President Wilhelm II

Recently I’ve been re-reading Lamar Cecil’s highly enjoyable two-volume biography of Kaiser Wilhelm II. I picked up the complete biography shortly after the final volume came out in 1996 and have read it through a few times since.  Vol. I runs from his birth through 1900, and Vol. II takes him up through his death in 1941 a few days before Germany invaded the Soviet Union.

[Aside: I cannot fathom people who cannot understand re-reading a book. I’ve yet to meet anyone – and certainly I myself am not such – who is so perceptive that he picks up every last detail, every nuance, every interpretive shading, every careless conclusion, every challenge to his established thinking, on the first read-through. Just as you can never set foot in the same stream twice, because the water continuously flows and your second step is in different water, so you can never read a book as the same person twice. I would have first read Wilhelm II five or so years before my oldest child was born. I can tell you to a certainty that today I read the chapters on his troubled relationship with his parents, Uncle Bertie, and Granny Victoria through eyes that are substantively different than the eyes which first read those books. Similarly I have since 1996 read no small number of other books treating of the same times, personalities, and events. I think I would be fool indeed if nothing of what I have learned and seen and thought in the interval provided any deeper color, or more helpful perspective, on Wilhelm.]

At the risk of a plot-spoiler, Cecil’s summing-up comes down to this, in the final paragraph of Vol. II:

“What debts do Germans of today owe to their last kaiser? * * * Unhappily, there are none. It would seem that the last of the kaisers deserves, for his own time and place in history, the brutal envoi that the Duke of Wellington paid to King George IV, an inglorious king who had ruled England long before his kinsman Wilhelm was born. He was a sovereign, the Iron Duke regretfully concluded, who lived and died without having been able to assert so much as a single claim on the gratitude of posterity.”

In his preface Cecil observes that he’s spent some 30 years with Wilhelm; presumably that condemnation is the fruit of all those years’ acquaintance.

Wilhelm still fascinates, though. Seldom has a ruler come to a throne with such enormous capital in goodwill, youth, energy, and native intelligence. Seldom has a ruler come to a throne to rule over a people offering the scope of potential which late 19th Century Germany offered. Seldom has a ruler with such a people and such resources hit an historical sweet spot so squarely as Wilhelm II did. The Imperial Germany of 1889 to the crown of which Wilhelm succeeded was incontestably the most vibrant, most powerful nation in the most vigorous, prosperous, admired continent in the world.  To borrow a naval metaphor, Germany was hurtling down the catapult, afterburners fully lit off, and with nothing but clear sky off the bow and above.  By a freak of pathology — his father’s cancer — Wilhelm was able to hop into the cockpit and strap in before it cleared the flight deck.

As headily as Germany was advancing in 1889, in terms of learning, industry, the sciences, the arts, and general human advancement, the Germany of 1889 was just getting started. Britain, getting first off the mark of industrialization in the late 1700s, had hit and was beginning to pass her peak by then. France never would really get there. Italy, Spain, Russia, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire were decrepit, mis-ruled societies still mired in centuries’ worth of inertia, corruption, and political stasis. The Netherlands and Belgium were making the run, but they were tiny, their influence on the larger course of the world negligible. Only Britain with her titanic empire and her absolute mastery of the seas which bound it together could seriously dispute Germany’s rise had she chosen.  She did not choose to; German merchants were winning ever-greater market share wherever they went . . . and thanks to a merchant marine that was expanding exponentially, they went wherever they pleased, the Royal Navy bearing the burden of protecting their trade as well. The United States, still hobbled by the lingering effects of the Panic of 1873 and with an entire region of the country – the South – still devastated from the Civil War, was only slowing beginning to see its way to becoming the behemoth it did. Think not? In 1889, American trains rolled on seamless tires manufactured in Essen by Krupp.

Had Wilhelm had the vision and strength of character to seize his world-historical opportunity – to repeat: the confluence of favorable circumstances at his accession was nearly unique in all history – even today the Wilhelmine Era might be looked back upon as not a gilded (as that time in the U.S. has become known) but a Golden Age.

And Wilhelm pissed it away. All of it. All the way down to his very throne itself. Not only did he wreck his army, the beautiful army to which he addressed his very first message as kaiser, but by the end of the war hundreds of thousands of civilians had been starved to death by the punishing blockade imposed by the Royal Navy.  That would be the same navy which at one time had benignly stood guard over the trade routes German merchants followed to bring untold wealth back home. Wilhelm put to plow, disked, raked, and fertilized the soil from which Hitler’s monstrosities grew. In 1914 Germany was the most over-educated, flourishing society in Europe, and in fact in most of the world. It was well on the way towards the society which, by the time Hitler came along, held more Nobel prizes in the sciences than everyone else put together.  In terms of the acid question of how ordinary people lived, only certain regions of the United States even came close to it (and in what is called the Life of the Mind, America had adopted entire chunks of the German Way of Doing Things, such as its university system; large portion of the “Progressive” creed sweeping the nation in the hand of people like T. Roosevelt and Wilson had similarly been taken over wholesale from German political thought). If Serious Learning can in fact be a safeguard against the societal expression of the darkest of human nature, then in Germany if anywhere that proposition should have held. But it wasn’t even fifteen years since Wilhelm slipped over the border into the Netherlands that Germans went to the polls and elected the Nazis, and only eighteen years and six months – just barely enough time for a child to be born and grow to majority age – between August, 1914 and January 30, 1933. Talk about “fundamental transformation.”

As repeatedly observed and illustrated by Cecil, the defective monarch who presided over this wastage of human potential was someone who had been told all his life long how clever he was, how infallible his judgments, how extraordinary, how central to a world-historical phenomenon he was. He surrounded himself with sycophants and charlatans, people whose sole function was to breathe reassurance into his ears, who shielded him from all information which might disturb his self-image of a figure of massive importance, keen insight, and unlimited talents. He kept these playthings about him until he tired of them or their presence became awkward to him or they failed somehow to live up (down?) to his standard of boot-licking, at which time they were cast aside with nary a further thought. No matter what he mucked up, it was always someone else’s fault – the Jews, Lord Salisbury, his Uncle Bertie (later Edward VII), the Catholics, or his servants who were just insufficiently loyal to the Hohenzollern crown and its cosmic destiny.

He fancied himself august beyond approach, the arbiter of sophistication, taste, and learning. In fact his intelligence, which was not mean at all (even those who fully appreciated his character flaws confessed themselves very impressed by the speed with which he could grasp issues and by his phenomenal memory, the latter a trait he shared with his grandmother), was nonetheless dilettantish, spanning a broad range but very, very little if anything penetrated to any depth. His judgments were snap and superficial, usually formed in terms of how an external stimulus had affected or reflected on him, and how his response to it would emphasize or might diminish his importance and dominance. He scrupulously screened those whom he permitted into his court for pedigree and function. If you weren’t of ancient nobility, or among the very highest governmental officials, or a military officer, then by and large you were simply not hoffähig (presentable). Of course, at his disportments – and he spent a phenomenal amount of time on vacation, hunting in the fall and winter, sailing in the summer, and betwixt and between flitting about the place, inviting himself to his fellow sovereigns and his wealthier nobles – you were perfectly fine as long as you were filthy rich enough. It was on the water, for example, that he hung out with American (and a few English) plutocrats. The Krupps, Thyssens, Stumms, Henckels, and so forth were very much to his taste – outside Berlin. And to repeat: He spent as little time in Berlin as he could get away with doing.  Everyone who ever knew him, from his childhood on, remarked at how little work he was willing to do, how little the hard work of mastering the governing process interested him, how willingly he cast his duties aside to play dress-up soldier.

Through it all, he never, ever learned. Anything. Even at Doorn, as a lonely, bitter old man, he was convinced that he had been right all along, that it was them, all those other people, who had ruined him.

And then it hit me: Our current Dear Leader is neither more nor less than Wilhelm II transcribed for 21st Century America, like Bach’s setting Vivaldi’s A minor violin concerto for organ (except instead of a masterpiece Dear Leader’s delivered up an excrescence). He’s spent his entire life being told how wonderfully clever he is, how infallible his judgments are, how destined (dare we say it? predestined) he is to play a fundamentally transformative role not only in his own country but on a world stage. Wilhelm’s acknowledged intelligence somehow never produced any noteworthy scholarly or mental achievement; we’ve been assured for seven years now how Dear Leader is just so brilliant that governing us contemptible roobs just bores him to death . . . and yet we have yet to see so much as an elementary school report card by way of actual documentation. Dear Leader’s books apparently were ghost-written; so were Wilhelm’s. Like the kaiser, Dear Leader too surrounds himself with groveling, fawning, truckling courtiers who vie for his attention by finding amusements for him and singing hosannas of praise of him, to him.  And like the Kaiser, Dear Leader is notorious for throwing his people under the bus, as soon as it becomes expedient to do so.

Dear Leader, like Wilhelm, fancies himself a consummate diplomat and statesman; like Wilhelm, his peers the world over view him with a mixture of pity and contempt, and more or less with impunity defy his wishes. Wilhelm could seldom utter six sentences in a row without telling an outright fable or offending someone who meant him well. Dear Leader, when prized away from his Telepromptr, is renowned for his ability to say the wrong thing, at the wrong time, to the wrong people. When Wilhelm let his guard down, as in the Daily Telegraph interview, out came gushing a torrent of falsehood, confusion, illogic, petulance, and self-pity.  When Dear Leader gets off-script and speaks his mind, we get treated to . . . well, to the same bizarre mixture of lies about himself and his actions, self-pity that no one will do as he instructs, and glimpses into an understanding of the world which conforms to exactly no observable data at all.  No one, absolutely no one with anything more than bare walking-around sense, believes a word coming from Dear Leader’s pie-hole, exactly as Wilhelm’s bloviating was treated by his contemporaries both within German government and abroad.

Wilhelm’s capacity for empty rhetoric and bombast (remember it was the dear ol’ kaiser who exhorted his troops to behave like Huns when he sent them to China to suppress the Boxers; how’d that work out for you, sport?) was limitless. In our own time we have a candidate for office the mere nomination of whom by his party causes the planet to cool and the seas to recede (paging King Cnut! King Cnut!!), “red lines” that suddenly aren’t, high-flown gobbledy-gook about post-partisan healing matched with relentless race- and class-baiting, ceaseless tripe about the “one percent” all while siphoning hundreds of millions of dollars from precisely the plutocrats about whom he gasses on to us, and on whose Martha’s Vineyard estates he relaxes from his next-most-recent vacation.

Speaking of which, like Wilhelm, Dear Leader views his time at his government desk as so much tedium between vacations.  Like the kaiser, our latter-day Wilhelm always, always travels in high state, with fleets of flunkeys, retainers, and of course boorish-but-wealthy louts and hangers-on to lend a tinselly air of glamor to it all.

Wilhelm by virtue of having been born to his throne knew nearly nothing of the country he was destined to rule, and in fact even managed to avoid learning anything during his brief time in school and at the university. Dear Leader, born (according to his own statements made over the course of decades) abroad and raised in luxury in the fairy-tale atmosphere of Hawaii, makes a point of flaunting his ignorance of us little people out in fly-over country, commiserating with His People about how stupid we are in our clinging to our God and our guns.

Most striking of all is the absolute, immune-to-all-data conviction observable in both Wilhelm and Dear Leader of their own sublime magnificence, their all-encompassing infallibility in everything on which they choose to bestow the grace of their attention. Kool Aid didn’t exist in Wilhelmine Germany, but if it had, the kaiser would have drained his own pitcher, repeatedly and with a smirk on his face. And no one in modern American life appears more eager to believe his own bullshit than Dear Leader.

I could go on. Of course no historical parallel is ever perfect, and that’s no less true in the comparison of Wilhelm II and Dear Leader. But Jesus Christ and General Jackson! the resemblance is strong, disturbingly strong.

There is, of course, one significant point of distinction between the two:  Wilhelm actually desired the prosperity and security of his country; however boorish he might have been about it, he was unapologetically German.  Dear Leader is, at his warmest, profoundly ambivalent about the United States, and from everything he has said or done, both before taking office and since, genuinely believes that the world would be a better place with a less-powerful, less-prosperous, less-imitated America.

Wilhelm found a flourishing garden and left it a charnel house the toxins of which leach into the air and water of world society to this day. Where will we find ourselves, fifteen years after Dear Leader departs?

Christmas 1914

I’d meant to blog this in time for Christmas Eve, but what with a great deal of family turmoil (father-in-law 1,500 miles away dying, and wife has disappeared for ten days and counting to take it all in) it just didn’t work out that way. These things sometimes happen.

Christmas Eve this year was the centenary of one of the most amazing occurrences in the history of nations. Beginning on December 24, 1914, and continuing over the course of a few days, several thousand British, French, and German soldiers on the Western Front spontaneously and collectively said, “Enough,” and downed arms.

It started with Christmas carols. The troops sang – had been singing since the beginning of the war – amongst themselves, in the manner of soldiers since Caesar stood road guard.

In this connection I’d observe that soldiers and sailors can be among the most soppy of sentimentalists. Maybe it’s something about the rawness of combat, seeing one’s friends and comrades shredded to bits of meat, or dying slowly of fevers, the flux, or gangrene (for those who survived their wounds initially), which opens the mind to the essence of human feeling. Combat troops can’t afford the oh-so-sophisticated detachment we civilians like to wear as a sign of our world-weary, weight-of-the-universe-on-our-shoulders mental and moral elevation above the rabble. For them the whole point of human existence can within seconds be reduced to the question of whether you’re going to get it or am I. Or in the first-person lyrics of “Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden“: Eine Kugel kam geflogen; gilt sie mir oder gilt sie dir?

For centuries about all the troops had to amuse themselves, whether on the march or in camp – other than alcohol and whores of course, and the occasional sack of a city such as Magdeburg or Badajoz (for those who survived storming the walls) – was music. Simple tunes which could be played on penny whistles, harmonica, or fiddle. Songs which lent themselves to keys reachable by musically untutored men singing in groups. Quite a number of those tunes and songs have lasted to this day: “Soldier’s Joy” dates to the 1600s; “Muß i’ denn,” the unofficial song of the gunners, was used by Elvis. Back in 1965 or so, Columbia Records released two collections of Civil War music, one for the Confederacy and one for the Union; in the 1990s a soundtrack for Ken Burns’s The Civil War came out (unfortunately the Burns soundtrack is solely instrumental; the Columbia recordings have the words and excellent, very extensive liner notes). Still later the popularity of the movie dramatization of Master and Commander spawned a momentary revival of interest in sailors’ songs and tunes.

The Germans, especially those from the Protestant tradition, engaged in group singing with particular zest, even by the standards of the time and place. This isn’t exactly scientifically established fact, but it strikes me that going all the way back to Luther, the communal singing of the great chorales was part of daily life in the areas which became Germany. Listen to them – “Nun danket alle Gott” (from 1636, in the darkest days of the Thirty Years’ War); “Lobe den Herren“; “Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr” (among the very earliest Protestant songs, from 1524); “Lob Gott getrost mit Singen” (from 1544) – and you realize that you’re listening to the national music of a people. During the Great War the German troops frequently sang on the march. According to the myth of First Ypres (what the Germans recall as the Kindermord bei Ypern – the Slaughter of the Innocents at Ypres), the nearly-raw recruits shoved into combat sang “Deutschland über alles” as they marched onto the Old Contemptibles’ gunsights. Large numbers of them were August 1914 enlistees and were for all intents untrained when they were hurled against some of the best marksmen in the war.

A final off-topic observation: Among the most heart-rending passages in all the James Herriot books – it’s in the last one, The Lord God Made Them All – is his relation of hearing Russian troops singing one evening. They’d been liberated from slave labor in Germany at the end of World War II, and since it was impossible to maintain them where they were found, thousands of them were brought back to rural England. It must have seemed like paradise to them, green, fertile, with houses and village un-blasted by artillery or bombs, the air smelling neither of putrefying human bodies nor the smoke from corpses. One evening Herriot overheard them singing among themselves, songs which of course he couldn’t understand, not knowing Russian, but obviously songs of longing, loss, and heartache. The Russians, in their Orthodox church, had a similarly rich tradition of massed choral singing; after a few centuries of it you sort of get, as a culture, the hang of it. It nearly moved Herriot to tears. He couldn’t have known it at the time, but those prisoners, who had somehow managed to cheat the reaper who had massacred so many millions of their comrades, whether by starvation, labor, disease, or ordinary bullets, were in the process of being sold down the river by Churchill and Roosevelt. They were all compulsorily returned to the Soviet Union, where nearly to a man they were either shot out of hand or forwarded on to the Gulag. Solzhenitsyn, who met hundreds if not thousands of them over his time in the camps, points out that they were branded “traitors of the Motherland” rather than traitors “to” her, as would have been the normal usage. He also wonders, pointedly, how it was that in neither the Napoleonic invasion nor the charnel house of World War I did any Russians in any discernible numbers betray their Motherland, while after over twenty years of liberation of the proletarian and the peasant . . . they were declared to have betrayed her literally by the million.

In any event, Christmas 1914 started with the troops’ singing of carols. In many places the trenches were close enough that each side could hear the other plainly.  In many places the Germans had decorated their parapets with tiny Christmas trees, adorned in part with tiny candles. [Aside:  The institution of the Christmas tree is entirely German in origin, and wasn’t introduced to the Anglosphere until George III’s wife Charlotte came along and wanted something to remind her of home. George, being almost touchingly uxorious, obliged her with trees sprinkled about the royal palaces, and from there it spread to the aristocracy and eventually further on down the social scale. The tradition received added impetus from Victoria and her German husband Albert (Victoria grew up speaking German at home and she, Albert, and all their children spoke it in the family, which is why Edward VII never quite got over a slight guttural undertone in his English).]

At some point during Christmas Eve 1914 something clicked, and the troops began to mount their parapets and venture into no-man’s-land. It’s hard to track exactly who initiated it, and how, and in what order, although according to some reports it was the Germans who took the first steps. Not all the troops joined in. On the German side the Prussians by and large held back; it was the Saxons, the Bavarians, and the smaller contingents who participated. It was all, of course, entirely against orders, and without the knowledge of the higher-ups. In some cases it appears that shelling was laid on to discourage the fraternization. But for the most part, where the troops were willing the spirit ruled.

On Christmas Day there was, in the affected sectors, a general truce. The men buried their dead, cleaned up their turf, swapped chocolate, cigarettes, headgear, and insignia. Being Europeans, someone had a soccer ball and several impromptu matches were held among the shell holes. Letters got passed to be mailed to acquaintances in the other countries; many Germans, especially, had worked in England before the war, and so not only spoke good English but had formed friendships with the locals. The war had not yet obliterated the affection from their hearts.

Things carried on for the day, and in some sectors for a day or two after Christmas. By the New Year life and death were back to normal along the front, and the men who had proudly showed off pictures of wives, children, and girlfriends were blasting away at each other once again. The brass was of course livid, and where they could identify “ringleaders” it came down like a ton of bricks. I’ve never read that anyone was actually shot for fraternizing with the enemy, but I’d be very surprised if more than a few junior officers didn’t have their careers ruined because they either failed to stop their men or had joined in themselves. On the other hand, one has to wonder precisely how much you can ruin a man’s “career” when it’s pretty much a statistical certainty that he’s going to get killed in any event (the highest percentage casualties on all sides was among exactly those junior officers; they were the ones who went over the top with the troops, who lead their men into hostile trenches, whose job it was to show themselves physically contemptuous of certain death).

It happened again in 1915, to a smaller extent. This time the high commands were ready, and specifically directed shelling along those sectors where they feared the contours of the front lent themselves to such goings-on.

It never happened again during the war, and I’ve not heard of it happening during the 1939-45 war. Verdun beginning in February 1916 and the Somme in July put paid to the notion of we’re all in this together, only on opposite sides. The mountains of corpses not only contained many of the men who had looked about and taken the message of Christmas so earnestly in 1914 and 1915. Those same dead, and their maimed brothers, beckoned the survivors to revenge, not reconciliation; to savagery, not gentleness; to the war as its own purpose, calling, and unity, not to the message of glad tidings of great joy, which shall be unto all nations.

The Christmas truce of 1914 has been the subject of at least one quite readable book — Silent Night — as well as a tri-national film from 2005, Joyeux Noël. The latter was nominated for an Oscar for best foreign-language film, and I highly recommend it. It’s set among the ruins of a farm in France (the farm cat has somehow made it thus far, and among the French soldiers is a man from that village who knows the cat and his name – Nestor – and he gets into a gentle dispute when he undertakes to correct a German private who calls him Felix).  The protagonists are companies of Scots, French, and Germans. There are a few ironic twists; the German lieutenant is Jewish, for example. [This is not Hollywood invention, either; there really were Jewish officers in the German army: The major who recommended one A. Hitler for the Iron Cross was Jewish, and among the very few German Jews initially spared the oppressions of the Nuremberg Laws were decorated veterans from the war.]  Some of the plot features are of course dramatic inventions – the German private who in civilian life is an opera star sneaking his opera-star wife into the trenches for a private concert, for example. But a great deal of the specific events depicted did actually happen at one place or another along the front – church services, burial parties, swapping of food and booze, the soccer matches of course, and so forth.

There are moments of tremendous sentimentality in the movie. The reason that the opera star wife is at the front in the first place is that she’s used her connections with the Kaiser to arrange a Christmas concert at the headquarters of his son, the Crown Prince. Of course she’s just got to have her husband to sing, and gets him detached for the evening to appear with her. They perform “Bist du bei mir,” arranged to Bach’s melody (the actual song is apparently older than Bach) from the Anna Magdalena Notebook. Watching them sing – if you know German at least – you realize it’s a love song, the narrator comforting himself at his death with his love’s presence: Ach how pleasurable were my end, if your beautiful hands were to close my faithful eyes (“Ach wie vergnügt, wäre so mein Ende; es drückten deine schönen Hände mir die getreuen Augen zu.”). For a brief moment the camera cuts to the ancient French couple whose house has been commandeered for HQ, and who’ve been exiled to the basement; they can hear the singing and the husband gently lays his hand across his wife’s.  Another such moment is when, back at the front (he turns down a night in the sack with her, in order to go back to his comrades), the Scottish chaplain, who also (of course) plays the pipes, first joins in “Stille Nacht,” then by way of request plays the first bars of “Adeste, fideles,” and opera singer mounts the parapet, grabs a Christmas tree, and strides into no-man’s-land, singing as he goes. O Come, All Ye Faithful. And they come, the other pipers joining in.

If you look the movie up on Imdb.com and check out the reviews, you get a good illustration of how reviews not infrequently reveal as much about the reviewer as about his subject. Several of the reviews – e.g. this one from The New York Times – take the movie to task for being too sentimental, too “vague,” insufficiently sophisticated (the NYT, entirely predictably, confuses cynicism with sophistication . . . they’re not at all the same thing). As if. Oddly enough, it’s Roger Ebert who gets it right: “Its sentimentality is muted by the thought that this moment of peace actually did take place, among men who were punished for it, and who mostly died soon enough afterward. But on one Christmas, they were able to express what has been called, perhaps too optimistically, the brotherhood of man.”  These things actually happened. Real people made the actual decision to forego enmity, bloodshed, and hardness of heart to embrace, for a few hours, the fundamental, astounding message of Christ’s coming: Glad tidings of great joy, which shall be unto all nations.

Now compare the NYT‘s gripe:  “Another reason [why the movie “feel[s] as squishy and vague as a handsome greeting card declaring peace on earth”] is that the movie’s cross-section of soldiers from France, Scotland and Germany are so scrupulously depicted as equal-opportunity peacemakers that they never come fully to life as individuals. All are well-spoken mouthpieces for cut-and-dried perspectives that vary somewhat, according to rank, background and war experience. As ferociously as they may fight, these soldiers are civilized good guys underneath their uniforms. When they go at one another, they’re only following orders.”  Gosh, maybe it’s shown that way because, you know . . . that’s the way it actually was?  Those soldiers did all come from something they would have understood and recognized as a common European cultural tradition, with common assumptions about themselves and their world, common assumptions (up until August 1914) about the future, a common religious tradition.  For the benefit of the NYT‘s reviewer, who seems to be utterly ignorant of history, what made the Great War so horrific for its participants was that it tore to ribbons 400 years of how Europe had understood itself.  Even the scale of the Napoleonic wars could be fit into the pattern of dynastic feuds, territorial ambitions, shell-and-pea alliance systems.  There was great slaughter between 1792-1815, but it was not beyond human comprehension.  The Great War was like nothing anyone had ever seen or imagined.  The characters in this movie are not just individuals who are marked to die; they are the carriers of a doomed heritage, and we the viewers are trusted to be sophisticated enough to understand that . . . although that trust turned out to be misplaced with the NYT‘s reviewer.

If the movie seems too much like a greeting card declaring “peace on earth,” I suggest that Gentle Reader might contemplate whether that’s because we have so debased the very notion of Christmas and its meaning that to state it in plain Saxon seems . . . well, “squishy.”  You see, the truly subversive aspect of Christianity, the genuinely transgressive part, is exactly “peace on earth.” Other religions might have placed emphasis on being nice to one’s fellows, but all those were tribal gods, and the fellows to whom one was supposed to be nice were other members of the tribe. In the crucible of combat it’s hard enough to maintain the humanity of one’s own comrades in mind; to embrace within that notion the guys pointing their guns at you is taking the confession of our commonality to a level unknown to civilian life (it’s certainly beyond the ken of that NYT reviewer). The Christmas truce was in fact – and not just in the fetid imagination of some Hollywood scriptwriter – a physical manifestation of the essence of Christmas. And of course, in watching the movie, we the viewers know What Comes Next: After the events depicted were over, these real men really went back to killing each other. By November, 1918, most of those real men were dead or maimed for life in body or soul. Gee whiz; let’s think of how can we taint this with our own cynicism, so as to let all Those in the Know get it that we’re so much better than those men who chose, for a few brief hours, actually to embrace the message brought to us all those centuries ago?

True heroism is seldom sophisticated; it hasn’t the time for it. True heroism always touches upon the deepest, simplest, most noble human attributes. These things don’t lend themselves to all this bullshit about on-the-other-hand and it’s-complicated and you-wouldn’t-understand and fully-developed-as-individuals. It’s about the kind of stuff you find . . . well, you find a lot of it in the Bible: Greater love hath no man than this, that he should lay down his life for his friend, just to pick one off the top of the head. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, to the end that all who believe in Him should not perish, but should have everlasting life. Paul going to Rome, knowing full well what awaits him there. The real men who actually laid down their arms were men who could say words like “hero,” “honor,” and “manhood” without smirking or winking.  If that’s not sufficiently worldly-wise for some dim-bulb movie reviewer from New York . . . well, that tells you about all you need to know about that reviewer, and the publication which gives him air.

And so now, in this 21st Century, a full hundred years after those men went Over the Top, not with fear in their mouths and death in their hearts, but in comradeship and – dare we say it? – love, let us contemplate what those men knew, that we have forgot. Do we, can we hear an echo within us of the Glad Tidings of Great Joy? And can we reject the tarted up “sophistication” so beloved of the NYT to embrace the simple humanity of the soldiers who, a century ago, said, “Enough”?

Joyeux Noël.

[P.S.  Reason has a nice piece on the truce as well, here.]

Excuse Me While I Drown Myself

I’m pretty sure that’s the intended response to this screed in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, “Amerika, du hast es schlechter” (“America, You’ve Got it Worse”).  The author is a boy — a German — name of Stephan Richter.  He co-founded The Globalist, an on-line magazine (homepage here).

A quick scan through several of the articles on this morning’s (04 Dec 14) page shows some common sense (“How to Deal With the Return of Hard Power Politics in Europe“: We’re not going to put Putin back in his sandbox without both diplomacy and the acknowledged ability and willingness to fight with both arms free).  That’s combined with some touching if perhaps starry-eyed hope-over-expectation (same article: “Hence, the third track in dealing with Russia now is one on which a competition of values is presented. It is a track that has always existed and has become stronger and stronger with the rise of the kind of technology that allows individuals to connect across borders — and without governmental regulation.  This third track, then, is maximizing the interconnections among people.”).

We also have some breath-of-fresh-air offerings (“How African-Americans and African Immigrants Differ“), which I wish had been co-authored.  The author is an immigrant from Sierra Leone; I wish he’d found a West Indian immigrant to pitch in, since we have a not-inconsiderable contingent from there (judging by their accented English a family of them was my back-yard-fence neighbors in Charleston in the 1990s).  I also wish the article had been longer, since its central idea is the comparison of how the two groups’ differing histories (the one descendants, by and large, of slavery, and the other frequently survivors of civil war, murderous domestic tyranny, and poverty the likes of which has never been seen on these shores since the days of the earliest European settlements) lead them to interact with and participate (or not) in the predominating “white” society and culture.  Thomas Sowell has touched on this notion as well, here and there (he may be among the deeper students of immigration and integration, worldwide, that we’ve got in the U.S.).  It deserves much more extensive examination than The Globalist offers space.  Interesting observations, though:

“When they come to the United States, it has been my experience that Africans can easily identify with white Americans because they understand each other. Before migrating to the United States, the majority of Africans have had little to no direct negative experiences with whites. They simply do not hate them.

* * * *

“Most African immigrants to the United States often live in mixed neighborhoods instead of black neighborhoods and they easily integrate. African immigrants know who they are. They are not easily offended when someone tries to put them down. They know where they come from and why they are here.”

I’d like to see this author explore the psychological intricacies of that last sentence.  He needs an essay-length format, at the least.

We also have the first installment of an entirely predictable That Awful South screed (and surprise! it’s from Comrade Richter): “America’s Mezzogiorno: A Thanksgiving Reflection“; the author seems to be mostly thankful that he’s not a Southerner.  The feeling is mutual, buddy.  He trots out the usual nonsense about how the rest of the country is “subsidizing” the South through the “spreading” of defense facilities “and production” through the South.  Oh dear.  It’s as if he’s never set foot outside the beltway.  Or worn a uniform (he’s German, and of an age that he would have had either to be drafted or done his “Zivildienst,” so that blind spot is hard to understand).  Let me explain it to him:  Where defense installations are placed is a function in North America (which has a continental climate and a very non-uniformly-dispersed population), overwhelmingly, of (i) weather; (ii) population density, and (iii) land values.

To illustrate:  Across most of the northern tier of the country, for a large portion of the year the weather is simply too brutal for infantry to train without massive health issues arising.  By all means, do cold-weather training, but only a dip-stick or someone with no other options would willingly base his ground forces where for weeks at a pop the high temperature will reliably be 15º F.  You can’t get around the fact that most of the South, most of the time, in most years, is well-suited for year-round outdoor training.

Population density:  Geez, do we put the Minuteman program and the B-52s in the Northeast Corridor, where something like a quarter of the U.S. population lives, so that when the Soviets (or now the Chinese) pickle off an alpha strike, they wipe out the centers of commerce, finance, and government?  Or do we scatter them over the Dakotas and Montana, where we can minimize the number of, you know, dead civilians?

Land value:  When the U.S. military went from pretty damned tiny to among the world’s largest, land was cheap in the South, not well-suited for agriculture, and in many areas not even very much used.  Hey:  Let’s buy up enough land to put Fort Hood in Westchester County, or maybe in Livonia, Michigan, or even Cincinnati.  Or we could put it out in the dried-up Texas landscape.  Well, Comrade Richter might reply, we could have put that up in the Dakotas, too.  See my comments about weather, above.  See also a map of the damned country.  It costs a boat-load of money to move stuff around an area as large as the United States; do you put major enterprises where you can get things to them relatively easily, or where you’re going to have to build all those networks from scratch? [In 1986 someone did a study of West Germany’s energy consumption:  They found that fully a third of their use was just moving people and things around the place.  Like the Victorian statesmen, Brer Richter’s been looking at the wrong-scale map.]

The South is also penetrated by a great deal of navigable water, from the Mississippi to the Ohio to the Tennessee to the Red to several others.  In the East you’ve got the fall line jammed up against the coast (except in, you know, Virginia and the Carolinas).  Additionally, across a huge chunk of the Upper South (Tennessee and northern Alabama) there was the TVA to provide cheap power, which had been building since 1933.  That program was most definitely not started as a government largesse operation, but rather as a pilot project for the destruction of the private electrical utility industry (Amity Schlaes tells the whole sordid story in The Forgotten Man).  The war intervened and the TVA become a one-off, but that had not been the design.  The Tennessee Valley was selected for the opening moves in the attack because of its cheap land (take a look at the lands those lakes flooded before the TVA came), its relative political backwardness, and its poverty, which made resistance less likely.

So let’s see:  Cheap land, easy access, useful climate.  No, no, no:  Let’s take our army and build its 102,000-acre (Ft. Campbell, Kentucky), 214,000-acre (Ft. Hood, Texas), or 100,646-acre (Ft. Riley, Kansas), and 160,000-acre (Ft. Bragg, North Carolina) facilities right outside Springfield, Massachusetts.  Or in Pennsylvania somewhere.  When we need someplace to put a brand-new 16,000-acre naval base for our Ohio-class submarines (too big to fit elsewhere), let’s buy up Newport, Rhode Island and do it there.  Or an even better idea:  Let’s take the naval installations at Norfolk, Virginia (which are historical outgrowths of maritime industry dating back before the Revolution, I’ll remind our dim-bulb author), shut them down, and go replicate them . . . oh . . . I don’t know, maybe in Oregon.  Because that’s such a better use of money.

Comrade Richter also seems to ignore the extent to which Southern California’s modern economy was pretty much built on the defense dollar.  Pull federal activities (military and otherwise) out of Nevada, New Mexico, and Utah, and what exactly do you have left, except for hard-rock mining?  As for manufacturing, Boeing, McDonnell-Douglas, General Dynamics, Northrop-Grumman, General Motors, and Colt acquire new home addresses in Richter-land.  The steel mills which produce the HY-80 that’s in all those submarine hulls?  Those are in Arkansas, it seems.  Hanford is now in South Carolina.  USS Kennedy (CV-67) was kept in the fleet and put through a SLEP to keep not the Philadelphia but rather the Dothan, Alabama Naval Shipyard in business.  And let’s not forget the submarine fleet built by General Dynamics in Baton Rouge.

None of the above is to deny that Congresscritters of all stripes fight to pump money into their home districts.  It’s why Oak Ridge is in Tennessee.  But there were and remain very legitimate reasons why it was completely logical to build enormous bases for specific kinds of military activities (e.g. Edwards Air Force Base, which is not in Cobb County, Georgia) where the military built them.

Richter is also much exercised about Southern states’ reluctance to accept federal money to expand Medicaid programs, or as he says, “Washington sends money to help these regions to overcome wide-spread poverty, which is – 150 years after the end of the Civil War – often still race-based.  However, the South — as based largely on the wishes of its republicans governors — doesn’t want to have a huge chunk of it!”  For starts, coach, poverty is not “race-based”; it may be racially-correlated, but so is murder.  No one goes around enrolling blacks to be poor, nor does anyone check your skin color before you go broke.  [By the way, Richter’s own article’s last sub-heading is “Poverty is blind to race”.  Well, jackass, which is it?  You can’t have it both race-based and race-blind.  Pick your asinine position and stick with it, at least.]

More importantly, Richter ignores the principal reason why the expansion of Medicaid was resisted:  The federal money was time-limited.  Three years, but the program expansions would have been permanent.  We all got to see what happened in Tennessee, which did pretty much exactly what Richter demanded, starting in 1994, and almost bankrupted itself.  At one point something over a quarter of the state’s total population (including people making $60,000-plus per year, this back in the 1990s) was on the public dime.  The average patient had 19 active prescriptions.  It took the state more than a decade worth of litigation to prune the program back.  So no, dear ol’ Stephan, this refused offer of “federal money” for a limited time to blow up your state’s budget forever and ever was not some perverse desire to keep the darkies down, but rather a prudent refusal of a poisoned chalice.

But hist! it’s not all federal money that Them Awful Southerners don’t like.  “Contrary to their ideological opposition to Medicaid, Republican governors and legislatures in the South accept two types of federal funds: Farm subsidies and defense contract money.”  Archer Daniels Midland, Cargill, the Central Valley, and the Cadillac Desert are not Southern institutions, ol’ sport.  That’s not to say that the sugar industry does not have its hand in the till (it was the principal shareholder in the largest U.S. sugar company who was on the telephone with Wm. J. Clinton while the latter was getting his knob polished by a 20-year-old intern named Lewinsky), or that hogs and chicken don’t see to it their share comes their way.  But the Big Dollars go to the Midwest and Plains states.  And by the way, farm subsidies and defense contract dollars don’t go to states or state legislatures, but rather to individuals and private businesses.  So there’s simply nothing there for “Republican governors and legislatures in the South” to accept, nitwit.

But what allows Them Awful Southerners to suck so hard at the public tit?  Why of course, it’s that they’re all a bunch of <pass the smelling salts, please> Republicans.  O!  The horror!  Yes, Southerners make up over half the Republican House majority.  This enables the South, which accounts for 37% of the population and 34.2% of the economy (what a mismatch!! takes your breath away, doesn’t it?), to force the rest of the 435 House members to shovel money all over the place.  Or something.

The Republican South dates from the 1980s, at the earliest.  The defense facilities which Richter deplores having been built in the South were built during the — not year, not decades, but — generations when Democrats controlled, and not by wafer-thin margins, both houses of Congress.  The Soviet-style American agricultural system was a brain-child not of Newt Gingrich, but of FDR’s Soviet-inspired “planners.”

Yes, “The rest of the world is perplexed by the anti-government attitude and/or gross negligence toward the people by the governors and legislatures in the American South.”  What Richter really means by “the rest of the world” is the dozen or twenty or so people who’ll speak with him (if he’s as tiresome and ill-informed in person as he is in print).  He might ask the Chechens, the Uighurs, the Marsh Arabs, the Crimean Tatars (if any are still alive), the Volga Germans, the surviving Russian or Polish or Hungarian Jews, the Hmong, the Kurds, the Yezidis, the Estonians, the Lithuanians, the Latvians, or the Armenians about their understanding of “anti-government attitudes,” particularly their attitudes about powerful, centralized government.  How about the immigrant from Sierra Leone who’s got an article in his own damned magazine; did Richter ask whether he is “perplexed” by the notion that government (especially Great Big Government) ain’t your friend?  Or he might just take a look at where the floods of immigrants over the centuries came from and went to.  I’ll give you a hint so you needn’t pull your head out:  They didn’t go to Tsarist Russia, or Bismarck’s Prussia, or to Spain, or to dirigisme France.  For that matter, he might take a look at where the internal migration in the United States is headed.  It’s no accident that the IRS no longer reports it, but you can find the numbers if you try.  They’re flooding South, ol’ boy, and they’re not leaving.  Individuals might goof and guess wrong about where they need to be living, but millions of people over the course of several decades now can’t be explained away as some sort of latter-day Flagellant movement.

This article in The Globalist is, in other words, just another installment in a long line of Them Awful Southerners pot-boilers (of which it’s not the first I’ve exploded).  I’m only mildly surprised he didn’t work the word “protocols” into the title.

There’s more from Brer Richter:  “Take the Money and Run,” in which he recites the by-now-tired data (genuine enough, to be sure), that for every dollar a “taxpayer” in, say, Mississippi pays, he “receives” $3.07 in “benefits,” and 45% of Mississippi’s economy “comes from federal funding.”  Of course, data like that remind one of the old joke in response to the data point that “everyone three minutes, someone is robbed”: Doesn’t he get tired of it?  Given that roughly 40% of the American population pays no federal income taxes at all, one can be forgiven for posing the aggregation issue to Comrade Richter.  I’d be interested to see whether in fact the average Mississippi resident who is a net payer of federal income taxes is doled out $3.07 in direct or indirect transfer payments.   Because if the complaint is that for every tax dollar coming out of Mississippi there are $3.07 being paid to residents of Mississippi, I’d like to know who’s paying and who’s receiving.  Are they in fact the same people?  And what unspecified “federal funding” is Richter talking about?  If he’s talking about payments to or for the benefit of poor people . . . well, yes, you would expect states with poorer populations to receive more federal dollars, in the aggregate, than places with fewer poorer people, or places with more and wealthier people to skew the averages.  If he’s got a point to make, let him cough up some data that actually say something.

For Part III of his I Don’t Like Southerners and Neither Should You, our learned mentor explains to us “How the South Really Operates.”  I was truly looking forward to this read, because after spending over 40 of my 50 years living in the South, and paying attention to what happens and who makes it happen, I confessed myself flummoxed.  Richter to the Rescue!  He enumerates four aspects in which he informs us how the South really operates.  First come agricultural hand-outs, in which he recites several prominent Republican politicians who happen to be Southerners and who suck at the public tit of agricultural hand-outs.  See my comments above re: where the agri-business money is actually, you know, at.  And by the way, just as a counter-example, I believe it’s Dianne Feinstein (it may be Pelosi, but it’s definitely one of the California Congressional delegation) whose husband owns a good chunk of a company that processes some sort of seafood or fishery product in, I believe it is, Guam (possibly Samoa; I’ve slept since I read about this).  Guess which American overseas possession is uniquely exempted from minimum wage laws that apply to the others?

Second comes that awful ol’ Congressional power.  The South which accounts for 37% of the population overall has just over half of the Republican House caucus, and therefore — you really have to envy Richter his simple-mindedness — 53% of the House Appropriations subcommittee on defense, and 55% of the subcommittee on homeland security.  God save the mark.  Well, you know, numbskull, if Congressional committee assignments were to be handed out based on state population instead of party affiliation, where would the majority party come up with committee members from states which decline to elect members of that party?  But the litany of horrors does not stop there:  Oh noes: Fully 63% of the committee on military construction and veterans affairs subcommittee come from the South.  Maybe Comrade Richter would care to examine where the all-volunteer force comes from and where American veterans live?  Don’t worry, ol’ sport:  I’ll do the math for you.

The Veterans Administration has a nice state-by-state interactive map showing each state’s veteran population data as of September 30, 2014.  Out of their estimated 21,999,108 living veterans, 8,208,679 lived in the states of the old confederacy (plus West Virginia and Kentucky), or almost exactly 37% of the total.  I don’t know which states Richter includes to get to his 37% of the U.S. overall population living in the South, so you can’t really draw a great deal of meaning from those numbers.  The U.S. Census Bureau has a convenient estimate of each state’s population as of July 1, 2013.  Let’s see what percentage of each state’s gross population consists of veterans.  In the states of the former confederacy (plus Kentucky and West Virginia) we range from a high of 9.46% for Virginia (which you really can’t treat as a meaningful number since so much of Virginia is actually South District of Columbia, but there it is) to 9.03% for West Virginia to a low of 6.35% for Texas.  Throw out the high and low and you get an average of 8.00%.  Only two of the states other than Texas are even below 7.5%: Louisiana and Mississippi.  Just for giggles I ran the same numbers for several large northern states, and Washington State as well (there’s HUGE defense industry and installations up there, which Comrade Richter seems to have forgot about).  Here are some numbers:  California: 4.83%; Michigan: 6.65%; New York: 4.54%; Massachusetts: 5.67%; Illinois: 5.60%; Washington: 8.66%.

The VA site also has a spreadsheet that breaks down each state’s population by era of service.  So you could theoretically strip out the all-volunteer veterans from the draftees.  You could strip out the dwindling World War II contingent and the Korean War contingent.  You could strip out the Vietnam contingent (reckon which states saw the most student draft deferments: those with large or with small college enrollment among the overall population).  I don’t have the time or energy to do so.

Gee, what would someone who believes in, you know, representative democracy think?  Reckon he might figure that for House members from those states with a higher percentage of their voters being veterans (veterans vote disproportionately to their numbers, recall), getting on the veterans affairs subcommittee might be . . . you know, maybe . . . representing his goddam voters?  Anyone want to bet which states’ representatives scramble to get on the maritime affairs committees?  Wyoming, perhaps?  Maybe in Richter-land.

Then Richter recycles his shop-worn defense spending as a welcome stimulus.  This part of the article is more than a bit incomprehensible, since what he talks about is salary caps for CEOs of defense contractors and salaries of management relative to engineer or worker, and then recites the average CEO pay for the five largest defense contractors.  Only one, Lockheed-Martin, is headquartered anywhere near the South, and that’s Bethesda, Maryland (which I categorically deny to be Southern in any meaningful sense).  In fact, in not a single sentence of that section of the article does he even mention the South.

The final section of How the South Really Operates is a diatribe against Georgia and its decision not to get on the Medicaid expansion bandwagon.  Again, the program expansions, which would have been permanent, were going to be funded by the federal government . . . for three years.  You wouldn’t let your 16-year-old budget for his first motor-scooter on that basis.  Richter’s pretending that a state can do so is just irresponsible.  He of course recites all the ills of the current system (all true enough), but he doesn’t answer Question No. 1:  Where is the damned money going to come from?  If he thinks that any governmental entity, state or local, which exists in a polity in which there is free movement of money, people, and economic activity across borders can budget on a nice-to-have basis, he’s just stupid.  Period.  There’s no other way to describe that outlook.  In a free society people won’t stand still and let you skin them.  They’ll leave, and then what you’re left with is Mississippi.

You know, I’d actually intended this little post to be a take-down of his comically ill-informed anti-American splenetic in the FAZ (he does, however, manage to work into even that one an accusation that the South is still Fighting the War; I’d really like to know from which data he draws that conclusion since I’ve not noticed it in anyone of above-average intelligence in over 40 years; even when we were kids playing army, we fought not the Yankees or even the dinks or gooks, but rather the Germans (which was hilarious because one of my best buddies had a grandfather who’d been a machine-gunner . . . for the Kaiser)).  I’d not thought I’d spend the whole thing exposing his English-language fatuities.  But I can never resist an easy target, and boy howdy! Stephan Richter’s incomprehension of the American South is a stationary target at point-blank range.

Someone hand me a cigarette.  I feel all aglow.

Update [08 Dec 14]:  In the context of why the national Democrat party seems to have such problems running successful candidates in the South, Moe Lane drives the ten-ring:  “It’s not demographics, and it’s certainly not gerrymandering, and shoot, it’s not even Barack Obama. It’s that the people who run the Democratic party [expletive deleted] hate the South.”  Brer Richter’s thoughts merely express openly what the Democrats’ national-level leadership mutually congratulates itself on believing.

The gently ironic part of it is that it doesn’t have to be that way.  In my semi-rural county, which voted for Geo. W. Bush twice, for McCain, and for Romney, all by enormous margins, and which by a similar margin in a recent Republican primary swamped the Establishment incumbent in favor of a Tea Party insurgent . . . all three of our trial judges are Democrats; our sheriff is a Democrat, most of our elected county-wide officials are Democrats, and a good number of elected officials at the municipal level are Democrats.

Among the bunch of people I regularly find myself working (and drinking beer) with are people who range all the way from caricatures of far-right reaction to cartoonish lefties who actually think Dear Leader’s got it all figured out.  No.  Really.  There are people — and not dummies, either — who truly think that way.  We all work together, we all pitch in together, and together we’re making our county a better place to live, where each year’s crop of high school graduates has something to look forward to other than an entire lifetime trapped behind a cash register at the stop-n-rob.  Not that “politics” doesn’t get discussed, and heatedly sometimes, but here, for the moment, we can accept our differences as being good-faith disagreement.  Among the most cartoonish of my leftish friends is a fellow who got there by way of his religious convictions . . . and the fact that for a period when he was younger, if his family had meat on the table it was because he’d gone out and shot it in the middle of the night.  I think he’s wrong on the merits, but I can accept his thinking as coming from somewhere honorable.

At the national level, that assumption is simply denied to Republicans.

So Moe Lane’s right:  When you spend a half-century insisting that everyone who lives in a particular place is for that reason inherently evil, and that everything they think, believe, and hope for is necessarily an outgrowth of that evil and need not be engaged with for that reason . . . Well, exactly what did you expect in terms of electoral outcomes?

Well, Now I’m Confused

For roughly 150 years — say, from the 1830s to sometime around 1980 — the South resolutely maintained that Everything is About Race.

When years ago I took a course in Southern history (from Barbara J. Fields, one of the more impressive professors I ever had), among the more interesting tidbits of information we covered was that what we now call “racism,” at least in the specific form existing between American whites and American blacks, was an invented ideology that was used to justify slavery ex post, not the other way around.  And it specifically founds its organized proponents in response to the coalescing abolitionist movement.

Certainly Anglo-Americans always looked down on blacks as being inferior.  What needs to be borne in mind, however, is that Anglo-Americans, aping the attitudes of their kinsmen back home, looked down on everyone who wasn’t English.  The Irish had been regarded as vaguely sub-human for generations.  “Much may be made of a Scotsman, if he be caught young.”  That observation (by Dr. Johnson, no less) was not made humorously; he really did regard the Scots as inherently not the human equivalent of the English (this despite Edinburgh University’s already being world famous for its medical faculty).  Later on, during the heyday of the Raj, Englishmen assured each other — in perfect earnestness — that “the wogs begin at Calais.”  These attitudes weren’t by any means unique to the island, either.  The Spanish during the generations of the Reconquista developed a highly detailed (I would say “sophisticated,” but since it rested on an understanding of humanity that is neither more nor less than monstrous, I’ll use the more value-neutral expression) system for shoving humans into a hierarchical structure based upon the “purity” of their blood.  Gobineau, the godfather of modern “scientific” racism, was French.

And everyone knew — just knew — that the Jews had to file off their children’s horns and trim their tails before allowing them outside.  Et cetera.

American white-on-black racism, as a coherent theory, developed and first came to flower in the specific atmosphere of the late 18th and early 19th Centuries.  As is true of pretty much everything and everyone, it was a product of its time and bore the cultural stamps of that fact.  Which is to say that it had the vocabulary of modern science to frame its arguments.  Gobineau was similarly a product of the same era.

And as is also true of pretty much every argument that just happens — conveniently — to support the less defensible side of any argument (see, e.g: “climate change” causes everything from ice forming on the Great Lakes earlier in the season than for 40 years past to earthquakes to unusually quiet to unusually stormy hurricane seasons) the defenders of chattel slavery eagerly seized on “scientific” racism to show that American slavery, so far from being a blight, a disgrace, and a monstrosity, was inevitable and just and even beneficial to its victims.  Well.  Who could have seen that coming?

Ah! but life comes with so many double-edged swords, doesn’t it?  By embracing racism to justify the indefensible, the South backed itself, ideologically, into a corner.  If something is supported by scientific fact, you can’t very well choose to wash your hands of it, can you?  The South’s painting itself into a moral and ideological corner was a position that made come true John Brown’s scaffold prediction: that the sins of this guilty land could never be washed away except in blood.  And so it came to pass, in blood (nearly one percent of the gross American population died in that war; nearly a quarter of Southern males of military age did not come home: that’s death on a Great War or Great Patriotic War scale) and ashes.  Quite a bit of it Southern blood and almost exclusively Southern ashes.  But racism was the gift that kept on giving, so to speak.  It trapped the South’s consciousness in amber, like a beetle.  I mean, losing a war doesn’t alter scientific fact, does it?  Quite on the contrary, losing a war when you’re right on the merits does nothing more than to suggest all the more strongly that you mount the barricades (see, e.g: inter-war German politics).  It tells you that you must hold all the more tightly to the principles that got you into it; that you dance ever more insistently with the one that brung you to the dance.  It makes it nearly impossible to climb down, in short.

And that’s how it played out in the South for decades.  The South didn’t — couldn’t — climb down.  Indeed, the further the war receded into the past, the more fervently those who had never carried a rifle or served a gun waved the flag and mouthed the certainties that had ruined their ancestors.

Not until the ovens of Auschwitz cooled, and Americans could see the logical outcome of the proposition that some people aren’t truly human, was there an undeniable counter-example which had the potency to punch through the moral certainty the South had been carrying around its neck like a rotting fish for 70 years.  It’s too much to say that the Holocaust launched the civil rights movement, or that the fires of Warsaw provided the embers on which a million and more “whites only” signs were incinerated.  It is true, though, that what happened in Europe between 1939 and 1945 was that which could not be explained away, which could not be made to fit into any data set containing the idea of the sub-human.  It introduced a cognitive dissonance that, like all such phenomena, had to express itself.

Of course, just as wars turn their bloodiest when it’s plain which side is going to lose (compare the casualties post-March, 1918 with what had come before; compare the post-Stalingrad casualties on the Eastern Front to what came before), so it all played out with the South and racism, all over again, everything minus the invading armies.  Just as the abolition movement had provided the grain of sand about which the bastard pearl of racism formed, so the civil rights movement in its day brought those pearls out of the drawer, to be paraded around in broad daylight one last time.

I grew up in a small town in the South.  True, it was in what is usually described as the Upper South, which if not fully culturally distinct is still ascertainably different from the Lower South or the Coastal South.  And by 1980 the idea that Everything is About Race was dead there.  When I got to Charleston in the late 1980s, it was dead there, too.  I’m not saying that everyone joined hands in a circle and sang Sunday school songs.  I’m not saying that there neither was nor is any consciousness — on either side — that You’re Not Like Me, but no one, and I mean no one of any consequence at all, even pretended any more that “race” as such was anything like a guiding concept around which you could build a society.  The few people who still dared to express with favor the Old Ideas earned only looks from their listeners that said, as plainly as if they’d snorted it out loud, “What rock did you just crawl out from under?”  David Duke’s political career fizzled and went out.  By the late 1980s George C. Wallace was actively courting black votes . . . and was getting them.  What can it say about the resilience of race as a socio-political anchor that even Strom Thurmond in South Carolina found it inexpedient to wave that flag any more?  Whether he still believed it in his own heart is not the question, but rather whether he felt he could safely retain or had to jettison it from his political organization in order to stay in office.

So after 150 years even the South finally joined, kicking and screaming, perhaps, the consensus that, whatever else you may think about “race,” it’s not part of the bedrock of society.

And then came 2008.  We elected a candidate who promised to “heal” divisions which existed, if at all, mostly in the context of old scars (which undeniably might and did throb from time to time) of past fights.  What we got was a mountebank who himself and with his senior accomplices relentlessly pounded on the idea that yes, Dorothy, everything is and will always remain about race.  They not only never not let slip the chance to shut up about any tempting news-item that had the least “racial” component to it, but they actively involved themselves in those situations, and invariably on the side of inflammation.  Gentle Reader will note that not once has that administration ever pitched in on the side of “you all both need to calm the hell down and take a powder.”

On the contrary, they’ve gotten the official machinery of the federal government involved specifically to make about race situations which had bugger all to do with it.  A half-Latino neighborhood watch guy gets jumped and damn near killed by a punk who happens to be black, successfully defends himself, and in the process kills his assailant.  Does it matter that the survivor of the attack is anything but a WASP, that he grew up in a mixed-race family, that he actively campaigned on behalf of justice for a different black kid who got done wrong by the local police?  Of course not.  He must be prosecuted for murder, and threatened with financial ruin for “civil rights” violations.  A police officer is beaten by a violent felon (within minutes after committing the felony) who nearly succeeds in seizing the officer’s weapon, and then who, when ordered to stop and surrender (remember that the assault on the police officer was all by itself a felony, and so the officer had the right and the duty to arrest him for that if for no other reason), charges the officer and is shot dead.  Let’s send White House officials to the criminal’s funeral.  Let’s use our race-huckstering surrogates (Al Sharpton) to stir up orgies of looting, arson, and physical attacks.  Let’s enlist all the grievance-mongering organizations to insist that “justice” for this violent felon commands that we criminally prosecute an officer who did no more than his duty.

Quite the opposite from being the “first post-racial president,” we have in power and will for more than two years more have in power an administration that has successfully set about un-doing 150 or more years of moral progress in this nation.  He and those like him are doing it for the cynical reason of electoral advantage.  With the failings of the socialist economic model becoming ever more glaringly apparent, and the (to borrow a line from the socialists themselves) contradictions of the FDR political coalition fracturing the solidarity of the machine that delivered over 70 years of political domination to the Democrats, the left-extremists who have captured that party on the national level at least cannot hope for ascendancy without nearly 100% loyalty from their dwindling base.  Hence announcing that the borders are for all intents and purposes open.  Hence the vilification of every American black who strays from the plantation (ask Mia Love, Timothy Scott, and that other Republic fellow — can’t call his name from memory, whose accomplishments the NAACP has yet to acknowledge, let alone celebrate).  Ask Thomas Sowell.

They’re doing it principally for electoral advantage.  At least I’m wiling to grant them that much.  That’s how partisan politics works (it’s also why the Founding Fathers so sternly inveighed against what was then called “faction”).  There is, at least as to some of them — and alas! Dear Leader must be counted among these — another explanation.  A more subversive, sinister explanation.  An explanation which arises from a fundamental rejection of the American Experiment, and which seeks the splintering of American society, which underpins what these see as the abhorrent position America occupies in the world.  Thomas Sowell writes in several places about how the Ceylonese civil war came to pass.  At one time Ceylon was merely an island occupied by two culturally distinct groups, the Tamil and the Sinhalese, with the latter outnumbering the former.  What we Americans know as “affirmative action” was enlisted after independence to “rectify” alleged socio-politico-economic imbalances.  Unscrupulous leaders on both sides realized the potentialities of the situation, and began the same sort of race-baiting that we have come to expect from the current United States president.  There then followed decades of bloody civil war.  They made of a beautiful island a howling charnel house.  And as is the case with all civil wars (in fact, all wars in general), the longer it went on the more extreme the leadership on both sides became.  Carnage.

The Ceylonese civil war paralyzed the island.  Now, Ceylon is — I won’t say of no — but of very little consequence in how the rest of the world lives and works.  They could completely blow the place off the map and very few people outside their immediate circle would be tossed into physical or economic disaster.  At the risk of understatement, that’s not true of the United States.  Our position, for better or worse, is the anchor bolt to which most of the rest of the world is tethered.  There are some things that are just not going to change so long as the United States remains what and where it is.  This fact is recognized by the Marxists.  The destruction of American cultural and economic hegemony is therefore the lodestar of their political universe.  And the easiest way to destroy anything is to exploit the fissures which are already there, the fault lines which already run — however latently — through the structure.

Our Dear Leader is a Marxist to his core.  He was born to one, he lived for years in a household headed by one, he was raised to adulthood by two of them.  Launched on the mainland, he gravitated to them, sought out their political support, and eagerly received their teachings.  The world as he earnestly desires it to be cannot come about without the destruction of the United States as the world’s predominating cultural, economic, and political power.  It cannot.  Its position must therefore be destroyed, and whatever tends to that end is to be pursued.  Relentlessly.  Exciting passions, hacking open wounds, stoking fires of manufactured outrage are his efforts to pry open the fissures and faults in American society.  Because what disunites us weakens us.  Because we are the enemy.  Because our own president harbors an unextinguishable animosity for the country he leads.

Once more, Everything is Once More About Race.

Everything Old is New Again

Via Instapundit, we delve into the wayback machine to April, 2002, back before Matthew Yglesias learned to hate George Bush.  Ol’ Matt tosses out for consideration a — I don’t think “time-honored” is really an apt expression — resolution of what we might call the “Palestinian Question.”

This is what Matt submits for consideration:

I think we have to start asking just how inhumane it would be for Israel to just expel the Palestinians from the occupied territories.   * * *  All forced population transfers are humanitarian disasters, of course, but so is the current situation. It’s not like there’s not any room in the whole Arab world for all these Palestinian Arabs to go live in, it’s just that the other Arab leaders don’t want to cooperate.

He’s right, of course; forced expulsions of mass population groups are humanitarian disasters.  It’s not by accident that I phrased it as “the Palestinian Question,” with its echoes of “the Jewish Question.”  It was, after all, on this day in 1941 that Hermann Goering instructed Heinrich Himmler to began preparations for the Final Solution.  That instruction resulted in the Wannsee Conference in January of 1942 and . . . well, world history knows the rest.

On the other hand, and this is a sobering Other Hand to contemplate:  Among the less fortunate consequences of Wilson’s, Lloyd George’s, and Clemenceau’s fiddling with the borders of Eastern Europe in 1919 was the existence of enormous groups of — shall we say — ethnically inconsistent groups in the new countries established by the treaties that ended the Great War.  The Sudeten Germans are only the most historically infamous.  In truth there were pockets of people all over that part of the world who were linguistically and culturally distinct from their surrounding populations.  Poland, which was re-created for the first time since 1795, was a mish-mash of Poles, Germans, Jews, Ukrainians (I did a will a number of years ago for a Polish-Ukrainian fellow), and sundry other groups.  Hungary was speckled with non-Magyar populations.  The Slovaks themselves were tack-welded together with the Czechs.  And those are just the examples I can think of sitting here at my computer.  Yugoslavia, the Kingdom of the South Slavs, had Bosnians, Serbs, Croats, and Albanians.

The result was pretty much as you might predict.  Politics, in addition to absorbing the poisonous brew of communism and class conflict unleashed by the war’s end, also broke very strongly on nationalistic and ethnic lines.  Not to be too blunt about it, but it hamstrung the new societies.  All the strife and mutual suspicion that had been — and not entirely successfully, either — bottled up by the crushing weight of centuries of Habsburg, Romanov, and Hohenzollern rule exploded over the land.  Precisely at the time when the world was radically changing beneath everyone’s feet, and by “everyone” I include the United States, and new and creative thinking became an even greater necessity, those countries were mired in bogs of ethnic conflict.

It is, I will suggest, a nearly universal phenomenon that conflict brings to the forefront the most extreme positions of all factions.  This is true of purely political conflict (witness what’s going on in the United States today); it’s true of military conflict (in conflicts as divergent as the Napoleonic Wars, the American Civil War, the Great War, and the communist take-over of China you can observe the steady rise, with the length and desperation of the struggle, of the most hard-boiled, ruthless, and unscrupulous commanders and factions); it’s true of class conflict (Hayek outlines the process in The Road to Serfdom).  And sure enough, it’s what we can observe unfolding across Eastern Europe during the inter-war period.

Not that any particular population group escaped a scorching in the Second World War, but, as is also depressingly typical, the ones across whom the storms lashed most fiercely were those perennial outsiders: the Jews and (to a much lesser extent because there were so many fewer of them) the Gypsies.

Americans, and even Western Europeans, tend to entertain the fond recollection that The War in Europe Ended May 8, 1945.  Well, the war may have ended, but the fighting and the suffering sure as hell didn’t.  The Poles turned on the few surviving Jews.  Pretty much everyone who wasn’t German turned on the pockets of Germans.  And the Soviets bestowed their ministrations on everyone.  And then it started.  Long lines of civilians, pushing prams, hand-carts, or wagons.  Or just carrying a battered suitcase, with everything they owned that wasn’t on their backs in it.  Young and old, off they marched, away from places where their ancestors had lived for centuries.  The Sudeten Germans had settled in Bohemia something like 800 years before.  The Poles in what became the western reaches of the Soviet Union had been there even longer.  The sundry ethnic groups spattered across the former Austro-Hungarian empire had been on their lands for similarly impressive periods.

No matter.  In 1982 I went to the Deutsches Museum in what was then still East Berlin.  I remember seeing one of the placards the Poles put up in Prussia.  Every German had 24 hours to leave town, taking only what could be hand-carried.  Just like that.  In fairness to the Poles, the exact same thing was happening to their east, as millions upon millions of them were kicked out to make room for the Soviets.  The numbers involved were prodigious.  Just among the Germans, somewhere between 12 and 14 million people were on the move in 1945-47.  Add to them millions of Poles, sundry Slavic groups, and of course the forced repatriations to the Soviet Union, and it’s easy to believe the figure I saw once (my memory is a bit fuzzy and I can’t recall where I saw it) that something like ten percent of the gross population of Europe was on the road, mostly on foot, and uniformly on a one-way trip.  In contemplating the physical reality of that process, we ought not forget that the winter of 1945-46 was one of the coldest in recorded European history (George Bush hadn’t invented global warming yet, after all), and the fighting had absolutely played hell with the planting and harvest for well over a year.

All in all, I think Yglesias’s point about it being a humanitarian disaster is fully justified.  In fact the only reason we don’t remember it more is because of what it immediately followed.  With the smoke — metaphorically — still rising from the ovens at Auschwitz, and the rubble still smoldering at Dresden, Warsaw, and dozens upon dozens of other Eastern European cities, what are the tribulations of a couple dozen million refugees?

But behold!  For all its post-war trauma, the one thing that Europe has not had to deal with since 1945 has been the ethnic strife that plagued it before the war.  All that civilian suffering at least produced largely homogenous populations which had the social cohesion to work through their challenges.  Just by way of example, it is no accident that it was the Poles who in the Solidarity movement set the first charges that exploded Soviet rule . . . nor should we underestimate the importance in that development of their adherence to their Roman Catholic faith, a church headed by (I’ll suggest this is one of the most fortunate coincidences in recent Western history) a Polish pope.  With one exception — the Velvet Divorce between the Czechs and the Slovaks — the lands that formerly relished nothing so much as a street fight between the Party of Ethnic Group A and the Party of Ethnic Group B, all to be followed by a quick pogrom through the Jewish Quarter, have been freed of at least the endless ructions and violence of ethnic strife.  And notice what’s now happening:  As Europe has been over-run with unassimilated adherents of the Religion of Peace, who periodically turn out to shoot at the police and burn cars and buildings, all the while sucking on the public tit of the European Welfare State, the ethnic strife is returning.

It’s almost as if there’s a pattern to what happens when you have significant populations of non-assimilated ethnic groups embedded in societies that uphold irreconcilable value systems.

The unassimilated Arabic populations of Israel’s territory (and I expressly include Gaza and the West Bank as Israeli territory; they conquered it from countries trying to destroy Israel: when you pick a fight and lose it, that’s what happens, viz. you lose territory and you’re entitled to zero sympathy) harbor for their chief ambition the physical destruction of Israel and the physical extermination of its Jewish population.  They are willing to stop exactly nowhere in the pursuit of this goal.  They put rocket launchers in schools and hospitals.  They use their own population as human shields.  And they will never give up.

So however awful it may be to ask the question, and whatever may be the implications for us all in contemplating the issues raised by that question, I think Yglesias’s question deserves a hard-boiled look:  Which humanitarian disaster is worse: the present one or one involving the forcible removal of these people?

[Updated (05 Aug 14)]:  In fairness I ought to observe that the former Yugoslavia in fact has experienced traumatic and bloody ethnic strife since 1945.  And the reason?  Well, after World War II it did not go through the “ethnic cleansing” process that Eastern Europe did.  So when communism collapsed and there was suddenly no longer a common boot on everyone’s neck, all the checkerboard population groups looked about and . . . got down to business.  All of which would suggest that what we’re witnessing in Israel is not unique to the peoples involved or the specifics of their conflict.  Depressing.

From the Department of Get a Damned Grip Already

This past June 20, a young woman — a girl, in fact, freshly minted as a high school graduate — from Alabama was on a trip to Europe.  On what seems to have been the last day of her trip, she visited Auschwitz-Birkenau, the notorious death camp (death by gas for those who didn’t make the screening, death by work for those who did).  And she took a “selfie,” which she posted to her Twitter account.

The picture shows her smiling, with an ear bud in her right ear.

Hoo boy.

For whatever reason (she apparently isn’t the only person to have taken a picture of herself at that place), her picture went viral.  And the political correctness police dropped on her like the hand of doom itself.  She got thousands upon thousands of negative re-tweets, some including threats.

The Washington Post has an article on the whole fiasco, here.  While the WaPo’s author excepts to the torrent of hate-mail washing over this teenager’s head, she still can’t let slip a chance to burnish her own PC street cred:  “That doesn’t make it ‘okay,’ to borrow an un-nuanced, Web-ready phrase. In truth, it’s hard to think of anything less sensitive, less appropriate or less self-aware than a ‘selfie in the Auschwitz Concentration Camp’ — smiley — as if the suffering of millions of people was somehow subsumed by Breanna’s own personal narrative. She was there, sure, but so were tens of thousands of others, and her willful minimization of that fact is, frankly, pretty gross.”

“Less sensitive.”  “Less appropriate.”  “Smiley.”  “Subsumed by Breanna’s own personal narrative.”  “Pretty gross.”

OK.  Let’s unpack exactly what happened, one element at a time, and examine which, if any, are insensitive, inappropriate, or imply that the horror of what happened there is somehow “subsumed in” her “own personal narrative.”  First, the elements:  Someone from eastern Alabama (kudos, I suppose, to our drenched-in-morality authoress for passing up the chance to take a swipe at Alabama as such; that must really have taken some effort) travels a good chunk of the way around the globe, to a place where 25 years ago it would have been nearly impossible for her to go.  I know people who travelled in Iron Curtain Poland, and getting there — unless you were part of a tour group — was made extremely difficult.  And she (i) takes a picture (ii) of herself (iii) wearing the clothes she was wearing that day, and (iv) smiling, which she then (v) posts on her Twitter feed so that her friends can see that she did something she’d undertaken to do for her dead father’s memory.

What, precisely, is objectionable about taking a picture with one’s own hands at Auschwitz?  Our propriety-sodden authoress might poke her damned head outside the Beltway and figure out that there are still a huge number of people in the world who, even if they aren’t actual Holocaust deniers, still just can’t get their minds around the notion that it actually happened.  In specific, identifiable places, to named people, and at the hands of identifiable people.  Slaughtering 6 million humans in the course of six or so years (the real large-scale killings didn’t start until the war, in 1939, even though the Nazis had been in power since 1933), just because, is not an easy concept to internalize, especially not in a country in which those sorts of things are not part of our own native history.  Europeans have been slaughtering Jews on an organized basis since the 1300s; ordinary people there can understand that it actually did happen because it was the endstation of a long and disgusting trip.  The potential of photoshopping notwithstanding, nothing quite says, “No shit; this was real,” like a photograph taken at the place where something happened, and one taken by the person who’s showing it to you.  I would submit that it’s especially important for everyone who visits a place like Auschwitz to take as many pictures as possible, and to show them around to everyone who’ll sit still long enough.

And is it inappropriate for a picture of oneself to be taken at Auschwitz?  “I was there.  I saw this.  This was — is — real.  I’m not making this up.”  I’m among the least photogenic people I know, so I generally avoid having my picture taken, anywhere, out of consideration for my fellow humans if no other reason.  But a picture of oneself is a reminder, of the person one was, that day, of the thoughts in one’s mind at that time.  We don’t keep diaries any more.  We’re insufficiently literate, for one thing, and for another we just have too much Stuff coming at us.  Life these days is like drinking from a fire hose.  So we take pictures, and we rely on these visual records to prompt the flow of memory.  One day this girl will be 60, barring accident, illness, or injury.  She may never have a chance to go back to Auschwitz.  By then it may be a broad-brush outline memory for her.  Until she sees a picture of herself, 18 years old, with all her mistakes still ahead of her, eager to take on the world on her terms, its own, or anyone else’s.  And then she’ll see a picture of herself, taken one year to the day after her father’s death (I want to ask Capt. Superiority at the WaPo if her own father is dead; is he, you dim bulb?).  And she’ll remember the sound of the wind blowing between the cell blocks, the crunch of her step on the gravel.  She’ll maybe remember how the place smells now — trees, grass, flowers outside, and that peculiar old-building scent inside, and how she tried to imagine all those scents overborne by the stench of death and burning human bodies.  The rooms full of luggage, shoes, hair, and so forth will come back to her, and she’ll recall what she was thinking that day.  Was she grieving for her father?  Was she thinking about the agony in all those children at the train platform, as they were separated from their own fathers for the last time?  Did she imagine that grief, that fear, multiplied 6 million times over?  No, if it would not be inappropriate to write a diary entry about one’s visit to Auschwitz, then it is not improper for a picture to be taken of oneself on that same visit.

Was it inappropriate that she took the picture herself?  Bullshit.  Except in the most unusual situations, the specific identity of a picture-taker is irrelevant.  Does it matter that Ansel Adams was the specific human being whose finger snapped the shutter on his photographs?  No.  Notice that this point is entirely distinct from the ambiguities of perspective, immersion, and distance which are implied in all significant photography.  But “the observer” is a conceptualized figure.  Whether the observer is male or female, old or young, a paragon of virtue or Joe Stalin himself just doesn’t matter.  We contemplate the suggestions and the messages of the picture completely independently of such inquiries.  So no, it cannot honestly be said to matter that she was the one who took her own picture.

Perhaps, on the other hand, there is in fact a significance to her having taken the picture.  It’s unlikely that this girl travelled all the way to Auschwitz on her own.  I’m just going to guess that she was with a bunch of other people, mostly of her own age.  Maybe she knew them before the trip, maybe not.  But look at the picture; there’s no one in the background.  We can’t see what’s in her own field of view (that’s one of those teasing ambiguities about photography; all we see is the camera’s perspective (there are, by the way, some incredibly challenging jigsaw puzzles where you’re given a picture and you have to put the puzzle together, not of that picture, but of what someone in that picture would be seeing, looking out)), but for all we can tell, she’s alone.  On the anniversary of her father’s death.  Gee, who could have seen that coming?  Maybe she slipped off, by herself, to take that picture to send back for the people who knew not only her, but her father as well.  This moment was her private moment of memory for the dead, a way station on her path of grieving (Did you call your father today, you puffed-up Correctness Tsarina? I bet you Breanna wishes she could.).  Remind me again what about Auschwitz makes it morally objectionable as a place for private grief?  For a sense of loss in contemplating those taken from this life too early?  Again, we cannot stand in the shoes of those victims as they were hustled out of the train cars, stumbling over those who’d died on the trip.  We cannot know what was in their hearts as they were ripped from each other’s arms.  The most we can do is cast about for such pale simulacra as we can of that pain, that fear (You reckon a 17-year-old is afraid as she watches her father die, you mouth-breathing, booger-eating, drunk-on-your-own-sensitivity imbecile?), that grief, and think:  I know what my own feels like; how much more terrible must theirs have been?  But that would have required someone who can’t do better for a job than working for the WaPo to think herself into someone else’s shoes.  Someone from Alabama (eeeewwwww!!!).  How much easier is it to punch the PC card at the door, sally up to the bar, and order up a tall, cool drink of I’m Better Than You.

With an ear-bud in her ear.  Notice it’s a single ear bud.  I realize that the Empress of All Seemliness may not be hep to the most recent technology, but entertainment ear buds come in pairs.  You know, stereo?  Been around a while, that audio technique.  But Breanna’s got a single ear bud in her ear.  Now, I further realize that our WaPo authoress probably doesn’t get outside the Beltway much if she can help it, and if she does, it’s to some self-absorbed place like New York, but I’ll just go ahead and give you a clue, you moron:  Auschwitz is in Poland.  They don’t speak English in Poland.  If you don’t have the money to pop for a tour guide, what you do is you rent a little machine with an English-speaking voice that walks you through the place, and tells you what you’re looking at, and why it’s significant.  You know, so you can understand it.  Sort of like might seem a good idea to a girl from Alabama who’d actually studied on the Holocaust to the extent of seeking out a real honest-Injun survivor to interview.  But why the ear-bud?  Well, again, our WaPo-staffer might not understand this, but there are a lot of different places in this world, and in most of those places they speak, you know, different languages.  So that if you had a little sound-stick (like I rented at the Dresden Festung in 2011 — although I rented mine in German), with the sound coming out of a speaker, (a) the visitor has only one hand free, and (b) you have an absolute Babel of tour-guide voices.  In a place like Auschwitz, where silence would be the ticket, one would think.

So I’d be extraordinarily surprised if that ear-bud is not connected at its other end to a small electronic tour guide.  If I’m wrong (I could be) I’ll buy our WaPo authoress a beer.  My choice.

Breanna’s smiling.  I don’t know how many different ways she might smile in ordinary life, but this appears to be a posed smile, such as you’d expect to find in any posed photograph.  At the risk of returning again to a theme, and on the assumption that our WaPo drone hasn’t yet had a plexiotomy (that’s a Marine Corps term, honey; look it up and go get you one, because you obviously are desperately in need of it) and so can’t see around her with any clarity, Breanna’s from Alabama.  I guarantee you that she was brought up that young ladies do not scowl at cameras.  She was taught by her mother, and her grandmother, and her aunts, and her older sisters (if she has them), and the ladies at her church, and her schoolteachers, that young ladies when addressed in public or when appearing in photographs present themselves in a cheerful mien.  Now, maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe this is not Breanna’s I’m-in-a-photograph-now-everyone-look-pretty smile.  Maybe this is her I’m-smiling-for-daddy-’cause-I-told-him-I-was-going-to-come-here-and-now-I-have smile.  Maybe this is her I’m-smiling-so-I-don’t-cry-about-my-daddy-he’s-been-gone-a-year-and-God-I-miss-him-and-here-I-am-surrounded-by-all-this-apparatus-of-death-and-why-do-people-do-each-other-this-way-and-why-can’t-I-have-my-daddy-back-I-miss-him-so-much-and-I’m-only-18-and-there’s-so-much-I-never-got-to-say-to-him smile.  Maybe she took this picture, which she obviously took to send back to her friends and family thousands of miles away, to say, “I love you all and thank you for letting me go on this trip.”  Someone explain to me why any or all of those reasons for smiling into a camera, at Birkenau or anywhere else, are objectionable.

And so Breanna posted her photograph on her Twitter feed.  She might have sent it via text, but then we have no idea of the number of people she needed to send it to, and texting requires using the telephone, and not the data service (when travelling abroad, that can make a huge difference in what you’re charged).  E-mail?  She might not have an e-mail with sufficient buffer size to send the photograph.  Maybe she had people whose e-mail addresses she didn’t keep in her phone, and who needed to get it.  Maybe a teacher, or her preacher.  “Just follow me on Twitter while I’m on my trip; that way you can see my pictures right away.”  Gosh what an awful thing to do.  I’m just going to pose a couple of questions to the Goddess of Grief (she’s obviously not very inquisitive but I’m going to ask her to fake it for a moment):  How many high school girls of your acquaintance set out to go to a place like Auschwitz?  How many even want to think that a place like Auschwitz exists, or what happened there?  How many go so far as to hunt up and interview (not just shake hands with, so you can say you did it, but actually sit down and talk) a Holocaust survivor?  So what’s the likelihood that this particular high school girl, who did all of that, and a full year before she graduated (remember she was studying on the Holocaust with her father before he died, and he’s been dead a year now), entered upon this particular part of her trip in a spirit of frivolity or pornographic interest in massive death?  Huh?  Riddle me that, Batdoofus.

So, now having explained things to the WaPo at much greater length and in much greater depth than they’re used around there, let’s examine precisely what reason there is to think that this girl from Alabama’s taking a picture of herself at Auschwitz and sending it back to people she cares about and who care about her was some attempt to “subsume” the horrors of the Holocaust in “her own personal narrative.”  <sound of crickets>

In a place in which so many families were destroyed — families which had somehow, miraculously, hung together through years of persecution, hunger, beatings, expropriations, fear, suspicion (remember that Auschwitz as specifically a death camp didn’t really get cranking until the last months of the war; by the time Auschwitz-Birkenau opened three-quarters of all Jews who would be slaughtered had already died, mostly in the Operation Reinhard facilities like Treblinka, Sobibor, Belzec, and Majdanek, which fewer than 100 are known to have survived, in comparison to the 100,000 Auschwitz survivors) — is it really inappropriate for someone to think of her own family?  Especially when that family is now missing so important a member (Call your father, you snot-faced troll of a reporter, and rejoice that you can.)?

You see, places like Birkenau, Babi Yar, the Katyn Forest, the Lubyanka, Sukhanovka, and other places where humans have ripped off the mask over the centuries are of more than historical interest only to the extent that they awaken within us moving forces to take with us into the world.  The dead are gone and we cannot recall them.  It would be idle to speak of somehow “redeeming” their deaths; you can’t do that.  Dying packed in a swarming, screaming, defecating, sweating, choking mass of people in a gas chamber cannot be redeemed.  The most we can do is salvage something of humanity from the wreckage of what happened there.  What is there of humanity to be salvaged from the contemplation of such places?  Well, we can be reminded of our common humanity and the bonds that tie us each to all others.  We can look at those railroad tracks, that ominous iron gate, the crematoria, the death chambers themselves, and we can understand that real people — people alarmingly just like us — did this, and they did this to people who were — are — our brothers and sisters.  And we can appreciate, perhaps, our living brothers and sister all the more.  And we can have awakened our awareness of the forces of evil, hatred, callousness, and detachment that lurk in every last damned one of us — that means you too, scrivener — and we can promise the dead of Auschwitz that we shall learn from them, and we shall act on our lessons.  Where do those lessons first express themselves?  In the closest circle of our acquaintance: our friends, families, and the people in our communities.  For an 18-year-old that’s still going to be a pretty small circle (among other details not paid attention to in this article is what it means to be 18 years old).

We preserve places like Auschwitz-Birkenau precisely so that as many people as possible can come there and learn those lessons, that they may then go forth into the world, carrying those lessons with them.  The answer to a place like Birkenau is love.  If it is anything else then we have missed the mark; we are merely rubber-neckers to others’ suffering.  If the horrors of Auschwitz prompt an expression of love, you’re just going to have to do a much better job of explaining to me why that is cause to shoot out my lips and shake my head, saying, “This girl stepped over the line,” than ol’ Ms. Pickle-Nipple from the WaPo has done.  I’m hanged if I can see how that’s “pretty gross.”

Go spit on your hands, lady, and get a goddam grip on reality.

From the Department of No Kidding

Well.  Fancy this.  Children (especially boys, by the way) need to move more.  In all dimensions.  Failure to move leads to physically weakened bodies and sensory systems, which prevents them from . . . you know . . . learning.

Forty-five years ago we put men on the moon.  The men (and most of them were men, back then) who did this pulled it off with access to less computing power than is now available on-board in a previous-generation iPhone.  They were working with slide rules.  They had gone to schools where they had to go without “diversity” sensitivity training.  Where they’d never had to prepare a video presentation on “environmental problems” in their neighborhood which just cried out for them to join ranks and march for the Cause.  Where they’d never had to learn about however-the-hell-many “pillars” exist in the Religion of Peace.  The literature books they read somehow managed to do without “transgressive” pieces designed to rub the authors’ perversions and hang-ups in the readers’ faces.  The folks who sent the Apollo missions out (and back) managed their accomplishments utterly ignorant of how wonderful a thing it is to be homosexual.  When they were young, boys got to settle things on the playground among themselves.  If they got caught there was a quick trip to the hallway with a teacher, a paddle or strap, and hands-around-the-ankles-young-man.  They’d not had “travel ball”; they’d played dodge ball at recess.  They’d not been dragged around to all manner of “enrichment” programs.  They’d never been herded into auditoriums there to be terrorized that unless they hectored their parents into disgorging all their money in taxes and subsidies for politicians’ friends’ businesses, the world would come to an end amid crashing waves of vastly larger oceans.  Every morning before school they’d pledged allegiance to the United States flag (or at least such of them as hadn’t sung the “Horst Wessel Lied” where they’d grown up).  When a foreign country had attacked us on our territory, they’d turned out in millions for the express purpose of so adjusting that country’s attitude that it would be a very long time indeed before they contemplated that shit again.  And they’d gone and done it.

Those, it seems, were the dark ages.

The rot that is now America’s schooling system isn’t peculiar to America.  I’ve written before about Germany’s blowing up a primary education system that was the envy of most of the rest of the world.  And doing so intentionally.  One thing we know for sure:  Those countries which mean us — and by “us” I mean Western Civilization, with its acceptance of precisely that “diversity” so relentlessly preached by the “education” mavens — no good at all are specifically not bringing up their children the way we do.  Red China, Russia, and the Middle Eastern klepto-theocrats are teaching their children to ride hard and shoot straight.  Whatever detracts from those abilities gets short shrift.

The prevalence of Western cultural values — even in parts of the world where its political values have no purchase — is not inevitable.  In terms of survivability there is nothing at all inherently superior about Western Civilization.  I’ll point out that twice in the last century it made a fair attempt to commit suicide, and was at least on the second occasion only saved from itself by virtue of some very fortunate circumstances.

The development of civic systems capable of expressing those Western civilizational values occurred overwhelmingly in the Anglosphere, and have only imperfectly been transplanted onto other soils.  I do not that think that a coincidence.  The ability to survive of a polis in which a central organizing principle is minding one’s own business, and the powers of coercion allowing that to occur, is a luxury to be enjoyed only in those societies who by and large need not spend the bulk of their energies defending themselves from attack from outside.  Defense of tribe and territory requires brutal subjugation of individuality to the life-and-death demands of combat.  Is it really an accident that those societies which have the sorriest records of crushing human aspirations and even existence are precisely those whose history over the course of centuries has been that of repeated invasion, conquest, bitter defense, and exploitation?  I’m thinking the Balkans, Hungary, Russia, Spain, and Germany.  Vienna — beautiful, artful, lyrical Vienna — was a fortress against the Turks until Franz Joseph ordered the destruction of the works.  In contrast, it was only in the Anglosphere, first in England and then in its overseas off-shoots, that society was able to erect political structures that successfully balanced the needs of government to protect with the citizens’ need to flourish.  I suggest this would never have been possible without the geographic accident of the English Channel, and the colonies’ separation by thousands of miles of deep water from those who would prey on them.

These days, the existence of those oceans, to say nothing of a mere 26 miles of shallow sea, is of nearly no consequence.  Churchill, in the introduction to his History of the English-Speaking Peoples, addresses his home island:  You came into existence by an accident of sea power.  You will die by an accident of air power.

In short, by inviting into our schools these forces of degeneration — and I’ll just go ahead, step right on out and say it:  American “education” is degenerate — we are replicating the behavior of the late Roman Empire.  Unwilling to defend itself, it invited the barbarians in and gave them land.  Yeah; that’s right:  The barbarians will protect us.  Remind me again how that worked out.  If Gentle Reader thinks Gibbon a bit too hard going, modern historical methods have produced some more digestible material.  Just by way of example, the latter-linked book contains some interesting ice-core analysis.  During the heyday of the Roman Empire, traces of chemicals produced by copper smelting are discernible in ice cores from Greenland.  Within the space of a few generations after The Fall, that evidence vanishes.

Am I hyperventilating?  I sure hope so.  But it is a failure of human perception to accept one’s surroundings as being both inevitable and permanent.  ‘Twas always thus, and always thus ’twill be.  We forget how quickly we can forget.  After the Fall of Rome, stone building vanished from the European continent for a matter of centuries.  Literacy vanished from England.  Whole ranges of useful arts were extinguished and had to be re-learned in later centuries.  In our day and in this country, there are enormous swathes of large societal groups — specifically, American blacks — which in the course of 50 years have lost the socio-cultural skills to maintain themselves.  A number of years ago I knew someone who was a social worker in a large Northeastern city.  She observed that there were families in her office’s case load in which it had been four generations since anyone in the extended family had held a job.  What is the likelihood of any member of those families re-learning the skills to get a job, hold onto it, and advance to something better?  Modern social research is reminding us how critical for children’s learning and socialization is the presence in the household of both biological parents.  When 80% of your children are born out of wedlock, and not infrequently to multiple and in many cases unknown fathers, what does that mean for those children’s chances to acquire those skills?  Moynihan was a Cassandra.

What happened to American blacks can happen to any group and can happen to the entire country. Vignettes like the blog post linked are canaries in the coal mine.

Pay no Attention to the Corpses

. . . And no, I don’t mean the “Marine Corpse,” as Dear Leader famously said.  Perhaps I ought not bust on him too severely; after all, I too have no French, unlike German, which in addition to Austrian is also spoken in Austria.  Or something like that.  And racism!!

According to these chaps over at Bloomberg, libertarians are “the new communists.  No, really.  Someone actually got that statement not only published, but put into the headline.  Up is the new down!

The quality of reasoning is laid out right up front:  “Where communism was adopted, the result was misery, poverty and tyranny. If extremist libertarians ever translated their beliefs into policy, it would lead to the same kinds of catastrophe.”  And just what specific catastrophes are we talking about, the “same kind” of which we may expect if we go down the libertarian path?  The authors of that article don’t say, so I will trot a few out:  Holodomor (3-7 million dead); Great Purge (something along the lines of 750,000 dead); Great Leap Forward (45-60 million dead); Khmer Rouge (25% of gross population slaughtered).  Those are just the ones that spring immediately to mind.  I haven’t mentioned the death toll in the Gulag (which during the war approached 1% per day, system wide); I haven’t mentioned the execution cellars of the Soviet Civil War; I haven’t mentioned the millions of “kulaks” who were carted off into the taiga and dumped out to freeze or starve where they landed (“special settlers” is what they were called).  I haven’t mentioned the Belomor, or the Moscow-Volga canal.

Mind you:  Those horrors of human cruelty are what these authors are promising us would necessarily follow if we elected Rand Paul or Ted Cruz to be president.  Seriously.  That’s what they are representing as the inherent consequences of permitting individual liberty to maintain ascendancy over the demands of collectivism — “would lead to.”  Not “might” or “could” lead to, or “might so undermine our ability to act collectively that we could not resist” those outcomes, or even “would awaken the darkest desires of mankind, desires whose logical expressions have been seen in,” or similar dire predictions.  No; as night follows the day, so death on the Maoist/Stalinist scale would follow the take-over of the levers of power by the folks who want to . . . destroy exactly those levers.

It’s as if, for these authors, it was Koch Industries which smashed the kulaks as a class, or Sheldon Adelson who marched everyone wearing glasses out into the killing fields, there to put bullets through the bases of their skulls.  Do they think it was Hobby Lobby which stripped the Ukraine of foods, literally down to the last stalks of wheat in places, and then forbid the people to leave in search of food?  Was it Chick-Fil-A which starved the Chinese peasantry to death in their tens of millions by stealing their food?  Do these authors not understand that for each and every one of those catastrophes, it took the massively organized, focused might of the state to accomplish it?  Do they really think that it was just lone bureaucrats wandering into villages in the Ukraine in 1932 who demanded all the grain?  Bullshit.  It was entire teams of grain requisitioners, backed by the Red Army and the NKVD, and their machine guns and executioners, who made it happen.  Marshal Tukhachevsky made his bones crushing the Russians peasants in the 1920s, at the head of divisions of the Red Army.

Even assuming, for the sake of argument, that their characterizations of Paul, Cruz, and the Kochs is correct, they cannot show how an emasculated state might accomplish what it took the very utmost effort from the most highly integrated, centralized states in history to achieve.

Having tried their hands at illogic, the authors then proceed to straw men and bogey men.  “Radical libertarianism assumes that humans are wired only to be selfish, when in fact cooperation is the height of human evolution.  It assumes that societies are efficient mechanisms requiring no rules or enforcers, when, in fact, they are fragile ecosystems prone to collapse and easily overwhelmed by free-riders.  And it is fanatically rigid in its insistence on a single solution to every problem: Roll back the state!”

Let’s just start shooting at random into the barrel.  Selfish and cooperation are not mutually exclusive.  That much was pointed out as long ago as the 1770s, by Adam Smith.  His insight was that the market is the only social mechanism capable of achieving widespread cooperation without coercion.  And it does.  History is littered with the wrecks of enterprises which failed to cooperate in the most basic of senses:  They failed to provide what their customers wanted, with the result that their customers went elsewhere.  Secondly, I’m not aware that libertarianism “assumes” that humans are capable only of selfish motivations.  What libertarianism does do is aim towards a system of social order that can work even if that is in fact all that humans have within them.  It’s all these pie-in-the-sky collectivist theories which require, in order to work, that people consistently entertain loftier ideals than the purely selfish.  Libertarianism aims for a social order that does not depend for its viability the realization of demonstrably false assumptions about how humans behave.

Societies are “fragile ecosystems prone to collapse,” unless presumably their members are shackled together by, and held in thrall to the power of, a state.  Well.  Let’s look at some societies which have actually collapsed without armed intervention from outside, and see if we can find some commonalities.  There’s the Soviet Union in the late 1980s and most of the 1990s.  There’s the China of pre-1911.  There was the Roman Empire of the 5th Century (true, there were the Germanic invasions, but — at the outset at least — they were invited in by the Romans precisely because the provinces were already degenerating into chaos).  1780s France.  And of course the Middle East today.  What do each of those examples have in common?  They were all, each and every last stinkin’ one of them, the product of decrepit tyrannical governmental systems.  In marked contrast, the United States of the Civil War remained a functioning society on both sides all the way through.  Even as Southern cities starved, there was no plundering, no rampaging mobs of AWOL soldiers.  In the North they even had two full federal election cycles (1862 and in 1864 a hotly contested presidential election).  Yes there were places, here and there, where bands of irregulars roamed and looted, but those were very limited.  The closest that either side got to “collapse” was the draft riots in New York City in July, 1863, and that was specifically a reaction against conscription, than which fewer more quintessentially governmental coercive measures exist.

But let’s explore that “prone to collapse” nonsense a little more.  Before 1917, most Americans had little contact with their federal government outside of the local post office.  The Interstate Commerce Commission regulated railroads and set freight rates (and by the way, heavily discriminated in favor of Northern goods travelling south, which were allowed to be transported at much lower rates than Southern goods travelling north), and in the early 1900s the regulation of foods and drugs began.  Even at the state level, in most of the states the hand of regulation was light indeed.  Even things like the “regulation” of Chinese laundries in an attempt to squelch their competition were decidedly local affairs.

And did American society “collapse”?  Was it “overwhelmed by free riders”?  At the risk of understatement, no and no.  How about Britain?  At what point prior to government top-down regulation did British society collapse?  In the British case there were in fact restrictions under which people labored, but if you look at them you’ll notice that most of them were of private origin, for example a landlord restricting what could be done with property ground-leased to tenants.

Societies even more free-wheeling than Britain and America likewise did not collapse under the burden or their “free riders.”  Australia, anyone?

Fanatically rigid about rolling back the state?  Here I’ll just observe that many, if not most, of the “problems” to which libertarianism addresses itself are problems which are themselves the creatures of government intervention in citizens’ interactions.  As an example, I’m unaware that there is such an animal as a “libertarian” response to or position on college sports and its exploitation of ignorant athletes for the colleges’ own gain.  For a libertarian each of the following would be an acceptable resolution, subject only to the caveat that no side held monopoly power over the other or had the ability to coerce participation: (i) the status quo, with athletes going unpaid; (ii) allowing colleges to pay their athletes; (iii) athletes organizing themselves to refuse to work (play) for colleges which did not pay them; or, (iv) the professional sports teams dealing directly with athletes at any age past majority, thereby by-passing the colleges entirely (much as major league baseball does, come to think of it).  For a libertarian the objectionable part would be the colleges’ being granted the authority to punish athletes and colleges which elected for responses (ii) or (iii), or governments forbidding the professional teams and the athletes from response (iv).

By like token, a libertarian is not distressed at sky-high rents in places like San Francisco or Silicon Valley.  How much rent someone is willing to pay for any particular-sized space on this earth does not concern a libertarian.  What does distress a libertarian is the extent to which these sky-high rents can be charged just because of governmental action which prevents would-be landlords from coming in to build additional housing stock.  If that works out to be a few, some, or a whole bunch of people that does not concern the libertarian; the prevailing rent at the point that people aren’t willing to spend the money to build more housing is what it is.  The statist solution so beloved of people like our two authors is to forbid landlords from charging more than $X for Y square feet.  The long-term outcome of that is well-illustrated in New York City.  Don’t let people charge what they can, and fewer people will build housing.  With less housing getting built, the older existing housing ages past the point at which you might expect it to be removed from the housing stock and replaced with something more suitable and up-to-date, and maintenance gets skimped on, so it physically deteriorates faster than it otherwise would, and remains out-of-date while doing so.  Begin mandating upgrades and maintenance so that people don’t get “forced to live in squalor,” as our authors would likely phrase it, and landlords get to where it is cheaper for them to shut the place entirely and get out of the business.  So you have vacant buildings.  Which get taken over by squatters, drug-dealers, and other people extruded by the above-board residential housing market.  The next step is to come in and condemn the buildings and raze them.  Well, what next?  Oh, that’s right: Let’s build . . . government housing!  How has that worked out, again?  Thomas Sowell has written on the dynamic from the economist’s perspective; P. J. O’Rourke has written about it from how it looks on the ground to the people who live in those places.

From straw men and bogey men, the authors then proceed to outright falsehood.  “Communism failed in three strikingly similar ways.”  Since the word “similar” in that sentence is nonsense unless you read in the phrase “to libertarianism’s failings,” I’m going to adopt that reading.  And what three failings does communism share with libertarianism?

First:  “It [communism] believed that humans should be willing cogs serving the proletariat.”  Ummmmm . . . guys:  That position is the diametric opposite of libertarianism, which holds that no person is inherently a cog serving anyone else, and should not be compelled to the service of anyone else in the absence of his free choice to do so.

Second:  “It assumed that societies could be run top-down like machines.”  Again, the diametric opposite of what libertarianism actually believes.  In fact, libertarianism specifically asserts that top-down organization of anything is likely to produce less-desirable outcomes than available alternatives because of the information-aggregation problem.  Hayek wrote extensively about exactly that.

Third:  “And it, too, was fanatically rigid in its insistence on an all-encompassing ideology, leading to totalitarianism.”  The first half of that statement is true; the second is actually diametrically opposed not only to what libertarianism seeks but to actual communist theory.  Communism held — however naively — the belief that upon the realization of communism the state would “wither” away.  We all know that’s not how it worked, and that’s not how its adherents when they took over their first country (Russia) intended it to work.  It’s why you see reference to “Leninism-Marxism” in their writings.  The Soviet state that was erected on the corpses of the Russian people was in that respect at least the antithesis of communist doctrine.  Since our quibble is with the authors’ mischaracterizations of libertarianism, though, let’s concentrate on whether human liberty is an “all-encompassing ideology.”  Well, to the extent that humans’ moral agency is considered to be an inherent attribute of humanity, I guess you can say it’s “all-encompassing.”  But that’s not the point:  The point is the question whether libertarianism is prescriptive, as communism was and is.  In fact it’s exactly the opposite, and it’s that opposition to prescription which means that it cannot lead to totalitarianism because the achievement of totalitarianism requires coercion of all.

So would a libertarian world be paradise on earth?  Most likely not.  Would it produce 100,000,000 or more corpses in less than 75 years (from 1917 to 1989), and untold brute misery and oppression for the survivors?  Absolutely not.

From straw men and lies, our authors next proceed to garden-variety libel.  The authors think they’re being clever by pointing out that the ideal of libertarianism “can’t be applied across a functioning society.”  What an insight, guys!  Who could’ve seen that?  Libertarianism does not assume that it can be applied in its purity.  I’m not aware of anyone who self-identifies as a libertarian, or even who is commonly understood to be a libertarian, maintaining that all governmental coercive power can be done away with.  Libertarianism explicitly recognizes, in fact, the necessity for coercive power (i) to prevent fraud (by which is meant the use of deception to obtain consent where it would not otherwise be granted), and (ii) to protect the physical lives and property of the people.  Beyond that, I’m still waiting for any such person to take a public position that does not recognize that “complete” (as in theoretically pure) liberty can never be achieved, but rather only asymptotically approached.  The authors describe Somalia as being the sort of failed state where “libertarianism finds its fullest actual expression.”  Errrrmmmmm . . . guys, Somalia is what happens under anarchy, in which the prevention of frauds and the protection of life and property no longer exists.  With libertarianism it has nothing at all in common.

But hist!  Our authors know precisely how a “President [Ron/Rand] Paul” would govern, or a Secretary [of the Treasury, presumably] Norquist would deal with the Internal Revenue Service.  He would “eliminate progressive taxation, so that the already wealthy could exponentially compound their advantage, as the programs that sustain a prosperous middle class are gutted.”  Apparently the United States did not have a prosperous middle class before the 16th Amendment, nor did anyone arrive at Castle Garden or Ellis Island carrying literally his entire store of worldly possessions in a suitcase, and thereafter climb to prosperity (and in many cases outright wealth) in his own lifetime.  And sure as hell none of his children did.  A “Koch domestic policy” would “obliterate environmental standards for clean air and water, so that polluters could externalize all their costs onto other people.”

Now, Gentle Reader might question this claimed degree of omniscience.  Gentle Reader might want to see some actual examples of those named persons’ having done things, or said things, which would support attribution of such objectives to them.  The expectation is heightened by the authors’ reference to “[t]he public record of extreme statements by the likes of Cruz, Norquist, and the Pauls” as leaving no doubt on the point.  Well, Gentle Reader is just going to have to take it on faith from these authors, because specifics there are none.  The authors tax the Pauls, the Norquists, and the Kochs of the world with “calling for the evisceration of government.”  I’m still waiting for a single example of such “radical libertarianism” from the mouths of any of them.

Further illustrating the fact that these authors haven’t been paying attention is their conflation of societal evolution and the growth of government.  “It [something the authors call ‘true citizenship’] is based on a reasonable conception of human nature that recognizes we must cooperate to be able to compete at higher levels.  True citizenship means changing policy to adapt to changes in circumstance.  Sometimes government isn’t the answer.  Sometimes it is.”  I’ll just remind the authors that the United States went from an overwhelmingly agrarian, dispersed population to a highly urbanized, industrialized, polyglot continental empire in slightly over 125 years.  From 1776 to 1901 was that short.  Old men in 1901 could remember in their youths meeting old men who were alive to hear the news from Philadelphia.  Was government action absent from that process?  Not at all.  In many instances it was precisely government action which facilitated that process, such as by granting railroads the power of eminent domain, or the Homestead Act.  The railroads are admittedly hard to square with “pure” libertarianism, but then I’m still waiting to hear of the first libertarian purist in either public life or private prominence.  And quite a bit of government action back then took the form of providing land for people to buy.  No one was forcibly re-settled, nor was anyone restricted in where he might settle, nor was anyone forbidden to feed himself and his family on the land settled.  The Northwest Ordinance required that public land be surveyed before it was sold, but I can’t see any aspect in which a libertarian, be he ever so pure, could take exception to that.

No one forced the American steel industry to upgrade its furnaces.  No one mandated that the Pullman company build cars of a particular specification, with certain amenities.  We didn’t have a Coast Guard or a Corps of Engineers to instruct the riverboat builders on minimum or maximum draft, nor were the captains instructed on where they may or may not land.  No one came along and forbade the new construction of wooden ships after a certain point, nor was the shift from sail to steam power a result of government mandate.   Even in the uproar following Sinclair’s The Jungle, it emerged that a great deal of what was being submitted as mandatory by the government was already being done by the larger meat packers.  Why?  Because for them it was worth it.  If ever there were a counter-example to these two authors’ musings, it is the history of the American Republic during those 125 years.

To return to the article’s title, if you want to argue with libertarianism, either on its own merits or as a viable/non-viable alternative to any other system of government, by all means do so.  But at least be honest about what it does and does not seek, and for God’s sake don’t so twist current facts and widely-known history to lie about it and equate it with communism, either in its theory or practice.

Pay no attention to those corpses.

28 June 1914

Today marks the centenary of Gavrilo Princip’s assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie (whom the rank-obsessed Habsburg court had graced only with the title of Countess Hohenberg, she not being of sufficiently blue blood to marry an Archduke).  Theirs was among the first blood to be shed in what became the Great War.  I say “among” because the assassins’ first run at them that morning left them unscathed but wounded several in the next car in the motorcade.

The facts of what happened that morning are pretty straightforward.  Royal party is to visit local dignitaries.  In show of condescension (in the laudatory use of that word, now largely and sadly forgotten, of one placed higher going out of his way to encounter on the level another, placed lower, specifically as a gesture of kindness, or encouragement, or recognition of merit), the Archduke directs that the usual military guard be dispensed with, so the crowds can see the heir to the throne come among them, unafraid.

Among that crowd is a group of youngsters, lead by teen-aged Gavrilo Princip.  Citizens of Austria-Hungary, from Bosnia, they are ethnic Serbs, outraged that Bosnia is part of the empire and not part of neighboring Serbia (back then spelled “Servia,” by the way).  Having seen the announcement of the Archduke’s visit, they determine to kill him.  They travel to Belgrade where they are armed by a group known as the Black Hand, fanatic pan-Slavists set upon uniting all Balkan Slav populations in one (Serbian-run) state.  The conspirators return to Sarajevo and wait.  The morning of 28 June, they disperse themselves into the crowd, the motorcade’s route also having been announced ahead of time.  On the way to city hall, one of them manages to heave a bomb which misses its intended target but explodes near the next car in line, wounding several of its occupants (none severely).  The motorcade, now alerted, speeds away.  At city hall the Archduke, understandably distressed, tears a strip off the mayor.  The gala reception is cancelled.

The royal party embarks to return to the train station by a route different than the trip there.  The Archduke, mindful of his injured retainers, instructs that he wishes to see them before he leaves, to make sure they’re being properly attended to, and the motorcade is thus to swing past where they’ve been taken.  On the drive back the lead driver, in one of history’s most portentous navigational errors (right on up there with Columbus’s, when you think about it), makes the turn to go back by the route they’d come by.  Alerted to his mistake, he stops in the middle of the street to begin the cumbersome reversal of course.  The Archduke’s car stops as well, a few feet from where Princip, convinced that his group’s mission has failed and its cover is blown, just happens to be standing.  He approaches the car and fires a revolver, hitting Franz Ferdinand in the neck and Sophie in the abdomen.  Both rounds sever arteries, and the Archduke and his wife bleed out in a matter of minutes.

It’s not really possible to say much of anything about the events of that day, or their background, or their consequences, that hasn’t been said repeatedly over the last century.  If Gentle Reader is looking for fresh insight, it will not be found here.  That notwithstanding, I do think it important to reflect on those times, not least because there is a powerful argument to be made that we are still living out their immediate consequences.

The interesting, the instructive, historical eras are those of change, whether gentle transition or violent overthrow.  Generations and centuries in which very little changed much one way or the other just don’t intrigue.  Yes the Dark Ages are of historical curiosity, but more in the sense of just figuring out what was going on in the first place.  We want to know about the organization of agriculture and land tenures in the Sixth Century not because they teach us much of anything about ourselves as humans, but rather merely because we want to know, because knowing is in itself important (and it is).  Ditto much of the history of sub-Saharan Africa, at least until the Scramble.  The Reformation, the Age of Exploration, the Industrial Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the South American independence movements, however; these all teach us something about being human, because each of them was a change from one state of existence to another profoundly different in important ways.  What sparked those transformations, and how did people behave during them?  How did they resolve themselves and how did those resolutions reflect and impact human nature?  What did people learn about themselves and their fellow humans in the process?  What lessons from those times have we today forgot?

By the way, the notion of history-as-change is itself very much a recent concept in terms of the literate human experience.  Men have always catalogued their crimes and follies deeds and struggles, even in the pre-literate times (think Homer).  “Wie es gewesen ist,” in the German historians’ 19th Century expression, has always occupied our minds.  What is new — say, since the late 18th Century — is the meta-historical understanding, the insight that the chronicle of events has something to tell us beyond the bare narration of their sequence.

And so we turn our minds to 28 June 1914.

Franz Ferdinand was a marked man, from more sides than one.  Viewed from within the power structure, he was a disruptive force in the empire.  His father became heir to the throne upon Crown Prince Rudolph’s swallowing his pistol in January, 1889.  The father died a few years later leaving Franz Ferdinand next in line.  The heir understood what the emperor was unwilling to accept, notwithstanding its truth had been thrust down his throat, generally with a bayonet, since he first came to the throne in 1848.  The empire could not continue as it had been.  Changes both within and outside would not permit it.  Industrialization, the rise of militant nationalism, the spread of literacy, mass emigration, and the flow of money, goods, and people within and among nations permitted by the Long Peace (a peace framed, ironically, at the Congress of Vienna) had laid to rest forever, at least for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, the idea that tomorrow would reliably resemble today.

As mentioned, Franz Joseph’s acquiescence in that world state was objectively unreasonable.  He was too young to have been alive for the turmoil of the Napoleonic Wars.  On the other hand, how blind did one need to be not to understand that a century inaugurated by the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806, a political institution 900 years old and at the head of which one’s own family had served more or less without interruption for a matter of 400 years, was a time of Things Coming Unstuck?  Since 1415 there had been all of two non-Habsburg emperors: Sigismund (d. 1437) and Charles VII (1742-45).  Within a single generation the French had kicked the Empire’s ass all over the courtyard multiple times and in 1806 the last of the line just shut it down.  Sure, you can argue that by then there really wasn’t very much substance to liquidate, but in point of fact it was a symbol, a symbol of What Has Forever Been.  Humans are unique animals in that so much of our mental landscape is formed by symbolism, both concrete (statuary, pictorial) and abstract (The Church, the Roman Empire).  There’s even a book about the Habsburgs which organizes its narration around the family’s use of religious and political symbolism to maintain itself in power, even as the physical forces over which they held sway frayed, snapped, dissolved.

From his first moments on the throne, Franz Joseph’s reign was riven with violent change.  The very fact of his accession was a function of ructions among the Hungarians, part of the Revolution of 1848.  Feeble-minded Ferdinand I, widely acknowledged among the family to be Just Not Up To It, was pressured to abdicate, as was his younger brother, Franz Joseph’s father.  Pregnant with implications for the future, it took the intervention of Russian troops to secure Franz Joseph on his throne.

For Franz Joseph there then followed twenty years of getting his butt run out of Italy, or rather the rest of the way out of Italy, courtesy of the French and the House of Savoy.  On his northern borders, the Prussians were squeezing him out of participation in the Greater German consolidation of the mid-century decades.  That culminated in the humiliation of 1866.  In 1867 the Hungarians forced on him the Ausgleich — the Compromise — of 1867, which formally created the Dual Monarchy, in which Franz Joseph was Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary.  The Hungarians extracted numerous concessions as the price for an undisputed throne, most of which can be categorized as mechanisms for the suppression of non-Hungarian peoples within Hungary, and freezing out from participation in the joint government any groups other than Germans and Hungarians.

Of the Ausgleich could be said, as the Duke of Wellington was told after delivering an over-my-dead-body speech against what became the Great Reform Bill of 1832 and he asked a fellow peer, a crusty old Scot, “I have not said too much, have I?” and was told, “Ye’ll hear of it.”

During these same years serfdom was finally abolished in the empire, a change which affected foremost Hungary.  Of all the servient classes in Europe, about the only large group stifled in greater misery than the Hungarian serfs and peasants were their fellow toilers in Russia.  And as in Russia, for the newly-emancipated serfs formal freedom brought precious little in material betterment.

Let’s just come right out and say it in plain Saxon:  The Habsburg accession to the Hungarian throne after Mohacs in 1526 turned out to be a poisoned chalice, to retain its grip on which the monarchy repeatedly made decisions that compromised its ability to survive.  Even when it wasn’t the Hungarians themselves creating tumult, it was accommodating the Hungarian insistence that nothing occur which might lessen their influence in the empire which was a if not the chief point on which snagged and capsized any attempt to adapt to a changing, challenging world.

The imperial coddling of Hungary was all the more disastrous — and in retrospect questionable — for the empire because Hungary was by a good margin the portion of the empire most backward socially, economically, and industrially.  Yes it was to some extent the imperial bread-basket.  It was a phenomenally inefficient bread-basket, however, and the only reason it occupied that position at all was because so much of the rest of the country was either badly suited to large-scale agriculture or was rapidly industrializing and so turning away from basic food production.  More to the point, after the Napoleonic Wars, and even more so after the opening of the American Mid-West and the Canadian Plains by mid-century, cheap North American grain could and would have been more than sufficiently available to feed the population.  In late century the Australian wheat fields came on-stream, with a growing season exactly the opposite of the northern hemisphere, and from 1867 the Suez Canal was open for traffic in grain carriers.  Had Franz Joseph had the vision, or had the advisors, he could have very plausibly embraced the industrialization of his empire, used the economic surplus generated by that growth to feed his people from abroad (as Britain and even the German Reich were doing), and told the Hungarians to go pound sand up their asses.  But he didn’t.

In fairness to Franz Joseph, it ought to be observed that he wasn’t the only monarch in thrall to a well-organized group of people who were adamantly opposed to any change at all which threatened a very ancient, and ludicrously inefficient agrarian way of life.  The Prussian kings (and of course later German emperors) were forever tip-toeing around the Prussian Junker class, from which it drew its officer class, which latter class the Hohenzollerns insisted be the driving force in the Reich’s political life.  The domestic policies of Bismarck (himself of ancient Junker heritage) and his successors were at any number of points forced through the seine of agrarian intransigence.

All the while these changes were going on, and Franz Joseph grimly setting his face against them, there grew and festered the nationalistic sentiments among the empire’s numerous non-German, non-Hungarian minorities.  First among them were the Czechs, by late century the principal drivers of such Austro-Hungarian modernization as was occurring.  If the Hohenzollerns in Berlin had Krupp (in Essen, clear on the other end of the Reich), the Habsburgs had Skoda . . . in Bohemia, founded and run by Czechs.  Again the curious parallels: hard-shell Protestant, militantly anti-modern Prussia armed itself from heavily Roman Catholic (until Napoleon’s conquest, the city was church property), highly internationalized Essen.  Hard-shell agrarian, chauvinistic Austria-Hungary armed itself from highly-industrialized, Czech Bohemia.  But the Czechs at least had the power of money, and even in Austria-Hungary, hoary with tradition and snobbery (see: Sophie, Countess of Hohenberg), money was not mute.  But you had Slovakians, Ruthenians, Rumelians, Bosnians, Serbs, Croats, Jews, Gypsies, Poles, Russians, Rumanians, and many more besides.  “Polyglot” doesn’t begin to do justice to the patchwork that was Austro-Hungarian ethnography.

Pretty much all those groups (except those who were so marginalized they knew better than even to dream of it, such as the Jews and the Gypsies) had a few things in common:  They were outraged that all political power was artificially concentrated in the hands of the Germans and the Hungarians.  They fervently wanted to establish national states, in which they and others of their ethnic group would dominate.  They wanted to assemble their ethnic fellows into compact geographic groups.  And finally, each and every one of them had its neck stomped on by the Austro-Hungarian government whenever they tried anything in the direction of addressing their grievances or aspirations.  With the emperor’s full approval.

First Crown Prince Rudolph, and then Franz Ferdinand, saw all of this.  Rudolph in his frustration to do something gave in to his genetic emotional instability (his mother was a Wittelsbach, a cousin of Ludwig II, and it showed) and whacked his girlfriend (I’m sorry; if you’re heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, with a litany of titles even as heir that can’t be pronounced in one breath or even several, and the best you can do as mistress is a 17-year-old tart of decidedly arriviste origins, then you aren’t much of an heir to that kind of throne.) and then himself rather than continue to watch his father drive his patrimony onto the rocks.  Franz Ferdinand, soldier that he was, beat his fists bloody (metaphorically speaking, of course) against the absurdities and obtuseness of the system.  The forces of reaction easily marginalized him.  In this respect his marriage to Sophie, while reflecting great credit on them both (theirs has a good claim to be among the great love matches of European royal history, as warm-hearted, and eventually tragic, as George III and Charlotte or Nicholas II and Alexandra), did neither him nor his country any good.  To a large degree, Franz Joseph’s natural antipathy towards change was made easier to maintain by his revulsion against an heir who had defied him to marry morganatically.  Would Franz Ferdinand have been able to sway the emperor if the two had been on speaking terms?  Maybe not, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen with the emperor feeling like he needed a bath after every audience with his heir.

Franz Ferdinand was no soupy sentimentalist about the empire’s ethnic minorities.  With his customary lack of grace he damned them all.  But he understood that unless they were brought into the polity, unless they acquired a stake in its continuance that they could feel and around which they could coalesce, the empire could not survive.  And like all heirs to thrones who enjoy poor relations with their immediate predecessors, his views were known.

Those within governing circles had little trouble letting the air out of Franz Ferdinand’s sails.  Those increasingly radicalized among the minorities were terrified of an Emperor Franz Ferdinand.  This was not because they feared repressions and exactions, but exactly the opposite.  They feared that his reforms would succeed, and that rather than follow them into revolt and dissolution, their ethnic brethren would reconcile themselves to the empire and become contented citizens of it.  The expression “false consciousness” had not been coined yet, but that’s what the radical ethno-warriors feared.  Lenin, with his gift for capturing complicated concepts in pithy expressions (e.g., “Who?  Whom?”) once famously said of Russian tribulations, “The worse, the better.”  Improvement in the minorities’ lot would damn their aspirations, and with Franz Joseph’s life rapidly approaching its close, improvement was on the horizon.

So Franz Ferdinand had to die.  This may be one of history’s all-time greatest too-clever-by-half events.  The Serbian radicals, terrified that Franz Ferdinand would undercut them with their kinsmen, decided to take him out, believing that they thereby could preserve their ambitions’ viability.  In fact, the death was cynically used by those around Franz Joseph as a pretext for extinction not only of Serbian nationalism within the empire, but extinction of Serbia as an independent state.  The emperor sure wasn’t identifiably upset by his heir’s murder; he commented that God had restored a balance he, the emperor, had been unable to maintain.  The war-mongers (that’s usually a hyperbolic epithet, but I really don’t know how else you could accurately describe someone like General Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf, who (like Cato centuries before: Carthago delenda est) appended to almost every official statement something about the need to crush the “vipers’ nest” of Serbia) famously spent the next month putting together a list of demands that no sovereign country could agree to.  The idea was that Serbia would reject some of them and that could be presented by the empire as a casus belli, after which either Serbia would not exist at all, or would do so in form of a vassal state.  Austria-Hungary would not only have resolved an issue of domestic concern, but its brief and successful war would restore it to relevance among the world’s Great Powers.

The war-mongers genuinely believed they could pull it off.  This would be just another tumult in the Balkans, and after all, in the preceding three years there had been not one but two Balkan Wars among shifting coalitions, and nothing larger had grown from them.  In Edward Grey’s expression, the anchors held, and in the empire’s view there was no reason they ought not hold again.

It would be unfair to accuse Conrad and his allies of blindness to the risk that this particular Balkan crisis would be different because it, unlike the two previous wars, involved a Power — themselves.  They knew that Russia viewed itself as the South Slavs’ patron.  They knew from the Bosnian annexation crisis of 1908 that Russia’s position was that anything which increased imperial influence in the Balkans, especially at the expense of Slavic or Orthodox influence, was a direct threat to Russia’s standing as a Great Power (whether that position was reasonable or not).  They knew that Russia was the wild card in the deck.  They thought they could keep it from being played by invoking the aid of their German ally, Wilhelm II.  Wilhelm, foolishly, gave them the “blank check,” the assurance that, whatever happened, Germany would back them to the hilt.  And so forward they went.

Here it is not inappropriate to observe that, once again, the Hungarians gave the empire a shove in the direction of collapse.  The Hungarian prime minister, Istvan Tisza, was not unopposed to Serbia, and in fact was not fundamentally in disagreement that the Serbs needed to be squashed.  He did, however, have the imagination to realize where a war against Serbia, and against Russia, Serbia’s protector, was likely to lead.  He knew that the ethnic tensions in Hungary could scarcely survive such a war, and for that reason he was opposed, originally, to forcing the issue in summer 1914.  He was the sole politically powerful man who might, by firmness, have de-railed the self-delusion of the imperial government.  That he was inclined to do so out of chauvinistic grounds is not important.  He alone might have done so.  Had he demanded an audience with Franz Joseph and point-blank told him the home truths that Tisza alone seemed to comprehend, the ultimatum in its eventual form might well not have been sent.  And then he gave in, and blessed the enterprise.

If the Austo-Hungarians made one central mistake in summer 1914, it was in supposing that just because they and the Germans were allies they shared the same objectives.  Conrad thought that by invoking the German alliance he could prevent the Russian card from being played, that he could secure his northern front while he proceeded against the Serbs.  This is why you need to spy on your friends as well as your enemies.  The German general staff affirmatively wanted a war, and specifically a war against Russia.  They could see Russia re-arming, industrializing, growing, with access to French (and by that time, British as well) capital and markets.  They knew that, fully mobilized, Russia could put millions of men in the field, men who even incompetently lead would simply swamp the German army in a flood of flesh and material (much as they — correctly — understood their exposure to American intervention in both wars).  After years’ observation and debate, the German high command reached the conclusion that the only way to breach the encirclement of an allied France and Russia, with the association of a reconciled France and Britain in the background, was to smash the weakest member of the three: Russia.

The general staff’s objectives in respect of Russia are why, even after Wilhelm had, completely without consultation with any responsible member of his government (recalling that under the Imperial constitution, the chancellor had control of foreign policy) given the blank check, the general staff failed to jerk a knot in his butt.  They wanted a war with Russia, and the sooner, the better.  If anything, they were offended by their ally’s focus on the (for Germany, at least) irrelevant Serbian front.

By calling upon Germany, the Austro-Hungarians not only were unsuccessful in keeping Russia at bay, they ensured that Russia would be drawn in to the war.  As Franz Ferdinand was, in death, used as a tool by his political enemies to accomplish that which he abhorred, so Conrad von Hötzendorf was used as a tool by his allies to accomplish their ends, the diametric opposite of his own.

In his Second Inaugural, Lincoln spoke of the country’s route to war.

“On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.”

Of the route to war between June 28 and the end of July, I do not know that we can say better than that one side would make war rather than allow peace to continue, and the other would accept war rather than let peace be destroyed.  And the war came.

Margaret MacMillan’s The War That Ended Peace deals of the years ending in 1914.  There is not a great deal in her book that isn’t widely known, but it’s her perspective that is important.  She asks and tries to answer the question of why Edward Grey’s anchors failed to hold.  And she keeps squarely before the reader that these were identifiable people, moral agents with a range of choices, who made choices that brought war closer instead of making those which would have made it more difficult.

The Serbian nationalists felt relieved when Franz Ferdinand died in Sarajevo.  They thought they’d done a good day’s work.  Fools.  By war’s end 16% of Serbia’s gross pre-war population was dead.  Nearly one out of six men, women, and children was a corpse.  Sure, they got their kingdom of South Slavs (the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovene, the constitution of which was proclaimed on this day in 1921), but they had precious little time to enjoy it.  Twenty years later the Wehrmacht came to town.  Then came 45 years of communist oppression, then renewed civil war and genocide.

“Never let a good crisis go to waste.”  This was said, flippantly, by a former aide to Dear Leader.  He said it as if to assert his mastery of political intrigue, his control of the Great Chessboard of Affairs.  Crises, according to this view, enable the savvy operator to accomplish things, to form alliances, that would be impossible under normal circumstances.  This view rests on a sublime hubris, the delusion that in a pack of wolves, it is possible to select one, grab that one by the ears, and in so doing steer the entire pack in a direction you desire.  Even if you can ride him, you’re still in a pickle:  Thos. Jefferson said of slavery that it was like holding a wolf by the ears:  You didn’t like it but you dare not let it go.  General Conrad and the German general staff didn’t want to let a good crisis go to waste.  And they didn’t.  To borrow another expression of Lincoln’s (also from the Second Inaugural), they got something altogether more “fundamental and outstanding” than they’d bargained for.  Franz Joseph, the man who abhorred all Change on principle, wearily acquiesced in the fomenting of the most fundamental change seen on the European continent since the Reformation.

God has a sense of irony.  Again, from Lincoln:  “The Almighty has His own purposes.”

And so today we contemplate the death of a man and his wife, a man whose life was a frustration of his own purposes and whose death was appropriated to their antithesis.  We today begin the centennial observation of those years in which men, by no means fools, yet foolishly actively sought chaos because they thought their stability repugnant.

The history of revolution and revolutionaries is a grim litany of horror and death.  About the only two I can readily think of which resulted in objective improvement to the moral or material conditions of their ordinary populations were the English Glorious Revolution of 1688 and their American colonies’ revolution of the 1770s-80s.

It doesn’t speak very well of us, does it?

Rest in peace, Franz Ferdinand.  You at least were spared the sight of what you spent your life trying to stave off.

For the Last Time

Just 199 short years ago today, something stopped that had been going on almost uninterruptedly for . . . oh . . . something on the order of 500 years.

On 18 June 1815, for the last time, a fully-sovereign France and Great Britain fired on each other in anger.  I use the expression “fully-sovereign” because I distinguish the Vichy forces’ opposition to the TORCH landings in 1942 as being acts in the capacity of agent for their Nazi overlords.  Let’s think about that for a moment.  At least since Edward III asserted his rights to the French throne in 1337 the English and the French were at each other’s throats.

Several of those wars were world-transformative, in the most literal sense of the word.  The Hundred Years War, launched by Edward III all those years ago, produced among its longer-lasting side-effects a functioning parliament in England.  Edward was repeatedly forced to grant concessions to the Lords and Commons to obtain money for his war-making.  In fact the very notion of no taxation except upon consent is a principle first firmly established in the course of that conflict.

On the other side of the Channel, as Barbara Tuchman points out in A Distant Mirror, the war consolidated the French monarchy and territorial integrity, and introduced a new force into the political fabric of Western Civilization, one pregnant with implications for the future: nationalism.  Oh sure, there were places where tribal loyalties could and did combine to produce momentary politico-social cohesion against outsiders.  Think Scotland, and specifically the Scotland of Edward’s day; it was Edward’s father, the ill-fated Edward II, whom Robert the Bruce demolished at Bannockburn in 1314.  But that’s the whole point:  the Scots’ loyalties were tribal, meaning that creating a coalition capable of prolonged, bitter resistance to a non-Scottish force was problematic to say the least.  Over the course of centuries the English time and again were able to splinter them to bits and conquer them piecemeal.  Before the 100 Years War, “France,” as a concept, existed scarcely outside the area immediately surrounding Paris.  One was Provençal, or Burgundian, Breton, or whatever.  “I am the Lord of Coucy,” proclaimed the builders of the castle at the symbolic center of Tuchman’s book.  Indeed what allowed England to wage war so successfully for so long was that the English were not fighting “France” so much as a succession of highly frangible coalitions of French nobles.  The crucible of a century’s fighting ended that.  By the time England was pared back to Calais, France as such was a unified state capable of mobilizing the population and resources of a comparatively vast (certainly in comparison to just about everyone else on the western European continent) territory.

The long wars of Louis XIV established Britain, as she by then was, in what became her traditional role of Paymaster of Coalitions.  Certainly Britain fought on the continent against Louis, but it was the decades of repeatedly having to assemble and keep in the field massive coalitions of widely disparate allies that cemented Britain in its position as power broker.  It wasn’t the first time Britain had played that role; we think of its underwriting of the United Provinces in the 80 Year War for independence from Spain.  But there were two aspects of that involvement that, I think, set it a bit apart from the long struggle against Louis.  Britain’s backing of the Low Countries was first and foremost a religious war, which Britain involved itself in because Spain during those years was actively attempting to crush the Reformation in England.  Secondly, the relationship was dyadic; on the one side England and on the other the Dutch.  The wars against Louis covered far more territory and involved much larger groups of very different combatants.  Is it so unreasonable to suppose that a talent for coalition building and maintenance somehow made it into the English political DNA over the course of those years?

The Seven Years War found Britain once again at the financial center of a shifting coalition of forces the only constant in which was that England and France were always on the opposite sides.  It also made Britain a truly world power for the first time, when it snapped up nearly all of France’s overseas possessions.  All of North America east of the Mississippi, north of Florida and the mouth of the river, and — at least once you got to the Great Lakes — all the way west to the Pacific.  The Indian subcontinent.  And sundry others.  On the other hand, the financial burdens of winning that war lead Britain down the entirely reasonable-seeming path of Why Shouldn’t the Colonists Help Pay For It All?  With results in the form of the American Revolution too well-known to mention.

After only the briefest respite after the American Revolution, in 1792 France and Britain were at it again, and would remain so until this day in 1815.  That conflict did two things: It ensured the critical thrust to the incipient Industrial Revolution in Britain, and by utterly destroying French and Spanish colonial power (Spain never recovered from its conquest by France and the civil war that ensued, and sure enough, by 1820 its remaining significant American colonies were sloughing off like dead skin), it ensured that for nearly 100 years the world was Britain’s oyster.  No one at all seriously challenged its position atop the world economic system until Germany emerged in the 1880s.

Now, Waterloo did not suddenly make France and Britain such bosom buddies that all was kiss-in-the-ring ever after.  Even though they fought in tandem against the Tsar in the Crimea in the 1850s, as late as 1898, when Captain Marchand and his troops marched into Fashoda, a general shooting war could have erupted on any number of occasions.  It took Admiral Tirpitz and Wilhelm II, his dupe, to accomplish the final reconciliation in 1904 in the form of the Entente Cordiale.  I’ve made my observations on that here.  Wilhelm and his ministers were so confident of the depth of Franco-British enmity that they were dumbfounded when it happened.  The United States making common cause with Iran will scarcely be more flabbergasting to our world than was the spectacle of France and Britain formally and actually abandoning an antagonistic posture nearly six centuries old.

The fact still remains, however, that this day in 1815 was the last time (apart from the peculiar circumstances of TORCH) that France and Britain traded mortal blows.  Which of the surviving soldiers on that muggy June day in Belgium could have known to look out over the fields writhing with wounded and littered with dead men and animals, to say nothing of the blasted remains of muskets, cannon, limbers, wagons, and farm buildings, and think to himself, “Today ends nearly five centuries.”  Who could have known, as Marshall Blücher and Wellington shook hands after the battle, and the old soldier greeted the Iron Duke with, “Quelle affaire!” that the next time Prussian and Briton would shake hands as friends and allies would be 140 years later, upon the West German rump state’s entry into NATO?

Happy Waterloo Day.