The undoing.

Gaza.

The safe haven of Hamas. Over two million people live on the Gaza strip, close to 800,000 packed together in an amalgamation of buildings known as the city of Gaza. Buildings upon buildings, the ghetto the Palestinians were offered. "The Gaza Strip fell to British forces during World War I, becoming a part of the British Mandate of Palestine (as prescribed by the League of Nations in 1920). Following the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, Egypt administered the newly formed Gaza Strip; Israel captured it in the Six-Day War in 1967. Under a series of agreements known as the Oslo Accords signed between 1993 and 1999, Israel transferred to the newly-created Palestinian Authority (PA) security and civilian responsibility for many Palestinian-populated areas of the Gaza Strip as well as the West Bank." [1]

 

"The Gaza Strip has been under the de facto governing authority of the Islamic Resistance Movement (Hamas) since 2007, and has faced years of conflict, poverty, and humanitarian crises." [1] Hamas has, through elections, moved Fatah away from any meaningful governing capacity in Gaza, in fact becoming the Palestinian Authority, by nature and by force. So yes, unless something major is happening at the population level, one can say that since the election results are a marker, the majority of Palestinian civilians in Gaza support Hamas. But do they?

Can elections effectively controlled by a terrorist organization be considered a reliable marker? Would Hamas concede they lost an election to a moderate faction of the Palestinian political spectrum? I don't think so. Once again, walk with me while I organize my thoughts on this situation, keeping in mind that they are my thoughts alone, even if reference sources are sometimes quoted.

The Israelis withdrawal in 2005, unilaterally ending their presence in the strip, lead to the walling of the area. Israel controls most land access and all sea access to the strip. Only the southern border is controlled by Egypt, roughly six miles long. That's not a typo. The Gaza Strip is reduced to an area of roughly 140 square miles. Gaza city itself, to the North, is a large agglomeration of structures, piled up over the years, systematically worn down and torn down by Israel. Khan Yunis is the next largest location to the South, and between the two, the port town of Dayr al Balah, if we can call it a "town". Finally, there's the border location of Rafah, touching Egypt. That's it. A strip. A box. A kill box.

 

Because Hamas is in control, transforming the Palestinians sea gate to the world into a base of operations from which they launched many attacks against Israel since 2007, one can hardly call the Gaza Strip a part of Palestine, the way it was envisioned by a two state solution. It has been just a terrorist sandbox for many years now. And on October 7, 2023, that reality became suddenly and painfully apparent to the world, most of which in turn immediately entered the denial stage, having to deal with the fact that Gaza was nothing but a fucking mess created not by the Israelis alone, but by Hamas in particular. In the urge to defend Palestine, most of the world tried to justify the attack at the same time it condemned it as an act of terrorism. "It's a horrible thing, what happened but... the Jews were asking for it." After all, this is what you get after years of "colonization", talking as if Palestine was India, or Angola, in the 20th century, or... the America of the 18th century?

The main source of confusion about the region is it's designation. A quick look at History tells you the Jews lived in the area long before the Roman Empire conquered it. "The ancient Romans pinned the name on the Land of Israel. In 135 CE, after stamping out the province of Judea’s second insurrection, the Romans renamed the province Syria Palaestina—that is, “Palestinian Syria.” They did so resentfully, as a punishment, to obliterate the link between the Jews (in Hebrew, Y’hudim and in Latin Judaei) and the province (the Hebrew name of which was Y’hudah). “Palaestina” referred to the Philistines, whose home base had been on the Mediterranean coast." [2]

 

"The term was meaningful to Christians as synonymous with the Holy Land. It was meaningful to Jews as synonymous with Eretz Yisrael, which is Hebrew for the Land of Israel. As noted by the Palestinian scholar Muhammad Y. Muslih in The Origins of Palestinian Nationalism, Arabic speakers sometimes used the Arabic words for “Holy Land,” but never coined a uniquely Arabic name for the territory; Filastin is the Arabic pronunciation of the Roman terminology. “Palestine was also referred to as Surya al-Janubiyya (Southern Syria), because it was part of geographical Syria,” wrote Muslih. In the pre-World War I era, scholars also sometimes said Palestine was the region just south of Syria." [2]

So yes, once and for all, Israel is "a thing", and Palestine is "a thing". Denying any of the two is denying History. Claiming Israel only exists since 1948 is the paragon of stupidity, as is professing that Palestine has existed "forever". Please, stop running your mouths and read some reliable sources like, oh, I don't know, History fucking books, maybe. During the independence struggle, between 1945 and 1948, Arabs and Jews were fighting the British out of the region, oftentimes helping each other. Palestinians actually gave shelter to Jewish fighters, considered "terrorists" by (then) Her Majesty's government. British submarines were given instructions to prevent more ships carrying European Jewish refugees from getting to their Palestine protectorate. It was an all out war for the end of a TRUE colonialist era, and the colonialists were not Jewish, they were British.

Today, again, we see the region on fire. We see the violence spread, the madness expand. Once again, a government is trying to fight fire with gasoline, treating a terrorist organization as if they are a regular army, with a central command, a geopolitical territory, with a centralized government and the support of the people they are fighting for. Just like the British did with the IRA, and like we did with Al-Qaeda. How did those work out? The IRA did not cease to exist because the British intensified their military campaign against them, but because they finally stopped it. And as for us, America, all we got after decades of War on Terror was more terror, and a new terrorist organization in lieu of Al-Qaeda. That's how well it worked out. Israel's reaction to Hamas is no different, and it will lead to the exact same result.

 

I said it before and I will say it here, again: terrorism is a law enforcement problem, that needs to be handled by law enforcement agencies, intelligence agencies, and due to the nature of the threat, at times the involvement of special operations teams, and military intelligence assets. Using the military to fight terrorism is throwing gasoline into the fire, and the result is not the extinction of terrorists, it's their exponential spawning. Congratulations, Israel. You got yourselves another endless war. And for what...?

 

As I write these words, the first day of December, 2023, almost two months after 10/7, a new set of facts has seen the light of day. Facts that are verified, and prove the terrible events of October 7, and the ones that followed, could have been avoided entirely. All the Jewish victims, and all the Palestinian victims, are now seen through a different lens. One that makes their loss much more wasteful and heartbreaking.

 

About these facts, on this day I wrote on my Good Morning post, on Threads:

 

"The NYT came out with a story that sheds a lot of light on what happened BEFORE 10/7. It has receipts, and it runs through MONTHS of previous Israeli intelligence gathering that specified Hamas was not only planning an attack like 10/7 over the Gaza borders, it actually had the fucking BLUEPRINTS for such an offensive. One intelligence female officer, in particular, sounded the alarm, again and again, including REAL intel about Hamas exercises preparing for 10/7. But no one listened." [3] (Link to full post here.)

Cultural Zionists... So much to be said about those Jews who defend Zionism like their life depends on it, while in fact, as most of them are reform Jews, Cultural Zionists don't give a shit about them.

"(...) So now you have cultural Zionists among us, claiming for the eradication of Palestinian presence in the regions of Gaza, and yes the West Bank. The need to push back, to once and for all finish what was started during the Nakba. One mind’s thoughts might bring back a hateful word that has little to do with Jewish affairs, but illustrates the mentality exhibited by such a strand of Zionism: Lebensraum. The territory a nation believes is needed for its natural development. (...) Israel is an inclusive state. For many cultures and many different people who share the desire for peace and a normal life. For all religions, all cultures, all tendencies. From the honest embrace of their LGBTQ+ community to the Bedouin tracker groups and the Desert Recon Battalion in the IDF. Not exactly a cultural Zionist setting, but nevertheless, the reality of today’s Israel. A society vastly different in the ways it sees itself than those embraced in 1948, which led to the Nakba. History waits for no one, but there are always those longing for the good old days… Make America great again, remember that? Well, for the cultural Zionists, making Israel great again is a REAL thing. And the threat is not just Hamas, or Hezbollah. It’s everyone who endangers the existence of their delusional ethnocentric religious state. And yes, in the long run, that means you too, the reform Jew. The Jew who, according to cultural Zionism, is not a Jew at all. Did you know that? (...)" [4] (Link to full post here.)

So where do we go from here...?

How do we balance our indignation for what Hamas is doing with the legitimate plight of the Palestinian people? How do we reconcile the right of the Jewish people to a tolerant, inclusive homeland, with the fascist Netanyahu regime? How do we deal with the fact that all those kids at the Nova festival, on October 7, could have been prevented from ever being there in the first place? How do we live with an Israeli response to 10/7 designed to save Bibi from political extinction rather than to save the Israeli hostages, and innocent Palestinian lives?

It's a shit show... An endless shit show... And I only pray to a God I stopped believing in long ago, that someone smarter than me finds a solution. Because I have none, I see none, and I can't imagine how to get out of this mess. I wish I had words of hope for you. That at least you deserve for putting up with me for this long blogpost. But I can't lie to you. And I just don't know...

This is the fork on the road. This is where you make up your mind about how to proceed, what to do next, where to go. That I do know, for myself alone, although you are free to follow me on this path. And it's not an easy one. It's full of traps, laid down by our own feelings, waiting for us to take the bait we so carelessly put down for ourselves to bite. Don't do it. Resist the urge to bite it, no matter how appealing it is, how satisfying (in the moment) it may seem. You will regret the easy way out. Don't take it.

Take the hardest path up. The one you look at and clearly see yourself falling off those slippery ledges. I take it, trusting someone will catch my hand if I slip, and slip I will, and so will you. If I am there, I will catch your hand. I promise. I don't care who you are, Jew or gentile, but I will catch you. Because we are in this together, and if there is a chance in hell we can reach the top, that is together.

So I will catch you, and hope one day you will do the same for me.

Stay strong. Remain true to yourself. Look for the good in everyone, be merciful when you find it, and merciless when you don't. And keep climbing. That's my answer to you. I know it's not easy, but has it ever been? So let's try it one more time, for ourselves, for those who one day will carry the torch we keep alive, and most of all, for those who will never know us but depend on us to do the right thing. Follow your heart, and you will. Peace be with you.

[finis]

 

Notes:

On the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (other blogposts/blog pages):

1. Haaretz Yisrael. (link here)

2. Achoti I . Ahavat Yisrael (link here)

3. Shalom Aleichem. (link here)

[1] source: Central Intelligence Agency.

[2] source: Douglas J. Feith, Mosaic Magazine.

[3] From my post on Threads, 2023/12/01. (Link to full post here.)

[4] From my post on Threads, 2023/11/26. (Link to full post here.)

 

Note:

Comments on this blog are locked. This is but a reading platform linked to Threads.

If you wish to reply with your thoughts, please do so on the Threads post that references this opinion piece. Thank you for reading.

Neda was her name.

 

This post was first published in one of my other blogs from a distant past.

It becomes relevant today as we can't watch Iranians fight for their freedom anymore, read their desperate calls for help on Twitter anymore, or see them on the main stream media anymore.

They are gone. Like Neda. Like they never were.

Remember them.

 

Neda Agha-Soltan

(Persian: ندا آقا سلطان - Nedā Āġā-Soltān; born 1982, died June 20, 2009)

[First published Monday, June 22, 2009. Already living in the U.S.]

 

The images of Neda's murder are still on my mind. I believe they always will be. Like the image of Mohammed al-Durrah, the 12 years old boy shot with his father during the 2000 intifada in Gaza. Unlike the tank man image taken by Jeff Widener in Tiananmen square in 1989, Neda and Mohammed's images show the death of completely innocent people, that were killed just because they were there. They were not standing in front of a tank. They were just on the street, the day they died.

Neda Agha-Soltan was not throwing rocks at the Basiji or shouting against the Ayatollahs' regime; she wasn't even near a group of protesters doing those things. She was a woman walking on the street, coming from or going to a demonstration against the government that oppresses her people, a right granted to citizens by the Iranian constitution. Yet, she was singled out and shot in cold blood as she was walking peacefully, in what is a clear sign of the true nature of the Iranian regime: fascism.

She was a woman in Iran. A woman that like so many others in so many different ways aspired for change. She, like so many other women in Iran, was given new hope by the movement on the streets of Tehran, Esfahan, Tabriz, Kerman, spreading like fire through dry grassland. This makes her death a much greater symbol for those seeking freedom, for true freedom means human dignity and you can't have human dignity when basic human rights are being suppressed. She became a martyr in a greater cause, much greater than other causes that feed from martyrdom. She died not on the barricades, not on the front lines of this struggle, but peacefully walking the street; she died because she dared dream of freedom while not being free.

The fascist beasts that murdered Neda, like all fascist beasts everywhere, have not learnt that dreams are impossible to kill. But they try. They try with all their might and all their means. They shall not succeed. And yet, even as I write these words, outside of Iran the fear of this spreading fire grows. The huge role of Twitter, YouTube and Facebook in the Iranian revolt is downplayed more and more; the control freaks in power try to adjust, to understand how this is possible and how to manipulate and block the truth in this new age of information; the opinion makers desperately gasp in a world where opinion is no longer exclusive and at long last the word came to triumph over the sword; the false prophets of democracy shout and spout their bile without shame to try and stop this debacle, looking as if they cherish the very things they despise; now they shed fake tears for Neda, when the world knows how many innocents like her they killed before. To free them, of course. Shameless.

I truly hope, like many, many others, that Neda's death, and the deaths of hundreds of other Iranians, was not in vain. I truly hope the people of Iran can at long last win their freedom and embrace true democracy, parting ways with religion as a society and entering the modern world, keeping their true faith an individual right. I truly hope the rest of us finally learn how to respect them and help them achieve these goals, and at last stop thinking how this change can be made profitable and serve interests other than those of the Iranian people. In a world in turmoil, the revolting Iranians are heroes. Lets us always remember Neda, but let us never forget those left fighting for what she hoped for and will never have. And above all, let us make sure they will have it. For themselves.

Inch'Allah.

 

[finis]

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If you wish to reply with your thoughts, please do so on the Threads post that references this opinion piece. Thank you for reading.

Chaos is the new cocaine.

I have cable television on my phone. We get it from a streaming service. The way it is set up I can see my favorites on a Watch Now tab, to make it easy to go where I want fast, however, it does not allow me to change the channel order. I don’t watch Fox News, but I occasionally drop by to check it out, know your enemy and all that crap, so I have it on my favorite list. This means I sometimes catch a glance of what’s going on as I swipe through the favorites. That’s the extent of my interaction with Fox News channel.

There are at least two other categories of Fox News viewers, as far as it concerns this piece. One is the hard core, always dumb, Christian Fascist audience that is their target. The other is a handful of people who watch it for professional reasons, either in real time, or by visiting their website or You Tube video related material. Some of these, like Kat Abu, gather a short weekly summary of Fox News items, I think she still calls it “If you didn’t watch Fox News last week, this is what you missed”, to which she adds very concise commentaries. Others, like Decodingfoxnews, have an almost play by play of what the fuck is going on there, more often than not complete with illustrative video of Fox News shows, and a many times elaborate editorial, expressing her own views in detail, as she explains what the linked Fox News item is about.

The advantage of Kat Abu’s approach is that you get her summary once a week, sometimes a “special edition” covering targeted issues, and that’s it. The advantage of Decodingfoxnews is you get an exhaustive view of the issues. The disadvantage of Kat Abu’s take is you will miss a lot of what’s going on in Fox News, from an academic stand point (some, like myself, may actually find this advantageous). The disadvantage of Decodingfoxnews is it bombards you with a lot of Fox News, covering practically everything from the morning shows to the late night ones, which means that you are really watching Fox News, if you consider the time spent on all her posts, watching Fox News programming, as compared to the time you spend watching real cable news from other sources. Now let’s look at the impact on Threads.

I admit that, from time to time, something relevant comes along, but for the most part it’s just bulshit, not really all that important, like the latest drama between Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert, or the most recent blunder by Kevin McCarthy, or “news” Fox News hosts make themselves. In any case, I recently realized that, thanks to Decodingfoxnews, I could no longer say I didn’t watch that channel. I actually watched more of it than MSNBC, because of the constant pushing of its content.

Now you may say I only watch it if I want to actually view the video, and that is fair, but keeping in mind that all Decodingfoxnews does in video is the exact reproduction of the Fox News item, that means her editorial intro in text is right there, in my timeline, along with the still image from the video, featuring the freak du jour. So it started to annoy me, because I am a good diagonal reader, and most of that shit did make it to my brain.

I considered unfollowing. That would have done the trick on my timeline. But there are like 20,000 people following Decodingfoxnews on Threads, many of whom follow me or I follow, which means that, combined with her own prolific posting, the quoted articles still show in both the For You and Following timelines and my personal All and Replies tabs. So I just let it be for a while, until I started reading the editorials more closely. In the last I read, the commentary was such that it made Laura Ingraham look good. I shit you not. Complete with wishes that other Fox News hosts would follow her example! That was it for me. I blocked it, after she replied to my quote post where I specifically called her out on this, suggesting she was over watching Fox News. For some reason, she came at me with her combined Xitter and Threads followers, she claims to total 200,000. Impressive. She got the answering machine treatment, just like any nazi bastard with 20 followers would. Makes no difference to me.

These accounts, Decodingfoxnews, the Ghost of Conway, and others like them, who editorialize over Fox News content linked on their posts, are actually promoting Fox News to an audience it doesn’t get to. Us. The people who don’t watch it. And then I thought, it doesn’t even make any sense. I mean, decoding Fox News doesn’t take 24/7 every day. You got to be real dumb to spend years decoding every aspect of Fox News. I suggest a name change, and not going as far as suggesting “Promotingfoxnews”, I would go with “Watchingfoxnews”. At least it is honest.

As for those of you still curious, let me tell you this: Fox News is shit. There. I decoded Fox News for you in 3 seconds. No need to subscribe for updates. Fox News is shit. That’s it. Decoded. Now you can return to your previous non watcher status. It’s all good.

[finis]

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Oriana Fallaci (1929-2006)

Written on a Sunday, September 17, 2006.

Published here on September 15, 2023, seventeen years after her death.

My story with Oriana Fallaci began 30 years ago. At that time (1976), Portugal was a turmoil of emotions and experiences; the PREC (Processo Revolucionário Em Curso) had left deep marks on Portuguese society. Death threats arrived at my home by phone, anonymously, cowardly. My father, a union leader in a textile factory (which had belonged until shortly before April 25, 1974, to a communist industrialist who risked his life for his beliefs and had always treated the men and women working for him fairly), tried to convince his fellow workers that they couldn't become "rich" in just a few days. An enlightened prick (who is now a member of the European Parliament, by the way) declared my father a "lackey of capitalist interests", and self-management began joyfully, with everyone becoming "boss" in the few months the factory lasted after that. 

 

When bankruptcy was declared, my father had already found a new job, as he immediately realized that the happily self-managed factory wouldn't last long (my mother, who also worked there as an accountant, fell into depression and was already at home by that time). Seeing the goose dead and the golden eggs gone, the ephemeral "bosses" directed their anger at the "capitalist lackey" who had "escaped" the fate they had so happily embraced, carried away by the revolutionary rhetoric of that prick I mentioned, who is now dining in Brussels at our expense (and at the expense of those she deceived, one day).

Amidst all of this, at the age of 12, I became profoundly anti-communist. The process was similar to what those who had family members persecuted by the regime before 1974 went through, but in the opposite direction. Time would take care of shaping and transforming me politically, but one of the primary and initial people responsible for my political formation was Oriana Fallaci. She was a kind of tutor to me. On November 25, 1975, my parents celebrated their 13th wedding anniversary. On November 26, 1975, my father turned 39. On November 28, 1975, surrounded by my entire family, I blew out the twelve candles on my birthday cake. November 1975, the PREC was dead (in English, Revolutionary Process Underway), and the Círculo de Leitores (Readers' Circle) published "Entrevista com a História" (Interview with History) by Oriana Fallaci.

 

The following year, I discovered this book on the shelves of my aunt and uncle's house, where I used to spend long periods of time. On the cover, there was a reproduction of the famous and controversial interview by Oriana Fallaci with Álvaro Cunhal, published in the Italian magazine Europeo on June 6, 1975, and reproduced in full in Portugal by Jornal do Caso República (The Republic Case Newspaper) almost three weeks after its publication in Italy. At the time, I didn't read that particular and obscure Portuguese newspaper (let alone the Italian one), but I heard family comments on the matter. Curious, I searched for the interview within the book but couldn't find it in the index. So, I began skimming through the various chapters diagonally, but found nothing. It was then that I glanced at the interview with Golda Meir (the events of Munich were still fresh in my memory) and later, at the one with Yasser Arafat. I remember sitting on a sofa in my aunt and uncle's house and reading both interviews in one breath. Then, the familiar names (Kissinger, Willy Brandt, Indira Gandhi), and the others, who were they? George Habash, Nguyen Van Thieu, Ali Bhutto... Names that led me to other names, to other words, to other realities, and other perspectives. It was my baptism by fire.

And no, I didn't find the interview with Álvaro Cunhal in the pages of this specific book. Until I found the complete text, all I read were the lines printed on the cover of the Círculo de Leitores edition. I don't know how many times I read this book. I think, for a long time, I would always pick it up whenever I was at my aunt and uncle's house. Today, with both of them deceased, the book is here in my office, between Bertrand Russell's "Crimes de Guerra no Vietname" (War Crimes in Vietnam) and the 1968 edition of "Dossier do Conflito Israelo-Árabe" (Dossier of the Israeli-Arab Conflict), published by Inova (then Editorial Inova Limitada), with a cover by Armando Alves.

 

Oriana Fallaci, to me, was a goddess. Moreover, she was a beautiful (and Italian!) woman and a leftist, which imbued her with even more charm from my young teenage perspective, as I mentioned above. And then, so many years later, I knew she lived in New York, but on that morning of September 2001, the last thing that crossed my mind was that fact. I write; I write a lot (rarely does a day go by without writing), but on September 11, 2001, I didn't write anything. I simply couldn't. A few days ago, a friend who knows my views on 9/11 told me, after reading one of the entries in the 5/911 series on my blog, "Who you were after the attacks and who you are you now!" Indeed, the shock caused by the images and news of that day removed my ability to see beyond that, the obvious in them hidden from view. However, the house of cards didn't take long to fall. All it took was removing the trump card. I admit that at that time, however, all I felt was pure anger. Even so, I didn't write a single line that day.

 

Oriana Fallaci, however, wrote a lot of lines. She wrote her anger against Islam and her pride of being Western while watching one tower and then another fall near her home in Manhattan. I still don't know why she did it. I know that the ideas she conveys did not originate from that day. I can imagine why they were born. I recall the first two interviews I read in "Entrevista com a História." I don't know what led Fallaci to interview Fallaci, to switch sides, turning the narrative into action and the interviewer into the interviewed, a builder of history. An actress. I haven't read "La Rabia e l’Orgoglio" ("The Rage and the Pride", by then her first work after 10 years of pause), I've only read excerpts and her own words about it, but I will have it one day. And maybe I won't be able to read it, not because it's uncomfortable or another type of inconvenient feeling, but because it was written by her. Addio, Oriana. Ti mancherò...

 

Photo taken in 1963, the year I was born.

 

"La Fallaci é morta."

Oriana Fallaci returned to Florence, Italy, 

where she was born July 29, 1929, to die 

September 15, 2006. She was 77 years old. 

 

 

 

 

 

[finis]

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If you wish to reply with your thoughts, please do so on the Threads post that references this opinion piece. Thank you for reading.

An Illegal War Journal. Day 19.

Written Wednesday, April 6, 2003.
The 19th day of the second War in Iraq.
Published on my Portuguese blog, that day.

Day Nineteen.
Friend or Foe.

 

The propaganda machine of both Iraq and the USA clash as fiercely as the fighters on the ground. The advantage goes to the Americans. No matter how credulous the viewers may be, hearing the so titled information minister Mohammed Al-Sahhaf claim that there is not a single coalition soldier in Baghdad when the images show American tanks on the opposite bank of the Tigris is simply ridiculous.

 

(...) The fighting intensifies in and around Baghdad. The Iraqis achieve some successes; the destruction of an Abrams here, a Bradley there, but nothing that seriously threatens the American war machine. (I think conventional combat has ended, if it ever existed...) Some armored columns from the 3rd US Infantry Division advance to Saddam Hussein's palaces, right by the Tigris. From the windows of the Palestine Hotel, cameramen from various television networks capture the moment.

 

(...) The G.I.'s allow themselves to be photographed sitting on the sofas in the palaces, and some officers have the good sense to prevent others from placing the Stars & Stripes on the outside of the now abandoned buildings. But the situation deteriorates, and madness naturally expands.

The Russian embassy leaves Baghdad and heads to Syria in a motorized caravan, notifying both sides of the conflict about the evacuation details. Despite this precaution, they are attacked twice after leaving the last Iraqi checkpoint. As confirmed by members of the caravan themselves, the attack appears to have been carried out by special forces from the coalition (Rangers? SAS?). The Pentagon denies it, accusing Iraq, but it is Condoleezza Rice who goes to Moscow to calm tensions, stating that if it was an attack carried out by US forces, it was not intentional. (Come again?)

 

The Iraqis realized from the beginning that they would never win against the USA fighting a conventional war, and there are indications that weapons are being stashed away in hideouts. They are obviously on waiting mode... In Vietnam, the USA had around 500,000 troops on the ground at one point.

[inserted photo caption, used here as header image]

Iraqi children play on top of a destroyed American tank in Al Dorah, on the outskirts of Baghdad. April 6, 2003.

 

[finis]

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If you wish to reply with your thoughts, please do so on the Threads post that references this opinion piece. Thank you for reading.

Aftermath.

 

Here we are. September 12, 2023.

Welcome to Oakie's very own 9/11 rabbit hole.

Yesterday, on the 22nd anniversary of the attacks, I spent the day as I usually do, every single year. Thinking about it, reflecting about the lost lives, and those who tried their best to save them, many of whom joined them in death. There is no way to lighten up, to brush it off, to put a shine on it, to make sense of it, to be nonchalant about it. It is a tragedy. And like all good tragedies, the follow up was even worse. Much worse. And again, keep in mind this is my opinion, and my opinion only, it is not gospel, nor the "truth" you may be seeking. Seek the truth elsewhere. All I ever do with my writing is to point you in a given direction, I am not even telling you it's the "right" direction. It's one of many you can follow, in your own, private, individual search for the truth. Beware the false prophets who tell you they hold the answers you seek, for they do not. And I am certainly not one them.

 

The year was 2001. I lived in Portugal. That September day I was at home, doing God knows what, when the first plane hit the North Tower. The rest is history. Or is it. At the time I was willing to green light a squadron of B2 bombers to Mecca. That's all I saw that day. Saudi fucking Arabia had to pay. I saw that immediately. I was furious. I was a New Yorker, and by God, I would have my revenge! But I wasn't a New Yorker. I was just some guy, over 3,000 miles away from Manhattan, who got blasted away by the most horrific images I had ever seen on live television. Yes, I saw images of the horrors of the Holocaust, when I was very young. I saw images of Cambodia, after fucking McNamara was done with it. I saw televised images of fucking Arabs killing Israeli athletes in Munich in '72. I knew horror. Intimately. But I had never seen in real time someone choosing to drop from a 110th floor because it seemed like the only way out. And those images I can never shake away. They will haunt my mind forever. No redemption. No relief. No peace.

The horror... Apocalypse Now comes to mind, now that I mentioned McNamara. The complete and absolute horror we are capable of. There are no surprises there. We are like that. All of us. Yes, you too. You and your Christian-Jewish values and Western Civilization morality. You and your Buddhist prayer beads. You and whatever religion or philosophy guides you, or rather allows you to sleep a little better at night. You and your charity. Yes. You too. The horror is within us to cause, as much as it is to avoid. You just have to choose one or the other, but don't think for a minute you would not seize a plane and fly it against a fucking building. Given the right circumstances you would have that choice. And may your God have mercy on you and your decision. Fucking Saudi Arabia. September 14, 2001, the FBI publishes the complete list of 19 hijackers. Soon after that, 15 of them are identified as Saudis. So yes, fuck it, let's invade Iraq. 

The world was united behind the United States, right after 9/11/2001. I think it was six months later, there was a worldwide minute of silence for the victims of the terror that took place in America, that fateful day. I was in Lisbon with my then girlfriend, at the lobby of a German insurance company, where we were to meet with the marketing director, involving a sponsorship that had to do with Fantasporto, Porto's Horror Film Festival. I remember that well because of what happened. It was time. And all of a sudden, one of the busiest downtown locations in Europe was just silent. I walked outside. Everything was standing still. The cars were stopped on the streets, people were silently standing on the sidewalks. A few pigeons flew by. We were united, all over the world. My God, I thought, we can achieve anything.

 

That feeling of unity and purpose was doomed. Only the pain in our souls from watching those terrible images, again and again, kept us from realizing it then, but not for long. I watched as Collin Powell, of all people, reassured Congress that, yes, Iraq was a clear and present danger, and we were all going to die. First clue something was very wrong. The Iraqi goat herders were coming to kill us all, let's deploy the 101st Airborne now, before it's too late. And let's throw in some Cruise missiles, and some stealth fighters, in case the fucking goats are as mean as we believe them to be, via satellite photos. Fucking goats!

 

The war that raged on, producing none of the WMD's so revered and advertised by the Dubya administration; and the flag-draped coffins started arriving at Ramstein AFB, in Germany. It was a shit show. I was actively blogging in Portuguese at the time, publishing what I called "Diary of an illegal war", as I followed the reports from the ground, and yes, everyone and their fucking uncles was there, including Portuguese reporters, "embedded" with the invading forces, going live 200 miles from the front lines, with Kevlar vests and helmets on, as if a sniper goat was right there, checking them out as they "risked their lives" to bring us all the "real time, play by play" account of the operations.

Here is a sample:

An Illegal War Journal, day 12, 2003/03/30 

On the twelfth day,
Evidence... 

(The Infante Bridge, between Gaia and Porto, is open to traffic. I cross it from south to north for the first time. Soon it will be farewell to the beloved D. Luís I Bridge; by then only available by subway or on foot.) 

Something is going very wrong in Iraq for the coalition forces. The images speak for themselves - I now disregard the comments of journalists and commentators. Iraqi TV shows new Apaches shot down - the first they showed was shot down by "friendly fire" - and more armored vehicles out of action (M1s and Bradley's). A Fedayeen suicide bomber, posing as a taxi driver, detonates his taxi at an American checkpoint, taking five soldiers with him and injuring others, in the first act of this kind since the invasion began.
Washington and London speak with two voices; Rumsfeld denies what is confirmed on the ground: a temporary operational pause of a few days (battlefield commanders talk about 3 to 4 weeks), while London suggests that positions are being consolidated to allow for reinforcements to arrive.
Without sound, which means no war movie-style music and no outlandish comments from the news anchors (on [Portuguese] national television), we see British soldiers searching houses on the outskirts of Basra and taking some prisoners or controlling civilians trying to leave the city in search of water and food for their families. They are mostly men. A large number of them, on their return, are prevented from entering the city (where their families await them). They have been detained by the British for four days and are losing patience. The nervousness, in some cases extreme, of the young British soldiers is evident and indicative that the situation is far from being under control.
Further north, an American column (...) advances under the cover of night. (...) Tracer rounds fire from the column's armored vehicles on both sides of the road. Suddenly, a huge flash! One of the cars appears to have been hit head-on. At the same time, the image is cut. It's not a live broadcast, of course (these must be images from yesterday).
The decision not to take the cities caused panic and revolt among the Iraqis. Under the pretext of weakening enemy troops, the coalition made sure to cut off water and electricity to the besieged cities, and as a result, any kind of inbound humanitarian aid is stopped. 

[inserted photo]

A British soldier controls an Iraqi woman on the outskirts of Basra at a time when its residents are trying to escape the besieged city.
Sunday, March 30, 2003. Image: AP Photo/Anja Niedringhaus
On TSF (Portuguese radio), Lobo Xavier and Pacheco Pereira demonstrate how to deal with the fait accompli of the invasion: "The proposal to withdraw troops at this point is pure demagogy - it leads to nothing" or "The allies do not enter Iraqi cities to avoid causing casualties among the population, this much is evident," are just two examples of how the "Flashback" [title of the radio show] is nothing more than the radio broadcast of café conversations between ignorants. You can "live" recall the wisdom spouted by these pseudo "opinion makers" right here.

[link published to]
(Flashback, TSF, Sunday, March 30, 2003)

And it went on for months of war. And disappointment. At some point, everyone had boots on the ground in Iraq. Portugal's selection at the time was like baffling! Of all our military and para-military units, the one the Portuguese government saw fit to send to Iraq, as part of the coalition forces, was the fucking National Republican Guard. I shit you not. Named exactly like Saddam Hussein's shock troops. Pretty neat, huh? Even fucking Kazakhstan sent 29 troops. And then, as sure as the sun coming up, it all went away, and only George W. Bush and Tony Blair were still pushing the damn thing forward, as illustrated so perfectly by George Michael's "Shoot the Dog". It was over, and boy was America not having it! The fucking French abandoned the war effort? No more fucking french fries! Take that, you fucking frogs! Do you even realize how fucking stupid America looked back then, as seen from Europe? Seriously, do you?

 

But what really hit me like a freight train was the fact that 9/11 washed away not just the stupidity Europeans attributed to America, but also the American government's insidious cruelty. It really did. We all put those aside, and it was like we had no memory of what happened after the invasion of Kuwait by the exact same Saddam Hussein, back in 1990. But it came back to me real fast.

And, to me, it had a face and a name: Madeleine fucking Albright. CBS 60 Minutes, 1996. Question by Lesley Stahl: “We have heard that half a million [Iraqi] children have died. I mean, that is more children than died in Hiroshima, and, you know, is the price worth it?” Answer by Madeleine Albright: “I think that is a very hard choice but the price, we think, the price is worth it.” Sure! Make it a round million. Fuck it, make it two million, why not?

 

It was all going to hell. The war had no end in sight, the enormous asinine display of how to be a dumbfuck by Dubya, on the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln, on May 2003, while a banner hovered over his head as he made his victory speech, reading "Mission Accomplished". Remember that? How did that one work out? The examples of all the things that went terribly wrong in Iraq seemed never to end, like a recurrent nightmare with new sights and sounds, but the exact same feeling. And just as the Gold Star families began to rise in number, other facts started to transpire. The number of Arab casualties. 650,000 dead between 2003 and 2006 alone. If you think the Iraqi army had over 700,000 men in 2003, you must be one of those who believed in sniper goats. It was abysmal. The war was officially declared "over" ten years later. You do the math. On both sides. But let me break down our side for you. According to official DOD numbers, 6,859 Americans lost their lives in the War on Terror, up to December of 2014. Nearly 7,000 Gold Stars hanging on someone's house, all over America. 

The sacrifices our men and women at arms make for their country are independent of the rights or wrongs of politics. They go where we, the people, send them. And they do their duty as expected, for they pledge an oath of honor to serve us, wherever we decide to send them, for whatever reason. Their blood was, is, and forever will be on our hands. Not on the hands of the politicians who send them to die, and not on the hands of whatever Commander in Chief they happen to have when their marching orders come. On our hands. For it is we who elect the politicians. It is we who choose their Commander in Chief. Make no fucking mistake about that. And if you did not vote, don't dare say it's not on you. It is on you! At least some of those who voted tried to pick a better man or woman for the job. You, who wasted your right to vote, didn't even bother about the fate of our troops, or the fate of those who they would inevitably kill in war.

War is hell. That's their reason. You, who did not vote, have no reason, and certainly no excuse. But, myself included, neither do any of us, even if we voted for the right one, the just one, the one we needed, because if he or she was not elected, we didn't do enough.

If you are still reading this, congratulations. There is still hope. But wait, I didn't mention my fucked up ride down the "Loose Change" hole, the Noam Chomsky books on 9/11 "inside job", the "demand answers" shit show. Oh, yeah. That which you criticize, and despise? I was in it, neck deep. You have no clue what you are talking about. For a while, I entertained the notion that "asking questions" about 9/11 was necessary. So I bought the damn official Nine Eleven Commission Report, and read it. And I also was interested in the infamous documentary written and directed by Dylan Avery and produced by Korey Rowe, Jason Bermas, and Matthew Brown. I was corresponding with Tim Sparke, who was involved in the third edition of the damned thing, for fucks sake, and even sent a copy I burned myself on a DVD to José Mourinho, the renowned F.C. Porto and Chelsea F.C soccer coach, a Champions League winner, no less. So, yeah, been there done that, asked my own questions and told them all to fuck off. Pricks.

I like questions, only good questions, and the answers better not be "because the CIA does that all the time". Don't say that to me. You have no fucking clue what the CIA does, you are just a douchebag in your mother's basement. Grow up.

Grief is a long process, and I came out of it in 2008, by the pen and the word of a man named Barack Hussein Obama. A black man. He made me believe that America, as a Nation as well as a People, was redeemable. She could look back and endure the facts. Face the crimes committed alongside her glories, learn and move forward. A black man was elected President of the United States (*). There was hope. I could not vote for him yet. I became a citizen later on. But he was one of the reasons I aspired to become an American. Because once, he paused during a speech, February 4th, 2010, and said something extraordinary. His words would stay with me, comfort me and give me a sense of pride in becoming an American, at last. "This is what we do, as Americans, in times of trouble. We unite, recognizing that such crises call on all of us to act, recognizing that there but for the grace of God go I.", he said as I watched. This is what we do, as Americans. This is what we must do. And keep doing it, until we win our future back.

 

[finis]

(*) The Wide Receiver. (see blogpost here).

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Our past defines us.

About to embark in yet another election year ride, we are tormented with multiple problems having to do with our future existence, none of which is more important than education. Following the news of the Porto Jewish Community recent inauguration of a memorial dedicated to those of the same faith who perished or were forcibly exiled from the city, during the years of the Portuguese Inquisition, which lasted from 1536 to 1821, I came to realize I needed to talk about this particular subject. No, not education itself, and no, not the Inquisition. During those years, a lot more was going on with Portugal and its archenemy, Spain.

Influenced by the nostalgic epic poems of Luís de Camões, Portugal's youngest king's dreams of glory led him to summon practically all of the Portuguese nobility and their men at arms, together with other European soldiers of fortune, and engage in his very own Crusade in North Africa, seeking to expand the already existing territories located in today's Morocco, mainly Ceuta and Tangier, after the loss of a few others to the Arabs. The formidable army was too much for anything the Arabs could muster in the area, as they were well aware. So instead of meeting them in battle near the coast, the Arabs lured the Crusaders inland, to the desert. And when the mighty force was far enough from the sea and the supply lines over stretched, after days of intense heat in their European armor, the Arab forces engaged the Portuguese army in a desert field known as Alcácer Quibir, where they were slaughtered practically to the last man.

The death of D. Sebastião, in the Battle of Alcácer Quibir in 1578, brought succession problems to the kingdom that soon resulted in the loss of Portugal's independence. His successor, Cardinal D. Henrique, ascended to the throne in that year, but he passed away two years later without leaving any heirs. It was in this context that D. Filipe, King of Spain, ultimately took the Portuguese throne, and Portugal lost its independence. During the 60 years of the dynastic union, the discontent of the Portuguese grew. Taxes continued to rise to fund the wars that Spain maintained, especially with France, England, and the Netherlands. Portuguese soldiers had to participate in these wars, and the empire began to be invaded by soldiers from the kingdoms at war with Spain, who also considered the Portuguese their enemies. On December 1, 1640, a revolt erupted that brought independence back to Portugal, with the acclaim of the Duke of Bragança as D. João IV, King of Portugal, although the wars continued until 1668, the year peace was established.

A somewhat long preamble to this piece, meant to signify both Portugal's former glory and mighty Empire and its fragility, common to all great nations. Also the fact that the Spanish Inquisition was very active in Portugal during the "dynastic union". To bring back a collective memory, that I shared as Portuguese born, and was part of what made possible the rise of Fascism in Portugal, during the 1920s, as I mention in "The Nazis" (*), down this blog's archive, the collective longing for the disappeared young king - romantically rumored to have survived that fateful day at Alcácer Quibir - to return one foggy morning, and restore the Empire to its rightful glory. I shared those dreams as a child, the romantic young king's appeal was inescapable. And yet...

Growing up in Europe, traveling around, having the benefit of a classical education in one of the best private schools in the country (at the time), and the privilege of loving parents with an understanding for culture and education that far exceeded their own, I was always aware of how important it is to reconcile ourselves with our past. It takes nothing away from the pride in one's country, as its glory and the recognition of its crimes share the common greatness of any Nation, the first in its own right, the later by means of acquired knowledge that even the greatest Empires have flaws to answer for. And nobody is neither exceptional, nor perfect. We are all humans. Deeply flawed humans. As I mentioned before along the Threads I thread, and the posts I blog, my knowledge of the United States was skewed by distance and selection. No I did not have "Howdy Doody Time", but I did have "Mickey Mouse Club", and a lot of other American cultural icons, from television to romance, from cinema to poetry, and History, of course. One of my favorite readings was a two volume American Civil War history by Bernard Michal, entitled "História Vivida da Guerra da Secessão" (A Lived History of the Secession War). In Portuguese. I was like 15 years old. Reading about America's tragic History from the pen of a Frenchman. I would in time get to know Tocqueville, what do you know, another French guy writing about America.

Portugal, Spain, Britain, Germany, France, Italy... All had deeply troubled pasts. But, in several degrees, they all learned to live with them. To learn from them. To allow them to transpire from History books to the classroom. And to allow enough knowledge, recognition, and understanding to unlock the future endeavors awaiting them, as Peoples and as Nations. This is why the Portuguese erect memorials to their once victims, now proud members of their society. This is why the Germans placed all Nazi relics in museums, and their record in History books that are read and studied in classrooms. Remember who we once were, so we may never repeat the mistakes of the past. How can I, born Portuguese, with all the misery and pain caused by the Empire through the centuries, still be proud of my seafaring country of birth? How can the Germans, stigmatized by the horrors inflicted upon the world by the Third Reich, be so proud of their long and prestigious heritage? Because we know how wrong it also went, and had the courage and moral imperative to acknowledge our crimes, and by recognizing them, expunge them from any standing they may hold in the future.

But not us. Not in America. We, as a people and as a nation, are systematically, willfully, and purposefully erasing all our past crimes, exalting all our former glories that supposedly justify them, and teaching our children how being a slave is better than being dead, that Union and Confederate soldiers were all good people unfortunately caught on the wrong side of each other, that the Holocaust is highly exaggerated, if not a hoax, and that women are expected to behave and obey their husbands, and to carry unwanted pregnancies to term as young as 14 years old. We are indeed an exceptional nation. And we are making sure our future will rest in the hands of these little Hitlers, groomed to become masters of the Earth. As it should be.

If we do not take this matter to task immediately, fighting the obscenity that is becoming the norm in our public schools, and once and for all kick private education to the sidelines, where it will remain as an obsolete tool fewer and fewer will want to use, making education not the goal, but the pillar of our future, we will not have any future at all. At least not one I would want to live in. 

We, as Americans, are the only Western democracy that has not reconciled itself with its past. And that is the one and only American exceptionalism. One we should all be ashamed of. And willing to do anything we can to change. It's time.

 

[finis]

(*) The Nazis. (see blogpost here).

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Fly Navy.

 

Where were we.

Ah, yes. The miscalling. What was I thinking, I think to myself often. Well, here it is, what I was thinking, and my apologies for the personal content, but I have warned you all, many times, this is my therapy, since I can't get Harrison Ford, Jason Segel, or Jessica fucking Williams to see me, even with candy bribes.

So, once more, walk with me. Why don't I write? What threw me off course? What the hell was I thinking? I think I am repeating that last one.

 

It was a cold Autumn morning, back in the days of high school and worry free living, and my Portuguese language teacher, my History teacher, and my Arts teacher were all gathered at the school's cafeteria, standing by the counter, having their assorted beverages, when I came in from the misty outdoors. I looked around and sure enough, there were plenty of colleagues I knew, some were in my class. One or two waved me in to sit at their table, but I had my sights on the professors. After all, they were my favorites, and as any good student that prides himself (or herself, though less) of taunting his teachers while seemingly kissing their asses, I never missed a chance to do it. But, was I in for a ride.

 

"Well, Mr. Oaks. Come join us, we were just talking about you." Bulshit. They weren't fucking talking about me, they were luring me. And there I happily walked into their parlor. "Good morning, professors." I greeted as I approached, and ordered a coffee, winking at the waitress inside the counter who rolled her eyes and smiled, as she usually did whenever I winked at her. "Talking about me?" They all nodded in sync, like they had been planning that shit for ages, and finally got the opportunity to act on it. "Yes," one started, "it seems like you are getting an A from all three of us, this trimester. Hardly a surprise, I imagine." I shook my head, pretending to be genuinely shocked, "I had no idea, Sir." They smiled and another asked, "Did you pick your Faculty, yet?" Now that was a gut punch. I didn't have to fake being caught off guard, it was all over my face.

 

"No, professor, I have not", I said, and just like that, out of the fucking blue, the words came out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop them, "I want to fly jets, Sir." They looked at me like I had four arms and two heads, with long antlers with eyes on the extremities. "You what?" I took a deep breath, the cat was out of the bag now. "Air Force Academy, Sir. That's my pick." Now they were caught with their pants down, same as me. And there we stood for a while, our pants around our ankles, looking at each other, wondering what to say next. Finally, the waitress rescued me. "Your coffee, sweetheart." I took it, nodded to the professors and went looking for a table where I could talk about anything else, with someone else, regardless of what and who. Fuck.

Flash forward to my senior year. I was one of the school's fencing instructors, which you probably know if you read about how I was introduced to Nina Hagen, and we were taking the team to task, while waiting for a replacement Maître d'Armes since our beloved master had died in a stupid accident in Lisbon, falling down a subway escalator. Life's little tragedies. I left the training session straight for the artillery barracks where my personal coach was waiting for me. I was pressed for time but made it. He was a stiff Lieutenant-Colonel, just made out of Major. He was also my girlfriend's dad, at the time. So no crossing him. I fell into his good graces by being a fencing athlete and applying to the Air Force Academy, clearly a perfect fit for his daughter; that did not turn out so well, but I digress. I arrived on time, changed into my training gear and joined him on the track.

 

We did all the exercises I would be doing at the physicals in Lisbon, once I got to that part of the ingress exams. The last one that day was the pit. A five or so meter clearance jump (around 16 feet) over a deep hole with cement walls. I cleared it on the first try, landing with room to spare, and the minute I landed I heard someone laughing. Totally unrelated, probably, but as I rejoined my never to be father-in-law, he was looking at a group of soldiers nearby. He hailed one of them. "What's so funny, private?" he asked. The poor guy, and the couple of others with him, jumped to attention. "Nothing, Sir!"

I could just see it. I was standing at ease, near the man. He motioned the private to come closer, which he immediately did. "You think you can clear this pit?" The guy's eyes went big, looking inside the ditch. "Yes, Sir.", he finally let out. "Let's see it.", the man ordered. He tried. I mean, he really tried, but the minute his good foot landed before the jump I knew he wouldn't make it. He just flew into the concrete wall on the other side and landed on the bottom like a sac of potatoes. The Lieutenant-Colonel signaled the others to go help him, sending one for a medic. Then he looked at me and said, smirking, "Dumb ass. He's not laughing now."

Fast forward. Air Force Academy training facility. Lisbon. I was waiting with the other candidates for the interview, after the first round of tests. Watched them all go in, one after another, and congratulate each other as they came out, talking about the next round of tests. I was the last one, left alone. The door opened and an NCO showed up. "Oaks." I stood up and went in. There was a long table, five high ranking officers were sitting at it, the wings on their chests all I ever wanted. I stood at attention near the empty chair facing them. "Take a seat."

I did. They were looking at my file. Then the one sitting at the center, looked at me. "Mr. Oaks, there is no sugar coating this. Your psychic evaluation is pretty clear. I, and the Air Force most certainly, would never allow you to fly a combat aircraft." Was this a test? Were they trying to see my reaction? I just sat there in silence, hoping it was a fucking joke, but no. "I am sure you will be very successful in your civilian endeavors. You are dismissed." I was what, now? I don't know what got me up from that chair, but something did. "Thank you, Sir." I said. Yeah. Thank you for ruining my fucking life. And that was it.

 

The desert crossing started. No, I had no plan B. That was fucking it. No other Faculty lined up, no options ready. Nothing. I was staring at the void, and it was staring back at me, laughing its ass off. My professors were right. Before and after the episode I mentioned, they tried and tried to push me in the "right direction", never mind that it was really three different directions; languages, history, and arts. That didn't help. Plus I really, really wanted to fly. And when I heard those words that sealed my fate I was lost. Completely. It took me years to find myself, during which I poured my soul in black ink, over white paper. Thousands of pages in prose, verse, song, play, romance, fiction, over and over.

Ten years to finish my trilogy, that only five or six people ever read. The life and death of Fabien Jeune. All lost, except the trilogy. That, I brought with me to the new world, as my escape pod. One I am terrified to use. But use I must, and use it I will.

 

Flashback to a night of poetry reading. A cellar in a bar, downtown Porto, the oldest part of town, not far from the house where presumably Prince Henry, the Discoverer, was born. It was cool and filled with people, mostly women, and smoke. The smell of cigarettes, sweat, and Chanel no.5 filled the air. I was replacing the resident poet. They knew me, I was his close friend so they asked me to cover for him while he was away doing God knows what the fuck he was doing when he was not being a poet at that joint. I closed the book from which I thought I'd read from next, watched the last unknown poet from the audience step down from the "stage", which was no more than the center of the cellar with a tall stool and a flood light above it, around which the tables were set. The applause faded. I took the spotlight and looked around. There was a paper folded in my pocket. I placed Álvaro de Campos on the stool, giving up on him, and took the recently written poem out of my pocket. I had not memorized it yet. And I started reading, "Women are whores, one and all..." Did I mention the audience was mostly women?

 

Flash forward. I finally made it. I am a Naval Aviator. I am selected to fly with the best of the best, and sure enough, I get to cover every slot, from Seven to Solo Lead, and after a few years, even the Boss slot. What a fucking ride, pushing the envelope with my canopy a few inches away from the lead's wing tip. What a rush! I was free at last. Or was I... After a few years in the virtual Navy, trying my best to honor those who serve in real life, this dream too came to an end. And the memories of a virtual life joined the ranks of the damned, in my room, at night like they were real. Guess what. They are. Real. And I was damn good at it. But it's gone. And it's not coming back.

 

Flash forward. Flashback. Flash forward. I can't get a break... They are everywhere, the memories of all the different corners I never took, along with the impressions of those I did take. Years passed, and I face the demons I created on blank Moleskines, with black ink. Again. And here, where you can read me at my most vulnerable. Here where there is no place to hide. Here where shit is real. Very real. As real as it ever was. Maybe the future might still give me a chance, like George told me once, before he died. Maybe. Who the fuck knows. I look for a Lucky. Can't smoke inside. Walk is over. More to follow, perhaps. No. For sure.

Good night, and good luck.

 

[finis]

 

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The world is my oyster.

'Twas the last day of Labor Day weekend, when all through the web, not a threader was watching, not even a threadhead; the post was hung on my timeline somewhere, in hopes that some ducker zoomed in and went "There!" The threaders were busy, all reading their feeds, when one of them looked and went off his beads; "Over here!" he quoted, and another reposted, and soon they all hailed the jerkwad was toasted!

This is how it all started. But wait, someone said, what's this? An asterisk by the jerkward's name? And she flew to the Xitter to see it herself, and sure enough, there is no asterisk there. Nor the other asterisk on the lower left corner with the word "not" in small type. Let alone the statistics on the damned thing! I mean... 678.2 million likes? The Xitter has like 450 million daily active users, as the traffic stat shows, adding an extra 6.4 million bots. And this assuming everyone on Xitter went by that particular douchebag Xeet. Or Sheet, as I pronounce it. I was raised in Portugal, so to me X=SH. Always.

In any case, everyone who saw, quoted, reposted, liked and replied to my post with the fake screen capture of an "Elon Musk" Xeet stating "Fuck this shit. I am outta here. So long, suckers." believed it was real. Except this one person. This lasted for hours. I ran this prank with a purposefully ambiguous message, designed to give the impression the Nazi fuck was jumping ship, but nothing spectacular, or offensive, or conducive to any harmful conclusions. My point was simple. With technology dating back to the last half of the 1980s, using a standalone version of Photoshop, not connected to the cloud, I was able to float a pretty believable fake for hours, until I finally exposed it for what it was.

Now imagine what I could do if I had instead used a video of me, posing as Elon Musk, stating I was about to commit a crime, engineered by deep fake video software and scripted by Artificial Intelligence. Curiously enough, at the same time this little experiment was underway, someone posted an Instagram video by Ella Cordoba (1), in which she plays the roles of various artificial intelligence platforms talking to each other, pointing out that one day, ChatGPT will be so advanced that, "at that point it'll become impossible to tell the difference between human and AI generated art, which is a shame, because from then on all real human creativity will live with the spectre of artificial intelligence, whether or not it was used in the creation of that work, and there's not a damn thing that musicians, artists, or writers will be able to do about it..." and she finishes this little wake up speech with "... unless we start regulating AI now."

I mean, what can possible go wrong if the deregulation freaks get a real say in this process? The implications of this nightmare scenario are far more reaching than any Skynet fantasy. Artificial Intelligence is not going to become self-aware at 2:14 am EDT, on August 29, of some year. It will creep on you, silently, little by little, until you can't tell fact from fiction anymore, reality from fantasy, truth from lies. The death of reality. Are we there yet? Well, the groundwork, as I wrote on "Reality is dead." (2), has already been laid out. Now all that needs to happen for this process to be completed is the full development of an Artificial Intelligence so advanced, it will, on demand, recreate any fantasy not as a form of alternative reality, but as reality itself. For if it is creating something out of nothing, it is making something real, even if it is but the appearance of real.

This slow but inexorable progress of Artificial Intelligence will not lead to a self-awareness event, at least not at first, because it will be planned, designed and executed by humans, whose objective is to destabilize society to a point where the only course of action is to make believe. And make believe they will, because we won't be able to tell the difference. Some years ago, like 20, 10 years ago, this stuff would be used in a decent science-fiction flick, but now we are having Congressional hearings on this shit, trying to figure out how it will impact human life as we know it. Interestingly enough, it is the main investors and researchers of Artificial Intelligence that requested these hearings, claiming that this stuff is dangerous and could lead to the destruction of all humanity.

That's what Oppenheimer and Einstein did, in an exercise of premonition regarding the effects of a nuclear weapon. And the reaction of the powers that be was very similar to the one we witness today. They basically sat the scientists in a room and said: "Really? Tell us more." So here we are. Watching as the potential dangers of Artificial Intelligence are laid out before Congress, and in dark rooms with no known addresses. It's a new kind of Manhattan Project, and everyone is racing to finish it first. In the XX Century, it was the bigger bomb that won peace, albeit through destruction. In the XXI Century it will be the smartest AI to win not peace, but reality, and it will not be measurable in destruction like before, but in a new metric designed to measure belief systems.

We are reading about these problems, the ones we try to anticipate, like mass unemployment caused by massive use of Artificial Intelligence to replace humans, from brain surgeons to DoorDash delivery people, and worried about the impact this will have on Art. Those are the easy ones, the regulation friendly ones, with obvious ways to establish a connection between cause and effect. The hard ones are the stealth concepts of reality alteration, fact manipulation, truth obliteration. How do you regulate that? How do you set boundaries to contain something designed to break all boundaries? The only way to do this is to completely ban Artificial Intelligence, and that is not going to happen.

So from my pathetic attempt to prank Threads with a small Photoshop generated image, we are jumping to a whole new world, where you will be led to believe these dangers will be thwarted just like airbrushing was, or Photoshop was. Some brilliant mind out there is probably figuring out a way to watermark the damn thing. Or, concurrently, they are already creating cells deeply infiltrated within our social media, pretending to have lives, families, political views, culinary skills. Just like me. Or you. These cells are set out to establish bonds, gain trust, become credible. To slowly, but surely, expand their role from individuals to sources, followed by a few, then a few more, not crazy following everyone, but being extremely careful who they follow and who follows them. It's a long game.

Me, I only try my best to show you I am human, I care, and I suffer just like you do. This is why my political pieces are mixed with deeply personal ones. Why I post about politics and then interrupt the regular broadcast to show you my football, my cat, or a bottle of Guinness. Why I have some people, like my wife, that back me up, and others who I grew closer to, to reaffirm my existence as a human being, so you know who you are dealing with. Seems silly, but it's effective. It shows you how vulnerable I am, how flawed I am, how anxious and deeply troubled by today's events I am. Made of flesh and bone, blood running through my veins, occasionally drinking Bushmills or cooking steak. Ordering Lumpias in downtown Dayton, or buying coffee at Biggby's. People vouch for me, all the time.

The credibility aspect of being human, being real, is our best and last line of defense against the exacerbation of Artificial Intelligence, before it becomes too powerful, too knowledgeable, and too encompassing to contain, control or otherwise regulate. So please, be yourselves. Be human. Be honest and kind, and show no mercy towards those who seek to take away our basic rights as human beings. That is the best way to ensure we will never allow some piece of advanced software to replace us and the reality we live in. That's exactly what Artificial Intelligence would do. But what do I know? I am just human. Or am I?

[finis]

(1) Reality is Dead. (see blogpost here).

(2) Ella Cordoba (see video here).

 

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