three and five year-old was not easy. Being a single mom on welfare living in a cockroach-infested apartment was not living. I thought I needed to learn discipline, so I walked into the army recruitment office. I spent my 21st birthday in boot camp on a five-mile road march. Many a mom has gone through boot camp. I was no exception.

Today I work towards building a network of women, many of them mothers, who have served in the US military. We seek ways to tell the truth and speak for peace. This Mother’s Day is a time to remember the mothers serving in the military whose stories you’re not likely to hear.

In 1987 I was activated and left for Honduras. Once you put on the uniform, you’re a soldier and you do what is expected of you. You do your job and try not to think. You learn to shut your emotions off. When I returned, I didn’t talk with my sons about these life changes. You just come back, go to work, feed your kids.

In 1993 I went to drill sergeant school. Another eight weeks away from home. As a woman in the military, I had to eliminate showing any emotion or insecurity. It affected how I raised my sons. They knew what it was like to be in the military at very young ages. You lose emotions; you lose yourself and connections to others. They drove it out of me in boot camp and finished it off by sending me to Iraq. I don’t feel like a very good mom or partner these days.

My depression can be severe. Some days I can get out of bed, some days I can’t. Other times all I can do is cry. The military teaches you to accept the rules. When you have PTSD, the VA’s evaluation process seems to be the biggest obstacle to get help. Most veterans just give up.

Women are returning from Iraq and Afghanistan and don’t know what is happening to them. They can’t be around their kids; they can’t control their anger or sadness and no one can get close to them. They’re suffering from PTSD but they pretend they’re all right because they don’t want to look weak.

When I started to speak about my experience, my son, a former Marine, thought I was crazy. He is still afraid for me. He thinks someone is going to kill me if I keep talking. But as a mother and a grandmother of eight, I feel there is an obligation to clear the path for our children. My tour in Iraq taught me this lesson.

It broke my heart to watch 20-year-olds walk in from patrol with faces dirty from the dust and heat — looking as if they just came in off the playground — with pictures of their loved ones on their armbands and their weapons on their backs, talking about how they just graduated high school.

Mothers cry for their babies, here and in Iraq. Mothers are the casualties that are not counted. We are the wounded that go untreated. We are also the healers that can change anything. We protect life because we give it. Send a prayer for the mothers and babies who have lost each other. This Mother’s Day remember them, remember us. We need each other to heal. And for all mothers who feel helpless because they think they can’t do anything to stop the war — if you knew the truth you would try. ++

Eli PaintedCrow is a SWAN co-founder and a retired vet working for peace with the Women of Color Resource Center in Oakland, CA.

Día de la MADRE: In Celebration of Mothers around the Globe
MotherVerse Magazine, CommonDreams
Sunday, May 11, 2008

Twenty-five years ago, in the summer of 1983, a partnership was forged between a group of Nicaraguan women and a group of women in the United States. At the time, the US-backed Contra army was waging a campaign of killings, rape and abductions, with devastating consequences for women and their families. The organization that emerged from this partnership took its inspiration-and its name-from the mothers whose children had been killed by the Contras. MADRE (mother in Spanish) became an international women’s human rights organization rooted in connections between women worldwide and in the desire of mothers to seek social justice for all families.

On the celebration of Mother’s Day in the US, we take the opportunity to honor mothers around the globe who are striving to create positive social change. We remember that, in 1870, US activist Julia Ward Howe released her Mother’s Day Proclamation, in which she called for mothers to come together in the name of peace and justice. The women profiled below - all leaders in the communities of MADRE’s sister organizations - share their stories with mothers in the US and remind us of this call for unity.

Fatima Ahmed: Planting Seeds and Putting Down Roots (Sudan)

Ask Fatima Ahmed about the challenges of balancing work with raising her young sons, and she is frank. “I never rest. It takes a lot of energy.” For years, she has served as the director for Zenab for Women in Development, a community-based women’s organization in Sudan. In a country roiled for decades by civil war in the south and more recently by bloodshed in Darfur, Zenab has partnered with MADRE to provide emergency aid to displaced women and families and to support women in refugee camps, who are routinely targeted for sexual violence.

Fatima works with women farmers, many of whom bring their babies into the fields with them everyday. The women have organized a union, part of an effort to recognize the key role played by women in agriculture and the need for more resources, like seeds and farm tools, to sustain their work and their communities.

Occasionally, Fatima’s work requires her to leave her own children for weeks on end, as she travels to rural communities throughout Sudan. The separation can be difficult, but she explains, “I know how much I love my children, and I know that I want everything for them. That is why I feel so much for other mothers who want the same but cannot provide it. When my kids ask me why I’m leaving, I tell them that I’m going to help other mothers and kids who cannot afford the things they have.”

She attributes her drive and her commitment in large part to her own mother, who was also a community leader. “Since I was a child,” says Fatima, “I saw my mother’s compassion for the people around her. Women in the community would come to her for help, and no matter what, she would always welcome them and help them with their problems.” Zenab, the organization that Fatima founded, is named for her mother, and the values and goals it embodies are clearly inspired by her legacy.

“I wish peace for my children, says Fatima, “because without peace, how can we make any progress? We need progress in health, in education, in all areas. For this, we need peace in local communities, at a national level and at an international level. That is the only way.”

On Mother’s Day, Fatima’s thoughts turn to mothers in the US. “I want to tell mothers in the US to raise their kids to look to other worlds beyond their own. They must teach their children that there are other kids just like them and that we are all connected.”

Yanar Mohammed: Motherhood as a Source of Strength (Iraq)

“Becoming a mother,” says Yanar Mohammed, “changes you from an individual into someone who is inextricably connected to-and responsible for-other people’s lives.” In her own life, Yanar has built on that connection through founding the Organization of Women’s Freedom in Iraq (OWFI). Yanar has dedicated herself to meeting the needs of Iraqi women and families suffering as a result of the US invasion and the rising religious extremism it has unleashed. Together with MADRE, OWFI has founded a network of women’s shelters in Iraq. In addition, OWFI’s unique Freedom Space project brings together young poets and artists of varying religious and ethnic backgrounds to create art and express their hopes for a peaceful Iraq where human rights are cherished.

In the context of US occupation and civil war, Yanar’s work has proven dangerous. But she is driven to fight for peace and human rights, in part because she is a mother. “When you are responsible for a vulnerable life, it changes your own. You realize that millions of people can become vulnerable as a result of some situation that they didn’t create-a war, a famine, an occupation. Being a mother is about making the connection between the life you have brought into the world and all life. It’s about stepping up to meet the needs of those who are vulnerable.”

“Early motherhood, especially, can be destabilizing in its many practical challenges, like sleeplessness and the disappearance of any ‘free time.’ But learning to meet those challenges can also be empowering. It makes you more durable, and ultimately, more willing to take on the work of nurturing. Developing that capability prepares you for the even bigger mission of creating social change. You see that any big, positive change needs to be birthed, nurtured and committed to with constancy. I see this in the women of Iraq. They are more prepared for the challenge of living through this difficult time than their men, more resilient because of the experience of being mothers.”

As she looks towards the future, her goals-for her own son and for her country-are far-ranging. “What I want is freedom and equality. As a mother, I feel therefore that I have to constantly protect my child from a world where these cherished things are missing.”

“My wish for mothers in the US and around the world is that they never carry this burden of having to protect their children from a ruthless world. Children should grow in a world where they are nurtured, protected and safe. They should not be punished for being born in the wrong place. I hope that mothers in the US will think of the children of Iraq this Mother’s Day, because these are their children, too. I believe it’s the birthright of every child to be cared for by every adult.”

Robitalia Moreno Díaz & María del Rosario Moreno Díaz: Building a Future in the Face of War (Colombia)

War has changed the face of Villavicencio, a city a few hours by car outside of Colombia’s capital of Bogotá. Displaced by armed conflict and seeking the relative safety of the city, families routinely arrive by the hundreds. Over the past four years, they have built houses along the edges of the city and filled empty lots, establishing a community known as Ciudad Porfia. Women are often forced to start their lives over and struggle to find new homes and new means of survival for their families. But even in these challenging and dangerous circumstances, mothers are determined to build a future for themselves and for their children.

LIMPAL, a MADRE sister organization in Colombia, has worked with displaced women and families for over ten years. In Ciudad Porfia, LIMPAL has been helping women to organize, to participate in human rights trainings and to create their own community development projects. All the while, the leadership of mothers has been the major motivating force. Two sisters, Robitalia Moreno Díaz (known as Robi) and María del Rosario Moreno Díaz (known as Rosa), exemplify this drive.

When the war and financial hardship forced Rosa and her family to flee their home, she was lucky to have the aid of her older sister Robi, who helped her to settle in Ciudad Porfia. Together, Robi and Rosa have become leaders within the women’s group, motivated like so many mothers by their desire to lay a foundation for their children’s success.

“I want what every mother wants for her children,” says Robi. “Their well-being. I want conditions to get better.” Robi, a long-time community activist, pointed to reasons for hope she could see around her. “Throughout the years, everything has changed. The community has brought progress to Ciudad Porfia. Now we have electricity, and we pressured the government to build a footbridge across the river to improve transportation. But there is still more that needs to happen.” She worries about the continuing violence and the limited access to health care.

Robi’s children have absorbed their mother’s determination to create positive change. Mayra, her 17-year-old daughter, explains her goals for the future, saying, “What I have always wanted is to study nursing or medicine. I would like to work on anything that involves helping this community.”

At a meeting of the women’s group in Ciudad Porfia, the scope of their plans and projects for the future is inspiring. Rosa explains, “All of the women agree that it’s important to establish projects that will help the children’s development. For example, we may found a community feeding center, a day care or a job training project for women. Hopefully, we can start implementing our ideas soon.”

“Women here are fighters, and we all know that we will improve our conditions and make progress. We work hard for our children so that they can have better opportunities. As mothers, we are not fighting only for ourselves but for our children.”

Robi adds, “I always remember that life is really short and that we should take advantage of the moments we have with our children. We have to value and educate our kids, and we have to build trust with them. That is all we can give them-the guidelines to start building a solid future.” ++

Women’s Group MADRE shares the stories of mothers from Iraq, Sudan, and Colombia who are fighting for better futures for their children. Their MotherVerse Magazine features smart and engaging writing from mothers across the globe.

A Stitch In Time
Judith Gayle, PoliticalWaves

“So keep fightin’ for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don’t you forget to have fun doin’ it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin’ ass and celebratin’ the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was.”
~ Molly Ivins, 1944 - 2007

In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, this material is distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes.

By golly, the times are fascinating, aren’t they? We’re in a … what? … pre-revolutionary space — or perhaps an unrecognized but self-defining revolution, gathering speed — or maybe an evolution punctuated by chaos and challenge, confusion and information sharing. The call to embrace something new takes fits and starts, flights and dips; our old baggage is being brought out into the front yard for display — our new possibilities are being examined in a petrie dish of dark cynicism and bright hope.

Old ambitions are being thwarted as new conversations are being initiated; we speak now of “emerging patterns” instead of linear absolutes — and what we thought unlikely to ever change, we now discover already has. Even the obvious polarizations we’re accustomed to are shifting as we find our footing in this wobbly terrain. And those of us refusing to budge from what was, are being pummeled by the inevitability of changes that are shimmering in our future.

Here, in this moment, we seem determined to yak up all the old junk in our psyche’s in order to look at it … the racial, gender and generational bugaboo’s we’re forced to examine are not only disturbing, but fascinating as well. And, boy — was THIS conversation a long time coming or what?! It stayed below the surface so long that it HAD to erupt into a pundit feeding frenzy.

Big Dog Bill mentioned Jessie Jackson and he played the ‘race card’ — Obama gave Hillary a less than enthusiastic compliment about her outfit and he dealt her the ‘gender card’ … yesterday, in response to McCain’s allegations that Obama was the darling of Hamas, Barack told Wolf Blitzer that Mac had ‘lost his bearings’ — A’HA! He slapped down the ‘age card.’

None of the cards in this deck would be an issue if they weren’t buried so deeply in our politically-correct and repressed consciousness … all of these are elephants in the room we can’t talk about because none of them has been properly examined and moved past. But we’re there NOW, aren’t we, struggling with this unaccustomed candor and scratchy zeitgeist! Uncomfortably so.

This list of articles illustrates not only our disenchantment’s and our conflicts, but also our realities — who were are as a country, who we are as political creatures, who we are as psychological entities, all this is shifting hourly in the sudden light of day; these reads add pieces to the puzzle, some obvious, some conflicting:

An oil-addicted ex-superpower
By Michael T Klare, Asia Times

Myanmar still will not accept US Aid workers
AP

Warring As Lying Throughout US History
James Bovard, Lew Rockwell

Clipping The Eagle’s Wings
Rick Perlstein, America’s Future

Republicans Vote Against Mom’s; no word yet on puppies, kittens
Dana Milbank, Washington Post

Oh, the joy of being a Republican
Capital Hill Blue

Was Hillary Channeling George Wallace?
Joe Conason, Salon

Recognizing The Race Chasm
David Sirota, San Francisco Chronicle

The Widening Gap
Andrew Kohut, NYT

Endless but revealing primaries
Christian Science Monitor

Flawed Messengers and Wooden Soldiers
John Eskow

[Here’s a PS to the list. Helen Thomas is no spring chicken and defies the generational me-me’s; she has been on a roll lately — here are a few links that are heartwarming and encouraging for Helen-followers:]

Bush admits he approved torture
Helen Thomas, Hearst

‘Why Are We Bombing These People?’
Mike Lillis, WashingtonIndependent

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words
Newspaper Criticized For Publishing Photo
Helen Thomas, ICH

The thing about the condition our condition is in is this: we’re “becoming” … and nobody knows what. That’s the problem with “time” … Eric wrote a terrific piece about that today, and that was my topic too, in tribute to Mom’s everywhere; we have to effort to see the whole of the picture, not just our little snip — and be courageous in confronting our demons, dauntless in following our intent if the future is going to reward us with all we wish to pass to the generations ahead.

The weekend reads are just that … essays from an observer of our time, Matt Taibbi. I see Matt from time to time guesting on Bill Maher; he’s a cutie, and has a thoughtful, informed and often irreverent take on politics and society as a whole, which I don’t always agree with but most often appreciate. He’s written a new book, so his stuff is circling the blogosphere — he’s a reporter for Rolling Stone and they’ve published a chapter, Jesus Made Me Puke. I’m including a link, below that, on his time spent in Hillary’s camp, pre-Illinois, after that. And I’m prefacing with a review from Buzz Flash, and a link to purchase; we should do our best to support the progressive sites that use the bucks to continue giving us alternatives to MSM.

Enjoy the article — I laughed so hard it took me awhile to compose myself; and it gave me the chill, and remembrance of similar experiences, that such an event rightly deserves.

Have a great weekend, and Happy Mum’s Day, all you encourager’s and nurturer’s, male and female and in between.

Jude

The Great Derangement: A Terrifying True Story of War, Politics, and Religion at the Twilight of the American Empire (Hardcover)
Matt Taibbi

May 6; from the Publisher:

Rolling Stone’s Matt Taibbi set out to describe the nature of George Bush’s America in the post-9/11 era and ended up vomiting demons in an evangelical church in Texas, riding the streets of Baghdad in an American convoy to nowhere, searching for phantom fighter jets in Congress, and falling into the rabbit hole of the 9/11 Truth Movement.

Matt discovered in his travels across the country that the resilient blue state/red state narrative of American politics had become irrelevant. A large and growing chunk of the American population was so turned off—or radicalized—by electoral chicanery, a spineless news media, and the increasingly blatant lies from our leaders (”they hate us for our freedom”) that they abandoned the political mainstream altogether. They joined what he calls The Great Derangement.

Taibbi tells the story of this new American madness by inserting himself into four defining American subcultures: The Military, where he finds himself mired in the grotesque black comedy of the American occupation of Iraq; The System, where he follows the money-slicked path of legislation in Congress; The Resistance, where he doubles as chief public antagonist and undercover member of the passionately bonkers 9/11 Truth Movement; and The Church, where he infiltrates a politically influential apocalyptic mega-ministry in Texas and enters the lives of its desperate congregants. Together these four interwoven adventures paint a portrait of a nation dangerously out of touch with reality and desperately searching for answers in all the wrong places.

Funny, smart, and a little bit heartbreaking, The Great Derangement is an audaciously reported, sobering, and illuminating portrait of America at the end of the Bush era.

Watch the animation for “The Great Derangement” here.

“The Great Derangement is a scabrous, hilarious vivisection of our disintegrating nation. An unstinting reporter and sensational writer, Taibbi shines a light on the corruption, absurdities, and idiot pieties of modern American politics. Beneath his cynical fury, though, are flashes of surprising compassion for the adrift, credulous souls who are taken in by it all. I loved this book.”

~ Michelle Goldberg, author of Kingdom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism

“Matt Taibbi is the best American journalism has to offer. As The Great Derangement shows, he has absolutely no shred of fear in confronting the corruption that plagues our government and exploring the desperation that is rising in America. And somehow, he pulls it off while making us simultaneously weep in sorrow and laugh our asses off.”

~ David Sirota, author of Hostile Takeover: How Big Money and Corruption Conquered Our Government—and How We Take It Back

“Where other mainstream news sources fail, Matt Taibbi madly embraces his role as an honest political observer/writer/citizen in a democracy. I would also like to take this opportunity to ask for Matt’s hand in marriage.”

~ Janeane Garofalo ++

Jesus Made Me Puke
Matt Taibbi Undercover with the Christian Right
Matt Taibbi, Rolling Stone
May 01, 2008

I pulled into the church parking lot a little after 6:00 p.m., at more or less the last possible minute. The previous half hour or so I’d spent dawdling in my car outside a Goodwill department store off Route 410 in San Antonio, clinging to some inane sports talk show piping over my car radio — anything to hold off my plunge into Religion.

There was an old-fashioned white school bus in front of the church entrance, with a puddle of heavyset people milling around its swinging door. Some of these were carrying blankets and sleeping bags. My heart, already pounding, skipped a few extra beats. The church circulars had said nothing about bringing bedding. Why did I need bedding? What else had I missed?

“Excuse me,” I said, walking up to an in-charge-looking man with a name tag who was standing near the front of the bus. “I see everyone has blankets. I didn’t bring any. Is this going to be a problem?”

The man was about five feet one and had glassy eyes. He looked up at me and smiled queerly.

“Name?” he said.

“Collins,” I said. “Matthew Collins.”

He scanned his clipboard, found my name on the appropriate sheet of paper, and X-ed me out with a highlighter. “Don’t worry, Matthew,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “A wonderful woman named Martha is going to take care of you at the ranch. You just tell her what you need when you get there.”

I nodded, glancing at his hand, which was still on my shoulder. He waved me into the bus.

I had been attending the Cornerstone Church for weeks, but this was really my first day of school. I had joined Cornerstone — a megachurch in the Texas Hill Country — to get a look inside the evangelical mind-set that gave the country eight years of George W. Bush. The church’s pastor, John Hagee, is one of the most influential evangelical preachers in the country — not because his ministry is so very large (although he claims up to 4.5 million viewers a week for his Sunday sermons) but because of his near-absolute conquest of a very trendy niche in the market: Christian Zionism.

The whole idea behind Christian Zionism is to align America with the nation of Israel so as to “hurry God up” in his efforts to bring about Armageddon. As Hagee tells it, only after Israel is involved in a final showdown involving a satanic army (in most interpretations, a force of Arabs led by Russians) will Christ reappear. On that happy day, Hagee and his True Believers will be whisked up to Heaven by God, while the rest of us nonbelievers are left behind on Earth to suck eggs and generally suffer various tortures.

So here I was, standing in the church parking lot, having responded to church advertisements hawking an “Encounter Weekend” — three solid days of sleep-away Christian fellowship that would teach me the “joy” of “knowing the truth” and “being set free.” That had sounded harmless enough, but now that I was here and surrounded by all of these blanket-bearing people, I was nervous. When most Americans think of the Christian right, they think of scenes from television — great halls full of perfectly groomed people in pale suits and light-colored dresses, smiling and happy and full of the Holy Spirit, robotically singing hymns at the behest of some squeaky-clean pastor with a baritone voice and impossible hair. We don’t get to see the utterly batshit world they live in, when the cameras are turned off and their pastors are not afraid of saying the really dumb stuff, for fear of it turning up on CNN. In American evangelical Christianity, in other words, there’s a ready-for-prime-time stage act — toned down and lip-synced to match a set of PG lyrics that won’t scare the advertisers — and then there’s the real party backstage, where the spiritual hair really gets let down. I was about to go backstage, to personally take part in the indoctrination process for a major Southern evangelical church. Waiting to board the bus for the Encounter Weekend, I had visions of some charismatic ranch-land Jesus, stoned on beer and the Caligula director’s cut and too drunk late at night to chase after the minor children, hauling me into a barn for an in-the-hay shortcut to truth and freedom. Ridiculous, of course, but I really was afraid, mostly of my own ignorance and prejudices. I had never been to something like this before, and I didn’t know how to act. I badly wanted to be invisible.

The bus was nearly full, and mostly quiet. Here and there a few people sitting together or near each other huddled and chatted, but I could see right away that a great many people on the trip had come alone, like me. They were people of all sorts: younger white men in neat middle-class haircuts, a matronly Mexican woman quietly reading a romance novel, a few scattered weather-beaten black folk in secondhand clothing whom I immediately pegged as in-recovery addicts, a couple of ten-alarm soccer moms who would prove the loudest people on the bus by far, a few quiet older men of military bearing.

The one obvious conclusion anyone making a demographic study of the Cornerstone Church population would come to would be that it’s a solidly middle-class crowd. These are folks who are comfortable eating off paper plates and drinking out of gallon jugs of Country Time iced tea over noisy dinners with their kids. They’re people who grew up in houses with back yards and fences, people with families. This particular journey to God is not a pastime for the idle rich or the urban obnoxious.

I sat down next to a frankly obese Hispanic woman who was carrying what both looked and smelled like a paper bag full of cheeseburgers.

“Some weather we’re having, with this rain,” I said.

“Tell me about it!” she said, introducing herself as Maria. “It truly is an act of God that I even made it here today.” She told a story about having to drive down from Austin in bad weather. God had helped her four or five steps along the way. “It just seems like God really wants me to come on this trip,” she said. “Otherwise, I would never have made it.”

“It looks like God is going to give us a rainstorm all the way to Tarpley,” I heard a voice behind me say.

This oddly uniform style of dialogue ringing all around me made me shift in my seat. I felt nervous and unpleasantly certain that I was about to be found out. When Maria asked me why I’d come on the retreat, I bit my lip. When in Rome, I thought.

“Well,” I said, “since the new year, I’ve just been feeling like God has been telling me that I need to get right spiritually. So here I am.”

I paused, wincing inwardly. An outsider coming into this world will feel sure that the moment he coughs up one of those “God told me to put more English on my tee shot” lines, his dark game will be instantly visible to all, and he’ll be made the target of one of those Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style point-and-screech mob scenes. But nothing could be further from the truth. You simply cannot go wrong praising God in this world; overdoing it is literally impossible. I would understand this better by the end of the weekend.

Maria smiled. “I feel the same way. Have you ever been to one of these Encounters?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

“Me neither,” she said. “I’m really excited.”

“They’re wonderful,” said the matronly Mexican woman in front of me, turning around. “They really change you forever.”

I slunk in my seat, trying to look inconspicuous. My disguise was modeled on other men I’d seen in church — pane glasses and the very gayest blue-and-white-striped Gap polo shirt I’d been able to find that afternoon. Buried on a clearance rack next to the underwear section in a nearby mall, the Gap shirt was one of those irritating throwbacks to the Meatballs/Seventies-summer-camp-geek look, but stripped of its sartorial irony, it really just screamed Friendless Loser! — so I bought it without hesitation and tried to match it with that sheepish, ashamed-to-have-a-penis look I had seen so many other young men wearing in church. With the glasses and a slouch I hoped I was at least in the ballpark of what I thought I needed to look like, which was a slow-moving hulk of confused, shipwrecked masculinity, flailing for an Answer.

One of the implicit promises of the church is that following its program will restore to you your vigor, confidence and assertiveness, effecting, among other things, a marked and obvious physical transformation from crippled lost soul to hearty vessel of God. That’s one of the reasons that it’s so important for the pastors to look healthy, lusty and lustrous — they’re appearing as the “after” photo in the ongoing advertisement for the church wellness cure.

In these Southern churches there are few wizened old sages such as one might find among Catholic bishops or Russian startsi. Here your church leader is an athlete, a business dynamo, a champion eater with a bull’s belly, outwardly a tireless heterosexual — and if you want to know what a church beginner is supposed to look like, just make it the opposite of that. Show weakness, financial trouble, frustration with the opposite sex, and if you’re overweight, be so unhealthily, and in a way that you’re ashamed of. The fundamentalist formula is much less a journey from folly to wisdom than it is from weakness to strength. They don’t want a near-complete personality that needs fine-tuning — they want a human jellyfish, raw clay they can transform into a vigorous instrument of God.

I was very, very, very good — at everything!” shouted our hulking ex-paratrooper pastor, Philip Fortenberry, into the barely visible mouth mike that curled around his ruddy face. “I was a Green Beret — top of the class. Six feet four, 225 pounds. A star athlete, basketball player. Starting outside linebacker on the varsity football team….”

The crowd cooed as our spiritual leader rattled off his macho credentials. Our supercowboy pastor was the perfect foil for the Revenge of the Nerds-style crowd of fatties, addicts, loners and broken-home survivors populating the warehouse-size building where we were all destined to spend the next three days together. In his introductory speech, Fortenberry did everything but tape-measure his biceps. His autobiographical tale of an angry overachieving youth who fell into a young adulthood of false pride, only to rebound and be reborn as a turbocharged, Army-trained enemy of Satan (”A friend of mine once joked that he saw my picture hung up in a post office in Hell,” he quipped), was to serve as the first chapter of our collective transformation — and to work it had to impress the hell out of us scraggly wanna-be’s.

It did. “I’m going to start tonight by telling y’all two stories,” he began.

The first was a story from his Army days, about having to take a training flight in the Pacific Northwest as a young man and being trapped in the back of the transport plane when the landing went wrong and the plane ended up crash-bouncing along the runway. “If you’ve ever been in the back of a C-130, you know what I mean,” he said, and I saw nodding heads all through the audience. The pastor subsequently would not miss a single chance to drop the name of a piece of military equipment.

The second story was more personal. It was about being a little boy in a small Southern town whose father ran around on his mom with a local barmaid. Dad used to bring little Junior to play golf with him, keeping his arm around the barmaid in the golf cart for the entire eighteen holes; finally Dad left Mom to shack up with the barmaid in a house down the road. Dad was so busy with the barmaid that he never came to see Junior’s ballgames. But from time to time he would come back home to Mom, moving back into Junior’s world, turning his life upside down.

“And every time he came back,” the pastor said, waving his hand up and down and his voice fairly breaking with tears, “it was like one more bounce along that runway, bouncing in that C-130, tearing my little boy’s world apart.”

The pastor fell silent, still using his hands to demonstrate that bouncing transport plane of fate, as he surveyed his hushed audience. Fortenberry then stood staring at his audience in full pre-weep, his eyes wrinkling with incipient tears. The grown macho man unashamedly breaking into boyish tears in public is one of the weirder features of the post-Promise Keeper Christian generation, and Fortenberry — himself a Promise Keeper, incidentally — had it down to a science. “You never came to my ballgames, Dad,” he’d screech, his face wrinkling like a raisin with grief at the word “ballgames.”

I heard sniffles coming from the audience.

Sensing he had his crowd in an emotionally vulnerable state, the pastor then plunged into a story about how his bitterness at his father’s abandonment had pushed him, in high school, to become just about the best basketball player you could imagine. Young Fortenberry, we learned, had scored lots and lots of points in high school and had many great games.

How great were those games? Well, he told us, they were really great. Some of the stories wandered irrelevantly into the specific stats of some of those games; he also punctuated his storytelling with oddly vigorous and adept pantomimes of jumpers and hook shots. It was a weird scene, like listening to a married man wax poetic to a mistress in a roadside motel room. “But after a while I realized that all those thousands of jump shots” — here he mimicked a jump shot — “and all those thousands of moves” — he ducked his head back and forth, Tim Hardaway-style — “hadn’t brought me any closer to Dad.”

The program revolved around a theory that Fortenberry quickly introduced us to called “the wound.” The wound theory was a piece of schlock biblical Freudianism in which everyone had one traumatic event from their childhood that had left a wound. The wound necessarily had been inflicted by another person, and bitterness toward that person had corrupted our spirits and alienated us from God. Here at the retreat we would identify this wound and learn to confront and forgive our transgressors, a process that would leave us cleansed of bitterness and hatred and free to receive the full benefits of Christ.

In the context of the wound theory, Fortenberry’s tale suddenly made more sense. Being taken on that eighteen-hole golf trip with the barmaid, and watching his family ditched by Dad, had been his wound. It was a wound, Fortenberry explained, because his father’s abandonment had crushed his “normal.”

“And I was wounded,” he whispered dramatically. “My dad had ruined my normal!”

The crowd murmured affirmatively, apparently knowing what it was to have a crushed normal.

After introducing us to the concept of wounds and normals, Fortenberry told us one last cautionary tale before sending us to our first group session. It was about a paratrooper who had done a tandem jump with a training dummy for some Army exercise or other, only to have the dummy’s chute fail to open. The dummy had plunged to the ground, crashing through the trees and landing with a thud in a bush.

Fortenberry’s Army buddy had taken advantage of the situation to have a little joke at the expense of some other exercising soldiers on the ground who weren’t privy to the fact that the troopers were jumping with dummies. The Army buddy had cried and wailed in asking where the “body” had fallen, leaving the soldiers on the ground to think that someone had just been killed.

The soldiers had felt guilty, Fortenberry explained, because they’d failed to help what they thought was a fallen comrade. Why? Because they’d been afraid to look behind the bush.

“So I’m telling you now, as you go into your groups,” the pastor explained, “don’t be afraid to look behind the bush.”

I wrote in my binder: “LOOK BEHIND THE BUSH.” Then I waited as my name was called out for group study.

The groups were segregated. Men with men, women with women. Each group was led by a life coach, who was actually a recent graduate of the program. At the beginning of the group stage, the coaches were all called up to the front of the chapel, and Fortenberry would call out the coach’s name first, then the names of his group members.

My coach’s name was Morgan. Morgan was a big man, ex-military, with curly black hair, a black mustache and a softening middle. He looked a little like a post-rehab version of Keith Hernandez — soft-spoken, deferential, all nose and mustache.

There were four other men in our group. Besides myself, there was José, a huge Mexican with a sheepish expression and a steam-boiler body; Aaron, a squat and alert Pennsylvanian with a clean-and-jerker’s build; and Dennis, a somewhat vacant and medicated-looking man pushing forty with a bald head and stubbly beard. Dennis looked like a distantly menacing version of Homer Simpson after electroshock therapy. Seated just a few feet away from us in our tight circle, he gazed out at us like he could barely make out our faces.

Once Morgan had us all gathered together, we looked for table space in the cafeteria area of the main building. Ominously, each of the cafeteria tables had a fresh box of Kleenex resting on top of it.

“Well,” Morgan said, “I think what we’re going to do to start is this. I’m going to tell you my story about my wound, and then we’re going to go around in a circle, and each of us is going to just tell his story. Is that OK?”

Everyone nodded. I noted with displeasure that I was seated first after Morgan in clockwise order. Already I was panicking; what kind of wound could a human cipher like myself possibly confess to?

Morgan told his story. Even a perfunctory look at my fellow group members told me that we had people here with some very serious problems, and yet Morgan’s wound was a tale that wouldn’t have even ruined a week of my relatively privileged childhood, much less my whole life — something about being yelled at by his dad while he was out playing with remote-controlled airplanes with his friends as a thirteen-year-old. He hammed up his trauma over the incident in classically lachrymose Iron John-in-touch-with-his-inner-boy fashion (again, there is something very odd about modern Christian men — although fiercely pro-military in their politics and prehistorically macho in their attitudes toward women’s roles, on the level of day-to-day behavior they seem constantly ready to break out weeping like menopausal housewives), but his words were bouncing off a wall of unimpressed silence radiating from the group.

Blank stares. This was a tough crowd. Five minutes into our group acquaintance, we were at a full 9.5 out of 10 on the International Uncomfortable Silence scale.

Morgan turned, glanced again at my name tag and sighed.

“Well, uh, OK, then,” he said. “Matthew, do you want to tell your story?”

My heart was pounding. I obviously couldn’t use my real past — not only would it threaten my cover, but I was somewhat reluctant to expose anything like my real inner self to this ideologically unsettling process — but neither did I want to be trapped in a story too far from my own experience. What I settled on eventually was something that I thought was metaphorically similar to the truth about myself.

“Hello,” I said, taking a deep breath. “My name is Matt. My father was an alcoholic circus clown who used to beat me with his oversize shoes.”

The group twittered noticeably. Morgan’s eyes opened to tea-saucer size.

I closed my own eyes and kept going, immediately realizing what a mistake I’d made. There was no way this story was going to fly. But there was no turning back.

“He’d be sitting there in his costume, sucking down a beer and watching television,” I heard myself saying. “And then sometimes, even if I just walked in front of the TV, he’d pull off one of those big shoes and just, you know — whap!”

I looked around the table and saw three flatlined, plainly indifferent psyches plus one mildly unnerved Morgan staring back at me. I could tell that my coach and former soldier had been briefly possessed by the fear that a terrible joke was being played on his group. But then I actually saw him dismissing the thought — after all, who would do such a thing? I managed to tie up my confession with a tale about turning into a drug addict in my midtwenties — at least that much was true — and being startled into sobriety and religion after learning of my estranged clown father’s passing from cirrhosis.

It was a testament to how dysfunctional the group was that my story flew more or less without comment.

So it began. Our meetings were a prolonged, cyclical course of group-directed confession and healing that began on Friday evening and continued almost without interruption through Sunday afternoon. The basic gist of our group exercises was this: We were each supposed to reveal to one another what our great childhood wounds were, then write a series of essays and letters on the wound theme, taking time after the writing of each to read our work aloud. The written assignments began with an autobiography, then moved on to a letter written to our “offenders” (i.e., those who had caused our wounds), then a letter written to Jesus confessing our failure to forgive our tormentors.

Unfortunately, my one fleeting error of judgment about my circus-clown dad had left me shackled to a rank character absurdity for the rest of my stay in Texas. I soon found myself reading aloud a passage from my “autobiography” describing a period of my father’s life when he quit clowning to hand out fliers in a Fudgie the Whale costume outside a Carvel ice cream store:

I laugh about it now, but once he chased me, drunk, in his Fudgie the Whale costume. He chased me into the bathroom, laid me across the toilet seat and hit me with his fins, which underneath were still a man’s hands.

Again no reaction from the group, aside from an affirming nod from José at the last part — his eyes said to me, I know what you mean about those fins.

After each of these grueling exercises we would have lengthy, fifteen-to-twenty-minute sessions singing unbearably atonal Christian hymns. Then we would have teaching/Bible-study sessions led by Fortenberry on the theme of the moment (e.g., “Admit the Truth About Our Wounds”) that lasted an hour or so. Then, after Fortenberry would waste at least half the session giving us the Marlboro Man highlights of his professional résumé (”I was the manager of the second-largest ranch in America, 825,000 acres. . . .”) and bragging about his physical prowess (”If someone was to slug me, I could whip just about anyone here”), we would go back to the group session and confess some more. Then we would sing some more, receive more of Fortenberry’s hairy lessons, and then the cycle would start all over again. There were almost no breaks or interruptions; it was a physically exhausting schedule of confession, catharsis, bad music and relentless, muscular instruction. The Saturday program began at 7:45 a.m. and did not end until ten at night; we went around the confess-sing-learn cycle five full times in one day.

We were about a third of the way through the process when I began to wonder what the hell was going on. Fortenberry’s blowhard-on-crack-act/wound gobbledygook were all suspiciously secular in tone and approach. I had been hearing whispers throughout the first day or so to the effect that there was some kind of incredible supernatural religious ceremony that was going to take place at the end of the retreat (”Tighten your saddle, he’s fixin’ ta buck” was how “cowboy” Fortenberry put it), when we would experience “Victory and Deliverance.” But as far as I could see, in the early going, most of what we were doing was simple pop-psych self-examination using New Age-y diagnostic tools of the Deepak Chopra school: Identify your problems, face your oppressors, visualize your obstacles. Be your dream job. With a little rhetorical tweaking and much better food, this could easily have been Tony Robbins instructing a bunch of Upper East Side housewives to “find your wounds” (”My husband hid my Saks card!”) at a chic resort in Miami Beach or the Hamptons.

True, I could see some other angles to what was going on as well. Virtually all of the participants of the Encounter identified either one or both of their parents as their “offender,” and much of what Fortenberry was talking about in his instructional sessions was how to replace the godless atmosphere of abuse or neglect that the offenders had provided us with God and the church. He was taking broken people and giving them a road map to a new set of parents, a new family — your basic cultist bait-and-switch formula for cutting old emotional ties and redirecting that psychic energy toward the desired new destination. That connection would become more overt later in the weekend, but early on, this ur-father propaganda was the only thing I could see that separated Encounter Weekend from the typical self-help dreck of the secular world.

But then, midway through Saturday, Fortenberry and the coaches started to show us glimpses of the program’s end game. The wound, it turned out, was something that was inflicted upon us because of a curse, a curse that perhaps spanned generations in each of our families. Alcoholic parents abused their children, who in turn carried their parents’ curse to their adult lives and became alcoholics themselves — only to have children and continue the pattern again. Now, why was that curse there to begin with? Here was where we could get into religious explanations, see the footprint of Satan, etc. We were unhappy because of earthly troubles from our childhoods, but those troubles were the work of a generational curse, inflicted upon us by devils and demons — probably for unbelief, bad behavior, disobedience, worship of the wrong gods and so on.

This little bit of semantic gymnastics helped transform all of us at the retreat from being merely fucked up to being accursed carriers of demons. Having ridden an almost entirely secular program to get our biographies out in the open in a group setting, Fortenberry could now switch his focus to the real meat and potatoes of the weekend: Satan and the devils inside us.

He started off slowly, invoking the godly curses of Genesis — the sweat on Adam’s brow, the pain of Eve’s childbirth, etc. — the punishments for eating of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil. “How many of you women out there have had babies?” Fortenberry asked. “Can I see some hands?”

A dozen or so hands raised.

“Now, did it hurt?” he asked.

Laughter. Of course it hurt.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Why do alcoholics give birth to alcoholics? Why do the fatherless give birth to the fatherless?” He paused. “There are some people out there who will tell you it’s genetics. It’s in our genes, they say. Well, I tell you, it’s not genetics. It’s a generational curse!”

Fortenberry then started in on a rant against science and against scientific explanations for cycles of sin. “Take homosexuals,” he said. “Every single homosexual is a sexual-abuse victim. They are not born. They are created — by pedophiles.”

The crowd swallowed that one whole. One thing about this world: Once a preacher says it, it’s true. No one is going to look up anything the preacher says, cross-check his facts, raise an eyebrow at something that might sound a little off. Some weeks later, I would be at a Sunday service in which Pastor John Hagee himself would assert that the Bible predicts that Jesus Christ is going to return to Earth bearing a “rod of iron” to discipline the ACLU. It goes without saying that the ACLU was not mentioned in the passage in Ezekiel he was citing — but the audience ate it up anyway. When they’re away from the cameras, the preachers feel even less obligated to shackle themselves to facts of any kind. That’s because they know that their audience doesn’t give a shit. So long as you’re telling them what they want to hear, there’s no danger; your crowd will angrily dismiss any alternative explanations anyway as demonic subversion.

A team of twenty of the world’s leading scientists wouldn’t be able to convince so much as one person in this crowd that homosexuals are not created by pedophiles.

Fortenberry told a story about a nephew of his who called him up one night. “Both of his kids had fallen on the ground in respiratory distress, half-conscious, writhing around, gasping for air,” Fortenberry said. “And I said to my nephew, I said, ‘It isn’t something they’ve done. It’s something you’ve done.’ ”

The crowd murmured in assent.

“I told my nephew to look around the house,” Fortenberry continued. “I said, ‘Do you have a copy of Harry Potter?’ And he said yes. And I said, ‘That’s your problem.’ So I told him to go get that copy of that book, tear it in half and throw it out the window. So he does it, and guess what? Both of those kids stood up completely recovered, just like that.”

He snapped his fingers, indicating the speed with which the kids had jumped up in recovery. The crowd cooed and applauded. I frowned, wondering for a minute what life must be like for a person mortally afraid of toothless commercial fairy tales. It struck me that Phil Fortenberry’s nephew was probably more afraid of Harry Potter than Macbeth, which to me said a lot about this religion and about America in general.

Here I have a confession to make. It’s not something that’s easy to explain, but here goes. After two days of nearly constant religious instruction, songs, worship and praise — two days that for me meant an unending regimen of forced and fake responses — a funny thing started to happen to my head. There is a transformational quality in these external demonstrations of faith and belief. The more you shout out praising the Lord, singing along to those awful acoustic tunes, telling people how blessed you feel and so on, the more a sort of mechanical Christian skin starts to grow all over your real self. Even if you’re a degenerate Rolling Stone reporter inwardly chuckling and busting on the whole scene — even if you’re intellectually enraged by the ignorance and arrogant prejudice flowing from the mouth of a terminal-ambition case like Phil Fortenberry — outwardly you’re swaying to the gospel and singing and praising and acting the part, and those outward ministrations assume a kind of sincerity in themselves. And at the same time, that “inner you” begins to get tired of the whole spectacle and sometimes forgets to protest — in my case checking out into baseball reveries and other daydreams while the outer me did the “work” of singing and praising. At any given moment, which one is the real you?

You may think you know the answer, but by my third day I began to notice how effortlessly my soft-spoken Matt-mannequin was going through his robotic motions of praise, and I was shocked. For a brief, fleeting moment I could see how under different circumstances it would be easy enough to bury your “sinful” self far under the skin of your outer Christian and to just travel through life this way. So long as you go through all the motions, no one will care who you really are underneath. And besides, so long as you are going through all the motions, never breaking the facade, who are you really? It was an incomplete thought, but it was a scary one; it was the very first time I worried that the experience of entering this world might prove to be anything more than an unusually tiring assignment. I feared for my normal.

On the final morning of the weekend, we gathered in the chapel for the Deliverance. Fortenberry, dressed in his standard Western shirt and hiked-up jeans, sauntered up to the lectern wearing a solemn and dramatic expression. “This is fixing to be the biggest spiritual battle that ninety-nine percent of you will ever face,” he said. “But let me tell you something. It’s already been won. It was won 2,000 years ago.”

The crowd cheered. As the applause tailed, he held his hands up Mussolini-fashion, asking for quiet. The crowd complied. It was quite dramatically done, this whole business, whatever we were working toward. And at that moment, I spotted a younger kid who had been at the retreat all weekend working a soundboard for the musical parts zipping behind the crowd to some kind of dimmer panel. He turned a switch and the lights dimmed slightly; though it was morning, the light in the building suddenly turned unnatural, like the light during a partial eclipse.

Throughout the whole weekend, Fortenberry had been setting himself up as an athletic conqueror of demons. Now, on the final morning, he looked like a quarterback about to take the field before a big game. The life coaches assembled around the edges of the chapel, carrying anointing oil and bundles of small paper bags.

Fortenberry began to issue instructions. He told us that under no circumstances should we pray during the Deliverance.

“When the word of God is in your mouth,” he said, “the demons can’t come out of your body. You have to keep a path clear for the demon to come up through your throat. So under no circumstances pray to God. You can’t have God in your mouth. You can cough, you might even want to vomit, but don’t pray.”

The crowd nodded along solemnly. Fortenberry then explained that he was going to read from an extremely long list of demons and cast them out individually. As he did so, we were supposed to breathe out, keep our mouths open and let the demons out.

And he began.

At first, the whole scene was pure comedy. Fortenberry was standing up at the front of the chapel, reading off a list, and the room was loudly chirping crickets back at him.

“In the name of Jesus, I cast out the demon of incest! In the name of Jesus, I cast out the demon of sexual abuse! In the name of Jesus. . . .”

After a few minutes, there was a little twittering here and there. Nothing serious. I was beginning to think the Deliverance was going to be a bust.

But then it started. Wails and cries from the audience. To my left, a young black man started writhing around in his seat. In front of me and to my right, another young black man with Coke-bottle glasses and a shock of nerdly jheri curl — a dead ringer for a young Wayne Williams — started wailing and clutching his head.

“In the name of Jesus,” continued Fortenberry, “I cast out the demon of astrology!”

Coughing and spitting noises. Behind me, a bald white man started to wheeze and gurgle, like he was about to puke. Fortenberry, still reading from his list, pointed at the man. On cue, a pair of life coaches raced over to him and began to minister. One dabbed his forehead with oil and fiercely clutched his cranium; the other held a paper bag in front of his mouth.

“In the name of Jesus Christ,” said Fortenberry, more loudly now, “I cast out the demon of lust!”

And the man began power-puking into his paper baggie. I couldn’t see if any actual vomitus came out, but he made real hurling and retching noises.

Now the women began to pipe in. On the women’s side of the chapel the noises began, and it is not hard to explain what these noises sounded like. If you’ve ever watched The Houston 560 or any other gangbang porn movie, that’s what it sounded like, only the sounds were far more intense.

It was not difficult to figure out where the energy was coming from on that side of the room. Some of the husbands glanced nervously over in the direction of their wives.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, I cast out the demon of cancer!” said Fortenberry.

“Oooh! Unnh! Unnnnnh!” wailed a woman in the front row.

“Bleeech!” puked the bald man behind me.

Within about a minute after that, the whole chapel erupted in pandemonium. About half the men and three-fourths of the women were writhing around and either play-puking or screaming. Not wanting to be a bad sport, I raised my hand for one of the life coaches to see.

“Need . . . a . . . bag,” I said as he came over.

He handed me a bag.

“In the name of Jesus, I cast out the demon of handwriting analysis!” shouted Fortenberry.

Handwriting analysis? I jammed the bag over my mouth and started coughing, then went into a very real convulsion of disbelief as I listened to this astounding list, half-laughing and half-retching.

“In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, I cast out the demon of the intellect!” Fortenberry continued. “In the name of Jesus, I cast out the demon of anal fissures!”

Cough, cough!

The minutes raced by. Wayne Williams was now fully prostrate, held up only by a trio of coaches, each of whom took part of his writhing body and propped it up. Another bald man in the front of the chapel was now freaking out in Linda Blair fashion, roaring and making horrific demon noises.

“Rum-balakasha-oom!” shouted Fortenberry in tongues, waving a hand in front of Linda Blair Man. “Cooom-balakasha-froom! In the name of Jesus Christ, I cast out the demon of philosophy!”

Philosophy?

It was obvious that virtually everyone in the crowd was playacting to some degree or another. I was reminded of the Tolstoy story “The Kreutzer Sonata,” when the male narrator described marriage as being like the bearded-lady tent in a French circus he’d seen. You pay a few francs to go in, and when you come out, and the carnival barker shouts at you, “Was that not the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen, monsieur?” — well, you’re too ashamed to admit that you’ve been had, and so you nod your head and agree: Oui, monsieur, it was really something! That’s how people come to say marriage is a blessing, and that’s how you can get fifty-odd high school graduates puking demons into three-cent paper bags for a Deliverance.

The whole thing — the demonic expulsions, the trading of miraculous wives’ tales, the crazy End Times theology based on dire predictions that come and go uneventfully once a year or so — it’s all a con that is done with the consent of the conned. Which is what gives it strength. If everybody agrees to believe, it is real.

The hooting and howling went on seemingly forever. It was nearly an hour and a half before Fortenberry was done. He had cast out the demons of every ailment, crime, domestic problem and intellectual discipline on the face of the Earth. He cast out horoscopes, false gods, witches, intel