Chicken Hawk

Just reading the Wikipedia entry on Selective Service, the draft. I never had to register for the draft, as they stopped registration on March 29, 1975, just days before my 18th birthday. That was about the same day that the back of the South Vietnamese Army (ARVN) was broken by a massive North Vietnamese offensive. Saigon fell a month later, on April 30. Maybe you recall the helicopters jammed with panicky refugees taking off from the ceiling of the US embassy. I distinctly recall a man losing his grip and falling hundreds of feet. The camera didn’t catch the impact.

We watched the helicopters land on the decks of US aircraft carriers. Once emptied of people, the machines were dumped over the side. Their rotors thwacked the sea with huge crazy splashes and then the machines disintegrated and sank. Gone. They dumped who knows how many helicopters over the side. We had way more helicopters than we needed in Viet Nam by then. Actually we didn’t need any helicopters in Viet Nam by then. We had lost. We didn’t need any new soldiers either. Hence I never had to register for the draft.

That felt good, not being registered. Felt a little spoiled, even. No draft card burning for me. No need to plan a sudden trip to Canada. California was so warm and sunny and full of beautiful women. Canada was cold and gloomy and full of Jesse Winchesters. If he’d been my age Jesse could have moved into Topanga Canyon with Neil and Joni and never been down to twigs and seeds. But there he was up in Montreal, and it was cold, and everyone was speaking French.

By 1979 the Pentagon decided they might need new soldiers again. The Russians were getting all wacky, invading Afghanistan, freaking out everybody, so Jimmy Carter figured we ought to try and act like a superpower again. That meant, a generation ago, not only being able to blow up the world but having the ability to raise a big army. You couldn’t raise a big army without a draft, and you couldn’t draft anyone unless you had a list of names. Not that they were going to draft anybody–that was the last thing the generals wanted, they’d had enough of stoned hippie conscripts fragging officers–but it looked good on paper. And it would impress the Russians who, after all, still had a gigantic army. So beginning January 1, 1980, eighteen year olds had to register for the draft. But there are only so many eighteen years olds in one year. You add 19 year olds and you can double the pool of potential draftees, include twenty year olds, and you triple it. So they made registration retroactive for every American male who was born between January 1, 1960 and January 1, 1962, inclusive.

Which meant that those of us born between March 29, 1957 and December 31, 1959 (inclusive) never had to tell the Pentagon we were ready whenever they needed us. In fact we were the only 18 years old since September 16, 1940–when the Selective Service Act became law–that didn’t have to tell the Pentagon we were ready when they needed us. We didn’t have to tell them nothing. We were special. The Pentagon played no part in our lives whatsoever. We never even thought about it. In the Pentagon they wore uniforms and thought about guns, I played drums in punk rock bands and thought about girls. Perfect. No worry about boot camp or the next Viet Nam. No worry about nothing.

Think about it…somehow two years and nine months worth of Eisenhower’s bouncing baby boys were beyond the reach of the draft board. Generations of young American men loathed their draft boards. Not us. We didn’t have a draft board. Couldn’t. We weren’t on any list, nor could we be threatened with jail for not being on a list. There would be no war for us. No army or navy or air force. No drill sergeants. No scary commie tracer bullets. I mean ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country? Who, moi? I’m one of those special kids. We never had to lift a finger to help our country. Who said freedom isn’t free?

I’d make a great chicken hawk. The best.

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twigs and seeds

Spanish Flu

Flu season always freak me out a bit. I get the shot every year, so I don’t really worry about that. It’s the 1919 Spanish Flu pandemic that weirds me out. And the fact that people don’t remember it. It’s as if people forgot about WW1 or WW2. It killed that many people, 50 to 100 million across the globe. Think about it. In 1919 that was up to 5% of the world’s population. And, like AIDS, it overwhelmingly affected young, healthy adults. Almost all the deaths were late teen to late thirties. Death would occur within 72 hours, often in 24 hours, even less. You could wake up in the morning healthy and be dead by midnight. That was not uncommon. Death came horribly…you’d drown in your own lungs. The lungs themselves would harden and respiration would get more and more difficult and then they’d fill up with fluid and you’d drown. Literally drown. You turn a ghastly greenish hue as death approached. It was a flu like no other. It was the worst pestilence to sweep the planet since the Black Plague. Towns were decimated. Villages in Alaska were annihilated. In Philadelphia the dead were wrapped in shrouds and left on the sidewalks for the disposal teams. The city ran out of coffins. A troop train full of healthy recruits that left Georgia arrived in New York City with virtually all aboard dead, dying or desperately ill. And that was just this country. The stories from China and India are beyond belief. The only disease in human history that rivals the Spanish flu in sheer morbid power was the Black Plague. And this was less than a hundred years ago. There are people still alive today who remember it. But nobody asks them.

So strange it’s so forgotten now. Perhaps deliberately. No one wants to think about it. People love to think about asteroids, Fukushima, Ebola. No one wants to think about a new Spanish Flu.

And that Spanish Flu, they’ve discovered via autopsies on the frozen dead in Alaska, was an H1N1 virus. So we know what that type of flu is capable of. We were lucky in 2009, it was a mild version. It was an H1N1 pandemic, to be sure, and infected a couple hundred million people (I know I had it), but killed only a couple ten thousand. Same age group that was felled by the Spanish Flu, that is healthy adults, and with the same virulence, killing within 24-48 hours. It showed us it was still capable of annihilating a hundred million, just not that time. It’s come around again this year, though. Perhaps we’ll be hearing more about it. Or perhaps we’ll be lucky again.

And get the other flu shot too, the annual flu. The CDC estimates that 5-15% of all human beings on the planet come down with a respiratory tract infection from an influenza virus every year, and typically a quarter to a half million people worldwide die from it. In a bad year it might kill a million. But then the H1N1 never killed a hundred million before 1919 either. So you never know. One of these years some ungodly awful flu will sweep the world, and the unvaccinated will become desperately ill and begin dying, perhaps in huge numbers. Maybe they’ll be healthy young adults again, or maybe they’ll be the senior citizens. Maybe it’ll be children. Maybe it’ll be everybody. Who knows, there’s no way to predict. But the vaccinated will attend a lot of funerals, and the unvaccinated will hide in their homes, wondering if they’re next.

Get a flu shot.

Mass grave in Labrador, 1919.

Mass grave in Labrador, 1919.

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Mesopotamia

(2002. Reads a tad hypergraphic….my guess is that I missed a dose of epilepsy meds.)

It was only a couple years ago that the media was full of talk about a Pax Americana.  The Cold War was over, Russia a broken wreck, China converting into a capitalist powerhouse and communism reduced to a few broken down totalitarian backwaters like Cuba and North Korea.  America ruled supreme, without a serious contender on the planet.  “Pax Americana” was a takeoff on the “Pax Romana” that the Roman Empire brought to the Mediterranean world after it had subdued all of its competition (namely, Carthage.)  Roman legions and Roman law, it is said, brought order and security throughout the empire, beginning with the Augustus beating all his rivals in the Civil Wars (as seen in all its widescreen glory in Cleopatra); and ending with the death of the quintessential philosopher king, the emperor Marcus Aurelius (played by Alec Guiness in the even tackier Fall of the Roman Empire. Though Sophia Loren was a much hotter slave girl or whatever than Liz Taylor‘s Cleo—who was downright tawdry compared to Claudette Colbert soaking in a tub of milk.) Rome has long been a fixation for Europeans and their former colonies.  Any country with grand hopes seems inevitably to wallow about in a kind of Roman revivalism.  “Caesar” becomes czar or Kaiser.  We have our own Senate.  Look through an almanac and you’ll see scores of republics and republicas and respubliks. This is nothing new, either:  the Holy Roman Empire was a medieval invention.  The Roman Catholic Church has never shaken its Imperial Roman façade (down to the very capes they wear.) Napoleon actually dashed off to Egypt like Caesar.  Mussolini grabbed Albania, site of the Battle of Actium, in which thousands of costumed extras gamely enacted the action for Richard Burton’s Mark Anthony and Roddy McDowell’s kind of scrawny Octavius-Augustus. (Later, Roddy did a variation on the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” bit in a gorilla suit in Caesar’s soliloquy in Conquest of Planet of the Apes.)

And with an American strategic disaster of the first order appearing to be a distinct possibility in Iraq, I began engaging in an intellectual game of trying to match the possible result with a similar event in Roman history. Everyone has heard of Cannae, where the Romans suffered an annihilating defeat at the hands of the Carthaginians. (It was once a metaphor for really, really screwing up, although everyone prefers Waterloo nowadays.) But any modern comparison of the US in Iraq with Cannae is, thankfully, absurdly out of the question, leaving Hannibal’s elephants irrelevant. As is the truly decisive defeat of Emperor Valens at Adrianople in 378, when the Visigoth cavalry rode down and butchered an entire Roman Army and opened up the Western half of the empire to an anticlimactic defeat a century later (and leaving stranded the Romans along the lower Danube whose Latin has now become Romanian). In between those two defeats was the German chieftain Arminius’ destruction of two legions in the Teutoburger Wald in the Year 9. Maybe there’s a useful comparison here….although the scale of destruction there was far, far more than we can expect in even a worse case scenario in Iraq. It actually began as a fight over Roman taxes, and the Romans sent two legions in to make sure the moneys were collected.  As the two Roman legions were filing through a primeval forest they were ambushed by a horde of Germans who slaughtered virtually all of them, and bloodily sacrificed the rest. (Imagine the battle scene in Star Wars between [the cute little forest dwarves vs the evil guys…I don’t know what either are called] but directed by Mel Gibson.)  When news got to Rome, Caesar Augustus was said to wail “Varus! Varus! What have you done with my legions!”, In the meantime, Arminius sent along to another German chieftain the head of the Varus, who in turn forwarded it to Augustus as a keepsake. Oddly enough, though, that disastrous battle did not actually result in a dramatic weakening of the Roman Empire; rather, it prevented its advance into the heart of Germany, stopping Rome at the Rhine, instead of the Elbe.  This actually has more significance than the fact that people drink wine west of the Rhine and beer to its east:  the Battle of Teutoburger Wald also prevented the probable romanization of the Germans, in the manner that Caesar’s defeat of the hairy chief Vercingetorix and his twin Gallic armies at Alesia had romanized the Celts and left us with the French. When you think about it, had the Germans been Romanized we might have avoided a lot of problems in the 20th century (such as two World Wars, the Holocaust, and German irregular verbs); but we’ll avoid stepping on any butterflies just now. Still, as a strategic failure perhaps one can find similarities here with what will be the probable failure of the Bush Doctrine to essentially Americanize the Arab world; although that too is a stretch.

So let us turn to Mesopotamia, as Iraq was known in ancient times (by the Greeks, anyway.) In 53 BC, when Caesar’s contemporary Crassus led a legion to punish the Parthians (predecessors of today’s Persians, i.e., Iranians). It must have been a hell of a walk from Italy to the banks of the Euphrates; still, Crassus started out strong, until he wandered into the sandy wasteland too far from the river, where his army was surrounded by the Parthian mounted archers. Those archers had these terrific composite bows, too, that could shoot an arrow much further than anything in the Roman quiver. Over a matter of days, clouds of Parthian arrows steadily picked off the legionnaires who, mad from thirst, eventually surrendered. Crassus, if I remember right, was beheaded, and the survivors, only a fraction of the original force, were sold into slavery (apparently some winding up as far away as the Chinese court, where they served as bodyguards to the Emperor). Carrhae, as Rumsfeld might put it, was one heck of a licking, one perhaps forgotten today in the light of Caesar’s more famous and successful campaigns.  Of course, Crassus never lived to write his own memoirs.  Shakespeare mentioned him a couple times, though. But the ramifications? It was certainly not a fatal blow (well, aside from the blow to Crassus’ neck.) Roman pride felt it more keenly than Roman power. Yet the defeat pretty much set the Eastern Mediterranean seaboard as the limits of Roman expansion in the East, and prevented any genuine Romanization of Mesopotamia, and indeed prevented the Romans from reclaiming the empire of Alexander as their own. Not that Rome didn’t keep trying (and indeed at the height of the Empire actually ruled a restive Mesopotamia for a few years under Emperor Trajan, but was lost to the Parthians after his death.) But perhaps most importantly the humiliating Roman defeat at Carrhae proved that the apparently invincible Romans could be beaten, and beaten by Parthians. And the Parthians battled Rome thereafter for centuries where the two empires met there in the Middle East, in Mesopotamia, in Syria, in present day Turkey. Neither side gained much but spent a lot of lives and energy and money warring, and even after Rome fell and the Roman empire shifted to Constantinople as the Byzantine Empire, and after the Parthians fell to the Sassanid Persians (the true predecessors of present day Iran) the wars continued, back and forth. Finally the Persians were done in by the armies of Allah, who invaded their country, killed their leaders, and converted them to Islam. They then headquartered their empire in Mesopotamia with its capital at the new city of Baghdad, leaving Mecca and its sister cities as religious sites rather than centers of power. And then the Arabs continued fighting the Byzantines. They also fought the Western Christians who were on a series of crusades to retake the Holy Land by invading Arab countries and killing their leaders and converting them to Christianity.  All this fighting was ended only by the Mongol invasions which like a wolf on the fold completely destroyed the Caliphate of Baghdad, leveling the city, slaughtering the inhabitants, and wrecking the irrigation system that turned the once fertile land into the arid wastes we see today. (Well, several millennia of farming helped, but it kind of ruins the narrative…). But the Mongols, spent from their orgy of invading countries and killing leaders and converting their people to whatever religion they wanted to be (the Mongols actually believed in religious freedom, believe it or not); and softened with civilization, just kind of disappeared. The piles of skulls they left where Baghdad and Samarkand and Kiev has stood were mute testimony to the power of an idea. Of course, the idea was merely conquest for its own sake, not as romantic as the piles of skulls left by Pol Pot as mute testimony to the idea of Marxism. But a pile of skulls is something one remembers, anyway. And they certainly remember it in Baghdad, to this day.

The nature of the Middle East abhors a vacuum so in the wake of the missing Mongols came the Turks. Like the Mongols, they were nomads of the steppe, and even spoke a related language (in fact, so did Attila’s Huns in an earlier invasion). But the Turks converted to Islam and then, inspired, invaded countries and killed leaders and made the unconverted pay taxes to avoid being converted to Islam (a nice solution, but one that would not fit with Ann Coulter’s anti-tax philosophy.) The Turks were powerful and effective warriors, and they conquered Mesopotamia and, eventually, the Byzantines, snuffing out the final remnant of the Roman Empire in 1453 AD, leaving us only with its shadows in the Romance languages, in the Vatican, in the names of our institutions. They conquered Central Asia and the Balkans and huge swathes of what had been the Caliphate of Baghdad. For a while they were the strongest naval power in the world. They laid siege to Vienna a couple times. They flavored ices which led to ice cream. But eventually like all empires they grew feeble and lazy and decadent and finally the Turks were driven out of Mesopotamia by a British backed Arab revolt at the end of the First World War, and Mesopotamia was reunited in a new state, ruled by Arabs, called Iraq. The classically minded, Greek and Latin spouting English college boys who designed this new state were probably thinking in terms of ancient Mesopotamia (whose ancients alphabets were being deciphered, and ancient cities discovered, about this same time.) Alas, they put it under the rule of Hashemites, Sunnis of Arabian origin, and key participants in the Arab Rebellion against the Turks, of Lawrence of Arabia fame and all that. Thus it became an Arab state, and the Arab view of their rightful place in the Middle East went far beyond the limits of Mesopotamia. The Caliphate of Baghdad had been the center of the Moslem world, extending from Spain to Central Asia to India and beyond to lands all around the Indian Ocean, as far as Mindanao in the Philippines. A Mesopotamia-sized Iraq seems awfully confined compared to that realm. Just ask Saddam.

So George W. Bush finds himself battling with a people whose historical sense sees themselves as far grander than one would suspect just looking at a map of Iraq. Just as the neo-conservatives like to toss around the notion of a Romanesque Pax Americana but on the scale of the British Empire, whose vastness and global scope many neoconservatives feel in their bones that we are the true inheritors of. A clash of memories, two gigantic imperial egos [The essay seems to have ended here.]

Victory Day

An abandoned German Panther tank in Belarus after Operation Bagration. An abandoned German panzer in Belarus.

(2013) 

I’m writing this on May 9th, which is Victory Day in Russia, and in the Ukraine and Belarus and throughout the former Soviet Union. Today is the day that, in 1945, what was left of the Third Reich surrendered. For the peoples of what was then the Soviet Union, it commemorates their victory over the Evil Empire that set out to annihilate them and failed. The victory was total, the cost unimaginable. Millions and millions of people, tens of thousand of villages, millions of homes, all gone. Most of their major urban areas utterly wrecked. Russia lost about 13% of its people, dead. The Ukraine about 16%. Belarus 25%. Photos of Moscow and Leningrad right after the war show boys and old men and not many in between. It took the Soviet Union thirty years to reach its pre-war population levels. And those are just the dead. Not the scarred or shattered or simply stunned. Not the scared. Just those who would never know how it all came out in the end. But it ended well, you wish you could tell them. The good guys won. The greatest victory in the greatest war of all time. The greatest of everything. The most mammoth human undertaking of all time, the Russo-German War.

No one ever thinks of it like that, but it was. It was actually one of the most extraordinary creations of humankind. It was the largest enterprise humans have ever carried out. Virtually none of it was driven by anything other than military necessity or totalitarian whim. The Russo-German War was also the most destructive enterprise ever, even within the context of a world war. Nothing else comes close. It probably consumed materials at a rate never surpassed. And the only thing that has ever surpassed it for sheer man killing was probably one of the plagues. The plagues inadvertently unleashed by conquistadores that swept the Americas, maybe, or those brought by Mongols from China that devastated late medieval Europe. Those pestilences took their sweet time, though, they lolled about, spreading death in successive waves. But the Russo-German War got all its killing done in a three years and eleven months. Lumped together the German, Soviet and Jewish dead and come out with ghastly averages that someone calculated. A little over 600,000 dead a month, averaged out. You can break that down by week and day. Even by hour. 826 people–soldiers, civilians–died every hour on the Eastern Front. Fourteen a minute. Every four seconds someone died, mathematically speaking. In reality, though, death came with no respect for averages. A shell cut clean through a half track at Kursk, decapitating all eight men aboard instantly. That screws up the average right there. Figure in the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff with its complement of 9,400 refugees dead in less than an hour, or the 34,000 Jews (33,771 to be exact, as Einsatzgruppen totals always were) murdered at Babi Yar in two days, or the 157,593 Red Army soldiers executed for cowardice–generally meaning they retreated–in the first year of the war (which is close to half of the total US dead from all causes in all of World War 2) and it becomes apparent just how screwy those averages are. There were days or even hours of mass carnage, and doubtless there were midwinter days so cold that fighting virtually stopped across wide stretches of the front and the only dead were those who froze to death.

You’ll notice how none of that sunk in, not even with me and I wrote it. The problem with trying to write about the Russo-German War is that the scale of awfulness was so vast it’s nearly impossible to conceptualize. A list of numbers with lots and lots of zeros. For instance, there were 70,000 villages destroyed. Try and visualize that. We can’t. We can’t visualize thirty million corpses either, let alone thirty million funerals. Though who knows how many funerals there actually were. In Leningrad the frozen dead filled warehouses to the eaves. You can walk though a wood in Belarus and the bones lie bleached under dead leaves. A child in Volgograd (née Stalingrad) picks up an old grenade and joins them even now. So many dead. Numberless numbers. The prayers for the dead must have numbered in the billions. An infinity of tears, sighs and shrugs. Numbers fail. They fail me now, fail you reading this. They certainly fail the dead.

If numbers fail, words don’t. Some of those dead left diaries. Some letters. Some, being Russian, wrote poetry. Nicolai Mayorov explained that

It’s not for us to calmly rot in graves.
We’ll lie stretched out in our half-open coffins
And hear before the dawn the cannon coughing,
The regimental bugle calling gruffly
From highways which we trod, our land to save.

We know by heart all rules and regulations.
What’s death to us? A thing that we despise.
Lined up in graves, our dead detachment lies
Awaiting orders. And let generations
To come, when talking of the dead, be wise;
Dead men have ears and eyes for truth and lies.

Alas, he lay stretched out soon enough, near Smolensk. I know nothing of the circumstances, or even when, just that he died somehow in fighting around Smolensk. He might have been blown up by a mortar or cut down by a machine gun. Perhaps he stepped on a mine. Or froze to death. Or was the unlucky tenth man in a unit punished through decimation (and thus, by pure chance, would be one of those 157,593 executed for cowardice.) Whatever. It just seems all the more random because he wrote such beautiful verse. His was an ending that would have mystified Alexander Artemov, who wrote (in a rough translation)

I cannot understand the people fighting
And I feel pity for the soldiers shot.
Sometime we all will die, and it is frightening,
But why make someone’s long life so short?
I hope for the justice on the planet, I hope for the peaceful quiet life.
The world can’t any more be violent, can it?

But it could, and he was killed soon afterward somewhere on the front. Meanwhile, down on the shore of the Black Sea, the brilliant Vsevolod Bagritsky wrote

We rose at dawn,
When night crept close to day.
The wind that blew was fresh and light
and fitful,
A little briny and a little bitter

like there was no war at all. But there was, it was Odessa in 1941, where “homes go up in flames and topple to the ground”, and even though young Vsevolod swore a stanza later that they’ll not surrender the city, ever, they did. It was only a poem. A beautiful poem, even in translation, but just a poem nonetheless. War trumped verse every time. He could always write another. Or could have, had a sniper’s bullet not taken him, pen in hand, outside Leningrad. Another long life cut short. Literary immortality is a cold comfort. Given the choice between surviving the war or having people write essays about your brilliant flame being snuffed out mid-verse, it’s unlikely that Vsevolod Bagritsky would be too thrilled about me writing these lines about him now, not this way. No one wants to be a tragedy. A martyr, maybe, but was there even a need for martyrs when people are dying at a rate of 600,000 a month?  The dead were just ciphers, one of the averages that, with the dead laid end to end, would circle the world two times. Or back and forth across the length of the Soviet Union six times. Or stacked 2,500 miles high.*

Again the numbers fail me in their sheer vastness and I look to words instead. To the war poets. Like how we remember the poems of World War One–Wilfred Owen‘s Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning–to put us right in the trenches and feel what they felt. Russian war poems do the same. More than all the numbers, more even than all the often stunning footage in all the documentaries on television, the verses of the Russian poets give us an inkling of what the Russo-German War truly was. The numbers provide scale, but the words give us sensations, emotions, images, thoughts. Thoughts often–too often–of men who never made it to Victory Day. They are a race of poets, the Russians, a civilization madly in love with words. During the siege of Leningrad poets read their verse into microphones and the words emanated from omnipresent speakers all across the starving city. Even the Germans could hear it from their trenches. Fifty years later survivors of the siege could still recite the lines they’d heard floating above the frozen streets. They remembered corpses on the pavement and words in the air.

Yet what bothers me, somehow, are the unknown poems that were written in those years. Ones you don’t see in anthologies or posted on websites. How many are there, thousands? Do they fill old letters home? And if so, what do the poems talk about? Can you see what their authors saw? Hear what they heard? And then, even more unknowable, how many of these poems were composed but never put to paper? More thousands? The thought of it stops me cold. Unknown lines snuffed out by the crack of a sniper’s rifle. Back to numbers again. I keep going back to numbers. 20 million dead equals x number of poems never written. Lines dreamed up but never spoken. I wonder just how many poems blew wordlessly over Russian fields.

Victory Day has meaning. It’s not just a holiday. Not just fireworks. It’s something a dead poet had put into words but never finished, and we’ll never know what that was. He’s just bones now, and the words just air.
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Victory Day Victory Day

Photo by Aleksandr Petrosyan.

Notes: Continue reading

History in the Digital Age

You know it’s all downhill from here when every article you read about the days of your youth does not remind you of days of your youth. Maybe that’s how history works. On the one hand I want to tell the writer he’s got it all wrong, on the other hand I know he’d never let facts get in the way of a good theory. Soon we all die and that history becomes the way it was. It has always been this way.

There was a great scene in that John Adams mini-series where Douglas Trumbull shows John Adams his rendering of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. This is all wrong, Adams yells, it wasn’t like this at all. We were never in that room at the same time! There was a war on! We dropped by when to sign when we could He went on, a livid old curmudgeon, glorying in being an old curmudgeon. But he was serious, too, because from his vantage point od actually having been there, Trumbull’s now iconic painting was a travesty, totally misrepresenting the truth as he, John Adams, had experienced it. But to Trumbull, even if it were not literally accurate, it got the point across. All these patriots, bravely signing a document that could have been their death warrant. And to us, that is the way it actually happened, in one dramatic scene. The misrepresentation became reality. That has to be what riled Adams. And he had to know there was nothing to be done about it but rail.

Good historians write vast books proving Adams right. Good historians go to the original sources to discover how things actually were. But who reads vast books anymore? And who double checks what passes for the history of my youth in Slate or wherever? You can tell in the comments section to the article [what article it was I have no idea, not that it matters] this battle is lost anyway, not that we–those of us who actually experienced those days–even put up a fight. It’s so strange to read articles in which all sorts of modern concepts are applied to us, things we didn’t even know existed. This is a current academic trend, applying current theory to old events. That’s the influence of the Marxist theory of history, really, since Marx, like Latin, is dead everywhere but academia. But how could we then have done things according to theories and concepts and categories that weren’t invented yet? Or, with even more absurdity, theories and concepts and categories that had never existed at all, except as theories, concepts and categories developed and assigned retroactively by later historians.

I think what I was going on about when I began this essay some years ago was reading articles about bands in my day written by today’s Pop Critics. We didn’t have “pop critics” in my day, just “rock critics”, as pop put you in the same league as Steve and Edie. The basketfuls of throwaway bands who rediscovered by later “pop historians” were not yet given an importance that it utterly ridiculous if you stop and think about it. They didn’t really categorize so much then, and the sad thing about creating categories is that one must squeeze things into them, which essentially alters what they actually had been. Not that it matters to the one who, years later, is doing the categorizing. There’s a scientific concept that neatly describes this in a few words…but I’m trying to avoid concepts here. Concepts and categories and theories that pass for reality in universities. There are only a few theories that actually work, and they are born out by reams of evidence. They are nearly all hard science, too. Theories about culture crumble once you leave the campus. You have to live a cloistered life to think they still hold true, and a sadder life to think they are important.

I began this ages ago–years in fact–complaining about how those pop historians fit our reality then into concepts and categories they learned in college. Concepts and categories that did not exist at the time, and thus render every article you read that uses them into fiction. Badly written fiction at that–pop critics are far too often mediocre writers at best, sheesh. And now ages later I’ve ended this piece condemning the intellectual fashion of refusing to look at past events as they actually were, as things you could hear and touch and feel, and insist instead on absurd theorizing and categorization and big words and desperate intellectualism.

I hate all that. I want history, real history. But they don’t teach real history in college, it seems. They teach theory. Historians are dull. They write footnotes, plod through archives, get excited over details. And that stuff goes nowhere online. When reading is something done on a smartphone in an elevator, details are irrelevant at best, annoying as a rule. Truth has become relative, or even insignificant. History ain’t exactly dead, it’s just ignored.

Sometimes I listen to old time radio and marvel at just how effective a medium it was for the imagination. With everything invisible anything was possible. The mind’s eye is a powerful medium, all you need to do is suggest something and the audience pictures it. Jack Benny’s radio household included a parrot, a polar bear, an ostrich and a levitating tenant. On television only the parrot remained. The digital medium of the internet allows for the same sort of imaginary reality. We suspend our disbelief and believe anything we read. The photoshopped pictures and faked videos we’ve become hip to, but we still tend to take whatever we read at face value. There’s almost no skepticism at all for things read on blogs of Facebook. It’s as if what we read becomes vivid reality in our imagination, something we stopped doing with analog mediums long ago. Magazines and newspapers people read with skepticism. But you can write the wildest things on Facebook or in a blog and people will believe it. They can picture chemtrails or bizarre conspiracies or completely made up stories and believe every word. Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds would fool millions all over again online. And in a digital environment where the perception of reality approaches Medieval thinking in its irrationality, something as dry as history–real history, researched and sweated over–is an anachronism. History itself is history in the digital world. Virtual reality is reality, and there is no one to say it isn’t. All history is fiction, someone said on Facebook recently. No one disagreed. History is whatever you want it to be someone responded. I thought about arguing the point, but let it go.

Holocausts

In 1943, in their last successful offensive operation of the war, the Germans seized the Dodecanese Islands (off the coast of Turkey) from the surrendering Italians. There was a marginal military value in the islands, perhaps, if only to drive off the British who attempted to beat them to it (the Guns of Navarone is about this campaign). But one of the primary reasons the Germans were so determined to take the Dodecanese was that the Italians had refused to deport the several thousand Jews–Ladino speakers, originally from medieval Spain–to German death camps. The SS came in right behind the troops the troops and as soon as fighting was completed (the Brits were licked, their last complete fiasco of the war), preparations were made to collect all the Jews, seize their valuables, and transport them to Auschwitz. Upon arrival nearly all were immediately gassed. One of the oldest Jewish communities in existence was exterminated in the time it takes to take a shower.

The Germans left a force of five thousand soldiers on the strategically useless (but Judenrein) islands where they remained till the end of the war, doing nothing. But they were an afterthought anyway. Basically the Nazis launched an offensive at high risk in an area they didn’t need just so they could exterminate its Jews. Keep in mind that the Allies were already landing in nearby Italy and the Wehrmacht was desperately in need of help there, but killing the Jews came first. The Nazi regime was committed to the annihilation of all eleven million European Jews, and none, not even a few thousand on some islands in the remotest corner of the Reich, would escape if Himmler’s bureaucrats could get there to arrange the logistics.

I think you need to read some of the recent scholarship on the Nazi state to appreciate the uniqueness of it as a genocide machine. It’s primary function once the Holocaust began was the annihilation of the Jews. That was virtually the Nazi raison d’etre, and was such an obsession that it trumped more existential needs, such as defending the nation from the Russian army. Obviously the Nazis were human, and humans can do terrible things, but were not talking about the Nazis as people, those sad frail things in the docket at Nuremberg. We’re talking about them organized into a vast killing machine. There are some states that go far, far beyond being merely human to the point where they are an actual threat to humanity itself.

The Nazis are like the Mongols, another state that engaged in deliberate genocide on a scale unfathomable now. Western civilization as we know it, built upon the structure of the Roman Empire, only survived the Mongols because the Mongols had never updated their leadership succession process from the days of the small tribe. When Genghis’ heir Ögedei died suddenly in 1241, his general Subutai–perhaps the most brilliantly successful military leader in all history–had to ride from Germany to Karakoram deep in Mongolia. He called off the planned offensive that would have annihilated all the armies and leadership in his way all the way to the Atlantic. Spain would have followed soon afterward. Italy too. England would have been an easy catch. Scandinavia? The Mediterranean? Had Ögedei lived another ten years all Europe would have been under a similar yoke as Russia. As it was another brilliant Mongol leader, Batu Khan was set to conquer Europe in 1255 when he died. After that the Mongols turned to China, the Middle East and India, all of them vastly more wealthy than Western Europe. Europe was spared and western civilization as we know it survived. It’s little realized now just how close it came to destruction, and how it was sheer luck that saved us. Had either Ögedei or Batu Khan lived a decade longer, the flowering of medieval civilization, the Renaissance and the Enlightenment would never have happened. The west was actually already terribly weakened by that time, pushed into a corner of Europe, impoverished, stalled, its economy shrinking, its intellectual output meager, one more Mongol push could have finished it off. There was nothing inevitable in our rise to world domination.

And the west faced nothing even remotely like that again until the Third Reich. And while the Nazis never came that close, were never on the verge of snuffing out western civilization (though they dreamed of it) world conquest was only their secondary aim–annihilating Jews was their first goal. They stated this over and over, even on Hitler’s last day he spoke of it, as did Goebbels as Hitler’s corpse burned. And The Nazis were remarkably successful at it, virtually destroying one of the world’s oldest civilizations, that of the European Jews. And remember what it took to stop the incredibly efficient Nazi killing machine–their own outright annihilation as an entity. It had to be completely destroyed. The genocide machine was so automated that is kept operating right up until the end. Even as Soviet armies advanced to the walls of Chelmno in January, 1945, the SS methodically executed every single Jew on the grounds, dispensed with the bodies–a bone crushing machine, the Knochenmühle, helped speed along the process–and destroyed all the records because the SS was fully aware that the genocide of the Jews was a crime. Indeed, they’d known that all along, so that only within the legal system of Germany was killing Jews legal. It was a genocide of extraordinary efficiency, even banality. It was automated, bureaucratized. The killers had sick leave and benefits, they took vacations and got together for company dinners. Corruption was looked down upon–Auschwitz’s first commandant was tried and executed for pilfering–and there are mountains of memos. The SS, and in particular the RSHA, contained the best and the brightest, and it used all of the most modern organizational, technological and “best practices” of its day to carry out its mission.

This was not blood lust, this Holocaust. It was not even race hate as we think of it here–these men often expressed pity for the Jews–it was the very essence of modern civilization repurposed for the annihilation of Jews. You can find comments in the reports of Ensatzkommandos that the SS were often appalled at the Lithuanians and Ukrainians and others who pitched in to help round up and slaughter Jews. They were so unscientific, so full of hate. So murderous. But for the Nazis this wasn’t about murder. This was about removing what they considered a dangerous parasite from humanity, the Jew. It was a duty to be performed methodically, without emotion. There was no need for human feelings on the matter. The SS knew it was not easy for a civilized German to engage in such mass murder. Himmler gave pep talks to that effect. It is something that had to be done. It was race science, not lynching. It’s procedure. You can see that in the bored looks on the faces of SS men watching the Last Jew at Vinnitsa being murdered. 28,000 is a lot of Jews, not bad for a day’s work, let’s write up our status reports and call it a day. And that’s what they did.

To me that is what singles the Holocaust out. It was not people killing people, it was the processes of modern civilization exterminating people. It was best practices. It was some of the most intelligent people in one of the most intellectually advanced states on Earth, committing mass murder on a deliberate scale not seen since the Mongols in volume, organization, logic and efficiency. Indeed, the members of the Einsatzgruppen were for the most ardent Nazis what members of the Peace Corps were in our time, idealists out to improve humanity. That is how they saw themselves.

When you downplay that, downplay this genocide, comparing it to just another horrendous human tragedy, I think you lose sight of the truly awful nature of the Holocaust. That is wasn’t hate that drove it, it was logic. And that goes to the very core of western civilization. We are a civilization that prides itself on our science and logic. We make fun of superstitions, we increasingly condemn religion. Logic, we think, separates us from barbarism. And yet logic was behind the Holocaust. Just as logic was behind the eugenics movement that was quite the rage in pre-war intellectual circles through Europe and the US. George Bernard Shaw was an advocate of eugenics. George Bernard Shaw. Think of that. There is a direct logical connection between the eugenics movement on the 1930’s and the Nazi genocide of the Jews. The same principle is involved. The same thinking. It was all so perfectly logical. Only the means and ends were different. To me, that is what makes it so singularly terrifying. We are not talking about the Ku Klux Klan here. None of those lowbrow small town racist goons. We’re talking the best and the brightest and scientific theory. The Holocaust began as an intellectual movement. The division of the SS in charge, the RSHA, was like the MIT of mass murder. The elite.

Incidentally, it’s been pointed out that you could not have had the Holocaust without the industrial level mass slaughter of World War One. All that automated killing on such an enormous scale is what allowed the Nazi mind to imagine using automated methods–whether Einsatzgruppen and their methodical mass killing methods, or the ovens working on factory time tables, and those bone crushing machines producing high grade fertilizer–to kill people by the hundreds of thousands. We have an image of the First World War as mud and corpses and useless slaughter, which was true. That’s what it was for the soldiers. But not for the planners. The battles were immense set piece things, with carefully calculated artillery barrages (which became a science in itself), complex chemical warfare, tremendous logistical issues, organization on an incredible scale. All this to kill more of them than they could of you. Acceptable casualty rates that grew into the hundreds of thousand per battle. Even if a force took 90% casualties running through machine gun fire, it could be acceptable if the surviving ten percent managed to take their objective. You wound up with millions of men living in environments surrounded by the dead, bodies everywhere, till the dead became just everyday things. Everyone had seen piles of bodies and grew quite used to everything but their smell. Thus, amid the slaughter of the First World War, was the civilization of the Enlightenment exposed to the concept of economies of scale and mass production techniques, even to the use of railways to ships large number of humans in record time–first used to mobilize armies in 1914, and then a generation later to send entire populations to extermination camps. The annihilation of the Jews of Hungary in Austerlitz is a truly impressive accomplishment, in strictly logistical terms. Eichmann was rightly proud of it from his Nazi point of view. It was a marvel of German efficiency. And imagine, then, had the Third Reich not lost the war how the Holocaust would become standard operating procedure. It’s not the killing that makes the Holocaust special. It’s best practices learned in World War One. You can kill huge numbers of people if you do it right, without even getting your hands dirty, and it’s just a job like any other job. Some people manage milk bottling plants. Some people managed extermination camps. Take that forward a generation and some people were managing ICBM complexes with procedures to be followed that would wipe out hundreds of millions of people. As with the Holocaust, it was also carefully planned out, with documents documenting the step by step processes. Nothing was off the cuff. There was no improvisation. It was best practices. Killing is easy, if done big enough.

I’m not trying to say that other horrors, African slavery among them, weren’t horrors. Indeed, I compare the slaveocracy in the south to the Third Reich. Not that it compared in methods and aims, but there was a lot of the same sort of thinking, but 19th century style, pre-industrial. To read the writings of the thinking class in the American slave states in the 1850’s is eye opening. There’s a comforting illusion developed in the past 150 years that slavery would have disappeared even if the Civil War not been fought, but it is nonsense. Slavery was in better shape in the 1850’s than it had ever been, and indeed was ceaselessly trying to expand out of the South, which is what so much of American politics had been about since the War of 1812. And slavery would not have disappeared but expanded as the south industrialized (this is the current academic thinking), as slavery is just as suited to industry as it is to agriculture, and what industry did exist in the ante-bellum south was quite dependent on slave labor. Slavery would have been proven a viable economic system into the 20th century. Had the Confederacy decisively won the Civil War it would have begun expanding south into the Caribbean and west to California. Southern California would have had a slave economy. (The climate here is perfect for year round agriculture, which maximizes a slave’s profit making potential.) Had Britain and France entered the war on the side of the Confederacy–a real possibility in 1862–slavery could have regained some of the acceptability (or tolerance, anyway) it had lost to the Abolitionist movement over the previous hundred years. Slavery now is as wrong a means of production as we can imagine. That is, at least in America, because the North won the Civil War and criminalized slavery. Until then not everyone thought it was bad, not even outside the United States. Until then it was just another way of making a living.  Maybe people didn’t like it, but they could live with it. There had always been slavery, they figured. It was older than capitalism. It was a natural way of doing things. The slave owning class in the American South saw themselves as the direct descendants of a natural social order that had existed since the Old Testament. It was the industries of the North, said southerners, that were new and alien and unnatural.

The destruction of slavery in America in the 1860’s is one of the most important revolutions of the modern era. But because it was so successful in completely destroying the institution of slavery, we can’t see just how dramatic a change it was. There are hundreds of thousands of neo Nazis today, and probably a couple million sympathizers. Even the absolute destruction of the Third Reich failed to eliminate Nazism. It remains a threat. But there is almost no one who advocates a return to the chattel slavery of pre-Civil War America. Not even the KKK calls for that. The very concept has been purged from western civilization. Abraham Lincoln did that. Had he bungled the war who knows where we’d be now. But it is because of the magnitude of Union’s victory that people don’t realize just how important to western civilization the American Civil War was. It made the Nazi slave labor system a crime against humanity. It made the Soviet gulag system the blemish that communism can’t seem to escape. (And it makes many people wonder what the hell is going on in Angola Penitentiary.)

People also don’t realize that slavery was not only a successful labor system, but was even more successful as a financial system. The slaveocrats had more wealth in their slaves than there was in all the other forms of wealth put together in the US–industry, banks, shipping, farming, railroads, everything–with the sole exception of the value of all the land in the US itself. Only all the real estate in the US was worth more than all the slaves, though of course real estate wealth was diffused, while much of slave wealth was concentrated and even more importantly could be turned immediately into cash. Land took longer to sell. If a slave, on average, was worth $800 in 1860, and there were four million slaves, that comes to over $3 billion in 1860 dollars (or nearly a hundred billion 2015 dollars). This system seems to be the result of the fact that so few slaves shipped from Africa–around 300,000 or so, about four per cent of the total–arrived in the United States. The vast majority of slaves were sent to Brazil and the Caribbean, where work was so brutal they rarely survived long. A steady supply made them cheap and disposable. The slave system in the United States was forced to raise their own slaves. That three hundred thousand were, with careful husbandry, grown into a workforce of four million or so. And as the supply from Africa was limited and eventually dried up altogether in the 1820’s, slaves became a very valuable commodity. Soon a banking and finance and insurance system evolved to meet the needs of both slave owners and slave traders. Slaves attained such a value that one’s wealth could be measured in the value of one’s slaves. Slavery attained a place in the pre-war South’s economy like that of real estate now.

Even if slaves themselves were of no use outside the South, the wealth in slaves extended the south’s reach far beyond its borders. The southern slave owners were a vastly rich and powerful class, and their financial power reached throughout the United States and across the globe. By banning slavery, an entire financial class and all its accoutrements was eliminated, their power and influence ended. Their kind was never to be seen again. Only in Brazil did slavery, much weakened by manumission and drought and popular resentment, linger on for another generation. Brazil ended it, finally, in 1888.

Much like the Germans’ race theory driven National Socialism, the American South believed that owning slaves made them morally and physically indomitable both as men and as a civilization. Just like Germans who saw strength and world domination in their genocide–killing the Jews went hand in hand with expanding German power in the Nazi mind–to the southern slaveocrat elite their Peculiar Institution was an institution that would make the South a world power and be the guiding light and future of all mankind. God intended the slave owners to rule. It’s the white man’s burden thing carried to the extreme degree. A degree not surpassed until the Third Reich.

Yet while slavery is an abomination, one of humanity’s great horrors, it never achieved its modern apogee because, unlike the Germans, the Confederates were hapless and mostly incompetent in matters of war and administration. And, also unlike the Germans, slavery benefitted mostly the large landowners and financiers. (The middle class slave owners, of which there were far more than realized now, were concentrated in the border states, states retaken by the North early in the war if they had seceded at all). So while National Socialism was bought by the entire population of Germany and almost all the European Ausländers (Germans living outside Germany), the townsmen and peasantry of the American South tired quickly of the war (remember secession was not universally popular to begin with) and the Confederate government had to deal with widespread internal rebellion (also forgotten today). And then there’s this–slavery disintegrated as soon as even a small party of Union soldiers showed up in the neighborhood. But German genocide had little economic purpose–killing is easy. It had no purpose other than killing Jews. Slavery is a much more difficult undertaking, and unlike the genocide of the Jews was extremely sensitive to outside interference. Slavery would have thrived had the South not declared independence, something they quickly became bitterly aware of. As soon as the Union’s armies or even a single gunboat approached, the plantations hemorrhaged slaves. The southern economy, indeed its very economic engine, dissolved.

But Auschwitz continued operating right up until Himmler ordered all the death camps closed as the Russian armies moved in, and all the remaining inmates were to be killed on the spot or force marched to other camps. Whereas slavery was in its death throes by 1865, existing only in places that Union troops had not reached, in Germany the Holocaust was one of the few institutions in the Third Reich that existed right up until the very end of the war in Europe, surviving even the capture of the camps, becoming mobile, death camps turned into death marches, until in many places the only aspect of the Nazi state still existing were the SS involved in killing Jews. The SS remained even as the liberators moved in, as if convinced the Holocaust would survive even the end of the Reich itself.

As a genocide, the Holocaust had an extraordinary vitality, it seemed like nothing could kill it except it Allied armies. The only Holocaust I can think of that compares in tenacity was the Killing Fields of Cambodia, which only stopped when the Viet Namese army moved in and drove off Pol Pot. Like the Holocaust, the Killing Fields defied any logic but its own perfect logic. It’s that logic, the logical thought process which has been a cornerstone of western thinking since the Greeks, surviving even the Dark Ages, that makes certain Holocausts so terrifying. People massacre entire peoples because they hate–Rwanda is a perfect example of that, a St. Bartholomew’s Massacre across a whole country–and people exploit people to the point of annihilation if it makes them money (think of some tribes wiped out early in the Spanish Conquest). And people wipe out peoples all the time to gain their land (think just about anywhere).

But on rare occasions people wipe out people because a political philosophy decrees it necessary to do so, with impeccable logic. Marx somehow became the political basis of the Killing Fields. The Holocaust had elaborate ideological and legal writings justifying it. The implications of this are terrifying. It wasn’t just murder, it was the result of a well thought out doctrines. It made perfect sense. The ideology made the genocide necessary, justified and inevitable. Indeed, for a good Nazi or member of the Khmer Rouge, it would be morally wrong not to exterminate Jews or enemies of the Revolution. Their belief system required it, and they believed implicitly in the validity of those belief systems. The fanaticism of the members of the Islamic State we see now is nothing new. Indeed, it can trace its justifications back to the same logic that drove the Nazis and, via Marx by way of Mao, the government of Pol Pot. Islamic thought in its Golden Age (circa 750-1250 A.D.) was just as hip to logical thought processes of the Greeks as were the intellectuals and academics of the west. Its in our shared cultural genome.

Remember too, that both Islam and the West are rooted in Persian thought, the binary world view of Zoroaster a thousand or so years before Christ and well before the Greeks (indeed, well before the Persian Empire or even its predecessor the Median Empire, as if Christ or Confucius or Mohammed had lived before the Roman Empire or China or the Arabs existed.) We inherited the ancient Persian world of truth and lie, of good vs evil in eternal battle. There is probably nothing more fundamental to both the Islamic world and the west than our shared binary view. Everything is truth or lie or right or wrong and, by extension, good or bad. The internet has only exacerbated this. It’s our default position. It is so much a part of us, so fundamental to how we view, interpret and think, that we are not even aware of it. We like to think we are the inheritors of the Greek way of thinking but only in part, because we are far more inculcated in the thought of the ancient Persian Empire, in some fundamental ways the ur-civilization of the west. Our binary world view, good and evil in eternal battle, all that goes back to the first Holy Book, the Avesta, the word of Zoroaster. The seeds of western ideological fanaticism lie in the Persian Empire. Ironically we celebrate Alexander the Great, a pagan, as its conqueror, as if we are his descendants and the Persians utterly alien to all that we believe, yet Alexander couldn’t recognize our outlook at all today. He would be utterly at a loss to understand why we think like we do. Oh, he could tease out our Aristotelian antecedents. But good vs evil made no sense to him. And we are absolutely lost without our binary world view. Alexander, to us, would be a madman lunatic on Facebook, some nut with a reality show sacrificing to various gods and doing macho, dangerous things. But give Zoroaster a Facebook account and he’d have a zillion followers in no time at all, because he would recognize all our sturm and drang as the battle between truth and lie, and he would show us the Way.

Zoroaster was all about free will but I wonder just how much free will we have now after centuries of truth vs lie, right vs wrong, good vs evil. That world view is so ingrained into us. Our brains think like that now. We process information like that now. How much of it is innate? If there truly was free will would eighty million Germans have followed a lunatic like Hitler to absolute destruction? How could so many smart, even brilliant people be stupid enough to believe the Jews needed to be murdered en masse to save civilization? It’s not instinct, but the thinking can be so automatic it might as well be. The entire German Volk pitched in to save the world from the evil of world Jewry. It was inconceivable that they were wrong. The Truth of the Führer versus the lies of the Jew. They believed that till the bitter end. There was almost no rebellion against Hitler. They believed in him and his anti-Semitism till the country was conquered, leveled, broken, destroyed.

There’s a famous picture of German prisoners of war watching concentration camp footage. They looked stunned. They all knew Jews were being dealt with, but most had never seen the camps, the ovens. Probably everyone of these soldiers had known Jewish families before the War. Unlike in Poland, German Jews were fully integrated into German society. They were Germans. Germany, before the First World War, had been in many ways a model state, without caste and dangerous religious bigotry. You can see the looks on these soldier’s faces when they realize what happened to their Jewish neighbors. The Holocaust machine was broken, and suddenly the Jews are people again. These Nazis are people again. Hell, most of them weren’t even Nazis. They just went along. It wasn’t like a howling lynch mob. Kristalnacht had been one ugly night that left Germans very uncomfortable. The Holocaust was a smoothly running machine, quite neat and clean, very efficient, quite logical. It’s just they never saw the pictures before.

Myrmecologists, that is entomologists who specialize in ants, the E.O. Wilsons of biology, speak of certain species as being fascist, world domineering ants. Our own household pest the Argentine ant is one, as it automatically wars and eventually destroys any other species of ant it comes across. There are several species like these. Not too many–were they all like this there’d be only one remaining species, the victor in all the endless ant wars to the death, and then something would have happened, a disease or fungus or climate change, and that last remaining ant species would have died out and there’d be no more ants in the world. But there are a few of these fascist, world dominating species, and myrmecologists joke darkly that if one of those species had the nuclear bomb the world would end in a week. Destroying an enemy ant colony is worth destroying yourselves over. Ant colonies do this regularly. The reason is that they are genetically programmed to war to the death. They will immediately attempt to destroy whatever colony they come across that is different from them. It’s not logic, obviously–they have brains the size of a head of a pin–but the genes are perfectly logical. Annihilation makes perfect sense. The Holocaust has always struck me as the same thing, though instead of genetic programming, a philosophy developed into an ideology that contained within it the logic that requires the absolute total annihilation of perceived enemies. The Nazis used Einsatzgruppen and ovens because they had no nuclear weapons. If the Third Reich had nuclear weapons, the world would have been over in a week.

Because to Hitler the total destruction of Germany was worth it if the world could be rid of the Jews. In the Führerbunker at war’s end, he said just that. And that was the logic of the Holocaust. It was the logic of World War One, when empires destroyed themselves to destroy each other. And it might have been the logic of World War Three. Destroying the village in order to save it. Who knows how close we came during the Cold War? And do we still have within us the seeds of that logic? Or were circumstances just perfect between 1914 and 1945 for nihilism on such a vast scale? Maybe so, maybe we’re not like that anymore, and maybe that is why we are still here, and not radioactive cinders throwing shadows by the light of the moon.

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I discuss the fate of indigenous Americans in The Spanish conquest hit the population of the Americas like a thermo-nuclear war.

I discuss the end of the Third Reich in Operation Bagration.

I discuss Zoroaster in Zoroaster.

I discuss fascist, world domineering ants in Two giant tiny civilizations trying to conquer the world beneath our feet.

The hair of Jesus

(Originally comments on Facebook inspired by the hair of Jesus, really.)

I think Jesus would actually look much more like a modern Lebanese, actually, except probably fairer as the population along the Mediterranean then was often much lighter complected and with lighter hair color than today. Even blue eyed. Think of how so many Kurds have red hair and blue eyes, and red hair is as common among some North African peoples (mostly Berbers) as it is in Scotland and Ireland. Over time, blonde and red and light brown hair and lighter skin tone tend to darken as the gene pool washes about. The homogenizing Persian, Greek and Roman empires began a trend to the “typical” middle eastern and Mediterranean look today, but if you read, say, Xenophon’s Anabasis, he is finding all kinds of various looking peoples as wanders home through the Persian empire. And in the Koran and in Islamic texts, the prophet Jesus usually has light brown or red hair and light skin, even freckled. So who knows.

But red hair was not uncommon in the ancient middle east, and in places where some ethnic groups have maintained much of their distinctive genetic identity over the millenia, red hair is not uncommon at all. It’s important to remember that the genetic composition of the middle east now is not what it was two thousand years ago. Not at all. Peoples have come, peoples have gone, and they have left their genes hornily all over the place. If any of those people had two copies of a recessive allele on chromosome 16, chances are good they were redheaded. There used to be a lot more people around the Mediterranean with those double recessive alleles on chromosone 16. But with time, things change, including hair color.

But did Jesus have red hair? I have no idea. The thought never even occurred to me until recently. It never came up in Mass, and wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Look around you in a Catholic Church and its a ployglot of hair colors and hair textures and hair genetics, none of which has any significance whatsoever on the mysteries of the sacrament. There is something distinctly protestant, and especially Baptist, about getting hung up over the color of the Messiah’s hair, or whether it was straight or curled or frizzy or peppercorn or He was just having a bad hair day. You have to be rather obsessed with the literal meaning of the words in the Bible to give a damn about the Messiah’s hair color. But people do care, and they especially care on social media, where they take sides and hurl invective at each other, like some especially pissy hair stylists. But having been raised Catholic, I have no idea how the Bible describes Jesus’ hair. I know what the Koran says, but not the Bible.  I do not even know if His hair was limp or full bodied.

Prayers and saints I know. In fact, I should be lighting a candle for you now, just for reading this. But one of the things about being Catholic was that we just assumed none of the stuff in the Bible could be taken literally as it had been rewritten so many times, and was in so many languages, and that the orthodox churches all had their own versions, etc etc. Somehow we knew that a Spanish Bible and a Standard American Bible and a Russian Bible and a Cantonese Bible and a Ge’ez Bible and a Bible written in English no one has used since the early 1600’s, as well as our Catholic Bible, could ever mean exactly the same thing. Different words, different sentences, different meanings. And I just did the usual Catholic thing of assuming that the version of the Bible that Protestants read was wrong (we didn’t use King James), because Protestants were always wrong, and so I have no idea how the King James version described Jesus, except that I figured he looked like an Italian or Greek or Spaniard, as that is how he always looked in the pictures in the Catholic Bible. But a guy raised Baptist assures me that the Bible said Jesus had a jewfro. I’d never heard a Baptist say jewfro before, but he did, and did so with that with good Baptist authority. No arguing. I didn’t, but I did google it. Apparently Jesus is curly headed in some passages of the Bible, in others not. I wouldn’t know for sure, however, as I never read the damn thing. 

But I do remember as a kid in Maine that on the one time my mother let my Dad take us to his church, the Protestant nativity scenes were full of way white people. And Jesus looked way white, and so did God. A lotta white people in Protestant Heaven. Nobody looked Italian at all. Or even tanned. And the protestant services were all scary, with too much singing and a sermon that never quit. There were not enough candles and no magic at all. The reformation must have been a thrill a minute. But I digress.

I’ve always thought that this portrait of Pompeiian Terentius Neo and his wife was a pretty good view of ethnicity in the ancient Mediterranean. They are both Samnites, one of the nations that bordered Latium (Rome) in Italy but were by this time deep within the center of the Roman Empire. (Pontius Pilate, who knew the color of Jesus’ hair, is probably the most famous Samnite.) Today, Terentius Neo and his wife would be considered if not exactly separate races, then ethnically quite diverse. He is a person of color, in the current parlance, she not. But this was at the very beginning of the population explosion brought by the Roman Empire, and dramatically different looking people lived in pockets all mixed together but not yet so genetically blended. Our whole concept of race probably would not have made a helluva lot of sense to them. Class, though, class mattered. Mattered much more to them than to us. They also had their one per cent. These two, though, were not members of the one per cent of Roman society. They were just good Roman middle class people in a thriving, beautiful city with a spectacular view of Mount Vesuvius.

It is also an absolutely gorgeous portrait, soft, lamp lit, and there are those extraordinary ancient eyes, eyes that seem to come all the way from early Mesopotamia and continued deep into feudal times. We all looked into eyes like that at one time, like deep pools, full of mystery. Though maybe they now seem mysterious to us only because we no longer look into eyes like that. The Flemish painters changed all that, with eyes like photographs, real eyes, perfect eyes. No one looks at us with eyes like deep pools anymore.

Though what this has to do with Jesus’ hair I have no fucking idea. It must be the coffee.

Pompeii-couple Terentius Neo and wife, of Pompeii.

Listening to Wanda Jackson and thinking about the end of the world.

“Fujiyama Mama” by Wanda Jackson is on the radio. Some badass rockabilly from 1957. Haven’t heard this in decades.

I’ve been to Nagasaki, Hiroshima too!
The things I did to them baby, I can do to you! 

I suppose atomic bombs could be kind of funny/cool until the late 50’s. Mutually Assured Destruction–MAD–was just depressing though we weren’t quite there yet. The Russians had a couple hundred nuclear bombs. We had 2,500. We would win. As would Wanda Jackson in the sack, apparently. By 1960 the Russians had 1600 bombs, but we had over ten times that. We would still win, though there’d be a lot less left, and certainly no Wanda Jackson songs. By 1965 the Russians had over 6,000 bombs, enough to blow up the world, and we had over 30,000. I’m not sure what Wanda Jackson would say at all. Not even the hottest mama could do to a man what thirty thousand H-bombs could do.

I was born in 1957, the year Wanda Jackson recorded Fujiyama Mama. I have no memories of the Cuban Missile Crisis, which has always struck me as odd, being that I six years old. We were living just outside Washington D.C., and if the missiles flew and bombs dropped we were as good as vaporized. My parents must have hidden it from us, as did the teachers. My folks must have been terrified. My father certainly was, he was working with the navy at the time and privy to all sorts of water cooler scuttlebutt. He told me later he was scared out of wits. The worst week of his life, he said. Somehow none of this had sunk in. Or perhaps I repressed it, though I have vivid memories of the Kennedy assassination just a month later. I was fully aware of the fact that we could all be obliterated, however. I remember duck and cover drills in kindergarten. The air raid siren would go off, and the teacher had us curl up under these tiny desks. It would have kept us alive an additional millisecond. Some of my earliest memories of nuclear bombs were just being scared and depressed and trying not to think about them. Maybe scared isn’t the right word. Dreaded maybe, though one doesn’t think of children dreading anything, just being scared. I remember seeing some movie about the end of the world when I was in third or fourth grade up in Maine in 1966, Five or On the Beach, and though the thing was hopelessly over my head I completely understood the feeling of doom. I watched it all the way through to the end and it was like I’d discovered a grown up secret–we were all doomed. There I was nine of ten years old thinking about the end of the world and feeling hopeless. I remember walking outside and it was chilly and grey and very, very sad. Those years of duck and cover drills had taken their toll.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union and end of the Cold War, those times can seem funny now. I really like that John Goodman flick Matinee, basically a screwball comedy about the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s charming. The end of the world rendered cute. How can you not love it?  The only funny take on the end of the world I remember before then was Dr. Strangelove, which is hysterically funny. Came out about the same time as Failsafe, which is not funny. I wonder if they were ever double billed anywhere? Two ends of the world for the price of one. Which would they show first? In Failsafe Blackie bombs New York City and the last thing you see is a flock of pigeons. In Strangelove you get Vera Lynn. Don’t know where don’t know when. I suppose I’d want to see the pigeons first. Why ruin the whole weekend scared and depressed? Better to be laughing, scared and depressed.

Thinking about it now, though, dread is an apt description. Weird how that never completely disappeared back then, the dread. It was always there, in the background, and no matter how much you’d forget about it, there was always something to make you remember. As a kid no matter where we moved we were always in a target zone, which by the 70’s meant annihilation. You can’t duck and cover from multiple H-Bombs, and by the time I graduated from high school the Russians had almost 20,000 of them. We had 27,000. Where the hell would Kremlin drop it’s 20,000 nuclear bombs? Where would the Pentagon drop our 27,000? After the first thousand there’d be nothing left. I can’t remember how we dealt with this conundrum. I do know that we lived every moment with the thought in the back of our minds that just one mistake by somebody somewhere could send fifty thousand nuclear weapons to their targets and annihilate not just us and the USSR, but all life everywhere. That was the beauty of mutually assured destruction. We studied it in college. We looked for ways to game it, to fix it so one side could win. It never happened. Both sides always lost.

By 1980 the US had actually reduced its arsenal, though we had bigger and better quality bombs. One of the newer ones could vaporize Omsk, say, where we’d needed two before. Though we’d probably hit Omsk with two or three anyway, just to be sure. The Russians kept growing their stockpile. They had thirty thousand warheads in 1980, and almost forty thousand in 1985. We wondered what they could possibly do with forty thousand nuclear bombs. When does Mutually Assured Destruction veer into just a waste of money? I mean if you could already destroy the world with, say, five thousand warheads, why destroy it eight times over?  As if there was any logic to any of this, really, by that point.

The atom bomb still had a kind of innocence in the fifties. First Hiroshima. One little bomb, one vaporized town. Then Nagasaki, and another vaporized town. The Japanese got the message, the war was over, the boys came home. So simple. There was logic to it. Sure it was morally awful, but you could argue that it made sense. Then forty years later there are 50,000 bombs and it made no sense at all. It’s hard to find any logic except Mutually Assured Destruction. Then suddenly the Soviet Union was gone, just like that. The Cold War was over. Neither we nor they were on the brink of self-immolation. Indeed, it wasn’t even us or them anymore. The bi-polar system was gone and destroying the world no longer made any sense geo-politically. Now we freak out over terrorists.

Yet even the craziest terrorists, even terrorists with nuclear bombs, seem like child’s play compared to Mutually Assured Destruction. Though it’s hard to explain that now. It’s hard to explain just what it was like living with the threat of complete and total annihilation over our heads. Everyday with that thought in the back of our minds that, well, this could be it. This could be your very last sunrise. Your very last sunset. The very last time you see your kids, your wife, your parents. That could have been your very last kiss. Everybody’s very last kiss. Someone will press the button and nobody will ever fall in love again.

The Wanda Jackson tune ended ages ago. Now it’s something wry and ironic. There’s time to be wry and ironic now. The world won’t end any second.

Weaving

The Kesh Temple Hymn (or more precisely, Liturgy to Nintud on the Creation of Man and Woman) is in the long dead Sumerian language and written in cuneiform that was scratched with a stylus into fresh clay tablets and dried in the sun, as were all writings in Mesopotamia at the time. That was about 2600 B.C., or four thousand six hundred years ago. At some point a century or two afterward the tablets were baked hard as rock in a fire when the city was burned by some conqueror or another and the city archives were buried in the ruins. Over the years they were covered by sand and protected from all the history that happened on top of them. Mesopotamia is a vast scattered library of such tablets now, a half a million or more in museums already, and who knows how many million more still in the ground. Archaeologists uncovered the Kesh Temple Hymn in the first decades of the 20th century, and one of the world’s few living readers of cuneiform–it is incredibly difficult to read for those of us raised on alphabets–translated the seventy three lines of text by 1920. Its significance was recognized immediately. This anonymous temple prayer, a Liturgy to Nintud on the Creation of Man and Woman, is humanity’s first known literature. A century later and we’ve still found nothing earlier. It’s not the first writing–that had been around a couple centuries already–but the first literature. (Well, the first that we know of.) We consider it literature because the words are so pretty. There’s a cadence, a lilt. There’s art. It is something very special written by an unknown scribe with a talent for written expression, and that was a brand new thing in the world:

The princely one, the princely one came forth from the house. Enlil, the princely one, came forth from the house. The princely one came forth royally from the house. Enlil lifted his glance over all the lands, and the lands raised themselves to Enlil. The four corners of heaven became green for Enlil like a garden. Kesh was positioned there for him with head uplifted, and as Kesh lifted its head among all the lands, Enlil spoke the praises of Kesh. Nisaba was its decision-maker; with its words she wove it intricately like a net. Written on tablets it was held in her hands: House, platform of the Land, important fierce bull!

You’d have to be a Sumerologist to know what all that is about exactly. You get the general idea, though. And dig that repetition, like chanting. The princely one, four times. In my head I see a line of priests, repeating it. The ways of writing still reflected the manners of speech then.

But something extra special in the text immediately stuck out for me. This:

 ….with its words she wove it intricately like a net. Written on tablets it was held in her hands….

Because that is actually a description of writing itself. Perhaps the very first description we know of, though I rather doubt it. The Sumerians had been writing documents–lists, letters and the like–for a couple centuries by 2600 BC. Indeed, schools for scribes opened not long after this was written. Doubtless writing is described earlier, but prosaically. A Sumerian skill set. But these two lines (verb phrases, actually, each only half a sentence) might have been the first time anyone ever described the act of writing so poetically, weaving the words intricately like a net. And it’s that metaphor which amazes me, the use of weaving to describe story telling in written words. Though perhaps the author was not talking about story telling per se, but of writing down the words in cuneiform itself…

cuneiform-writing-of-the-ancient-sumerian-or-assyrian-civilization-in-iraq

…which, in seventy three closely spaced lines, might well look like a intricately woven net. I’m more inclined to think that is what was meant, now that I’ve visualized it. In the five thousand years since writing was invented by the Sumerians, written metaphors have become very rich and very subtle, very abstract and quite opaque. But when writing was new metaphors were typically visual, things you could see. And line after line of cuneiform etched into a clay tablet could look, with a little imagination, like a seine net stretched across a stream. Today it’s the sentences we weave into a story, and few writers now–John McPhee, maybe–would ever think of a seine net at all. Or even know what one is. Besides, our alphabet doesn’t look like netlike, not in the least. I’m not sure what it looks like, besides letters. Those letters used to look like something–they began, most of them, as Egyptian hieroglyphs, which began as pictographs, which began as things–but now they’re as neutral and metaphor free as a writing system can be.

But still, I’m struck by the thought that the weaving metaphor is still used 4500 years later. We still weave stories, like a net in fact. Certainly more like a net than a sweater or a pair of socks or a bird cage cover. A net makes sense that way. Lateral, linear, spaced. Maybe there’s a direct metaphorical connection between Sumerian scribes weaving prayers into nets of cuneiform and the weavers of tales today tapping things into the ether. Or maybe not. It’s just astonishing to think that writing, though five thousand years old, is such a new thing that Bronze Age metaphors still apply.

Ku Klux Klan

Back before World War Two the KKK burned a cross on my mother’s lawn. It was the budget variety–the shape of a big cross splashed in gasoline on the lawn and set alight. It certainly caught everyone’s attention. Apparently the nice neighborhood my grandparents had moved into was restricted–Protestants only. No Catholics and certainly no Irish. The Irish back then were only white in color anyway, they weren’t really white, not like WASP white. Everybody knew that. They drank too much, bred like rabbits, were loud, obnoxious, always fighting and voting Democrat and were, well, thugs. Nice people didn’t want Irish people in their neighborhoods. But my grandfather had done real good for a shanty Irish, got himself a real job, an executive job, making good money working for a government contractor, getting bombers built for the war to come. So he moved uptown and even got the family a maid. An Irish family with a maid. There’s an irony for you. It apparently wasn’t lost on the neighbors. The local branch of the KKK–they were everywhere, back then, the KKK, saving America from negroes and papists and jews and intellectuals–well the local branch got together and decided that if one Irishman moved in there went the whole neighborhood. So some brave souls stole onto the lawn in the middle of the night and poured a few gallons of gasoline into the shape of the Holy Cross and set it ablaze. The light filled my mother’s bedroom and she looked out her window and screamed in terror. My grandmother collected her and rest of the children in a safe spot away from the windows and my grandfather waited for the fire truck. The firemen–all Irish–doused the flames. The police officers–all Irish–took down the information. Things were whispered between my grandfather and the police and firemen. They probably warned him there’d be more to come. They’d seen it before. Said it was a dangerous part of town for an Irishman and his children. We all know our place, they said, and it’s not on this end of town.

No one ever took responsibility for the act. No one was arrested. Not long afterward my grandfather took the family back across the river to New Jersey, where the local bars rang late into the night with Irish song, people voted early and often, and Mass was full all Sunday long. Those were his people, and he stayed with them and sang with them and drank with them till he died.

The KKK won that battle.