"B.K. DeLong" wrote:
>
> It's interesting - once the Dems one the election, (and my brother got
> home from Iraq), I found myself thinking.....the only way to pull out
> without the Middle East going into absolute chaos is
I ignored this post the first time around because I too thought it was Brad DeLong writing. But that not being the case, this part of B.K.'s post exhibits, in few words, the terrible barrier to building a left in the United States until its imperial power is broken by external events. B.K. assumes as obvious the despicable assumption that the U.S. has any right whatever to concern itself with events in the mideast.
The Iraq War is neither an aberration nor a bit of stupidity by the Bush administration. (It may be the latter, but it is a stupidity made possible, even probable, by the very essence of 20th/21st c. U.S. To build a left in the u.s. we have to build a mass movement which will accept the following poem with "Germany" changed to "America." Leftists must oppose threats to humanity. The U.S. is the chief threat to humanity in the world today. Q.E.D.
But what are the chances of building a mass movement that will _feel_ towards the u.s. as Brecht felt the Germany of his day?
Germany, Pale Mother
by Bertolt Brecht
'Let others speak of her shame I speak of my own.'
O Germany, pale mother! How soiled you are As you sit among the peoples. You flaunt yourself Among the besmirched.
The poorest of your sons Lies struck down. When his hunger was great. Your other sons Raised their hands against him. This is notorious.
With their hands thus raised, Raised against their brother, They march insolently around you And laugh in your face. This is well known.
In your house Lies are roared aloud. But the truth Must be silent. Is it so?
Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere, The oppressed accuse you? The plundered Point to you with their fingers, but The plunderer praises the system That was invented in your house!
Whereupon everyone sees you Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody With the blood Of your best sons.
Hearing the harangues which echo from your house,
men laugh. But whoever sees you reaches for a knife As at the approach of a robber.
O Germany, pale mother! How have your sons arrayed you That you sit among the peoples A thing of scorn and fear!