I have a friend who spends his time manufacturing official-looking documents
that prove our government is in contact with extraterrestrials. He
mails these pieces anonymously to UFO researchers, and these individuals,
believing the material to be classified information leaked by a sympathetic
mole, publicize it accordingly. His work has appeared in the field’s leading
journals, and has inspired several best sellers, as well.

I’ve given a great deal of thought to Christian’s hobby, but still can’t decide
what I think of it. While I sympathize with his desire to undermine the “cult
of the expert” that “monopolizes the dominant venues of debate,” I can’t
ignore the fact that his work reinforces the most anti-intellectual elements in
American society. And while his forgeries do raise interesting questions
about the veracity of bureaucratic records, it seem to me that he overlooks
an important point: the people who believe his writings also vote, and their
votes are influenced by the paranoid vision he describes. It’s a world in
which CIA researchers watch impassively as alien scientists conduct horrifying
experiments on unwilling human participants in a vast complex deep
beneath the Capitol building; the survivors are made sex-slaves for the use
of high-ranking officials, while the remains of the less fortunate are fed to the
hybrid human/alien monsters that inhabit the complex’s lower levels. I have
a hunch that individuals receptive to this material already hold a dim view of
our democratic institutions, and these writings only reinforce their disgust.

Of course, my objections aren’t going to deter him from pursuing this work;
I’m sure he’ll keep at it until something else captures his attention, like the
advent of home computers capable of generating life-like video. Christian
insists that this technology will change the world by “abolishing even the
possibility of a master narrative” and “accelerating the balkanization of our
culture, except along epistemological rather than socio-economic lines.”

What he means is that once the average consumer can produce computer generated
video indistinguishable from reality, it will become impossible to
tell fact from fiction. Every newsworthy incident will spawn a flurry of
videos, each presenting a completely different version of events, and the
viewer will be free to choose the narrative that best reinforces his personal
prejudices. Eventually it may even be the case that the only incidents about
which anything is known for certain are those which predate this technology,
since these will be the only events for which multiple pieces of video testimony
do not exist.

This whole “multiplicity of diverging social realities” angle really creeps me
out: in a world in which there are multiple competing narratives for each
happening, it seems obvious that the best-marketed one will become the
most widely accepted, meaning corporate and government entities will be
able to write history as it happens. Unfortunately, given the inevitability of
technological progress, there’s likely nothing we can do to avoid such an
outcome—but I still don’t have to like it. Christian, on the other hand, can’t
wait: he’s a techno-anarcho-libertarian, meaning dystopian visions of the
future turn him on, especially if they include the possibility of social collapse.

As far as a timeframe is concerned, we’re both convinced that this technology
will arrive in our lifetimes. This view isn’t shared by our friends, though;
they believe that Christian has read too much cyberpunk fiction, and that I’m
too easily swayed by jargon-laden rhetoric. I say, let them scoff: the
prophet is always disdained by his contemporaries. In fact, the more I think
about it, the more convinced I am that this video revolution is simply the
final step on a journey that began in the nineteenth century. From the “Death
of God” to the discovery of quantum mechanics, at each stage we’ve abandoned
another system claiming to offer the ‘truth’, and it only makes sense
that we should eventually surrender the idea of ‘truth’ itself. And once we’ve
eliminated the possibility of knowing anything at all, where will we find ourselves?
We’ll be standing at the end of history, where nothing is true and
everything is permitted.

Setting aside the question of whether it even makes sense to speak of a “war
on terrorism,” one thing is for certain: this action represents a once in a generation
opportunity for employees of participating agencies to build individual
and institutional relationships that will persist for years to come. FBI
agents, special forces, intel analysts and their covert counterparts, and even
local law enforcement personnel are engaged in a massive meet-and-greet
operation, one with real consequences for our nation.
This won’t be the first time such a thing has happened. Though dwarfed in
scale by the present undertaking, the anti-Castro effort of the early ’60s is an
instructive case study. That operation brought together active CIA, retired
FBI, and a small army of enraged Cuban exiles, and the result was a disaster
for our democratic institutions. MK-ULTRA, Watergate, Iran-Contra—any survey
of the most appalling incidents of the past thirty years shows the same
names appearing again and again. Theodore Shackley, Chi Chi Quintero,
Felix Rodriguez—all were veterans of the war on Cuba.
And now history is repeating itself. Our leaders have signaled a willingness
to make cause with anyone, no matter how sordid, so long as they give lip
service to the struggle. Our generals speak of the need to adopt new tactics,
including assassination squads operating covertly in other nations. All levels
of law enforcement are pushing for an expansion of police powers, and onetime
civil libertarians now make the case for using torture as an interrogation
tool. While the majority of the persons involved will resist the temptation to
abuse these new techniques, a few will succumb, and these are the individuals
who will undoubtedly be at the center of every immoral project undertaken
by our government over the next fifty years.
So we might as well start preparing for it. “We, the people” were at a disadvantage
the last time around; it took years to build an accurate roster of the
players, and many of the most egregious incidents occurred during this period
of ignorance. This time, though, we can be ready; towards this end, EoH
proposes the creation of a database dedicated to tracking the foot soldiers in
the war on terrorism. We need to start cataloging their names and faces,
indexing news stories and TV appearances, and filling in the details: where
they were posted, who they worked with, that sort of thing. The picture that
emerges—a map, if you will, of social networks and institutional alliances—
will be invaluable when trying to understand future events, because these
people are going to be with us for a long, long time.

I first saw him in ‘89. My employer at the time bought a block of tickets for
every home game, and one day—I’m not sure why, maybe it was destiny—I
decided to go. He scored 81 points; a big game, even for him. And it was a
revelation for me. I’d seen him on TV, but it wasn’t until I saw him play in
person that I understood.
First, there’s the physical thing. He’s beautiful. I know the usual thing is to
talk about how he has the perfect athlete’s body, and to focus on his biceps,
abs, and calf muscles—which have perfect definition, by the way: you can
see exactly where each of them attaches to its ankle. But I notice the small
things, the elements most people overlook, like his ears. You can look at his
face and never notice them—which is the way it should be—but when you
see him in profile, you can’t help but think, “Those are incredible looking
ears.” They’re the perfect size, neither too big nor too small. And they work
well, too; he has the aural equivalent of 20/10 vision.
Also overlooked are his hands. They are unbelievably wide, with long, slender
fingers. He doesn’t hold the ball, he wraps his hand around it. I probably
don’t need to point out that he has an incredible grip. And if you pay
close attention, you’ll see that his nails are expertly manicured.
He has movie star good looks, and it’s hard to select any one thing about his
face, but if I had to choose I’d say that his mouth is his best feature. His
teeth are straight and white, the kind of teeth you find in the child of a dentist—
which he is. And his smile really is infectious. Watch the crowd sometime:
when he smiles, they smile, too.
Not that all he does is smile. In fact, he may have the most expressive
mouth that ever lived. My favorite is when he’s concentrating and he touches
his upper lip with his tongue; you can just imagine the salty taste of his
sweat. And then there’s the frown. It’s rare, but when it happens you feel
the disappointment, like you personally let him down.
He’s in excellent shape, of course. Body fat, anaerobic capacity, at-rest
pulse—he’s in the top one percent of all professional athletes on any test
you can think of, and that’s why it was such a shock when he started wearing
a knee brace. I thought it was a joke, or maybe an intentional handicap
mandated by the league in an attempt to make the game a little more competitive
for the other players. If that was the plan, it failed. He scored 62
points on the first night he wore it.
I should probably mention his skin color. I never used to notice skin color. I
mean, I’d see blacks, and brown people, and whites, but I never really
looked at a person’s color. His skin is a shade of black that looks completely
natural, not exotic. It’s like a blend of all the other colors.
His mental abilities are just as amazing. Like all great athletes he can lose
himself completely in the moment, but he takes it to another level. He can
immerse himself, but he’s still able to hold something back; that’s how he
always knows what’s coming. It’s like there’s a part of him up in the stands,
watching the game and letting his partner down on the court know what’s
going on.
It’s impossible to explain to someone who isn’t a basketball fan just how
much better than everyone else he is. I remember when I started understanding
this myself. It was another overwhelming game; he was controlling
the tempo, making every shot, and it was clearly up to him whether he’d hit
70. Then I noticed…something. At first I thought it might be a pattern in the
way he played, but over the next few months I realized it was something bigger.
It didn’t come all at once, but I finally figured it out: the hand he dribbles
with, the foot he leads off with, the way he pulls his shorts up—they’re
words in a language.
This is when my sense of awe began, when I broke the code and understood
that, not only does he dominate every game like no one ever will again, he’s
delivering a monologue every time he steps onto the court.
Sometimes he talks about his day, how his golf game went, that sort of
thing. On other evenings he’s more focused, and he spends those nights
offering a commentary on the game in progress, pointing out little details
you might otherwise miss, and explaining what to look for on the next fast
break. And I remember when he was having trouble with his wife: for
months he talked about how much he missed her, and the things he regretted,
and the things he wished he could change.
I stopped watching the game long ago. I go to see him now. I’ve got a season
ticket for a seat three rows behind the bench.
And he knows I’m listening. Sometimes, when he’s walking back to the
bench, he’ll nod to me. I feel like we’re becoming friends. It’s a real honor,
this chance to get to know someone I admire so much. He’s successful at
everything he does, and everywhere he goes people recognize him. He’s
almost like a god, and we should all be grateful for the chance to see him
play. I know I am.
I want to be like Mike.

We’re forty-five minutes south of Sarajevo, racing along the new EU-funded
highway. A concrete median splits the six lanes, and every fifty meters a
lamppost arcs over the road. Someday this stretch will carry trucks traveling
to Athens and points further east, but for now we share the road with
Bosnians in aging Japanese imports, NATO vehicles of all types, and the
occasional ox-cart.
“There it is.” Hazim spots the charred Russian troop carrier that marks our
exit. A Yugoslav army depot was located near here, and the combination of
war and NATO airstrikes left a landscape littered with wrecks. These carcasses
were sold as scrap; most were shipped to China for salvaging, but this
one remains.
The road we turn onto was, until recently, little more than a gravel path. The
passage of heavy equipment has turned it into a muddy mess, and several of
the potholes threaten to swallow us whole. Despite these obstacles, we continue
at highway speed; the forest that surrounds us is home to numerous
snipers still angry with Europe’s decision to side with Bosnia’s Moslems over
the Christian Serbs.
This strategy has its own disadvantages. The uneven ground repeatedly
launches us beyond the bright red minefield markers lining the roadside.
Each time this happens I gasp and grab the door handle—I read somewhere
that you should immediately exit a vehicle that finds itself in a minefield—but
Hazim always puts us back on the road before I can bail out.
The forest is thick and green, and its uniformity is a reminder that the Nazis
and their Croat allies burned down every tree in the region in an effort to
flush out the ancestors of the snipers we now hope to evade. The Nazis
later regretted this action; once the forests were gone, the Serbs took to the
mountains, and that’s when they really started killing fascists.
After fifteen minutes of this mad race we leave the forest behind and
descend into a valley. The terraced hillsides are planted with grapes, and we
pass several laborers, rakes in hand, walking to their plots. Below us, curving
roads snake between spacious homes, and on some of the rooftops I see
workmen in white t-shirts.
The Italian ‘80s station we’ve been listening to for the past three days breaks
up in static. This is a problem: the tape player is broken, and it took Hazim
and I several hours to find a mutually acceptable soundtrack for our travels.
His hand beats mine to the tuner, and he smiles—but just for an instant.
“No country,” I warn. Hazim is a big fan of the country station out of
Belgrade. If it were up to him, our days would be a blur of Patsy Cline and
Hank Williams. He turns the knob in a slow, practiced manner, one that maximizes
the reception possibilities, but it’s no use: the terrain blocks everything
but accordion music from Bulgaria and an Albanian talk radio station.
The talk jock mentions the Chicago Bulls, then Hazim mutters something and
turns it off.
We reach the valley floor and come to a gatehouse, its candy-striped arm
blocking any further advance. Hazim leans on the horn, first a short beep,
then three longer ones, then a long, loud blast. I wonder whether hornhonking
patterns are unique to each individual, or if they are culturally determined.
“Must be at lunch,” he says, and we exit the car.
I hear the sounds of construction: hammering and saws and shouting. The
gatehouse is empty, but the portable TV inside is still tuned to Jerry
Springer. We duck beneath the gate, then Hazim continues ahead while I
stop to study a sign welcoming us to Century 21’s contribution to a new
Europe.
“Why did the European Union choose Century 21? That’s easy: our proven
track record, especially in post-conflict regions; our years of experience
operating in Southern Europe, and sensitivity to the region’s cultural idiosyncrasies;
and our close relationship with Bechtel, the tier-one contractor for
this project.”
I’m sitting in the office of Esad Delalic, Century 21’s regional manager for
Bosnia. He is well into his pitch.
“…And we provide the construction, financing, and sales expertise needed
to rebuild Bosnia’s housing stock.”
His English is almost accent-free, which isn’t surprising given what Hazim
told me. The two of them were colleagues at the university before the war.
Delalic joined a militia when the fighting began, and now Bosnia is filled with
men just like him, individuals who made a winning bet and are now reaping
the rewards. Manager for a well-connected multinational is a step up from
history professor.
“I see.” There’s no point in trying to derail his monologue, so I take a sip of
coffee as he continues.
“…Of course, making a profit is important, too. We have an obligation to our
shareholders to make a profit, but we are also very much aware of the role
we can play in the rebuilding of this society.”
“Of course.”
“…And we are proud to be the first full service home construction and
financing firm to return to Bosnia.”
Delalic leans back in the chair, satisfied with his performance. He’s a burly
guy, and it’s easier to picture him wearing fatigues and toting a gun, than
standing in front of a lecture hall.
My Sony DAT recorder is sitting on the leather armrest beside me; I notice
that the “guaranteed silent” drive mechanism is no longer silent.
“So…” I begin. The first question is an obvious one, and Delalic’s pleased
expression suggests he’s ready with the answer. “So… how do you convince
people it’s safe to live here?”
He shifts forward and rests his hands on the edge of the desk. I catch a
glimpse of gold on his wrist. “All of the project participants recognize the
importance of security—not just physical security, but the importance of the
perception of security—and we are working to ensure a comprehensive
security envelope is put in place. The implementation details are being handled
by the EU and SFOR, in consultation with the contractors.”
I nod. I’m meeting with the NATO stabilization force commander tomorrow.
“…And as a private contractor, our responsibility is to provide defensible
communities and to manage the onsite security staff.”
His phone buzzes and he looks at the message display. “Sorry, I have to take
this.” He answers it in Bosnian, and I walk to the window. Down on the
street I see the guards I passed earlier; they continue to trace the slow
ellipses that indicate professional security training, their pace ensuring that
that the two of them are always facing different directions. A block away sits
a halftrack with a gunner manning the fifty caliber atop it, and beyond that is
the Toyota in which, I assume, Hazim continues to read the newspaper.
Delalic barks something and hangs up. I glance back in time to see his
anger.
“Sorry about that. It was one of the local contractors.” He has reassumed
the corporate mask.
“Problems?”
He shrugs and snorts, a frustrated gesture familiar to anyone who has traveled
outside the first world, then takes a document from the desk drawer
and unrolls it. “Here, look at this.” It’s a topographical map of Sarajevo and
its surroundings.
His finger traces a ring around the city. “In time this will all be residential.
Here, here, and here: that’s 800 units by winter. And in the spring we’ll start
1500 here,” he pokes another point. I nod and steal a glance at his computer
screen: his email is open, and there’s a stock ticker in the menu bar.
“…And within three years we’ll have 11000 more units here.” he draws an
arc encompassing much of the flat country to the west and south of the city.
“Are these zoned locals only, or mixed use?” I’ve read the prospectus: 60%
of the homes are reserved for locals, with subsidized mortgages available
through an EU-financed consolidator; anything not occupied within a year
will be put on the open market. The other 40% are available for immediate
purchase by EU nationals.
“They’re all mixed use. That was something everyone agreed on right from
the start: we wanted to integrate non-Bosnians into Bosnian communities, to
act as a counterweight to any lingering issues.”
“So you believe the presence of non-Bosnians will curb the violence?”
“That’s the plan.”
Hazim returns with the foreman, and then joins the crew on break. Alija
learned English while working as a facilities engineer at a BP-owned petrochemical
plant before the war. He resembles a lumberjack in a a Grimm fairy
tale, and like many Bosnian males his beard is large and disheveled.
The two of us set off on a tour of the subdivision. I bring up the war, but he
won’t talk about it, except to say that he doesn’t hold a grudge against anyone.
Instead, he explains the difficulties encountered in a construction project
of this scope. The houses are being built to Anglo-Saxon standards, so
the plumbing and electrical components are imported from overseas. This
means frequent shortages of key components due to customs delays,
greater likelihood of injury, especially among the electricians, and a need to
translate much of the product documentation into Bosnian.
I feel an eerie familiarity as we walk the unpaved streets, and then I realize:
their layout is an almost perfect reproduction of the Palo Alto suburb where I
grew up. Only the street names differ; back home we had a Native
American theme, but here the names are intentionally generic. “Shady Pines
Lane,” “Mountain View Boulevard,” and such, all carefully vetted, I’m sure,
so as not to offend anyone. And another difference: all of the street signs
are in English, French, and Bosnian, which makes for crowded sign posts.
We stop to watch a crane place a roof atop a house. I’m surprised to see
several workmen riding the roof as it’s being moved; while I know nothing
about the rules governing construction sites in America, I’m sure this would
be a no-no. The crane operator gets it perfect on the first try, and within a
few seconds of touchdown the workmen are hammering the roof onto the
frame.
“What do you think of the houses?” I ask Alija when he returns from speak
ing with the crane operator.
“They’re big, bigger than mine,” he’s watching the workmen atop the roof.
“But I’m not sure about the location.”
“The EU is committed to Bosnia’s normalization. This means rebuilding its
civil society, something that won’t happen overnight, but we’re off to a good
start.”
I’m talking to Jan Scheffer, the European Commissioner for Economic
Development in Bosnia. The Dutch fill many of the key economic posts within
the EU bureaucracy, as the selection of a Brit, Frenchman, or German
would be too politically sensitive. Scheffer and his staff occupy the top three
floors of the university of Sarajevo’s administration building—not that this
space accommodates the entire EU delegation: a growing number of functionaries
work in the mobile offices parked on the school’s soccer field. I
passed these units while walking across campus; many of them are connected
by covered walkways, and in the middle of the lot sits a semi cab with an
enormous NATO command and control rig still attached. C&C rigs are to
land warfare what the AWACS is to air combat.
“It’s going to take several ingredients. We need capital investment, and we
need the infrastructure to handle that capital. And most importantly, we
need a critical mass of individuals committed to changing things, to making
this vision a reality.”
Scheffer’s office overlooks Sarajevo. From it you can see all the way to the
stadium at the eastern edge the city.
“By ‘capital investment’ I assume you mean jobs?”
“Jobs, that’s right. That’s why Bosnia has been zoned for significant targeted
subsidies, and there’s even talk of a limited corporate tax exemption to
encourage firms in sectors like biotech and software development—tomorrow’s
industries—to locate here. I think everyone realizes there’s no point in
building a couple of cement factories; we all know where those jobs will be
in twenty years.”
He peers over his glasses with the knowing look favored by Western policymakers
when alluding to the growing Chinese economy.
“What about education? Who’s going to train people to work at these
biotech companies?” I’ve met very few microbiologists while traveling in the
former Yugoslavia.
“Education and training are key to the success of this effort, and we’re mak-
ing them a priority. The university is on track to reopen next fall, and 75% of
the elementary and secondary schools have already reopened. Training is
an ongoing process, obviously, and our efforts in this area will be closely
coordinated with the needs of the industries that locate here.” He smiles at
this. From the sound of it, the EU has everything under control.
One of his assistants steps into the office and asks a question in French. He
responds in kind, and they both laugh.
“Parlez-vous Français?” Scheffer asks.
“No,” I reply, suddenly embarrassed.
“Ahhh,” he laughs, “you Americans.” I laugh, too.
“How long does the EU plan on being here?”
His expression turns serious. “Brussels realizes that this kind of nation building
requires an extended timetable, certainly more than five years. Ten years
is a much more realistic assessment, and I firmly believe that the political will
exists to sustain a fifteen year presence, if it comes to that. What’s important
is that the people of Bosnia understand that the EU is in this for the long
haul. Our commitment is visible all over town,” he looks towards the city,
where several skeletons are rising on the skyline, office space earmarked for
EU bureaucrats.
We enter the house at 1230 Mountain View. It’s almost finished: the windows
and doors are installed, but the carpet remains in rolls and the stairways
are without banisters.
“You’re laying carpet?” I ask. In this part of Europe, most families bring their
own carpets when occupying a new residence.
“And appliances. Stoves, dishwashers, everything.” Alija doesn’t appear to
be surprised by this.
We tour the house, with Alija pointing out the amenities not typical to
Bosnian homes. I ask about the possibility of blackouts; he tells me that the
house is wired to take a backup diesel generator, and buyers can have one
installed as a purchase option. Later, he points out a concrete slab behind
the garage, ready to seat a generator.
The toilet looks just like mine back home, so I assume Anglo-Saxon plumbing
means flush handles instead of chains, buttons, or any of the other
devices one encounters in European bathrooms. The faucet runs both hot
and cold water, a change from most sinks in this part of the world, where the
second handle does nothing more than double the flow of tepid fluid.
Despite my thirst, I’m still not willing to drink it. In addition to the usual toxins
that pollute much of southern Europe’s drinking water, Bosnia has the
added problem of massive and ongoing lead seepage into the reservoirs, the
lead coming from the millions of rounds of ammunition that fell to earth over
the past decade.
The kitchen is a shining marvel of Formica and stainless steel, with ample
countertop and cupboard space, and several hanging compartments ready
to accept any of a number of devices offered as move-in incentives. The
refrigerator and the stove are sitting near their respective alcoves, waiting to
be installed. I notice that the fridge includes a water purifier and dispenser;
it seems the future residents won’t be drinking the water, either.
It’s a two-and-a-half stall garage, meant to accommodate his-and-her vehicles
and the multiple scooters owned by every upper-income European family.
The vehicles in question are the smaller European models, so it’s maybe
a one-and-a-half, by American standards. An automatic garage door leans
against the wall, awaiting installation.
The backyard is a mess, piled with pieces of scrap wood, bits of broken dry
board, and crushed boxes. I’m willing to bet the shit work of picking this
stuff up falls to the Albanian members of the crew. Small stakes with orange
tape attached mark the property line. That’s another option for buyers: a
fence, available in chain link or wooden picket. A few recently transplanted
trees, scraggly and leafless, complete the unhappy scene. Alija and I stand
among the litter, looking up at the house.
“Would you live here?” I ask.
“The space would be nice,” he replies, “but the mortgage would kill me.”
On our way back to the worksite we hear gunfire in the hills.
“The situation requires us to recognize that a traditional approach to security,
one emphasizing an extended military presence, may not be the best longterm
solution.”
Colonel Charles Cochrane has the smooth tone of the professional soldier
accustomed to highly political postings. He is trim and tidy, with his golf
shirt tucked into his khakis, and the only indicator of his military employment
is a nametag pinned beneath the Polo logo.
“NATO understands that this is an entirely new kind of mission, qualitatively
different from the sort we trained for during the Cold War. And NATO and
the EU both understand that the nature of this mission—nation building in
the aftermath of a civil war—requires what could be termed a more holistic
approach to security, one that recognizes the reasons for the violence.”
NATO’s SFOR command post is a former elementary school located in a
quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. After the war, rumors circulated that atrocities—
mass rapes in one account, torture in another—had occured here, and
parents refused to allow their children to return when the school reopened
for classes. Eventually NATO agreed to purchase the site from the municipality,
and a new school is being constructed nearby.
Cochrane’s office was a classroom. It’s been bisected by a floor to ceiling
partition, and his staff occupies the other half of the room. His desk sits
close to where (I’m guessing) the teacher’s desk once stood. The partition
wall is covered with framed photos of the colonel and his underlings, a survey
of international humanitarian efforts in the 1990s. Several of them are
from Somalia, and in these photos he looks much older than he does today.
A chalkboard still hangs on the wall, and is covered with what appears to be
a duty roster: colored tags mark elements of a grid plotting the names of
individuals against the days of the week.
“How long do you envision being here?”
“Ten, maybe twelve years. Not the military, of course. We’ll draw down to a
tripwire presence within five, but the economic and administrative units will
remain.”
“Five years? That soon?” I can’t hide my skepticism.
“It’s an aggressive timeframe, but we believe it’s possible. There’s a balance
that has to be struck: initially our presence deters hostilities, but after a point
it’s counterproductive, and we become everyone’s favorite target of opportunity.”
“Aren’t you afraid the fighting will resume when you leave? Five years isn’t
enough time forget everything that happened.”
“It won’t be a problem, if the economic program takes hold. We have to
establish a community of stakeholders, people with a vested interest in the
region’s social and political stability. Their presence will be more of a deterrent
than anything we can do.” I’m reminded that senior military types
throughout the western world now routinely take graduate level courses in
political science.
“How involved is NATO in planning this… this economic offensive?”
He doesn’t flinch at the phrase. “Obviously it’s not our role to set economic
and fiscal targets, but we are deeply involved in the details of implementation.
Here…” Cochrane leads me to a table on which a map of Sarajevo sits
beneath a plastic sheet covered with grease pencil markings.
I point to an area enclosed in a green box. “That’s housing, right?”
“Right. Have you seen this before?”
“Mister Delalic showed me something like it. And the yellow zones are…”
“Commercial parks, light industrial, that sort of thing: job sites.”
“And the blue?” Blue lines connect the green and yellow areas.
“Those are security corridors. Dark blue are guaranteed 24/7, light blue are
dawn to dusk, and the dashed lines are security caravans and escorts on an
as needed basis.” All of the corridors fork off the thick white line of the new
EU highway.
“Is this confidential?” I always ask for clarification when reviewing security
details.
“Just the opposite: we need to publicize this information. This is the sort of
thing it takes to restore confidence in the authorities. Honestly, no one
expects any more trouble, not like we had, and certainly not after the jobs
start arriving. The war is over, these people are tired of fighting—that’s the
only thing that ends a civil war, when the people fighting it grow tired.”
“…Or when one side is wiped out,” I think.
“The challenge we now face is one of perception: we have to change the
perception people have about living here. But you can’t just tell them the
war is over; they need to see—and feel—the return of authority, meaning the
symbols and structures of authority, the things that mean safety.”
“Does this include the perceptions held by other Europeans?”
“Them too, but chiefly locals, especially the local opinion makers. These
people are the key to capital formation and retention in the region, and
everything depends on ensuring this group feels comfortable in their homes.
And this is something we intend to do.”
Pausing to digest this, I glance out the window. In the field beside the school
I see several groups of kneeling individuals, all of them wearing bright
orange vests.
“What’s happening over there?”
The colonel turns to look. “Ahh, that’s the mine-clearing class. They’re
learning how to defuse mines and other small munitions.”
“Are those local employees?” I note that a number of them have blonde
ponytails.
“Some, but the majority are Scandinavian volunteers, believe it or not. It’s
become a popular summer vacation. It makes them feel useful.”
I find Hazim sitting at a picnic table, resting his head in his arms.
“Did you hear the shooting?” I ask.
He stands and stretches. “Yeah, it was that way.” I’m relieved when he
points away from the direction we came.
“Serbs?”
“It was an automatic, sounded like an M16—NATO, probably. Maybe they’re
training.”
“Ahh.” The ability to discern the type of gun by its sound is one of the first
skills people acquire when living in a war zone.
We walk back to the car. The gatehouse is still unattended. As we pull away,
I ask Hazim, “What do you think?”
He pauses. “They’re nice houses.”
“I know, but what do think? Is it going to work?”
Hazim watches something off in the grape fields. Seconds pass, and then he
says, “Maybe. We’ll see. I’m sure the people living here will do fine.”
A few minutes later we reach the forest. Hazim turns on the country station;
“Your Cheating Heart,” is playing. He sings along, and I watch the trees for
snipers.

“Can I buy you a drink?” A familiar voice broke through the drunken din. It was Michael, dressed in his Crossfire outfit: a poorly fitted blue suit, awkwardly knotted tie, mussed hair framing a goofy grin and, of course, the glasses. I’m not sure what was more jarring: his presence in the Talon, or his inappropriate attire. I’m a conservative dresser, at least by Talon standards, and I was wearing a leather vest, pants, and boots, with a half-inch link steel chain around my waist.

“Aren’t you…”

Before I could complete the question he looked away in embarrassment and answered, “Yes.”

His reaction surprised me. Did he really expect not to be recognized? An awkward moment passed; then, regaining the composure displayed during so many dust-ups with conservatives, he asked, “Well, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’d love it. A Cosmo, please.” He went to place an order, and I marveled at my luck. After a time he returned with our drinks–he had a Coors–and we raised a toast to the night.

“To absent friends,” I said.

“May they stay that way,” he responded, and we both laughed and took a drink.

“You come here often?” He smiled as he said it, and his tone suggested an awareness of the layers of irony and camp wrapped around the question.

He was definitely a Yale boy.

I was direct: “Only when I’m horny.”

Michael chuckled and took another drink. I noticed something I’d never spotted on TV: a small tic, just below his right eye.

“It must be something in the air, because I feel it, too.” We held each other’s gaze for too long, and then I looked away.

“Should we dance?” he asked, still watching me.

I nodded, and we made our way to the backroom. It was oppressively warm and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. I have to admit that his dancing surprised me—that is, he can actually dance. The DJ held it over 150 BPM, and Michael had no trouble keeping up.

After a few minutes he shouted over the music: “Do you party?”

“Yes, I replied,” “but only on work nights.”

“What?” he yelled.

I stepped in closer and put my hands on his waist. “Yes!” I said, and pressed my tongue in his ear.

He pulled away, grinning. Then he took a vial from inside his jacket, loosened the cap, and did a long hit. He handed it to me and I took a hit, too. “Good stuff,” I shouted.

“The best,” he replied, taking back the vial. The DJ said something and the other dancers cheered, and then we started dancing again.

After a few more songs I told him I had to piss and I went to the restroom. I was surprised that he didn’t follow me. When I returned, he was dancing with someone else. The other guy was young, buff, and very cute, and I started to feel jealous. I watched Michael offer him the vial; he hit it and then he took the glow stick from around his neck and put it around Michael’s. The two of them started kissing and they continued until Michael looked up and saw me. He said something to his new friend and then walked over.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

I noticed that the glow stick caused the threads in his tie to glow green.

“Yes.”

I met Mister Eisner at a party. I was immediately struck by the intensity of his gaze. We shared twenty minutes of light conversation, and then his cell phone rang. He excused himself, and I watched him leave the party with two men.

Approximately one hour later I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Mister Eisner smiling at me. His dilated pupils and rapid breathing indicated that he was under the influence of some substance. He apologized for his absence. He explained that his work frequently interrupted his social life.

After more conversation, during which Mister Eisner made frequent allusions to sexual matters, he invited me back to his apartment. I glanced at his wedding band and asked if his wife would mind. He replied that he was a widower.

He said that his wife had recently died of cancer. I believe he told me that three months had passed since his wife’s death. I agreed to return to his apartment with him.

Mister Eisner and I left the party together. We were met at the door by the same two men I watched him leave the party with earlier. He motioned for them to stay, and they returned to the party.

Mister Eisner was driving a Mercedes convertible. The convertible top was down. I followed him back to his apartment building. He parked in his assigned spot, and I parked in the visitors parking area.

Mister Eisner and I rode the elevator to his penthouse apartment. During the elevator ride he complimented me. He told me that I have a beautiful face. I followed him off the elevator and into his apartment.

It was at this time that Mister Eisner’s behavior began to grow threatening.

A Question of Conscience
David Jacoby, S.O.J.
Vatican Press, 2001

The Vatican’s role in the anti-revolutionary struggle of the late 1970s is often overlooked. If they give it any thought at all, most people remember priests of this era—and Jesuits, in particular—as a bunch of liberation theology crazed bomb throwers fomenting trouble and preaching class war to theThird World poor. Few realize that an equal number of Catholic clergy were arguing, organizing, and even taking up arms in defense of property and tradition; in fact, one of the most successful Contra units in the Nicaraguan conflict was composed almost entirely of Franciscan friars. Now, with the publication of this timely and well-written book, we are beginning to see history set right.

In 1980, the author—a Jesuit—was dispatched by the Vatican to report on events in El Salvador. He quickly found himself entangled in the briar patch of Salvadoran politics, with his fellow priests, US Aid workers, and corporate apparatchiks alternately badgering, cajoling, and threatening him in an effort to influence his reports back to Rome. A self-described liberal when he set out on this journey, a few months traveling around the countryside convinced him that Central America was, as many conservatives were claiming, a battleground between the forces of light—embodied in the rightist, populist militias—and the army of darkness, exemplified in the Sandinistas and other left insurgents.

The story’s decisive scene takes place outside a prison where Archbishop Romero, a leader of the anti-Enlightenment forces, was being held (and where he would eventually be executed). Jacoby, on his way to dine at the American embassy, happened upon the prison just as a frenzied mob of leftist rabble, trade unionists, and even a few Jesuits were about to overrun the police barricades and attack a much smaller group of individuals picketing in support of the government’s preemptive detention of the Archbishop. Jacoby ordered his driver to stop, and without hesitation he took his place alongside the much-outnumbered defenders, where he maintained a solidarity vigil that lasted through the night. This book is a must read for anyone still entertaining doubts as to the appropriateness of America’s efforts in the region during the Reagan administration.

Northern Ireland: A Troubled Legacy
Richard Boatwright
University of Edinburgh Press, 2000
Boatwright offers a gripping account of a twenty-year career spent assassinating terrorists, intimidating political figures, and defending the right of drunken Orangemen to march in commemoration of long ago happenings. Of particular interest is his description of the 1982 Londonderry fiasco, a daring daylight raid that went terribly awry. A source close to the republi- can movement—Boatwright is careful not to name the person, but hints that the individual is now a sitting member of the Northern Ireland parliament— informed the intelligence service that an enormous store of C4 explosive was hidden in the basement of a Catholic elementary school.

Fearing that double agents within their own ranks would tip off the terrorists, the authorities decided to move quickly, and within hours an operation was underway. An elite anti-terrorist team, backed by SAS regulars, entered the school. Explosive-sniffing dogs raced through the hallways as ninja suited commandoes escorted crying children from their classrooms; tear gas swirled around the building, and the shrill whine of an accidentally triggered community alert siren drowned out normal conversation.

Fearful parents and curious gawkers were herded behind hastily erected barricades, while the students were confined to a ‘security zone’ delineated by crime scene tape strung between several police vans. When the announcement came that no munitions were present, an angry exchange erupted between the now agitated crowd and the frustrated security force. Bottles were thrown, riot police were deployed, and tensions erupted into the worst sectarian rioting since 1972.

Boatwright describes in great detail the government’s attempt at damage control in the aftermath of the incident, focusing on his own role as manager of the smear campaign targeting the photojournalist whose gripping images of the raid horrified a worldwide audience. The campaign against Michael Adams sought to portray him as a homosexual pedophile with republican leanings, an individual with an obvious interest in discrediting the security services. Towards this end, the press was provided with expertly doctored images showing the young Irishman engaged in all manner of deviant behavior; when this failed to garner the desired public reaction, members of Boatwright’s team leaked to friendly investigators the theory that Adams, hoping to create an incident which he could then photograph, may have been the source of the original, faulty intelligence.

A public already accustomed to cynical exploitation of tragedy received this suggestion more sympathetically than earlier spin attempts, and doubts about Adams’ involvement dogged him until his death in a single vehicle accident on Cyprus a few years later. Boatwright received a royal commendation for his efforts, and he proudly notes that the FBI later employed these same tactics, with little modification, in its campaign against Richard Jewell, the alleged Atlanta Olympics bomber.

Sudan: A First Look
Jonathan Prizle
Franklin Press, 2001
Thoughtful observers have long sought to explain the lack of interest American policy makers have shown in the Sudanese war, the longestlived conflict anywhere in the world. Until recently, the consensus was that Sudan’s geopolitically insignificant location and lack of oil were equally responsible for this oversight, but now, with the publication of this delightful coffee table sized work, a third reason has been identified. Prizle argues that Sudan suffers from a dearth of photogenic sites, people, and rituals, a shortfall that makes the nation wholly unsuited to today’s image focused media environment. There is simply nothing to recommend this desperately poor nation; the cruel desert wind has created a land of desolate plains and bleak, indistinguishable hills, a suitable home, indeed, for a people broken by generations of crushing poverty. Lacking subject matter, photojournalists have opted, instead, to document famine in Ethiopia, environmental destruction in Egypt, and the slave trade in Chad—all of them far more visually appealing stories and places.

Not content to simply explain the situation, Prizle set himself to remedying it. Drawing upon his extensive contacts in the fashion community, he arranged for a dozen of the world’s top fashion models to travel to Sudan, where they were met by representatives from Europe’s most prominent design houses. Two weeks of shooting followed, and the best work is collected here. The results are fantastic: Sudan comes alive, with Prizle’s imagined notion of the spirit of the Sudanese people visible in each carefully staged scene. A culture-less people balanced precariously on the edge of oblivion are transformed into the last remaining descendants of a powerful dynasty whose rule once stretched from the British Isles to the Cape of Good Hope; rags become robes, and distended bellies are hidden by fold and fabric. In a further demonstration of his commitment to the Sudanese cause, Prizle has pledged ten percent of any profits generated by this book to a fund for the assistance of Sudanese refugees pursuing fashion design careers in London.

Factbook 2001: Social and Economic Indicators for the Palestinian People
United Nations Commission on Refugees
United Nations Press, 2002
In an attempt to appear “balanced” and “objective,” the editors have produced a work that can only serve the interests of anti-Semites and their fellow travelers. When social indicators and economic statistics for the ‘Palestinian’ people are presented without context, it inevitably makes Israel appear villainous. For this reason, any discussion of these figures must explain the key role that the ‘Palestinian’ leadership plays in perpetuating poverty and misery in the ‘occupied territories’. Unfortunately—and predictably—it’s just this sort of context that’s missing from these pages. Average lifespan, per capita GDP, infant mortality—all of the usual measurements are cited, the obvious purpose being to slander the state of Israel and undermine the American-Israeli alliance, a relationship which is the cornerstone of American policy in the Middle East, if not the entire hemisphere.

The Coldest Warrior
Catherine Brokencross
Verso Press, 2001
Drawing from archival materials, published speeches, and previously unreleased personal correspondence, the author reconstructs the autobiography that William Casey never wrote. While the unorthodox methodology is certain to stir controversy, there can be no doubt that this book is a valuable addition to both the intelligence and policy-making literatures. The portrait that emerges is of a complex figure, one whose later, often questionable policy decisions are inextricably bound up with a troubled childhood. Casey’s own father died when Casey was an infant, and his stepfather was, by all accounts, an emotionally distant individual preoccupied with efforts to construct a free energy device. Casey’s mother entered a tuberculosis hospital when he was fourteen and passed away six months later, leaving him effectively orphaned. Shortly thereafter World War II began, Casey lied about his age in order to enlist, and his lifelong affiliation with the military-industrial complex began.

And what a career it was! If Brokencross writing as Casey is to be believed, Casey played a role in nearly every high-profile intelligence operation of the past four decades. The Bay of Pigs, Watergate, and Iran-Contra are all accounted for, as are a host of other, lesser-known affairs, most of them reading like a fantastically exaggerated first draft of the next Bond movie. Here’s Casey racing through Monaco on a motorcycle, a copy of the Soviet Union’s nuclear control codes in his vest pocket; six months later, he’s working with a squad of green berets in Angola, helping the insurgents set up their own counter-intelligence service; two years after that, he’s sitting before a congressional committee, defending the Nixon administration’s decision to employ nerve gas against American defectors in Laos—truly, a man for all seasons.

German Tobacco Shop Collectibles, 1910-1930
John Gage
Cambridge Press, 2001
Every field of study passes through three stages of development: first, an initial flurry of activity, with established scholars and precocious laymen racing to stake out positions. Then comes a consolidating period during which conventional wisdom congeals, and priests and heretics are identified. Finally, the field is accepted as a legitimate subject of inquiry, a fact confirmed when college deans grow willing to fund faculty travel to far off conferences.

After nearly two decades of infighting, ‘Holocaust studies’ is now ready to enter the third stage of institutional integration, and evidence of the field’s acceptance can be found in the growing number of Holocaust related books being published, many of them intended for crossover mass-market audiences. This attractive volume is just such a work, and it will be a welcome addition on any bookshelf. Gage examines the Weimar era policies that made the rise of Hitler inevitable, couching it within an extended photo essay documenting the collectibles offered by the various chains of tobacconists operating in Germany during the period in question. Tobacco products played a key role in the semiotics of early twentieth century European political theater—think, for example, of Churchill’s ever present stogie, or the Kaiser’s famous ivory cigarette holder—and Gage does a fine job of unraveling the many linguistic, psychological, and even historical links between these strong oral-connoting signifiers and the growth of anti-Semitism among the German people in the years following World War One.

AIDS and the Death of Cultural Significance
Neil Montgomery
Cornell Press, 2000
In this well researched work, Montgomery argues that the emergence of AIDS was responsible for the triumph of the post-modern ironic voice. He notes that, given the prominent role gays have always played in the arts, it only stands to reason that the bitter fatalism which arose in homosexual circles in the early years of the epidemic should have found its way into the larger culture. It’s an interesting thesis, and Montgomery is to be commended for the huge mass of citations that he marshals in support, many of them drawn from regional gay newspapers and sex trade journals often overlooked by academic researchers. One criticism: Montgomery gives short attention to the response of lesbian artists to the epidemic. Though many Americans still fail to distinguish between gay and lesbian cultures, Montgomery is obviously innocent of such a charge, and it is disappointing that he chooses to give only passing note to the lesbian performers and artists whose work was informed by an awareness of the disease just as deep as that of their gay associates.

Netizens, Nation Building, and the Promise of Cyber-Liberation
By Katherine Murray, M.F.A.
Wired Press, 2000
Avoiding the too-common tendency among writers reporting from the front lines of the Internet revolution to engage in cyber-boosterism and tech-stock cheerleading, the author builds a well-reasoned case for the recognition of virtual Net-based states as legitimate actors in the new world order. Central to Murray’s thesis is the fait accompli nature of this recognition, as many of these virtual domains already offer passports, name ambassadors, and claim embassies in Western capitals—all they lack is formal membership in the community of nations. The situation is, as Murray correctly notes, eerily similar to that of the first wave of post-colonial Asian states, 1950-1955. Historians will recall the absurdity of that era, a time when government appointed commissions in London and Paris purported to make policy for territories that had declared their independence months, even years prior. If we are to avoid an equally ridiculous situation in our own age, it is essential that the international community promptly recognize this wholly new dimension to the public sphere.

Survival Guide for a Neo-Liberal World
Amanda and Jeff Ames
Nolo Press, 2000
This eminently useful book is intended for the silent majority who failed to reap huge rewards during the dot-com frenzy. The authors—both of whom are career counselors by training—pursue two separate but related themes: first, the book presents a clear-headed strategy for prospering in the coming post-boom years, one based on the time-tested techniques of diversification and risk management; second, and just as important, the authors seek to reassure those readers feeling distress over their failure to cash in during the largest market run-up in history. Yes, even individuals with a five-figure net worth can be decent human beings—they simply need to work a little harder at it! Like many recent releases, the hardcover edition includes a multimedia CD-ROM; this one features several selfawareness building exercises and profiling tools to assist the individual in gauging her level of risk-adverseness.

American Policy and the Balkans,1990-1996
Maxwell James III
Harvard Press, 2000
James argues that American policy in the Balkans can be understood only as a cruel practical joke, one begun by the Bush administration and gleefully continued under Bill Clinton. The target of the joke was, of course, the European Union, which was forced to repeatedly confess its political and military dependence upon the United States. According to James, American policy makers, while publicly pressing for peace, were privately pursuing a strategy intended to foster confusion among the warring parties and undermine any unilateral European effort in the region, with the most promising EU initiatives thwarted by the careful coordination of American military and intelligence resources. Srebeniza was one of the most successful of these operations: images of crying Dutch peacekeepers watching helplessly as residents of the town were loaded into buses for transportation to the killing grounds where thousands would be massacred dealt a severe blow to EU prestige and set European integration efforts back by at least a decade. Destined to be a classic of diplomatic history, this book is a must-read.

In My Own Words Augusto Pinochet, as told to Norman Olsen
Santiago Press, 2001
This book offers a fascinating encounter with one of the most engaging minds of our time. Eschewing the currently fashionable practice of fact checking, the interviewer allows Pinochet to tell his own story, and the portrait that emerges is of a man tormented by second-guessing over his role in the tragedy that befell Chilean democracy. Pinochet wonders: had he acted differently, could the fiasco of 1998, when a Spanish judge prompted the British government to seize the former head of a sovereign nation, have been avoided? Unhappily for future political leaders, Pinochet’s concludes that the PC climate—which he believes to have become a permanent fixture of Western culture—made this unfortunate event inevitable. Though the book is primarily meant as a history, Pincochet does offer a chapter of policy proscriptions and musings meant to serve as a starting point for efforts intended to prevent a repeat of this incident. While many of his remedies would be difficult to implement—there is little political will to repeal the UN charter on torture, though it would undoubtedly be a step in the right direction—they do provide an insightful basis upon which to begin the discussion.

State & Citizen, Nov/Dec 2001
“Viaticals: What’s a Conservative to Think?”
April James turns her keen intellect to the question of viatical settlements. On the one hand, viatical settlements are a market-spawned opportunity with the potential to increase the sum total of human happiness, particularly among the terminally ill and others in need of a boost. On the other hand, beneficiaries of these settlements are disproportionately homosexual, suggesting that this may be an instance in which government regulation is needed in order to prevent the possibility of an economically efficient yet morally unacceptable outcome.

The Public Interest, September 2001
“Red Men and Green Dollars”
Lisa Marshall argues that casino gambling is a necessary stage in the evolution of the Native American historical project. By placing tribal gaming within an historical context, Marshall shows that the hysteria surrounding the proliferation of tribal gaming is nothing more than puritan (and probably racist) anxiety.

Reason, September 2001
“Reading, Writing, and Reengineering”
Thomas Spenser shows how Wisconsin’s nascent effort to introduce market discipline into the Head Start program is already showing results. Traditional, inefficient, cost-center schools are being transformed into profit- center “enterprise academies,” and the taxpayer is the biggest winner of all. Of particular interest are the job-training aspects of the program: Wisconsin’s successful integration of piece-rate production facilities into its Head Start units is sure to become a model for reform efforts in other states.

The Nation, October 4, 2001
“Abortion: Life Affirming Ritual at the Nexus of the Generations”
Katha Pollit succinctly states the left’s case for abortion, and in doing so she provides our side with all the ammunition we’ll ever need.

Accusations of cargo cultism are well founded. Think of it as an offering to the policy gods: make them smile and maybe I’ll wake up one morning in another life—say, a three-story brownstone in Georgetown and a Vassar girl for a wife. Her father taught international relations at Columbia when he wasn’t managing the family trust; her mother was an editor at Vogue. We met at a party in Boston—I was preparing for a post-doc at Rand, she was a fact checker for Harpers. She followed me to Santa Monica and after living together for six months I proposed. We waited until I’d made it to State— an assistant to the deputy undersecretary charged with monitoring the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction—and then we had Jenn. The next day her parents gave us this house as a gift. I eventually moved to Brookings and we had Ian.

I still attend the Tuesday brown bag lunches at State and on Thursdays I try to make it to the AEI mixers, just to touch base with the other side. Twice a year I visit the bathhouse and share frantic couplings—and even threes and fours—with the other prelates of empire.

After the kids are school age she takes a part-time position as a lobbyist. Confession: I’m thinking she may have succumbed, once or twice, to the charms of power. But having strayed myself I never feel a need to draw attention to the slip-ups that give her away.

And let’s not forget the neighbors: he’s a Rep’s chief of staff, she teaches at Sidwell Friends, and they introduce us to a small circle whose doings warrant comparison to the Hellfire Club. I imagine dark rituals in the tunnels beneath the city, the same ones where Dolly Madison hid during the British invasion. Goat headed masks, black marble altars, Dionysian frenzies— the usual. And maybe even a retired FBI agent running things…

The sounds of Los Angeles interrupt my reverie. A helicopter passes overhead and I watch a spotlight crawl across the backyard. My friends can’t understand why I choose to live here; I can’t imagine living anywhere else. L.A. is the hometown of anyone raised by a television. What’s that? The whole City of Quartz, LA as the megalopolis on the edge of tomorrow/the future/forever rings false? Alright, I’ll admit to baser motives as well. According to MapQuest, Arianna Huffington lives exactly 4.2 miles from my front door, a fact confirmed by my car’s odometer on many occasions. A guy has to dream, right?

Our last issue, The Three Rs: Reassessing, Repudiating, and Rebuking, continues to inspire rancorous debate. Many took exception to our willingness to acknowledge the growing disquiet in the conservative movement, arguing that a public forum is no place to discuss family matters. Thankfully more clearheaded readers offered their full support, agreeing that American conservatism is at an impasse, its future dependent upon an honest, critical evaluation of the persons who brought us to this point and the ideas they espouse. A representative selection of the mail follows:

Accusations Leveled and Rebutted
Sirs:
The interview with Mr. Kissinger which appeared in your publication is so riddled with factual errors, misquotes, and falsifications as to require a piece of equal length simply to set the record straight. In the interest of brevity, we will address only the most egregious lies and distortions here: When he agreed to sit for the interview, Mr. Kissinger was led to believe that the article would be a lifestyle piece focusing on Mr. Kissinger’s associations with many of the most talented and interesting persons of this age. In this light, Mr. Kissinger’s repeated efforts to steer the conversation away from geopolitics towards, “celebrity whores and power-fellating scum” [the author's words] is perfectly understandable;

At no point in the conversation, and certainly not when speaking of the 1971 Chilean coup, did Mr. Kissinger assume an expression of “ghoulish delight”;

At no point did Mr. Kissinger “laugh gleefully” at mention of the term, “war criminal”;

Mr. Kissinger did not “giggle” or “smirk” when reference was made to the Nobel Peace Prize awarded him in 1973;

Mr. Kissinger has never referred to Ms. Sawyer as, “a tarted up piece of eye candy, dazzled by power, [and] always ready to service the best and brightest”;

Mr. Kissinger’s longstanding concern with human rights abuses on the part of the Chinese government is a matter of public record. To suggest that his manner when discussing the issue was “glib” or “light-hearted” displays a callous disregard for the tenets of responsible journalism;

Mr. Kissinger has never had a substance abuse problem, and has never sought treatment at the Betty Ford Center. In light of these facts it is clear that Mr. Kissinger would never have “spoke[n] at length” about his “roommate [at the Betty Ford Center], Chevy Chase.” Further, Mr. Kissinger has never referred to Mr. Chase as, “one of my closest confidantes and advisors”; Mr. Kissinger, like all private citizens, is under no obligation to release his personal financial records, and his determination to safeguard his privacy can in no way be construed as “a clear act of self-incrimination.” Since Mr. Kissinger has never released these records, it is clear that table 3 [titled, "A Sycophant's Rewards"], which purports to document Mr. Kissinger’s finances is a work of fiction.

In summary, the piece demonstrates a reckless disregard for the truth and a fumbling lack of familiarity with the workings of civil society. On behalf of Mr. Kissinger, we demand an immediate retraction and apology.

[Signed by four partners of the firm, Shelby, Atwick, and Stone]

EOH: We stand by the piece.

Worrisome Hints
As a practicing psychologist I read your interview with Henry Kissinger with much interest. Though one should never attempt to diagnose an individual based on his public persona, it seems clear to me that the esteemed gentleman may very well be suffering from false memory syndrome—certainly, in this interview and others, as well as his actions of the past two decades, Kissinger has exhibited many of the behaviors and belief structures associated with FMS.

Given his background—a New York intellectual of foreign descent—it seems reasonable to assume that Mr. Kissinger has spent some time in therapy, and this causes me to wonder whether there hasn’t been gross negligence on the part of his therapist or therapists. No licensed practitioner can, in good conscience, allow this man to persist in such an elaborately constructed fantasy world for such a length of time. In fact, I fear that he may have reached such a state of self-rationalization that when the inevitable collision with reality occurs—perhaps as a result of one of the lawsuits now pending against him—his psyche will prove unable to reintegrate itself, with catastrophic consequences for his emotional and mental health. Please encourage Mr. Kissinger to seek qualified treatment at once.

Paul Digot, M.Sc., MACP
Santa Monica, California

EOH: We oppose any effort to stigmatize those individuals who seek treatment for psychological distress.

Praise from the Heartland
It was with great satisfaction that I read, then reread from cover to cover The Three Rs: Reassessing, Repudiating, and Rebuking. For some time now I—and many others, I am sure—have believed the conservative movement to be in trouble. For your troubles, I have no doubt that you will be attacked from many directions, charged with indiscretion and even betrayal of conservative principles. I say Screw ‘em! It has been obvious for some time that the Republican establishment has no idea just how angry middle-America conservatives are. The party’s commitment to one-world globalist policies is a slap in the face to every person who has ever voted Republican and then watched his job and future relocate to Mexico. Keep up the good work, and don’t let the bastards grind you down!

Alfred Rawlings, U.S.M.C. (ret.)
Deerfield, Illinois

EOH: We proudly salute our nation’s veterans, and support any and all efforts to grant them the recognition they so richly deserve.

A Plea for Discretion
The Right has always been its own greatest enemy, and your latest issue only continues a long tradition of self-immolation. Ours is a history of attempts to enforce ideological purity through regular purges, a cycle that guarantees a lack of leadership and vision whenever history presents us with an opportunity to make real change. Now I see the process beginning again, with your publication choosing to play the role of inquisitor. Please, do not pursue this line of inquiry—only our enemies benefit from the exhumation of long-buried doctrinal disputes and the smearing of our most prominent representatives. We need your attacks to be aimed at the liberals, the socialists, and their fellow travelers; they’re the real enemies of freedom.

Francis Dawkin
Burbank, California

EOH: As Mr. Dawkin’s letter shows, the rightist tendency to idolatry and cultism is alive and well, and it is for this reason that authentic conservatives must continue to ruthlessly critique both the base and superstructure of our worldview. A conservatism that refuses to engage in self-criticism is nothing more than traditionalism in a mercantile garb, and such a philosophy must inevitably lose mindshare and influence to the more fashionable left.

Anxiously Awaiting His Return
I found your caustic refutation of Mister Buckley’s life-long project to be unacceptable. “Speaking truth to power,” is all nice and good, but it does not excuse the leveling of easily rebutted accusations against one of the leading figures of American conservatism. For sometime now I’ve observed your publication’s drift towards ‘neo-conservatism’, and this hit piece only confirms my suspicions. Your publication, like so many on the soft right, is essentially anti-Christian in character; no surprise to be sure, given the backgrounds of so many of the ‘thinkers’ (and I use that term loosely) associated with the ‘neo-conservative’ movement. Cancel my subscription; from now on, I’ll be sending that money to Jews for Jesus.

Thomas Overbeek
Arlington, Virginia

EOH: This publication takes no official position as to whether Jesus of Nazareth was, in fact, the Messiah.