Hitler’s Ghost Channeled in the TImes of Israel

The Times of Israel does not vet the posts of their bloggers, though authors must pass an initial screening.  Maybe this policy is not thought through very well.  The following appeared on the Times’s website on 1 August 2014:

When Genocide Is Permissible

by Yochanan Gordon

Judging by the numbers of casualties on both sides in this almost one-month old war one would be led to the conclusion that Israel has resorted to disproportionate means in fighting a far less-capable enemy. That is as far as what meets the eye. But, it’s now obvious that the US and the UN are completely out of touch with the nature of this foe and are therefore not qualified to dictate or enforce the rules of this war — because when it comes to terror there is much more than meets the eye.

I wasn’t aware of this, but it seems that the nature of warfare has undergone a major shift over the years. Where wars were usually waged to defeat the opposing side, today it seems — and judging by the number of foul calls it would indicate — that today’s wars are fought to a draw. I mean, whoever heard of a timeout in war? An NBA Basketball game allows six timeouts for each team during the course of a game, but last I checked this is a war! We are at war with an enemy whose charter calls for the annihilation of our people. Nothing, then, can be considered disproportionate when we are fighting for our very right to live.

The sad reality is that Israel gets it, but its hands are being tied by world leaders who over the past six years have insisted they are such good friends with the Jewish state, that they know more regarding its interests than even they do. But there’s going to have to come a time where Israel feels threatened enough where it has no other choice but to defy international warnings — because this is life or death.

Most of the reports coming from Gazan officials and leaders since the start of this operation have been either largely exaggerated or patently false. The truth is, it’s not their fault, falsehood and deceit is part of the very fabric of who they are and that will never change. Still however, despite their propensity to lie, when your enemy tells you that they are bent on your destruction you believe them. Similarly, when Khaled Meshal declares that no physical damage to Gaza will dampen their morale or weaken their resolve — they have to be believed. Our sage Gedalia the son of Achikam was given intelligence that Yishmael Ben Nesanyah was plotting to kill him. However, in his piety or rather naiveté Gedalia dismissed the report as a random act of gossip and paid no attention to it. To this day, the day following Rosh Hashana is commemorated as a fast day in the memory of Gedalia who was killed in cold blood on the second day of Rosh Hashana during the meal. They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same mistakes over and over. History is there to teach us lessons and the lesson here is that when your enemy swears to destroy you — you take him seriously.

Hamas has stated forthrightly that it idealizes death as much as Israel celebrates life. What other way then is there to deal with an enemy of this nature other than obliterate them completely?

News anchors such as those from CNN, BBC and Al-Jazeera have not missed an opportunity to point out the majority of innocent civilians who have lost their lives as a result of this war. But anyone who lives with rocket launchers installed or terror tunnels burrowed in or around the vicinity of their home cannot be considered an innocent civilian. If you’ll counter, that Hamas has been seen abusing civilians who have attempted to leave their homes in response to Israeli warnings to leave — well then, your beginning to come to terms with the nature of this enemy which should automatically cause the rules of standard warfare to be suspended.

Everyone agrees that Israel has the right to defend itself as well as the right to exercise that right. Secretary General Ban Ki Moon has declared it, Obama and Kerry have clearly stated that no one could be expected to sit idle as thousands of rockets rain down on the heads of its citizens, placing them in clear and present danger. It seems then that the only point of contention is regarding the measure of punishment meted out in this situation.

I will conclude with a question for all the humanitarians out there. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu clearly stated at the outset of this incursion that his objective is to restore a sustainable quiet for the citizens of Israel. We have already established that it is the responsibility of every government to ensure the safety and security of its people. If political leaders and military experts determine that the only way to achieve its goal of sustaining quiet is through genocide is it then permissible to achieve those responsible goals?

Students of the history of the Nazi Holocaust, among whom Yochanan apparently does not number, will recognize this rationale — or is it a rationalization?  This reasoning is identical, in its content as well as its logical form, to that of Adolf Hitler’s for the industrialized slaughter he and his henchmen committed in the death camps, and at other sites, all across Eastern Europe.

Chancellor  Hitler  truly believed himself and his peers to be involved in a life-and-death struggle to the bitter end with an enemy bent on their complete annihilation.  Indeed, he said that if the Jews were not destroyed, they would precipitate a third world war that would engulf all of humanity.  This article of Nazi faith is a fact of history.

It also ranks as one of the greatest and most hideous delusions of all time.  Yochanan has truly become what he has beheld:  he reasons just like a Nazi.  He is enabled in this logical, if-then-therefore hallucinating by large numbers of people, in Israel and in the United States.  And probably a lot of East European goyim, as well.

Yochanan is what the G.I.s of World War II called a garatrooper.  That’s a soldier who is so close to the front line that he doesn’t have to wear a tie, but so far to the rear that he never actually risks being shot himself.  Garatroopers like to talk real tough.  I remember Pat Buchanan once responding to some journalist’s query about politics by crying: “Lock and load!”  Genuine fake machismo, see?  And Yochanan fits the bill, with his contemptuous reference to the pussy “humanitarians” who don’t “get it.”

Yochanan gets it, just like Pat Buchanan did.  At one point, Buchanan was one of two speechwriters working for Richard Nixon when he was president.  The staff nicknamed these two scribes “Mister Inside” and “Mister Outside.”  Guess which one Pat was!

One humanitarian of history was Hillel the Elder, who could sum up the meaning of Torah while standing on one foot:  “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn.”

Hillel is the one who gets it, and make no mistake about that.

Either we believe what Hillel says — which means we actually practice it — or we’d rather play garatrooper.  And when these garatroopers play, people die in the thousands.  This is the real front line, and it has very little in the way of a middle ground where logicians and rhetoricians like those blogging in the Times can stand.  We know which side of the line Yochanan stands on. The same side as the Germans who destroyed the Warsaw ghetto — a place that bore a more than passing resemblance to Gaza today.

Palestinians, by the way, are Semites.  Does this render Yochanan into an antisemite?  Of course not.  He is simply a poseur and a fool, a fatuous pseudo-intellectual talking claptrap and trash in order to enable the real murderers in (and of) his culture, who are not quite so naive as he.  Or, for that matter, as the editors of the Times.

Yochanan’s teachers are well-advised to note that the first inmates of the concentration camp at Dachau were politically undesirable left-wingers.  The Nazis charged them with terrorism.

Yes, Virginia, there is an endnote:  some editor must have yelled at Yochanan, because his post was removed — sadly for the Times, only after it had circled the globe via the Internet — and Yochanan cried “Uncle!” for all of us humanitarians here in the outer dark:

“I wish to express deep regret and beg forgiveness for an article I authored which was posted on 5TJT.com, Times of Israel and was tweeted and shared the world over.

“I never intended to call to harm any people although my words may have conveyed that message.

“With that said I pray and hope for a quick peaceful end to the hostilities and that all people learn to coexist with each other in creating a better world for us all.”

Sure he does.  Me, too.  And for those who would call my words here “antisemitism,” so be it.  Such a smear tactic slowly but surely changes radically the meaning of the term antisemitism, and this dubious emendation, which cheapens and prostitutes the sufferings and deaths of far more than the six million, will only come to haunt the hypocrites who engage in it.

Regarding the Current Political Climate of the United States

The weaknesses in human nature appear more clearly in a storm than in the quiet flow of calmer times.  Among the overwhelming majority of people, anxiety, greed, lack of independence, and brutality show themselves to be the mainspring of behavior in the face of unexpected chance and threats.  At such a time the tyrannical despiser of humanity easily makes use of the meanness of the human heart by nourishing it and giving it other names.  Anxiety is called responsibility; greed is called industriousness; lack of independence becomes solidarity; brutality becomes masterfulness.  By this ingratiating treatment of human weaknesses, what is base and mean is generated and increased ever anew.  The basest contempt for humanity carries on its sinister business under the most holy assertions of love for humanity.  The meaner the baseness becomes, the more willing and pliant a tool it is in the hand of the tyrant.  The small number of upright people will be smeared with mud.  Their courage is called revolt, their discipline Pharisaism, their independence arbitrariness, and their masterfulness arrogance.

– Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Ethics, 85-86

The “tyrannical despiser of humanity” was, at the time of this writing, Adolf Hitler, but Hitler has been by no means alone in history.   Indeed, today he has more companions than ever.

Hating the South (from My Life in Pink)

Forbes knew he would have to borrow the rest of the money. He still had a few “clients,” and he gave one of them a call.

The client’s name was Willie Jay Lee and he published the Georgia Traveler, a digest-size magazine given away at welcome centers and hotels around Atlanta. Forbes’s job consisted of rewriting press releases from all over the Peach State about the interesting and fun things going on — all over the Peach State. Remember local interest?

His favorite feature was one he had written about horse-drawn carriage rides. These were all urban affairs, and his favorite was Colonel Palm’s Carriage Rides in Macon. Colonel Palm was a real person, not just a trademark — the sort of factoid that Willie Jay Lee liked to call An Historic Figure. He had held the largest cotton auction in the antebellum South and been shot dead in a duel. Grateful slaves had carried him to his resting place, because, the owner told Forbes, “Colonel Palm was a good master.”

Forbes loved that line because he knew that, although it was another instance of the things that make “Southern culture” a contradiction in terms, nobody would get the joke but him. Maybe Benny at the Buckhead Loan was right — Forbes really was a nigger, someone had just turned the white side out.

He had met Willie Jay Lee while drawing unemployment, aka The Un. To prove himself deserving of The Un and in conformance with the Poor Laws, he had to apply for three jobs every week, which he did by mailing out one resumé a day, Tuesday through Thursday, to companies listed in the Atlanta Media Guide, a yearly compilation issued by a local public relations firm. When Forbes reached the G’s, Willie Jay Lee liked what he saw.

Forbes had always suspected something dubious in the characters of men who had two first names — Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Michael Anthony — and Willie Jay Lee had three of them, like Lee Harvey Oswald.

“Well, sir, how much would you charge for this sort of thing?” Willie Jay said as they sat in his office in the appropriately named MONY Building, overlooking I-85 and the Masonic Temple on what Willie Jay always called Historic Peachtree Street.

Forbes sat across from Willie Jay’s beat-up old wooden desk in his raw-silk-and-linen jacket and said, “My usual rate is forty dollars an hour.”

Willie Jay smiled and smiled and said, “Well, sir, I dont think I can afford that.”

“Then,” Forbes countered, “how about ten dollars a page?”

Big smiles. “Well, sir, that sounds more like it! Yes sir, that certainly does!”

Willie Jay Lee could not imagine that an experienced prostitute like Forbes could turn six pages of this sort of copy in one hour; and so he wound up paying sixty dollars an hour because he could not afford to pay forty.

Willie Jay was seventy-two, and in his younger days had trod the boards of Atlanta Little Theater playing Rhett Butler in local productions of Gone with the Wind. Like most Southern businessmen Forbes had known, Willie Jay was a combination of the Old South and the New, i.e., twisted racism restrained by greed. He had a razor-keen eye for the dollar, sharpened by years of hard-bargain-driving at estate sales and auctions, where he had accumulated a treasure trove of this and that — an original etching signed by Henri Matisse, the cover sheet of Charles Ives’s 1st Symphony autographed by the composer, an artist’s pallet once owned by Norman Rockwell — all of which he kept in a tiny apartment off Peachtree Street on the way to Midtown.

Willie Jay always got a charge out of explaining how the Traveller worked, as though he had invented trade press publishing all by himself. He was mystified when Forbes asked to see his editorial calendar, and, as Forbes tried to explain the concept of a schedule of issues and their themes, coupled with a projection of planned articles, collectively referred to as The Editorial Calendar and used to inform prospective advertisers of the prime times to place their promotional notices, the realization slowly dawned on him that Willie Jay knew next to nothing about actually-existing magazine publishing. He had figured out the whole chore on his own, from scratch, and what he had not personally invented did not exist.

Willie Jay had an assistant named Pam Bamfurd, an obese Republican hysteric who believed that The Real Uhmerica had lost the Civil War and called Halloween “a Satanic rite.” Pam believed that she alone kept the Traveller on course, when it actually seemed to Forbes to get along, like drunks and the United States, by God’s grace, aka luck. Every time Forbes talked to her, she would say, “Mister Connolly, I am having the worst day of my life!” and he gradually came to understand that Pam truly did comprehend her existence as a procession of steadily worsening days, a trip in babysteps to the eighth circle of Hell, a voyage to the bottom of a bottomless pit. When he tried to explain the editorial calendar to her, she said: “How’s Willie Jay supposed to know what we’re gonna publish six months from now?”

Along with all her Southerner’s ignorance, fear, and superstition, Pam also displayed the same linguistic quirk Forbes had found among so many magazine professionals — she spoke of what we published in our magazine.

Forbes felt he could not afford to think about us.

Willie Jay’s target audience was people who come to Georgia for fun, a trip Forbes never could quite fathom once he had stopped drinking. He himself never went beyond the city’s perimeter highway — that is Erskine Caldwell country out there, Jacques, Hazel Motes territory, Bubba fucking his cousin in Smyrna and dark deeds with chickens in the outhouse, Percy Grimm throwing Joe Christmas’s testicles over his shoulder, teasing nihilistic Southern blondes, Cobb County Republicans feeding on their young, and, presiding over it all, Christ of the Appalachians, a monumental poured-concrete statue of the Son of God near the southern end of the Trail, so tall the FAA required that a flashing red warning light be mounted on His head. “Best seen from the air,” n’est-ce pas?

The Traveller was what Southerners call meaningful work. It meant that all the wars fought by Southerners were, tragically, absolutely necessary. For Forbes, it also had a more personal meaning: as a writer, you are a failure.

And, sitting at his desk staring at the telephone and calculating how much of an advance he might ask of Willie Jay, Forbes acknowledged again that he was indeed a failure. There followed a searing, reassuring flood of self-pity, and he knew, again, that he had not yet gotten past his failure. For, since he had not died from the failure, it had to be a bridge leading on to something else, and he longed to be truly Elsewhere, and he also knew that his self-pity was at least part of the fee to get there. The feeling was “the price to pay,” as Chick of the Many Years would have said, ever ready with a commercial metaphor for Life Itself. But Forbes preferred to think of his self-pity as the defective reaction to the real, the obvious, the true, a feeling he would have to finally transcend in order to experience some more appropriate response — response as in responsible, he thought, as in able to respond.

What form this response might take he did not know yet. (Yet was an important word with Forbes. He always remembered the night, years before, after a meeting at the DADA Club that Chick had asked him, “Do you believe in God?” and he had said, “Not yet, but I’m going to.”) So he knew that, barring death, he would cross his bridge, travel his personal trail of self-pitying tears to an end that was in fact another beginning, because there was always a beginning again, whether he wanted one or not.

He had not wanted to begin again at the beginning, nineteen years before. He had not wanted to stop drinking. Rather, he had wanted the drinking to work: he had wanted to drink and stay sober. But he knew, as all drunks eventually know, that this goal was, in two words, Im Possible, and thus he found himself rolling around on the dirty carpet of Mickie Huston’s living room at three in the morning on a Saturday, crying because he could not drink.

Could not drink”?

Where had that come from?

Years later, the uniqueness of that situation came to him, that he had been in pain to the point of tears without reaching the point of drink. A first in his little life. Aka: sobriety. He had not, while rolling around hysterically on the carpet, noticed. Nor had he wanted such a beginning, a mindless yawp, out of control. Who would?

And now, here, he had failed all over again. He sighed, sitting at his desk, looking at the phone, recalling all the times that he had had to borrow money when he drank. No wonder he was a failure.

But at least he had failed after Herculean effort, in a failure it had taken generations to produce, the distillation of the denial of two Confederate bloodlines, refusing in their hearts of hearts ever to surrender, though beaten objectively, ever to cry mea culpa, though proven full of will and sin, the kind of convoluted reasoning that takes brain cells and twists them in upon themselves, calling forth from areas of ethanol-induced brain damage a phantastic delirium of troublemaking boogie men, night riders and other spooks haunting the Gothic imagination of The South: outside agitators, spy rings, enemy agents, Nigger Jew Communists, unUhmerican activists, Islamofascists, and all other foreigners, all opposed to our heroic death squads, our valiant wet boys, human degenerates subverting law and odor, defying our Confederacy’s voluminous body of little nujolneeding-there’s-a-reason rules, devised with ouija and proven by algebra, cunningly framed to ratiocinate away the vote, the choice, the unpleasant real, the unwanted true, the painful, obvious guilt.

All of which, Forbes thought, was what sent young Quentin Compson screaming from his Harvard dormitory into the iron cold New England dark crying I dont hate the South! I dont! I dont hate it!

But that’s only because he has not seen it lately:

The Sunbelt!
a vast, chillingly airconditioned greengrass mall of well-intentioned atrocity spread across a landful of mutual strangers sent south by The Company to live in happy anxiety in Capitalism’s promised land of Equal Opportunity Free Nigger-Of-All-Races Labor and Ethnicities Productivity, with the right to work and the right to sleep at Mount Vernon, Williamsburg, Jamestown, and endless other moderan “developments” and “complexes” named for the original cradles of the revolution to end all revolution, to replace the stillborn, thundering No! with Mexican-built McHousing on, yes, Bill, postage stamps of soil, with five squillion channels and numenous webinars via fiber optic cable.

But, Forbes reflected as he reached for his phone, we’ve got trouble here in the City of Jefferson, Luster has taken another wrong turn again and thus is our sleep troubled by adolescents in oversexed cars nightly roaming the pill villages to scary African beats, smoking cigarettes, chasing shots of NyQuil with Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, pushing over mailboxes en route to a pool party where they tear to pieces young Robbie Calliope, aka The Kid From The Other Side, first knocking him unconscious and then passing the evening, in the words of our family newspaper, “urinating” on the body. Leave it to Beaver. Robbie had a choice, you know. He could have been murdered at home. Personal responsibility, see?

What? What’s that you say? Can you speak a little louder?



Not War but Terrorism

“We” employ drones because their use risks no American lives, and thus, keep our casualty figures low enough to avoid any public outcry that might have an adverse affect on The War. This is one of the lessons “we” learned in Vietnam. It is, like almost everything we “learned” in that war, the wrong lesson.

Or go here.  Click here to sign the petition to stop this terror.

A Description of Actually Existing Terrorism from 1989

Lynn is a terrorist. The terrorist, like Lynn, is a person who sees himself as powerless to redress his grievances through legitimate means. He resorts to violence in order, he hopes, to achieve a political end that he cannot achieve through the political process. He attacks civilians because he cannot get at the real enemy, and because he holds civilians accountable as accessories to his oppression. He feels that his actions, no matter how violent, no matter who his victims, are justified by the pain he has unjustly suffered. “Clearys” attacks the terrorist’s rationale. Willis makes the point–one I’d call “liberal democratic” but that a revolutionary might call “conservative”–that such action holds people accountable for situations over which they have little if any control, that the terrorist assumes an absolute moral authority that nobody possesses, and that even when successful in its immediate goal terrorism can lead to evil far beyond its intention.

John Kessel
“A Letter from the Cleary’s” and the Science Fiction Audience
(from Short Form, vol. 2, issue 1, June 1989)

Quotation du jour, 5 May 2013

Numbers are of no relevance . . . because absurd media pundits are not swayed by facts. In the United States, there have been nearly 900,000 gun fatalities in the last 30 years or so (1980 to present) compared to around 3,400 terrorism-related fatalities in the last 40 years or so (1970 to present). These figures include victims of the terror attacks of September 11, 2001.

— Ramzy Baroud, Dissident Voice