Saturday, December 9, 2017

Rise of the Anti-Masons: America's First Third Party

In 1826 William Morgan, a Freemason and printer from Batavia in New York, became dissatisfied with his lodge and decided to publish the details of some Masonic rituals. That September he was seized by parties unknown, taken to Fort Niagara, and never seen again.

     It was widely believed that Morgan had been kidnapped and killed by fellow Masons, a suspicion that fed growing hostility to the order. The Anti-Mason movement spread rapidly across New England and eventually west, along the way introducing important political innovations like nominating conventions and the adoption of party platforms.
     Morgan’s disappearance – a crime-based political scandal in its day – led more people to suspect that Freemasons were just not loyal citizens. In fact, many Masons were judges, businessmen, bankers and politicians, which made it easy at the time for ordinary people to view the group as a powerful, secret and potentially anti-democratic society. Others suspected its links to the occult and ceremonial magic. This was, after all, the time of the Second Great Awakening.
     A more broadly persuasive argument was that the secret oaths administered by lodges could bind members to favor each other over “outsiders.” Popular outrage spread as people decided to challenge what they viewed as basically a conspiracy.
     One of the leading Anti-Masons was Thaddeus Stevens, a Vermont native of Danville who made his name in Pennsylvania and later emerged as a leading abolitionist, founder of the Republican Party, and post-Civil War activist for civil rights and stiff retribution against the south. Attending the Anti- Mason Party’s first national convention, Stevens attracted notice with his strong speeches and oratorical style. In one of them, “On The Masonic Influence Upon The Press,” he deplored the lack of publicity given to the convention and attributed that as well to Masonic influence.
     In 1833 Stevens was elected to the Pennsylvania legislature on the Anti-Masonic ticket, where his legislative talents quickly showed themselves. He was an excellent debater with a devastating wit who could cut his opposition to shreds. He also knew how to maneuver behind the scenes. But that’s another story…
     Two years before Stevens’ election in Pennsylvania the Party was already so popular that Vermont elected an Anti-Mason governor, William Palmer. His victory indicated the intensity of public opposition to elite power in the state, not to mention how far a single-issue movement can go.

Vermont’s Anti-Mason Interlude

     William A. Palmer was no political newcomer. He was a popular Jeffersonian Democrat and former judge who had previously represented Vermont in the US Senate by the time he ran for governor on the Anti-Mason ticket in 1831.
     Vermonters had already elected another Anti-Mason to Congress, and more than 30 members of the movement represented the party in the General Assembly. Still, it was a shock to the establishment when Palmer led in the statewide popular vote. It took nine ballots in the legislature before he won.
     And who was Palmer? A graduate of UVM with a law degree, he had practiced in Chelsea and held numerous posts, including State Supreme Court judge for two years. In 1818, when Palmer was elected to the US Senate he was a Democratic-Republican. In 1823 he became a National Republican. He was a delegate to three State Constitutional Conventions between 1828 and 1850. In other words, Palmer was clearly part of the political establishment – but not a Mason.
     He sincerely believed that secret societies were “evil.” But he didn’t make radical claims in his speeches. In his first inaugural speech, Palmer promised to appoint only men who were “unshackled by any earthly allegiance except to the constitution and laws,” and he suggested legislation to prohibit the administration of oaths except “when necessary to secure the faithful discharge of public trusts and to elicit truth in the administration of justice.”
    And why did Palmer want to “diminish the frequency” of oaths, as he said. Because of the “influence which they exercise over the human mind.”  In other words, a chilling effect.

     In 1832, the national Anti-Mason Party conducted the first presidential nominating convention in US history in Baltimore. Its presidential candidate was William Wirt, a former Mason who won 7.78 percent of the popular vote – but Vermont’s seven electoral votes. William Slade, who would later become Vermont governor as a Whig, was sent to Congress as an opponent of both Masonry and slavery. Since the state had one-year terms of office, Palmer ran and won again. But he still couldn’t attract a clear majority of the vote. This time it took 43 ballots before he was re-elected. 
     In 1834, he finally won on the first ballot, but that was because the other political parties could see the collapse of the Anti-Masons coming and were competing to win over its constituents. 
     Palmer also led in the 1835 vote. But this time he couldn’t convince the legislature. After weeks of wrangling and 63 ballots the lawmakers declared themselves deadlocked and turned to Silas Jenison, a former Anti-Mason official and winner of the Lieutenant-Governor’s race. The rest of the Anti-Mason ticket was endorsed by the Whigs. 


     Gridlock in Vermont’s General Assembly over Palmer’s elections was so disruptive that it led to a Constitutional Convention and the amendment that created the State Senate. Criticism of the unicameral legislature was not new and proposals for a second chamber dated back to 1793. But in 1836 the idea of reducing the power of the House achieved critical mass. The Convention stripped it of “supreme legislative power.” 
     Crucially, bankers backed the change, mainly with the expectation that two chambers would be easier to handle. This is circumstantial evidence suggesting that, in opposing the Masons, the movement was also confronting the banks. The general public mainly thought the House had become too arrogant, intransigent and uncooperative. 
     For Vermont Anti-Masons, the use of secret oaths represented an invasion of the “civil power of a sovereign state” and a violation of liberty. In June 1833, at the height of movement, the Anti-Mason State Convention passed a dozen resolutions defining its position. 
     Vermont’s Anti-Masons ultimately succeeded in forcing the lodges to close – for a while. But that left the state party with less reason to exist. In 1836 Vermont’s Anti-Mason leaders, including future governor Slade, joined the new, anti-Jacksonian Whig Party. 
     The party’s third and final National convention was held in Philadelphia’s Temperance Hall in November, 1838. Almost entirely engulfed by the Whigs, the gathering unanimously supported William Henry Harrison for President and Daniel Webster for Vice President. When the Whig National Convention chose Harrison and John Tyler, the Anti-Masons did nothing... and soon vanished.

Originally posted on December 14, 2015 

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Too Big to Care: Why Equifax hasn't been credit worthy

It should not come as a shock that Equifax, one of the three big agencies that track credit status, has failed to protect the data it has on 143 million people. Nor should it be surprising that the company didn't inform its affected customers for six weeks after discovering that hackers had gained access to their private information. Collecting, selling and sometimes misusing mountains of sensitive data for decades, Equifax has evidently become too big to care.

Instead, three executives sold $1.8 million of their company shares days after the company discovered the problem, more than a month before it was made public. "If that happened, somebody needs to go to jail," threatened Sen. Heidi Heitkamp, a Democrat on the Senate Banking Committee. In the days following the breach announcement Equifax shares dropped 20 percent. 

At first, the company wanted customers to pay for a freeze to their accounts. That would protect their personal data. But after a deluge of complaints, the offer changed, with Equifax opting instead to waive fees for customers who want to freeze their credit files -- but only until November 21. Going forward, it could face the largest class action lawsuit in history, with the potential to bankrupt the company. 
1978 investigative feature
Original Publication PDF Here 

When I first looked into Equifax in 1978, it was already a corporate force, with 1,800 offices, 14,000 employees, and a nationwide investigative system maintaining dossiers on 46 million people. The oldest of the three largest US credit agencies, it had revenues of $275 million a year. Equifax's services at the time ranged from credit reporting, insurance investigations and underwriting to motor vehicle data tracking and assorted "management system services" - aka private investigations. 

Today Equifax holds information on more than 800 million consumers and almost 90 million businesses. Operating in 14 countries it produces annual revenues of more than $3 billion. On the other hand, the employee roster is down to about 9,000. 

Founded in 1899, Equifax had not fully committed to computers by the late 1970s. But an industry transition was underway. In Vermont, the Credit Bureau of Burlington had taken an early lead, working with Trans-Union Systems, a national computer network used by retailers and credit card companies. Data flowed in multiple directions, with stores seeking information on potential customers and other clients using the data those businesses amassed.  

Before the digital age, collecting information and creating a customer profile -- to establish what was known as "creditworthiness" -- involved a larger staff and considerable legwork. For Equifax "field investigators" it meant conducting interviews, with the subject as well as friends and neighbors. From courts and police departments they gathered any criminal information, while desk-bound staffers clipped newspapers and gathered reports. To complete a dossier, an investigator might talk to your employers, hunt down old government records, or even strike up conversations with local shop keepers. 

But mass producing customer dossiers (investigators worked on up to 40 a day), particularly profiles that included not just hard data but also tidbits of gossip, could lead to mistakes and abuses. Creditworthiness was a slippery concept, an imprecise composite of job patterns, credit and bank accounts, character, habits, family status and morals. As a result, Equifax was hit with a batch of lawsuits during the 1970s, losing some and quietly settling others. 

One Michigan woman collected $321,000 when the company falsely reported that she was an excessive drinker. Another woman from South Dakota won a settlement when Equifax said that the money for her new Chevy had come from prostitution -- also proven false.

There was also the California insurance broker who won $250,000 when Equifax investigators alleged she was dishonest. In New Jersey there was trouble when State Farm refused coverage to a Princeton faculty member after Equifax reported (accurately but irrelevantly) that she was living with a man "without the benefit of wedlock."
When I called up Ralph Bushey at the Equifax office in Burlington, the first thing he asked was how I spelled my name. Frankly, the same thing happened every time I interviewed someone in the industry. But Bushey was more cautious than most and said he had to check with higher ups. After he didn't call back, I decided to make a personal visit. 

Equifax had outposts in Burlington, Rutland and Bennington, all reporting to a branch office in Albany, New York. A Barre office, along with the rest of eastern Vermont, reported to Manchester, New Hampshire. The regional office was in Boston. 

The Burlington station was small and didn't maintain files, in contrast with Burlington Credit's relatively high tech layout. But the modest appearance was deceptive. Bushey explained coyly that Equifax  handled "all the major insurance groups," specifically mentioning Prudential and National Life. "We've gotten away from the credit line of work, and have picked up more types of business."

At times, Equifax operated like a private detective agency. In at least one case, it was caught helping a corporation to obtain gossip about a critic. An executive at American Home Products, a major drug manufacturer, had hired the company to dig into the personal affairs of Jay Constantine, a congressional staffer who was helping to write legislation opposed by Big Pharma.

This was before the Retail Credit Company of Atlanta, Georgia changed its name to Equifax. After 77 years in business, the 1976 rebranding was prompted by all the bad press, including a Federal Trade Commission lawsuit filed in 1975. The charges, as outlined for me by an FTC staffer, included illicit use of consumer information, failure to disclosure terms, and false and misleading advertising. 

The technology of data gathering has changed since then, but the shabby tactics have survived.  In 2000, Equifax, along with Experian and TransUnion, was fined $2.5 million for blocking and delaying phone calls from consumers trying to obtain information about their credit. In 2013, a federal jury in Oregon awarded $18.6 million to Julie Miller against Equifax for violations of the Fair Credit Reporting Act. 

In contrast, Equifax has had no problem sharing files and data with the FBI and other government agencies, according to George O'Toole, a former CIA agent. While reporting on Vermont's private intelligence industry, I was told that Equifax tended to hire ex-State Police officers, possibly because they might have access to government information that was off limits to the public.

Another ex-CIA operative, Harry Murphy, claimed that Equifax was especially useful to federal agencies. The draw was its enormous files of auto and life insurance applicants. Even back in the 1970s, however, big data transfers between public and private entities were difficult to control, and law enforcement and intelligence officers often moved into the private sector after retirement, or for the paycheck. 

The emerging private dossier industry was run largely by law enforcement and intelligence alumni, an Old Boy Network that closely linked it with government operations. The data moved freely, but the potential for mischief was not widely recognized.

During my research into the activities of Equifax and other big data agencies, I also heard about an odd encounter with Earl Hanson, a Barre resident who applied for insurance with Colonial Penn Mutual. In return he received a letter from Equifax asking for more information about an auto accident he had forgotten to report. Hanson was cooperative, explaining all about hitting a deer. But the exchange made him curious to know what else they had discovered about him, from the Motor Vehicles Department or anywhere else. 

After writing to the company's Dataflo center and to the New Hampshire branch office, however, Hanson was told that Equifax actually had no file on him. Unsatisfied with that response, he filed a complaint with the Attorney General's office. But the State lost interest, eventually closing the case, and Equifax didn't share any further information. As usual, it was too big to care. 

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Hollywood Whitewashes History into Action Adventure

The latest Tom Cruise movie, American Made, manages the incredible -- to sympathize with an amoral drug smuggler and government informer whose lies sparked a deadly, early example of fake news. The target of the disinformation was Nicaragua, the authors were the President and his men, and the Big Lie was that Sandinista leaders had struck a deal with the Medellin cartel to smuggle drugs into America. 

While director Doug Limon's thrill ride version of Barry Seal's story does acknowledge his questionable role in the Contra war, the film is really about an exuberant flyboy -- Maverick is back as an anti-hero -- who stumbles into high adventures and government conspiracies. The twist (spoiler) is that this time Cruise dies. 

Think Air America meets Mission Impossible and The Parallax View. We've seen this movie before, only this time it's a whitewash of some relevant history.

Bay of Pigs veterans Rene Corvo and Felipe Vidal were "lieutenants"
 for John Hull and provided a link between Contras and Cuban exiles.
From Iran-Contra Scandal Trading Cards by Salim Yaqub.
Let's begin with a televised speech by President Ronald Reagan on March 16, 1986. During this appearance Reagan displayed a photograph taken in Nicaragua, reportedly proving that top Nicaraguan officials were involved in cocaine trafficking. As it turned out, this was a lie. There was no real evidence, and the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) was later forced to issue a low-key "clarification." 

Still, the smear proved effective as a narrative changer. Like a series of Trump tweets, it distracted attention from an ongoing investigation of Contra involvement in the drug trade. And Barry Seal, apparently the only person who knew the truth about the grainy picture of men loading a plane near Managua, was already dead.

A DEA informant and pilot, Seal was murdered in Baton Rouge on February 19, 1986 -- a month before Reagan's fake news address -- reportedly on orders from the Columbian cocaine boss who had arranged the shipments in association with the Contra network. Although the assassins were captured and convicted, some believe that the CIA was also complicit in Seal's death. 

His activities, and their Contra-cocaine connections, were the subject of several in-depth investigations at the time. But Cruise sought the role because of his interest in Seal as a character. “I don’t agree with what he was doing, but you can’t help but be utterly fascinated by it,” he told People Magazine. “One of my favorite authors is Mark Twain, and Seal reminds me of one of his characters. It’s not every day you get to play a character who is a devoted husband and father and a drug runner, a CIA operative working for the DEA.”

That's one way to see it. Another appeared in a report by the International Center for Development Policy, which was directed by former UN Ambassador to El Salvador Robert White. For them, Seal was a dangerous pawn who knew too much. For example, he knew that Columbia's Medellin cartel was using a ranch owned by John Hull as a shipping point. Hull was a US citizen with CIA and National Security Council connections, and his ranch was also a Contra base for weapons shipments and recruits.
John Hull owned the ranch used by Contras and drug smugglers. 
More to the point, Seal knew that the famous photo shown on TV by Reagan was actually taken on US government orders. He had flown into a Nicaraguan airstrip with CIA cameras installed on his plane, snapping pictures that purportedly showed Pablo Escobar and other members of the Medellin cartel loading kilos of cocaine onto a plane. Seal claimed they were being assisted Sandinista soldiers. He even alleged that one of those present was a close associate of Tomas Borge, Nicaragua's Minister of the Interior. In short, he was circulating disinformation. 

Wall Street Journal reporter Jonathan Kwitny effectively debunked the accusations, establishing that there was no evidence tying any Nicaraguan officials to the drug shipment. But someone in the White House wasn't satisfied, and leaked a story about Sandinista links with the Medellin cartel, along with the photo, to The Washington Times.  Among other revelations, Edmond Jacoby's report discussed Seal’s role and appeared to out him as a government agent. As a result, noted Ambassador White, the Columbian cartel put a $2 million price on his head.

After Seal's death, Louisiana attorney general William Guste protested the government’s failure to protect their "extremely valuable witness and informant in the country’s fight against illegal drugs.” For him, Seal's murder warranted a serious inquiry, one that explained why "an important witness was not given protection whether he wanted it or not?”

American Made, which is slated for US release in late September, doesn't settle this question. But there is an obvious answer: Seal was a loose end and his shipments were just a small part of a much larger, ongoing operation to transport cocaine in exchange for funds to purchase arms. Hull and anti-Castro Cubans had begun to work together in 1983, providing refueling and packaging services on his Costa Rican ranch in exchange for up to $25,000 per shipment from the Columbians.

According to Dan Sheehan, whose interfaith law and policy center dug deeply into the private network that fueled the Contras, the same team continued to smuggle a ton of cocaine into the US each week for several more years. Its street value was $25 million per shipment. Sheehan also claimed that some of the profits were deposited in Miami and Central American banks, then later withdrawn to purchase weapons.

Similar charges were leveled in a civil complaint filed by journalists Tony Avirgan and Martha Honey. They charged that the network was responsible for a bombing in Costa Rica in which Contra leader Eden Pastora and several others were injured or killed. 

Honey and Avirgan discovered that a deal was struck between Hull, the Cuban-Americans and Contra leaders to get rid of Pastora, who had refused to merge his operations with other anti-Sandinista forces. From their Costa Rica base on Hull's ranch drugs flowed to several distribution points in the US. The profits paid for weapons from Florida, Israel and South Korea, according to the White report. When Pastora declined to cooperate, the network hired a professional assassin to eliminate him. Avirgan was one of those injured in the attack.

Now that would make a great political action thriller, one in which the heroes are independent journalists on the trail of an international conspiracy rather than a smuggler/snitch who facilitated it and got himself killed. 

On January 20, 1987, the New York Times revealed that the DEA had known for months that US flight crews transporting arms to the Contras were also smuggling cocaine on their return trips to the US. When told about the investigation, however, one crew member reportedly warned a reporter that he was under the protection of a White House official, Lt. Col. Oliver North.

Predictably, the State Department denied all knowledge of Contra involvement in cocaine deals. And the US Customs Service claimed to know nothing about any arms shipments leaving Florida without official clearance. Nevertheless, both the weapons and drugs reached their destinations, and the same network -- in which Barry Seal was one cog -- conducted both operations.
Oliver North defended the "enterprise" in Congressional Testimony. 
Over time, various elements of this covert network, which became known as the Secret Team, were exposed. For example, we learned -- and subsequently overlooked -- that as Vice President George H.W. Bush and his national security advisers had close ties with the covert air supply operation. Elliott Abrams, then in the State Department and still a foreign policy player, was directly involved in coordinating Contra activities, bringing together State, the NSC and CIA. The Department of Defense organized air drops over Nicaragua and helped to build the Contra infrastructure. The entire inter-agency program was initially under the control of CIA Director William Casey.

The private network that emerged from all these connections used the money obtained from Iran arms sales and other sources to buy weapons and ship them to Central America, South Africa, and Angola. They also worked with operations in both El Salvador and Costa Rica, moving drugs and guns back and forth. But this bigger picture doesn't feature in Limon's Catch Me If You Can take on covert war in Central America. 

After elements of the Contra-cocaine conspiracy were exposed, Seal was not the only key witness to die under mysterious circumstances. Still others were threatened, while groups attempting to bring those responsible to justice were burglarized and harassed. It sounded like high-pitched rhetoric at the time, but Christic Institute lawyer Dan Sheehan charged that ultra-right elements were responsible for a pattern of intimidation. In its Central American embassies, he claimed, the US had embedded "a series of fascist and Hitlerite cells." It's not as hard to believe thirty years later.

Of course, not everything can be tracked back to the White House, or even to the Intelligence community. But covert operations like those chronicled in American Made did become almost standard operation procedure during the 1980s. And although they were sometimes clearly illegal, they were also widely rationalized as acceptable "initiatives" in defense of democracy. 

One powerful excuse, made by President Reagan himself, was that any laws restricting military intervention did not apply to him or his national security staff. It was a bold assertion of unilateral executive power. He and his aides even claimed that, by extension, any attempts to "protect the initiative" -- and that included covering it up -- are part of the authority flowing from the sovereign president. We may soon hear the same argument again, as more damaging details emerge about Russia, Trump and today's Secret Team.

Greg Guma is the Vermont-based author of “Dons of Time,” “Uneasy Empire,” “Spirits of Desire,” "Big Lies," and “The People’s Republic: Vermont and the Sanders Revolution.” His latest book is “Green Mountain Politics: Restless Spirits, Popular Movements.” 

Friday, September 1, 2017

Peter Diamondstone's Long Socialist Road

Peter Diamondstone was justly proud that, with only one exception, he had been on Vermont's general election ballot every two years since 1970. At first he was a candidate for Attorney General. Later, he debated James Jeffords and Bernie Sanders, his old Liberty Union ally, in campaigns for Congress. 

We first met shortly after Liberty Union (LU) was founded. He had come to my apartment in Bennington during a 1970 canvas of local activists. There to recruit he generously spent more than an hour explaining why the new party was needed. Although a socialist himself, Peter and others had joined forces with liberal Democrats like Bernard O'Shea, an Enosberg newspaper publisher, and William Meyer, a former Democratic Congressman, to form a "third party" that would fight for economic justice and oppose the War in Vietnam.

Unlike others with strong political convictions, Peter was able to disagree without becoming disagreeable. Without his efforts, there would not have been a Party structure for Bernie Sanders' early runs and things might have gone differently. Born in New York in 1934, he died at home in Brattleboro on Wednesday, August 30, at 82.
Peter Diamondstone in 2004, in Montpelier (GG Photo) 
The last time we talked was during the 2004 election cycle, the occasion an interview for a Vermont Guardian feature story on the six candidates running for Vermont governor. The incumbent was James Douglas, then seeking his first re-election. His challengers included Libertarian Hardy Machia, a software engineer touting free market control of health care; Independent Patricia Hejny, an "angry grandmother" who wanted to legalize hemp; Cris Ericson, an artist heading her own Marijuana ticket; Burlington Mayor Peter Clavelle, who was running as a Democrat with a focus on health care for all; and Diamondstone.

He was "filling in," Diamondstone said. "I'm a back up candidate." But he wasn't "running" for office and would correct anyone who said so. "When you use arena language, you create an arena atmosphere," he explained. Instead, he looked at the process as "applying for a job." 

Like the Libertarian candidate, he was absolutist in his approach to politics. It was all or nothing. But their programs could barely have been more different. Where Machia wanted less government, Diamondstone favored "socialized health care, run by the state of Vermont," as well as a State Bank.

He readily admitted that his ideas were utopian, ideal solutions that would take time to be accepted. "But at some point a 'Diamondstone' will get elected and the battles will go on," he predicted. 

Did Clavelle's campaign for governor represent a modest step in that direction, I asked. No way, he replied. "If Peter is elected, it's even worse. Nothing will change." In the end, neither man came close to defeating the incumbent.

Diamondstone insisted that "State Socialism can work. But it has to come about without the use of force, by the willingness of the people." By that time he had run 17 statewide campaigns, and still believed that such a transformation was only a matter of time.

In his ideal Vermont there would also be a maximum income that anyone could make. He didn't provide an exact figure, but did advise that "once we set a maximum, people will be damned careful about spending money on war."

Returning to Clavelle, he explained the source of his skepticism -- Clavelle's willingness that year to allow Diamondstone and other candidates to be excluded from most gubernatorial debates. "He doesn't want to hear what I have to say," he said. "And if he won't listen now, he won't listen later." 

He contrasted that with then-U.S. Senator Jeffords, who had insisted on the inclusion of all candidates. "On that important process issue, no one is more honorable," Diamondstone said of Jeffords, who by then had left the Republican Party. As for Clavelle, until recently a member of the Progressive Party, he concluded, "he's a Democrat now. That's why I'm here." 

Greg Guma is the Vermont-based author of Dons of Time, Uneasy Empire, Spirits of Desire, Big Lies, and The People’s Republic: Vermont and the Sanders Revolution. His latest book is Green Mountain Politics: Restless Spirits, Popular Movements.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Doublethink and Newspeak: Do We Have a Choice?

More people are becoming alienated, cynical, resentful or resigned, while too much of mass and social media reinforces less-than-helpful narratives and tendencies. The frog's in the frying pan and the heat is rising.

On the big screens above us beautiful young people demonstrated their prowess. We were sitting in the communications center, waiting for print outs to tell us what they'd done before organizing the material for mass consumption.
      Outside, people were freezing in the snow as they waited for buses. Their only choice was to attend another event or attempt to get home.
      The area was known as the Competition Zone, a corporate state created for the sole purpose of showcasing these gorgeous competitors. Freedom was a foreign idea here; no one was more free than the laminated identification card hanging around your neck allowed.
       Visitors were more restricted than anyone. They saw only what they paid for, and had to wait in long lines for food, transport, or tickets to more events. They were often uncomfortable, yet they felt privileged to be admitted to the Zone.
      Citizens were categorized by their function within the Organizing Committee's bureaucracy. Those who merely served -- in jobs like cooking, driving and cleaning -- wore green and brown tags. They could travel between their homes and work, but were rarely permitted into events. Their contact with visitors was also limited. To visit them from outside the Zone, their friends and family had to be screened. 
     Most citizens knew little about how the Zone was actually run, about the "inner community" of diplomats, competitors and corporate officials they served. Yet each night they watched the exploits of this same elite on television.
     The Zone, a closed and classified place where most bad news went unreported and a tiny elite called the shots through mass media and computers, was no futuristic fantasy. It was Lake Placid for several weeks in early 1980 -- a full four years before 1984.
     In a once sleepy little community covered with artificial snow, the Olympics had brought a temporary society into being. Two thousand athletes and their entourage were its royalty, role models for the throngs of spectators, townspeople and journalists. This convergence resulted in an ad hoc police state, managed by public and private forces and a political elite that combined local business honchos with an international governing committee. They dominated a population all too willing to submit to arbitrary authority. 
    Even back then, Lake Placid's Olympic "village" felt like a preview of things to come. Not quite George Orwell's dark vision, but uncomfortably close.
    In Orwell's imagination, society was ruled in the future by Big Brother. It wasn't a computer, but rather the collective expression of the Party. But not like the Republicans; this Party was an autonomous bureaucracy and advanced surveillance state interested only in perpetuating itself as a hierarchy. In this dystopia, "the people" had become insignificant, without the power of "grasping that the world could be other than it is." 
     Concepts like freedom were perverted by a ruthless Newspeak perpetuated by the Party through the media. A Goodthinker was someone who followed orders without thinking. Crimestop was the instinctual avoidance of any dangerous thought, and Doublethink was the constant distortion of reality to maintain the Party's image of infallibility.
     Writing in 1948, Orwell was projecting what could happen in just a few decdes. By most measures, even 70 years later we're not quite there yet. But we do face the real danger that freedom and equality will be seriously distorted by a new form of Newspeak, a Trumpian version promoted by the administration and its allies through their media. We already have Trumpian Goodthinkers -- the sychophantic surrogates who follow his lead without thinking, along with Crimestop -- the instinctual avoidance of "disloyal" thought, and Doublethink -- the constant distortion of reality to maintain Trump's insatiable ego and image of infallibility. Orwellian ideas are simply resurfacing in a post-modern/reality TV form.
     Our fast food culture is also taking a long-term toll. More and more people are becoming alienated, cynical, resentful or resigned, while too much of mass and social media reinforces less-than-helpful narratives and tendencies. The frog's in the frying pan and the heat is rising.
     Much of what penetrates and goes viral further fragments culture and thought, promoting a cynicism that reinforces both rage and inaction. Rather than true diversity, we have the mass illusion that a choice between polarized opinions, shaped and curated by editors and networks, is the essence of free speech and democracy. In reality, original ideas are so constrained and self-censored that what's left is usually as diverse as brands of peppermint toothpaste.
      When the Bill of Rights was ratified, the notion that freedom of speech and the press should be protected meant that the personal right of self-expression should not be repressed by the government. James Madison, author of the First Amendment, warned that the greatest danger to liberty was that a majority would use its power to repress everyone else. Yet the evolution of mass media and the corporate domination of economic life have made these "choicest privileges" almost obsolete.
     As community life unravels and more institutions fall into disrepute, media have become among the few remaining that can potentially facilitate some social cohesion. Yet instead they fuel conflict and crisis. It's not quite Crimestop, but does often appeal to some of the basest instincts and produce even more alienation and division. 
     In general terms, what most mass media bring the public is a series of images and anecdotes that cumulatively define a way of life. Both news and entertainment contribute to the illusion that competing, consuming and accumulating are at the core of our aspirations. Each day we are repeatedly shown and told that culture and politics are corrupt, that war is imminent or esclating somewhere, that violence is random and pervasive, and yet also that the latest "experts" have the answers. Countless programs meanwhile celebrate youth, violence, frustrated sexuality, and the lives of celebrities.
      Between the official program content are a series of intensely packaged sales pitches. These commercial messages wash over us, as if we are wandering in an endless virtual mall, searching in vain for fulfillment as society crumbles. 
      In 1980, Ralph Nader called the race for president at that time -- between Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan -- a choice between mediocrity and menace. It was funny then, but now we can see what real menace looks like. Is Trump-ism what Orwell warned us about? Not quite, though there are similarities. Like Trump, you can't talk to Big Brother. And he rarely gives you the truth, only doublespeak. But Trump is no Big Brother. More like a Drunk Uncle with nukes. 
     So, is it too late for a rescue? Will menace win this time? Or can we still save the environment, reclaim self-government, restore communities and protect human rights? What does the future hold?
     It could be summer in Los Angeles in 2024, the end of Donald Trump's second term. The freeways are slow-moving parking lots for the Olympics. Millions of people hike around in the heat, or use bikes and cycles to get to work. It's difficult with all the checkpoints, not to mention the extra-high security at the airports. Thousands of police, not to mention the military, are on the lookout for terrorists, smugglers, protesters, cultists, gangs, thieves, and anyone who doesn't have money to burn or a ticket to the Games.
      Cash isn't much good, and gas has become so expensive that suburban highways are almost empty. 
      Security is tight and hard to avoid, on or offline. There are cameras everywhere, and every purchase and move most people make is tracked by the state. Still, there are four bombings in the first week of the Games. There is also another kind of human tragedy. Four runners collapse during preliminary rounds as a result of a toxic mix -- heat and pollution. 
     Despite his low approval on the West Coast, President Trump eventually visits L.A. to witness the spectacle. And drops dead suddenly after eating too many hot dogs. This sparks a riot, which is followed closely by a bomb blast at the media command center. Then the Earth begins to shake....
     That's one scenario. But it could also be a peaceful summer in your hometown. People aren't as preoccupied with conflict and spectacle as they used to be. The change began with the young, and in the schools. Just in time people began to understand that what they saw on their screens was just one version of reality, not the real thing. 
     Malls are closing, but smaller and independent businesses are making a comeback, some located in restored neighborhoods or emerging out of buyer's coops. Major corporations still sell mostly online, but their market dominance is starting to falter. Renewable energy has largely replaced coal and gas, and electric vehicles are everywhere.
    People are changing, in subtle and important ways. They are becoming more...discriminating, depending more on one another than either their media or the government.
    Hey, it could happen.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

The Paranoid Style: From Reagan to Trump

For many years Robert Welch warned his readers about the conspiracy (italics his) that was plotting to merge the United States and Soviet Russia. His big idea was that repeated exposure could ultimately stop the "socialist nightmare with its perpetual shortages of everything and with its regimentation of individual human lives like that of barnyard animals."

As editor of The John Birch Society Bulletin, Welch was a resilient advocate for racism and sexism decades before Donald Trump's Reality TV reboot. Welch opened each issue with his personal "reflections on the news" -- usually an essay on how US leaders and people like Ralph Nader were destroying the family and civilization. The rest of the small, austere publication was devoted to reports like "United Nations - Get US Out," priorities like a windfall profits tax and stopping the Equal Rights Amendment, and turgid notes from Birch Society meetings.  

Welch couldn't decide who he disliked more, anti-nuclear activists or Rockefeller Trilateralists. As a result, he cast them as partners in a massive plot. It was a highly paranoid theory, but by no means the only one that polluted the political bloodstream in the run up to Ronald Reagan's election.

In fact, by 1980 the claims of Birchers were less sensational than those of other groups. Take the New Christian Crusade Church, which promoted unbridled racism in a tabloid newspaper, Christian Vanguard, or the US Labor Party, which served up doomsday scenarios about "controlled disintegration," orchestrated by agents of the Rockefellers and the Rothschilds.

And let's not forget the Moral Majority, a compulsive user and critic of mass media, which saw the forces of evil everywhere, but masked its extremism by bemoaning the decline of the family and shouting incessantly about its right to free speech. Anti-abortion, anti-ERA and pro-tax cut hallelujahs were artfully inserted into Moral Majority news releases that read like compasssion-free sermons.

All this might be a topic of mere historical curiosity had these groups and others like them not basically succeeded, their ideas and agendas largely incorporated into the Reagan platform. Moral Majority Report did everything it could short of outright endorsement. "If turning back the clock means the restoration of some of the freedoms that Americans traditionally enjoyed," announced a typical writer, "I'm all for it." He was referring to the Republican platform.

Like Donald Trump, the Rev. Jerry Falwell and his Christian fundamentalist movement had an intense love/hate relationship with the media. After all, it had all begun on TV with Falwell's Old Time Gospel Hour. By 1980, the movement's tabloid paper was turning Falwell's radio and TV pronouncements into syndicated columns, while its reporters gloated about the growing attention. At the same time, however, they also despised the "immoral" television networks.

For these pioneers of political fundamentalism, the real "insiders" were purveyors of "smut" and degenerate lifestyles, a vast group that included most "non-Christian" media and members of the press. Their basic message, which read like a newsy catechism, was that the "moral" can clean up the media by exerting control over it. That meant boycotting specific outlets or supporting only Christian media.

Through insistent propaganda, the Moral Majority turned ignorance into strength and sexism into a virtue. Sound familiar?

Still, the electronic fundamentalism of Falwell's empire sounded almost moderate in contrast with the outright aryan arrogance of Christian Vanguard. "Specifically compiled for the Elect," this religious house organ was obsessed with one enemy, the Jews. This was a bullish racism, punctuated with articles like "Sadistic Jewish Slaughter of Animals." 

Pretending to intellectual rigor, one article attempted to prove that the enemy was plagued by a "devastating sense of inferiority." In another report, covering an Aryan Nations Movement conference, the publisher of a sister publication, Zion's Watchman, came out strong against humanism, marxism and "the seed of the serpent." Guess who he meant. 

Yet the Aryans remained hopeful, according to another contributor, because "the various right wing movements will come together, and unite as never before once we understand the importance of rallying under the Law of God, making what we call Germany's WWII 'Nazism' seem tiny in comparison." Scary stuff.
Like many movement publications of the era, Christian Vanguard had a clearinghouse for books, with listings under headings like "secret societies," "the money question," and "the Jewish world conspiracy." Another heading covered "self defense and survival," and included books on explosives, combat and surveillance. It was an early sign of the survivalism to come. Clearly, the "Elect" were prepping for action. Reading their paper also offered solid proof that Nazism was alive in Louisiana and other southern states in the Reagan era.

Decades later, many far right groups continue to believe in some sort of conspiracy aimed at destroying their "way of life." Specifically, they remain united by a fanatical fortress mentality and the belief that their rights as individuals are under attack. Before Reagan's election, the U.S. Labor Party, led by perennial presidential candidate Lyndon LaRouche, was already predicting that economic "disintegration" was just around the corner. Meanwhile, Christian Vanguard warned about "race mixing" and the Moral Majority emphasized a war on family values. Taken together, these threads provided a template for the Tea Party and Trump-ism.

Each of these groups had its own crusade and main enemy. Their modern equivalents are much the same. What most of them lack, however, is any vision of a better future. Instead, the paranoid right seems to draw its strength from alienation, using prejudices and frustrations as catalysts for unity.

Shortly before Reagan's election, this was exemplified in a pamphlet from Americans for Nuclear Energy, a so-called "citizens group." Their pitch, in the main text and a fundraising appeal, concentrated on the enemy. In this case, it was "coercive utopians," led by easy targets like Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, a power couple exploited and demonized much like Bill and Hillary. Their goal, warned the group, is raw power "to control each of our lives." 

Each day, "the coercive utopians march closer to their repressive goals. The battle is for freedom in America." And what was freedom? In this version, abundant energy through nuclear power. Without it, America faced a "second stone age."

Obviously, that didn't happen. But if the paranoid style ever prevails, we could end up in a stone age whether we use nukes or not.
- August 12, 2016

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Another Wall, Another (Cold) War: Berlin Encounters

The interpreter warned us about getting into East Berlin. “They’ll probably hold you an hour,” he predicted. “Normally, it would be a half hour but they’re in a bad mood because of Brezhnev.”
      The Soviet leader had died just two days before and bleak predictions circulated about how the shock, along with West German Chancellor Schmidt’s fall from power, would affect East-West relations. None of this changed our minds. A meeting would be starting at an obscure church on the other side of the Berlin Wall in a little more than an hour. We didn’t have the exact address and knew only a few German phrases. But it seemed worth the risk.
      An East German journalist had mentioned it earlier that day. “You can only see the peace movement when people assemble,” he teased. The meeting was one of about 2,000 to be held during a ten-day period called the annual “Peace Decade.” All of the gatherings were taking place in churches, the unlikely hosts of a new movement.
      In response to the militarization of daily life, thousands of East Germans were mobilizing. Many had signed the Berliner Appeal, a public letter calling for an end to military training and a peace curriculum in the schools. Others wore pacifist armbands — even after they were banned by the state and replaced with government-circulated anti-NATO emblems.
      The East German government showed open disdain for the pacifist drift of the activities, according to the journalist who gave us the tip. "In the GDR," he said, "the official meaning of peace is 'peace must be armed'." Yet after the 1979 NATO decision to deploy more than 100 Pershing missiles in West Germany, both East and West Germans recognized the threat.
      On the west side of the Wall, many Berliners were quite concerned about the "tough words from the White House," reported Alex Langolios, deputy speaker of the West Berlin Parliament, during an interview. "We're nervous when we hear about winning a nuclear war," the Social Democrat said. 
      But Walter Bruckmann believed that "the best social security against a Soviet invasion is a strong military." At first paying lip service to the good intentions of peace activists, the Deputy Speaker of the Christian Democratic Party was soon criticizing their "illusions" and pointing out subversive tendencies -- things like pacifism and communism --that undermined national security. 
       In the end, he even defended the blacklisting of radicals. "We have to protect democracy against our enemies," he said.
       A generation gap haunted the country, east and west. There wasn’t much room for dialogue between eco-radicals and Christian conservatives. Not even the peace movement transcended the divide between older Germans, trapped in a fortress mentality, and a younger generation for whom power itself was part of the problem.
       Getting through customs turned out to be no problem. The East Berlin officials barely glanced at our passports before issuing temporary visas and collecting a five mark entry fee. Minutes later we were on a windy street looking for directions to Auferstehung Kirchengemeinde, the Church of the Resurrection
      Flags were at half-mast in honor of Brezhnev. Otherwise it felt like a “normal” night as we hailed a cab. For five marks the driver took us out of the neon-lit central district, past a 20-foot portrait of Lenin, to a dark street, and pointed to a barely visible building across the wide road.
      Inside, in a modest chapel, about 70 people were listening to a dialogue between a young pacifist churchman and a burly spokesman for the Christian Democratic Party – an East German satellite of the Communist Party hoping to appeal to the religious. After a while my traveling companion, Robin Lloyd, stood up to deliver a short speech in German. She offered good wishes, a peace button and a photo collection chronicling the massive disarmament march and rally in New York the previous June.
      When we explained that we couldn’t really follow the discussion, a young man volunteered to translate. Ret was a garrulous, worldly rebel, a self-described “anarchist not a terrorist,” and admirer of the guru Rajneesh. His main complaint about life under socialism was the inability to obtain books about his favorite topics.
      Chiding the speakers for speaking too long, members of the audience eventually brought up the need to incorporate an ecological perspective in the peace movement and break down “ideological blocks.” One person urged a “revolution of Christians, without weapons, a non-aggressive approach to break the circle.” In the midst of the Cold War, behind the "iron curtain," it was inspiring talk to hear.
      The churchman at the head table tried to be supportive. “There are many ways to the goal,” he said. “We must try to see every possibility. There are many faces of pacifism in this city.” But the Party spokesman objected, and played the fear card. “The situation is too dangerous," he warned. "We must work together, for there will be no weeping after a nuclear war." 
      The dialogue gradually revealed an underlying frustration with official resistance to the peace movement. Most people were in their twenties and thirties, sober-looking men and women in work clothes. Sitting across from us, however, was a young woman who looked as if she had been airlifted from downtown West Berlin. Chains and safety-pins decorated her blue jeans, going well with the orange hairdo. Her jacket featured a handmade version of the banned symbol of the pacifist peace movement, a man hammering a sword into a plowshare.
      Decked out in denim and a collection of Western buttons, she and her boyfriend were reminders of the influence of Western media. But their wardrobes were also statements of revolt that could provoke police persecution. In East Berlin, there was no acceptable "youth culture" to provide cover for their defiance.
      The party spokesman attempted to steer discussion back to what he called “objective” issues, urging mutual respect and obedience to the law. It just isn’t possible for anyone to simply make a placard and parade in the streets, he warned. This merely increased the anger building in the room. 
       Sensing that things were careening out of control, the moderator called for a ten-minute recess.
       As we headed for the door, a silent observer at the back of the chapel handed me a calling card that read: Lynn J. Turk, Second Secretary and Vice Consul, American Embassy. He said he was a diplomat, assigned to study the East German peace movement, and offered to "fill us in" before providing an escort us back across the border. I was skeptical.
       At Turk's comfortable apartment, with his South Korean wife serving drinks and listening silently, he traced the emergence of the East German peace movement to the 1979 NATO “double track” decision. The two so-called “tracks” were a) negotiations for nuclear arms reductions, or b) deployment of Cruise and Pershing missiles if those negotiations fell through. After the announcement, churches had geared up to protest.
        But the movement didn't fully blossom until 1981, when about 6,000 people met across the street from a bombed out church ruin in Dresden on the anniversary of the devastating 1945 US bombing of that city. West German television recorded the event and beamed it back east. At about the same time Pastor Rainer Eppelmann initiated what became known as the Berliner Appeal.
        A radical declaration, the Appeal called for the prohibiting of military toy sales, the outlawing of military training, peace information in the schools — including the study of peaceful solutions to conflict, ecology and psychology, no retaliation against those who refused military service, and no more military demonstrations at festivals or national holidays. 
        But the campaign was being eroded by government repression, Turk said. The plowshares symbol had been banned and non-Christian activists were being pressured into exile or silence. Fortunately, the crackdown stopped at the doors of the churches. The reason for this tolerance, he theorized, was that “repression here would damage the West German peace movement, confirming the West’s view of the East.”
       Although Turk claimed to oppose "first strike" nuclear weapons, he defined the East as an existential military threat and saw East Germany as a totalitarian society whose rulers were only allowing peaceniks to gather for the most cynical of reasons. He meanwhile claimed that the Soviets had stationed tactical nuclear weapons in East Germany, a piece of likely disinformation I was unable to confirm with any government official or activist. 
       Most likely he was not really a diplomat.
       Minutes before the midnight curfew we made it to Checkpoint Charlie. From Turk’s car I could see the eight-foot corrugated fence, and beyond it the cement-covered no man’s land known as the "death strip." Rumor had it that, to make certain no one escaped, the East Germans even checked under the cars with mirrors.
       While we waited, Turk challenged us to ask officials why the Berlin Wall was still up. “They’ll say it’s an anti-fascist wall,” he predicted. But the real reason, he implied, was that most people would race across the border if given the chance. When I did question an East German bureaucrat about this, he claimed that the Wall had been erected – and was being maintained – to prevent black market destabilization of the economy, along with an exodus of East German professionals lured by higher pay on the other side. Both explanations sounded reasonable.
       A border guard finally returned our passports after 15 minutes. But he chided us for not returning by the same route we had used to enter. Then again, he barely looked inside the vehicle before lifting the metal gate to let us pass. 
      As far as I could tell, no mirrors were involved.
      A few days later, we crossed back into East Germany for a tour of Sachsenhausen, a World War II concentration camp about 30 miles outside Berlin. The trip had been arranged by the Communist government's US Friendship Committee, and our guide was a former inmate, Werner Handler, a "news editor," who recounted the horrors of Hitler fascism. He certainly had the right name for the job. 

       The camp's grounds were crowded that day with German tourists, but most weren't there to take in the museum's memorabilia. They had come instead for army induction ceremonies. Russian troops stood at attention beside German recruits in an open park where the camp's barracks once stood. Exactly the type of military show the Berliner Appeal sought to end.
      At 18-years-old, Handler recounted, he had managed to get out of this camp alive, eventually reached Britain, and joined the Communist Party. But after the war he was expelled from West Germany for his political leanings and, taking a job at the Voice of the GDR radion station, became a true believer in socialism. He'd obviously told this story many times. The subtext was obvious. When I pressed him about the government's crackdown on peace activists and the banning of the Plowshares emblem, he evaded the issue -- but offered me a ride back to town. 
      In the privacy of his car, Handler was willing to admit that the government may have been too heavy-handed. Pacifists are naive, he insisted, but argument is preferable to police action. At a public gathering just two hours later, however, he reverted to the official line: "For us this pacifist position is an opening for morally disarming education." The ideological wall was back up.
      Many East German leaders were once confined in Nazi camps, he reminded us. Then added grimly, "Such men need no pushing to work for peace. Unimaginable things CAN happen."
      About seven years later, the Berlin Wall came down. Soon after that Germany was re-united. But deep divisions festered and today the unimaginable is as likely as ever. Both another Wall and another Cold War are possible.