PolitBlogger

A hungover morning

2006-03-11T14:53:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning in a painful haze with swirling ceilings and heat. Sleep had been reduced to a meager couple of hours as I had to wait up for S____ to get home. She locked herself out and I wasn't around to let her in at Midnight when she got home. She almost had to sleep at her office. I felt awful.

Sadly though, I wasn't in much of a condition to remember. 4 or 5 tall whiskeys, and a couple of beers will do that to a guy. It was supposed to be a light night. Isn't that how the stories usually start. C___ and I agree to meet for a beer, V___ comes by, whiskey comes out, and we end up hitting Smith's Point dancing begins with a motley crew of reporters and lawyers.

It started out so promisingly too with light banter and idle conversations. Talks about Politics and Incas and lost Jews and ended up being about everything by the end of the night. Actually, in the interests of honesty, the night ended with conversations about genetics as well, but that conversation was had on the dance floor at the point. and very drunkenly. But it's not often you grab a dance partner at a ditzy republican bar who knows genetics.

And there was wine and women to be had for everyone. Everyone but C__ and I . C____ went home drunk and early. He wanted to bail before but he stayed, overstayed really. After a couple spilled beers he agreed that he should stagger across the bridge and back to his pad. While others searched out companions or company I merely danced.

It's a little like the Anansi Stories, the ones that say just because they're his stories he doesn't always win them in the end.

Now I sit in a coffee shop writing scripts and hoping that sobriety and sanity finds me here. I certainly am not in shape to go looking for it.

Work, work, work. It's a good thing.

2006-02-20T16:23:00.000-05:00

I'm sure this elation with what I do will fade. I'm certain that at some point in the future I will spend my holidays avoiding anything to do with past civilizations or histories of foreign lands. I'm sure at some point I won't wander the streets slightly sad that I'm not supposed to be focused. And I'm sure at some point I won't spend my holidays in a coffee shop doing exactly the things that I shouldn't be thinking about on holidays. However, that day is not today, will not be tomorrow, and won't be soon.

You see after so many years as a freelancer, and a relatively broke one as well, I am elated to be back at work. It's true. My girlfriend laughs at me. She's never seen me smile like I do know and, to be truthful, it's been many years since I have. Life has not been good to me and when life isn't good, it's boring.

You see that is the true madness inducing part of poverty. It's not the money, and it's not the hunger, and it's not even the sadness of being unable to take a bus. It's the boredom. Orwell knew. Read Down and Out in Paris and London and you'll see it. My life wasn't that bad ever, but when you have to fall to Orwell and Dickens for comparisons to your living standards you definitely need help.

Even when I was doing work the work I was doing was boring. I'm not meant to be a secretary. And lest you think that a slight, a good secretary or Administrative Assistant, to use the modern moniker, is an invaluable thing. Good AA's should be rewarded with money and flowers and trips to Tahiti. They do an utterly thankless job and for me it's a dreary one. They are the cogs in the machine, the little grease-covered coils no machine will run without. However, it's dull work.

I need constant mental exercise. Reading, writing, thinking, planning (yes, I must confess some aspects of a planner) I need to be able to pace, mentally and physically.

Thankfully this new job allows me to do just that. It's fascinating stuff but it's intense mentally. And thank God for that.

My return to broadcasting at long last.

2006-02-20T11:44:00.000-05:00

Hello Everyone

I know that I promised you large numbers of books this year and so far have only given you two. I’ll add the others shortly but I wanted to share with you why my blogging may suffer in the coming weeks.

You see, I’ve managed to land my dream job working at National Geographic. It’s astonishing and I’m so happy to have it; especially so now, at a time when National geographic is starting to trace the biggest question in humanity. Namely, who are we and where did we come from?

Through the wonders of modern genetics we are able to see now that we are all related, perhaps closer than we’ve ever known before. More importantly, we can now trace our ancestry across continents, across times and we can come to the very dawn of humanity. The birthplace of every man, woman and child on this planet: Africa.

But that’s only half the journey, only half the excitement. We can also trace the mutational clock as it ticks through the generations of man. As this metronome swings it’s monotonous tick we can see man leave Africa, enter Australia, India, Russia, and finally across the Icy tundra to Europe and the Americas.

We are now the dominant force on the planet, and we are sprung from a common source. Spencer Wells, has been tracking the journey for the Genographic project, a continuing effort to find out how we came to occupy every corner of the planet. But what do we do with this information? Well, National Geographic is making films about it. It’s what they do, or rather I should say, what we do. You see, alongside the National Geographic Television and Film department, I’m going to be making them.

If you want to shoot me ideas, they’re always welcome. Post them here, or send them to my email.

But there’s a lot to do, more to learn and movies to make.

It’s time to go to work.

Bradley

The 50 book Challenge #3: Underground, Haruki Murakami

2006-02-16T11:38:00.000-05:00

In a day and age where there are daily fears of terror attacks on mass transit systems, it’s useful to remember that even were such an attack to occur tomorrow (and god willing it won’t) it wouldn’t be the first. Japan has already had an attack of this nature. The Aum cult had several members walk onto the Tokyo transit system with packets filled with Sarin nerve Gas. It killed several people, injured hundreds more. There was no rhyme or reason to the attack. It simply destroyed lives.

But the question I always ask is who is it that was affected? What were they doing there? Why were they there? Who were they seeing? Haruki Murakami asks similar questions in underground and he asks them of everyone he can. He reaches the subway personnel that cleaned up the spilled nerve agent and pay the costs of their duty to this day; he talks to the brother of a woman so badly injured that 5 years later she is still hospitalized and has severe mental, physical and emotional problems; and he asks members of Aum why they still affiliate themselves with the group. What’s more, he presses them, as any reporter would, to tell more about life in the cult and why these brilliant minds are a part of it. He takes their claims with less credulity. But he gives them every opportunity to speak their piece.

It’s not Murakami’s usual cup of tea. Stories like Norwegian Wood or the Wind-Up Bird Chronicles are beautiful stories of madness and heartbreak: Poe without the darkness. They are poetic and moving, often with eroticism mixed in. Not here. Underground is a straightforward reportorial account that any journalist would be proud to call his own.

What’s shocking about the book, and it is surprisingly shocking, is how normal it is. Now as a Washington Resident on 9/11 I am familiar with the Terror on a clear and sunny morning. But that was fundamentally an attack on institutions. The attacks in London and Madrid last year more accurately parallel the Tokyo Gas attacks. Each one was aimed at a large group doing nothing more than passing through the wrong place at the wrong time.

The victims Murakami talks to are all fairly well educated, most were headed to work and many didn’t want to remember. Most had tried to put it behind them, some mentally, some physically. But through it all you perceive the tenderness that Murakami demonstrates so beautifully in his novels. He is empathetic and active in his quest.

My only complaint is that it does get fairly repetitive the more you read it. As interesting as the people are, there are so many of them that they blur together after a while. Murakami has always struggled a bit with the middle sections of his books and he does so again here. However, like always his strong style and deep attachment to his characters, his interviewees in this case, keep you reading.

God and Science

2006-02-06T12:18:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while, usually after long periods enmeshed in the scientific and political journals I love to read, I am reminded that I do like religion. I always have. Even in my most severe fights with the Church, I was okay with religion, just not any religion I found. And every once in a while I see the brief flash of religious life flicker across my eyes.

I’m envious of believers. The world to them seems so complete. Is there a whole in logic? Fill it with god. Need direction in your life? Ask God, he’s got the map. Can’t find a girl? Well, the bible only talks about Mary being a virgin It never mentions God’s sexual status so he may have some pointers.

But then I look at the zealots, the ideologues and the partisans who take religion and morph it into a cudgel against others. They forge it and mold it and beat it until it is crafted into the slave driver’s whip, the crusader’s sword, the Jewish ghetto, the little boy packed with explosives. It is used as a cloak to hide ignorance and bigotry, and it says that the world should not change.

Whenever I see this religious darkness I, as so many of my friends, hold up a light of reason in an attempt to banish the darkness and often banish religion in its entirety.

But through the years and contrary to popular belief the church has funded, supported, and otherwise sponsored its own scientists. These men and women don’t distort science as does the Discovery Institute, a hotbed of Intelligent Design. They don’t eagerly look to the holes in evolutionary theory with carnivorous glee, rather they embrace science as a means to understand creation. They are the flecks of light in the darkness; the stars of reason and rationality breaking the void of blind doctrine.

One such star is Father George V. Coyne, SJ.

Coyne is the Director of the Vatican Observatory and a man more schooled than I in the ways of the universe. His science is solid and placed in reverence as the equal of faith. He so eloquently deflates the argument of the Intelligent Design theorists that it would be wrong of me not to let him speak for himself:

How are we to interpret the scientific picture of life’s origins in terms of religious belief. Do we need God to explain this? Very succinctly my answer is no. In fact, to need God would be a very denial of God. God is not the response to a need. One gets the impression from certain religious believers that they fondly hope for the durability of certain gaps in our scientific knowledge of evolution, so that they can fill them with God. This is the exact opposite of what human intelligence is all about. We should be seeking for the fullness of God in creation. We should not need God; we should accept her/him when he comes to us…It is for reasons of this description that I claim that Intelligent Design diminishes God, makes her/him an engineer who designs systems rather than a lover.

The universe as we know it today through science is one way to derive analogical knowledge of God. For those who believe modern science does say something to us about God, it provides a challenge, an enriching challenge, to traditional beliefs about God. God in his infinite freedom continuously creates a world which reflects that freedom at all levels of the evolutionary process to greater and greater complexity. God lets the world be what it will be in its continuous evolution. He does not intervene, but rather allows, participates, loves.

Religion need not be the enemy of science, Science should not be the enemy of God. Both are helpful in letting us understand who and what we are in this world. While I still have more passion for subatomic particles than sermons, I’m happy that there are those whose lives involve maintaining perspective in this potentially schismatic area.

50 Book Challenge #2 Eats, Shoots and Leaves

2006-01-30T17:40:00.000-05:00

Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, is the most readable grammar guide since Professor Strunk's "The Elements of Style" (now in an illustrated version). I'm not kidding. It's a truly enjoyable read for those of us who like reading about these things and if the New York Times is to be believed that's a lot of us. Much of the information is superfluous at best -- after all who really needs to know the history of the italic font -- but Truss's enthusiasm is infectious.

The remarkable thing about the book is that as a manifesto it's not bad. I'm not ready to become one of her proposed guerilla grammarians, armed with correcting fluid and I don't think she really expects anyone too. Certainly if I were to correct the grammar on the protest posters plastered on subway escalators and traffic lights I'd never make it to work. But I noticed the shoddy grammar this morning; I noticed it in my writing; and I noticed it on this blog.

I've long said that every writer alive benefits from the value of a good editor. They make you better, they help you focus, they keep you working. They are the punctilious coaches forever on the sidelines of the literary and journalistic world. Occasionally it's nice to have people like Professor Strunk and Ms. Truss remind us that the coaches are there for a reason, and that if you listen to them you really can get better.

Even though no insurgency has arisen over italics in the years since the book has come out, and the ardent apostrophers and paranthesis partisans remain dormant; I would welcome a grammarian guerilla war and smile should I fall in it, my body of work riddled with elipsis, hacked by slashes, and beaten into a comma coma.

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Next: With all the fears of terror on the transit system it's time to go Underground with Haruki Murakami.

The 50 Book Challenge-#1 The Master and Margarita

2006-01-27T15:10:00.000-05:00

I've decided to take up the 50 book challenge.

The basic premise is simple. Read 50 books in a single year and blog about them. Now for those of you who don't know how eclectic my life is these posts will document it.

I will be writing mini-reviews for each of them and would be happy to receive any recommendations that are floating about. I'll also link to the Abebooks search list for that book. For those more familiar with the marketing Giant Amazon you may not have heard of AbeBooks.com. It's a website made up of thousands of second hand and independent bookstores from around the world. From the offbeat to the exotic, if you want it odds are you can find it here. They even have a rare book section where anyone whose interested can get me some un-birthday presents.

To start things off with the weird let's go with The Master and Margarita.

I picked up this book on the recommendations of several beautiful Russian Girls I was fortunate enough to spend New Year's with. Between the bantering about books and the oddity of the plot summary I was hooked.

You see, The Master and Margarita is not just a fantasy; it is a Satanic fantasy. But it's fantasy and magic come in a form more familiar to Gabrielle Garcia Marquez than Timothy Zahn.

What intrigued me enough to pick it up was that it is referred to as a Satanic Fantasy, and indeed there is no other way to describe it. The plot is easily summed up as a sort of demonic "Death takes a Holiday" Lucifer, becoming bored in hell, wanders through the bourgeois society of post-revolutionary Russia. Hijinks ensue.

What's fascinating is that the work alternates between touching romance, modern chaos, and shocking biblical heresy, effortlessly moving between the three. It is by turns tragic and comical, fantastic and yet utterly human.

The biblical line follows the death of Ha-Nozri (Jesus). Ha-Nozri is not a prophet with a vast army of followers, but instead a simple decent man followed around by Mattu Levi. Ha-Nozri complains that Levi is writing down all the things he's doing and keeps getting everything wrong. Of course the standard biblical events follow, the freeing of Barrabas, the death on the cross, and the destruction of the temple, even the death of Judas but these events so leaden with portent in the biblical retelling seem to gain a levity when Bulgakov rids them of their religious trappings and makes them more plausible and more enjoyable to hear about.

The modern era storyline is as gruesome as the crucifixion. Peoples are decapitated by train cars, have their heads are ripped from their shoulders, and a good number of the characters end up in the insane asylum.

But the madness of the events never impacts the pace of the work and it never seems frenetic. Instead the work is a nice leisurely stroll through a demented philosophy and an exceptionally bizarre little world.

Next up: Grammar gone wild. Stay tuned.

Questioning Alito

2006-01-11T13:07:00.000-05:00

Let’s get something on the table.

I don’t care about Roe v. Wade.

Alito’s hearings have become a battle over abortion. This was inevitable but let’s look at some things.

Roe v Wade is one case. The precedential basis makes it virtually impossible to overturn in its entirety. I don’t care whether its precedent, super precedent, super duper precedent or amazo-spectacular precedent this involves one issue. ONE ISSUE.

The Supreme Court handles so many issues that to obsess over this one concern really limits our understanding of the court and its Justices.

More important are issues of the interstate commerce clause, the establishment clause, the role of congress, the use and abuse of executive power, affirmative action, and so many others. These involve not one case but the entire docket. I’m happy to hear Alito’s answer to how he sees precedent but I doubt a man of his extensive training and mental acuity will be giving wildly divergent answers when he’s asked it again. Alito dances around questions everyone knows he’s not going to answer and yet they take 5 minutes to ask the questions.

A journalist given 30 minutes with Alito would be able to write a 2000 word feature. Even silent, the Washington Post’s Dana Milbank has written extensively and revealingly about Alito using only a sentence or two gathered outside of a formal interview.

Let’s get to the questions, cut the speeches and find out what is really going on. Durbin was a good example, Feingold was not. We get to try this once more in the second round.

This time let’s cut the crap, expand the number of questions and get to the heart of a serious judicial investigation. This is the Supreme Court here. As everyone has wasted time saying, it’s a lifetime appointment. Democrat or Republican, rip off the kid gloves and go to town on Alito. Find out what he really believes, how he really thinks.

I neither support nor oppose Alito. I don’t know enough about him. Unless the Senators start getting tough with him and truly clarifying issues, I doubt I will when this is done either.

Taxi Driver

2005-12-12T16:55:00.000-05:00

Fankin Rashid's cab smelled like stale incense and gasoline. The grinding gears would have given American Mechanics nightmares and his driving would do so for most Americans. But after six cabs in two days in Sharm el-Sheik I believed him when he said he was a safe driver. But nonetheless he careened through the streets with flashing lights, honking horns and hard turns that slid Dayna and I sliding across the seats a little.

After a day spent clambering around I had newly acquired clothing and to put it to best use Dayna and I decided on a proper dinner and drinks. So we headed to the Ritz Carlton for for the liquid portion of the evening. She had never been inside a Ritz and it seemed fitting to live like Pharaohs while in Egypt. Dayna had slipped into a little black dress with a matching shoulder wrap and I was buried under dirty slacks and a blue Marino wool sweater (the only option available to me sans luggage).

Like most people in Sharm Dayna and I have encountered he asked if we were married. We said no and he asked if she was my girlfriend. Another No but this time not one that Rashid would accept.

THe topic was an awkward one and I changed the topic to the Russians. Russians dominate sharm el-sheik. They are everywhere here complete with their own kitsch bar, called back in the USSR which has "Pushkin Potatoes"
When I mentioned this to Rashid he spat out invective.

"Horrible people the Russians. They stole my phone. This russian I have in my cab, he leave his bag and I take it back to him. It contain credit card, wallet everything. How does he repay me? He steals my phone.

We commented on his English fluency and he said that he loved language and reading. He read everything but he loved the philosophers. While he struggled for the word philosophers it was not an idle boast for he quickly gave a list that would impress any literati: Nietzche, Kierkegaard, Camus, Sartre, the list went on.

"I love books." He said briedly taking hands off the wheel to turn and look at us (he didn't slow down a whit) I read every day. I like books the way some people like women. If I could I would read more but I have no time. This is my second job."

"What's your first?" Dayna enquired.

I can't say. Top Secret.

With that we pulled into the Ritz and paid him. As I gave him a tip he insisted on giving me a very unique piece of change.

An American One dollar Bill.

Lost luggage.

2005-12-11T03:53:00.000-05:00

Much to my chagrin my baggage was forcibly checked on my way here because there wasn't any room on the plane. However, it took offence at the slight and decided to stay in Detroit. So I have nothing. I tried to persuade it to come back to me. It said it will think about it.

It may be able to join me on Tuesday.

This is going to be interesting.

As for my first impression (of which more later): tastes like chicken.

Looks like its time to go shopping.

POLITBLOGGERS GOES GLOBAL !

2005-12-09T15:12:00.000-05:00

After a November of isolation your fearless correspondent is off to examine the intricacies of the egyptian coastline. And given the election results and the potential surge in the political potency of the Muslim Brotherhood, they should be some interesting conversations.

I'm also happy to be escaping the latest series of monster storms that threatens to inundate the east coast in a monochrome blanket.

More when I reach the cradle of civilization.

Wish me well my friends.

Bradley

The Battle over Alito

2005-11-15T17:29:00.000-05:00

Every year the Orange Day parades and protests fill the Shankill Road with bonfires that are prepared months in advance. Every year they burn illuminating the night and raining ash. They provide the apocalyptic backdrop to the violence that surrounds marching season in Belfast. But over the last few years the bonfires have not seemed like omens of violence, and the smoke in the sky is not a bleak omen of a dark future. For the people of Northern Ireland, they are now bonfires and signs that there are still extremists on both sides, and that the middle must hold. Violence has ruled Northern Ireland, and the people have decided that it must end. So the forgotten commoners, the middle class Irish who wish to live and work in peace have fought to make sure that every year there is less fuel for the fires, the emotional ones as well as the physical ones. Slowly, they have been making progress at discussing the future of Ireland without shouts or stabbings, without gunfire and without greed.

The Battle for the Supreme Court is not as literal as the battle for peace in Northern Ireland, but it is no less volatile. The difference is that in Ireland the rational middle has excoriated the fanatics on both sides and morphed the debate into a conversation about Ireland’s future, the fanatics of both sides lost. The same thing needs to happen in our conversation about the Supreme Court.

The debate over the Supreme Court is now dominated by single issue bomb throwers from both sides. The quiet law abiding members of the majority simply run away from the explosive cocktails being lobbed about them. Escape seems a simple and sane option. But by abandoning the field to the extremists on both sides the debate, bickering has taken over and there is little room for the moderate voices to prevail.

The Supreme Court is not only about abortion. It’s about, civil rights, the separation of powers, executive privilege, the right to privacy, the freedom of the press, the death penalty, environmental regulation and immigration policy.

The Supreme Court decides the fate of American Jurisprudence. It shapes the direction of our country as thoroughly as the other executive or the Congress. It is the one responsible for avoiding conflict and promoting stability. But there are questions that are indicative of the country as well as the court.

There is a shift from viewing the Constitution as an evolving document to the more dogmatic viewing; Is this ‘strict constructionist’ camp the direction America should go? Does the interstate commerce clause allow the Supreme Court almost unlimited jurisdiction? Is there an inherent right to privacy, not just for things like abortion, but on subjects like medical records and computer programs? Is the executive gathering too much power? Should states be left to test programs on their own as local laboratories of democracy or should consistency be enforced across the country so that there is a level playing field?

These are issues that need to be addressed and should be discussed from Burbank to the Beltway. With the retirement or passing of any Supreme court Justice America should once again stand and examine where we want our country to go and how we want it to be governed. The people may not get a direct vote on the election of a Supreme Court Justice, but we should know why it is that we support them.

For the sake of the country, it must be more than just where they stand on abortion. The Supreme Court is in a delicate balance, the independent arbiter is caught between warring factions. So long as it is caught in this vise, the nation will suffer. The fanatics on both sides must be calmed and Justices must be chosen because of their legal acumen and understanding of the law. It can and should be a debate about philosophy and how the law should be used. It should not be a fundraiser and a battleground for extremists.

It’s too important for that.

Gone writin'

2005-11-09T11:18:00.000-05:00

In my foolishness I have decide to embark upon the minor quest of National Novel Writers Month, affectionately called NaNoWriMo. As this lunacy is taking over my life I can neither blog in general nor, more specifically pontificate on the political positioning and posturing as befits my lowly status in the punditocracy.

However, if you would like to see the sadism that is Nanowrimo, Come on Down.

The Nome de plume is Mr_5th

Until December,

Bradley

Bush's Avian Flu

2005-10-20T16:53:00.000-05:00

How can it be that two weeks into the Harriet Miers nomination I have been frighteningly silent. Could it be that I don't have an opinion? No thoughts to share? No perspectives to ponder?

Rest assured my dear friends, I do.

The fascination of Miers is that the machine which so effortlessly moved John Roberts through seems to have evaporated. On a take home exam given by the Senate Judiciary Committee Miers scored an incomplete. She was sent home with a public scolding and a note to her patrons. Please do it again, and do it right this time.

Partisanship was put aside as both the Chair and the Ranking member of the Senate Judiciary committee held a joint press conference blasting the administration for sending such a lackluster response to the Hill. Many bloggers called it pedantic, some called it offensive, but few had the impact of these two members of the SCOTUS hiring committee calling it "inadequate," "insufficient" and "insulting." Her legal writings are elementary at best, simplistic at worst, and lack the intellectual potency to shift the court in any direction according to many legal scholars.

There are two things that are mind-boggling here: Bush is already being accused of cronyism, Michael Brown is still hanging around the neck of this administration. But if Michael Brown is an albatross round the neck of the White House it seems fair to say that Miers is an ostrich, a badly battered ostrich. The Whiet House under attack from Left and Right alike has decided to stick its head in the sand regarding its political vulnerabilities.

The second nominee was always going to be a tough show compared to Chief Justice Roberts. Roberts effortless banter and punctilious mastery of constitutional law won over many critics. The decision to elevate his election to that of Chief Justice was a natural fit for a man who had spent his life preparing for just that possibility. In contrast, Miers has gotten basic points of constitutional law wrong (points basic enough for me to stage a rebuttal as a non-lawyer). Moreover, her personal charisma is not an asset. Miers is so quiet that she is difficult to hear; hardly the lion on the court. Moreover, Miers seems to have had little ambition of her own. Her qualifications, as many pundits of left right and center all say, is that she is close to the President and phenomenally loyal. Unswerving loyalty is rewarded in the administration. For better or worse, it is Bush's typical modus operandi. However, the blundering up to this point is not.

An administration known for its secrecy and stability now leaks like a bad roman era aquaduct. The grand coalition of conservatives that has powered through the President's legislative agenda is torn asunder; riven by the Miers nomination into camps that speak openly of permanent schism. Columnists that once lambasted any criticism of the President are now his strongest adversaries. And an administration best known for keeping above the fray and leaving both carrot and stick to others, now wields their tools with the subtlety of a pillaging viking and the effortless grace of a gutshot rhinocerous.

Whether Miers becomes a Justice or not is still unknown, but her enemies are legion, her obstacles are many, her allies are few, and her skills are weak. Miers may be a for this president. Her nomination signals a dramatic shift. But this administration hopes for clear skies it remains on the ground.

Many blame the problems on the administration and its allies legal woes. A valid argument, Fitzgerald haunts the administration like a vulture, while the Abrahamoff investigation circles just beside. There was clear air when Roberts soared above the fray as an eagle. Now, Brown is an albatross, Miers an Ostrich.If Bush isn't careful, they may become chains attached to another avian: a lame duck.

Random thought

2005-10-06T14:09:00.000-05:00

And so routine and normality combine to create a soporific.

calming the fires of raging ambition.

As the daily machinations of a private life move steadily towards stability, worlds which were once together drift apart.

Quietly and with little fanfare, worlds end.

John McCain and the role of the American Soldier

2005-10-06T11:10:00.000-05:00

John McCain is one of those people that seems to earn respect with every new statement. His has been the clearest voice on the war in Iraq. He asked the pointed questions, accepted the bad news without leaping to the doomsday scenarios of some or the utopian dreams of others. This morning the Senate passed a bill he authored that offers clear guidance on interrogations. It eliminates the vagaries that allowed Abu Ghraib and the abuses at Guantanamo Bay.

While it's rare for me to publish the full text of politicians statements, his speech today, with its eloquent prose and simple power, deserves to be appreciated in full.

Sen. John McCain:

Mr. President, war is an awful business. I know that. I don't think I'm naive about how severe are the wages of war, and how terrible are the things that must be done to wage it successfully. It is a grim, dark business, and no matter how noble the cause for which it is fought, no matter how valiant the service, many veterans spend much of their subsequent lives trying to forget not only what was done to them and their comrades, but some of what had to be done by their hand to prevail. I don't mourn the loss of any terrorist's life nor do I care if in the course of serving their ignoble cause they suffer great harm. They have pledged their lives to the intentional destruction of innocent lives, and they have earned their terrible punishment in this life and the next.
What I do regret, what I do mourn, and what I do care very much about is what we lose, what we -- the American serviceman and woman and the great nation they defend at the risk of their lives -- what we lose when by official policy or by official negligence -- we allow, confuse or encourage our soldiers to forget that best sense of ourselves, our greatest strength: that we are different and better than our enemies; that we fight for an idea -- not a tribe, not a land, not a king, not a twisted interpretation of an ancient religion -- but for an idea that all men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with inalienable rights.

I have been asked before where did the brave men I was privileged to serve with in Vietnam draw the strength to resist to the best of their ability the cruelties inflicted on them by our enemies. Well, we drew strength from our faith in each other, from our faith in God, and from our faith in our country. Our enemies didn't adhere to the Geneva Convention. Many of my comrades were subjected to very cruel, very inhumane and degrading treatment, a few of them even unto death. But everyone of us knew, every single one of us knew and took great strength from the belief that we were different from our enemies, that we were better than them, that we, if the roles were reversed, would not disgrace ourselves by committing or countenancing such mistreatment of them. That faith was indispensable not only to our survival, but to our attempts to return home with honor. Many of the men I served with would have preferred death to such dishonor.

The enemies we fight today hold such liberal notions in contempt, as they hold the international conventions that enshrine them such as the Geneva Conventions and the treaty on torture in contempt. I know that. But we're better than them, and we are the stronger for our faith. And we will prevail. I submit to my colleagues that it is indispensable to our success in this war that our servicemen and women know that in the discharge of their dangerous responsibilities to their country they are never expected to forget that they are Americans, the valiant defenders of a sacred idea of how nations should govern their own affairs and their relations with others -- even our enemies.

Those who return to us and those who give their lives for us are entitled to that honor. And those of us who have given them this onerous duty are obliged by our history, and by the sacrifice -- the many terrible sacrifices -- that have been made in our defense, we are obliged to make clear to them that they need not risk their or their country's honor to prevail; that they are always, always -- through the violence, chaos and heartache of war, through deprivation and cruelty and loss -- they are always, always Americans, and different, better, and stronger than those who would destroy us. God bless them as he has blessed us with their service.

Bush's Blunder

2005-10-04T16:45:00.000-05:00

John Roberts could not have been entirely happy as he donned for the first time his black robe. Despite the crowds which were lined up around the block to see the 50 year old assume what is possibly the second most powerful role in the US Government, despite the high praise of his friends and admirers and even many critics, John Roberts dawn as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court was darkened. Darkened by the very President who had nominated him. Because before you could say "God save this honorable court," Harriet Miers stepped into the sunlight and the media went ballistic.

The question in all this is why? Not why was Miers nominated, a discussion now causing heartaches and panic to the wings of both parties. Not, why did the President antagonize his base with another stealth candidate, so that many of his most conservative backers are saying, "Not one more dime, not one more minute, not one more vote will I give to the Republican Party."

No my friends, that is not the question. The question, is why then?

Bush announced the nomination of Justice Roberts in primetime to great fanfare. He was hailed as a sharp thinker, a brilliant legal mind, and a constitutional scholar par excellance. In his hearings there was no question too obscure, no rule too archaic to bring forth a response, though often that response was, I won't comment or prejudge future cases. Even his dodging, a vital skill in Washington, was artful. His smile was genuine. His manner was light and easy. This was the moment for which John Roberts had prepared for his entire life. Even in a Congress as divided as this one, Roberts got over 70 percent of the vote; a feat that would normally strain credulity in our partisan climate.

Roberts face would have adorned the front pages. He would have received glowing press and rave reviews even if he had put on his judges robe backwards. But instead he was banished below the fold by Bush's personal lawyer, a woman few people had ever heard of, who had never served as a judge, nor held high-level elected office, nor shown an acute awareness of constitutional law. The day which was to be his, was taken away by shouts at a woman who may be his subordinate.

Instead of Roberts at the introductory photo session, the Washington Express, a daily commuter rag, leads with a rushed shot of Miers leaving the White House, a 24 point title wondering "Who is she?" The Conservative Bill Krystol, whose praise of Roberts verged on the worshipful, dedicated his column to how he was "disappointed, depressed and demoralized" by Miers selection. Conservatives were schisming, shouting at the president they put into office, "Where is our Scalia? Where is our Thomas?" Even the people at Confirm them, an organization set up to support Bush's nominees stopped praising Roberts and started arguing against Miers' confirmation.

Much of this debate was unavoidable once Bush decided to pick Miers as his next justice. But to give up a free day of headlines that might have read, "New Chief Justice John Roberts took his place at the head of the Supreme Court today after being overwhelmingly confirmed by the Senate and sworn in by President Bush," was incredibly foolish. Editorials would have said positive things about the nomination process, about the nominee and expressed hope for the new court. No news editor in the country would have put the first day of the first new Supreme Court in a generation below the fold.

Only two things could even compete with the Roberts headline: the second indictment of Tom DeLay and the nomination of Harriet Miers. The first Bush could do nothing about; the second, only Bush could have accomplished. President Bush wasted a moment in the sun today. He lost the media momentum and because of that, as the media dance over the next Supreme Court nomination begins, Bush may find his toes getting stepped on an awful lot.

For an administration that has so deftly led the news cycle across the dance floor, it's a shocking and exceptionally curious development.

----

Bradley Hague

The amazing excitement of....Cypriot Water politics?

2005-09-30T15:51:00.000-05:00

Actually you'd find that there a lot more exciting than you'd think. Especially since the country as a whole lacks any renewable ground water and has no oil of their own to run things like well desalination plants on the cheap. As a matter of fact I find the thing exciting enough that I've just applied for an International Reporting Project Fellowship to go cover the topic.

It has some real potential as the Arabian gulf undergoes a population boom in a climate not generally suitable for human habitation. Even in the desert if you're alive you need water and some of these places don't have it. Libya uses 375% of their renewable water resources EVERY YEAR. How they still have any is beyond me but they sure won't have any for long. And when people get thirsty and desperate in the Middle East, oil will not satiate them.

I originally thought about the idea because a friend of the family, and a man who should know about Middle Eastern politics, told me several years ago, if you want to look for the next major war in the Middle east don't look for oil. Look for water.

I was fascinated and the quote still bounces around in my head. But I'm a desert rat who grew up knowing that water was more valuable than most anything else. People can be and have been killed over proposed dams in Colorado.

I'm hoping to become expert enough in the field so that I can spend my learned friends prophesied war in an air conditioned studio rather than doing what my friend MOAB is doing. Her stuff would be more exciting, but mine would be safer. Plus, no beast.

So cross your fingers my dearest readers and I'll keep you updated on this blog.

Bradley

Delay Indicted on One Count of Criminal Conspiracy

2005-09-28T11:45:00.000-05:00

House Majority Leader Tom Delay was indicted this afternoon on one count of criminal conspiracy regarding the now-defunct political action committee, Texans for a Republican Majority. The threat of indictment has been hanging over Delay's congressional efforts like the Sword of Damocles, and now the thread has broken.

Due to regulations altered and then restored by the Republican party earlier this year Delay must relinquish his leadership post until the end of the trial. As this trial could last a year or more, this could be a sizable detriment to his electoral chances next year.

While Delay has been under investigation for some time in this matter the chances of it affecting him politically have just skyrocketed. Three formal reprimands by the House Ethics comittee last year alone damaged his reputation only slightly. Delay has weathered the difficulties involved in the Texas grand jury investigation much better; arguing that the investigation, led by Democratic District Attorney Ronnie Earle, was politically motivated. That may work for a deflecting a grand jury probe but a criminal indictment is a much larger ball to dodge.

There are two major factors that can come into play which will hurt Delay. The first is that despite our systems motto being "innocent until proven guilty" many people believe if you are charged with a crime, it's likely you committed it, especially given the negative headlines that have stuck to Delay throughout his tenure as House Majority Leader. The other is that since Delay is obligated to resign his position as Majority Leader, he is forced into an apparent act of contrition or repentance. This appearance of defeat was part of the reason that House Republicans tried to change a rule that forced members of the leadership to resign their posts if they were under a criminal indictment. The Republicans reinstated the rule after a political firestorm erupted.

The Democrats, not yet crowing over the course of events, have been hammering at Delay's perceived ethical lapses for several months, a quiet drumbeat of criticism that they hope will become a victory march at the ballot box next November.

2005-09-27T09:23:00.000-05:00

The protests are done, Le Tigre has packed up and Cindy Sheehan has been arrested and by now released from jail.

Those wanting to know the answer to the questions I posed on Friday will have to wait until this afternoon, but if you'd like to see what the protests looked like, head on over to my website. It's the topmost gallery.

Bradley

On internationalizing Iraq.

2005-09-22T14:32:00.000-05:00

Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a soldier killed in Iraq was speaking today at a press conference called by Win Without War at the National Press club. My mind being taken up with other things I have not delved into the question of the Iraq war. There are just so many blogs and so much vitriol about Iraq that it is difficult to keep any civility in the discourse. I didn't start this blog to get in a shouting match. So I ignore the shrill debate and leave the journalism to the professionals -- including my friend and fellow blogger Kim Johnson over at MOAB; She's on the ground for the second time and has wonderful stories. Her writing is astonishing and her pictures as well. If you haven't read it you should definitely pay her a visit.

As Cindy Sheehan was speaking, she brought up Jeff Key, a former Marine and Iraq veteran, to speak about his concerns. He got out of Iraq two years ago and was stationed in the Iranian border area far from the action. He was only shot at once and thankfull, he said, never had to kill anyone. He believes that the war was a mistake and that the military has been misused and misled in the Iraqi venture. He said that the US presence in Iraq fuels the insurgency and there is a need to internationalize it and get out.

If polls are to be believed, most Americans agree and want out in short order if not immediately. Internationalizing the problem is often touted as the best way to do that but what does that mean exactly? The UN operates on the strength of it's members. In many major international peacekeeping operations the American role is extraordinarily large. There is no reason to assume that the Iraqi operation would be otherwise. So, aside from adding layers to the chain of command and swapping out the green helmets for the blue ones, what would it really do? I posed this question to Key and he seemed uncertain.

He agreed that swapping one group of occupying westerners for a second group of occupying westerners (not factoring in any lingering bias over the UN's sanctions) would probably not result in any significant decrease in terrorist activity. The solution as he saw it, is to move beyond internationalizing the military presence in Iraq and to put an arabic face on the occupation. That, he said, is the way that this will die down.

"Okay, but how do you do that?" I asked.

On that he wasn't sure.

Whether I personally support or oppose the war is irrelevant to this debate, but these questions need to be answered by some of the anti-war protestors:

How does internationalizing the occupier make occupation any more pleasing?

If the UN comes in should US troops be involved? If so, to what extent and if they are involved does this solve the problem of an American occupation? Or does it simply change the color of the helmets?

Obviously the instability in Iraq threatens the entire Middle East but Arab governments have been reluctant to provide for peacekeepers of their own. If the United States -- the most powerful military force in history -- pulls out completely and under intense opposition, what incentive is there for other foreign troops to enter? Or more succinctly put, why should other people clean up what we left behind?

Shortly after the first Gulf war the United States sparked an uprising in Iraq and then failed to support it. Hundreds and thousands of Iraqis were slaughtered for attempting to overthrow the government. Many Iraqi's, still hold America responsible for the death of their kinsmen in the resulting massacres. We have already given the Iraqi people hope once only to abandon them to their ruthless dictator, what will happen if we take out the dictator and abandon all Iraqis to a civil war we helped provoke?

Finally, if we're to put an Arab face on the problem, a true face and not just an Arab front, how do we do that?

As the crowds descend on Washington DC this weekend for the anti-war protests the ANSWER coalition and United for Peace and Justice are putting on, and the accompanying counter protests, I will be among the throng, documenting, interviewing and trying to get answers to a few of these questions. I'll post what I find but I would like for you to think about these if you can and either post or email your responses.

A brief note though: Civility will be enforced.

Bradley Hague

Images to match the words

2005-09-22T13:38:00.000-05:00

Just a quick note. Two online galleries of imagery from Hurricane Katrina is on my website.

You can either click here.

or go to www.BradleyHague.com

Thank you.

Bradley

On the posting below.

2005-09-19T08:42:00.000-05:00

The story in the post below was painful to write. When I first heard it I denied it. Things like this don't happen here, I thought. They were exageratting. It may have been painful, even traumatic, but it can't have been like that. After all, this is the United States.

But it can be like that here. It was like that here.

In this blog I have tried to keep things light. There are wonderful stories to be told out of Louisiana, but there are the other stories too. If this is to be the public record of my trip to the battered south than let it contain both the good and the bad, the best in humanity as well as the worst.

Horror Stories

2005-09-16T16:18:00.000-05:00

[Additional note 9/28/05: While the veracity of this story has now been called into question I leave it up as a statement about what people were saying they personally had witnessed. Although the main claim was double sourced with first person witness accounts, it appears that they may have related untruthful information to this reporter, for which I apologize.]

[Note: I warned that there would be some stories to be avoided by the squeamish. This is probably the worst one. It should also be known that names and identifiers are known but not used.]

Three days into my stay in Houston the Astrodome had hit capacity. 31,000 people were now living in one sports arena. The air was stifling and even with the showering facilities going 24 hours only a few thousand had bathed. Most had been without showers of any kind for almost a week. The smell was not yet overpowering, but it was powerful and undeniable. The act of having a conversation made you sweat, even in the private booths where the Red Cross Shelter command center was located. Sanctuary was to be found outside. Covered with sweat from a recent interview, I walked out the nearest doors to cool off, my red cross vest allowing me to bypass the traditional security measures in place.

Once outside I came across a group of 6-8 children, all black ranging in age from a few months to several years old. The youngest, an infant just a few months old, was asleep on a pink sleeping bag which lay atop a cardboard box bearing the logo of the American Red Cross.

The family group had decided to sleep outside the previous night and only go inside for meals. Inside the dome the lights never dimmed and even at quiet times the noise was overwhelming: 30,000+ people snoring, talking, rolling around on cots, crying themselves to sleep. The family couldn't take it, so they moved. Outside the police were just as visible, So security wasn't as vital an issue as may be thought, while inside tempers flared. The arena was not designed as living quarters and after so many days of stress and anger and emotional fatigue the potential for explosive confrontations was high. The Red Cross does not discriminate in its aid, the former gang kids were mixed in with the local population, the drug addict in withdrawal slept beside the CPA slept beside the 85-year old grandmother.

I squatted down with the Matriarch of this motley band as she sat on an overturned grocery cart; a three year old bounced on her knee crying. I told her who I was, that I wanted to hear her story, that the world needed to hear it. I asked her to tell me. Then she did. Once she began I couldn't stop her. I didn't dare. But oh god how I didn't want to believe.

The family had spent all their life in New Orleans. Most of it in the projects. There wasn't a way to evacuate from their community even if they'd wanted too. No car could fit them all and they didn't have one. Those projects were a tight knit community everybody knew everybody. But when the Hurricane came they all scattered. Those that could walked out of the city on foot, or swam roof to roof. Some stuck it out in the projects. Some went to the Superdome, and some, like this family headed for the Convention Center. The parents of the children were missing, and the family was vague about why they weren't together for the hurricane. Since missing in New Orleans may mean dead I didn't press the point.

The little boy sleeping on the cardboard box wasn't just sleeping, he was sick. It's impossible to herd a group of 8 children, especially when the parents were missing and all they had was one Grandmother (not the matriarch) to watch over them. The boys had cuts and scratches that come with life and a few others. The youngest had been repeatedly bitten by misquito's, all the kids had. They'd been eaten alive as the stagnant water filled their home city. Most of the kids had cuts or scrapes as well, thankfully only a few were badly infected.

Power went out to the Convention center early and even generators couldn't supply everything, nor could they last forever. Gangs who didn't leave their turf gathered here at this refuge and chaos quickly erupted. After a few days people couldn't or wouldn't go into the bathrooms anymore so they started urinating and defacating in any available corner.
People fought regularly, and gangs would do whatever came into their head.

At this point in our conversation, we were interrupted by two medical personnel came by and asked to look at some of the other children to check for infections or scratches. They continued working on the children with respect and courtesy. They put disinfectant on the cuts, ointment on the rashes and referred greater injuries back to the medical tent.

As this went on, the grandmother came by the matriarch and continued the story. There were horrible things going on in there she said. Things that you wouldn't believe. Things you wouldn't want to believe. People were murdered. sometimes shot, sometimes stabbed, sometimes just beaten to death. If anyone spoke out they were next. Order was non existent. The grandmother kept her small group together and out of everyone's way. Being noticed was a dangerous thing. but the toddler still crawled around on the urine soaked floor, and all of them had to sleep somewhere. Rashes had developed on some of the children, as well as on the grandmother.

The violence became worse and there were rapes inside the center. Multiple ones, they said. and it didn't matter age or race. It was barbarism, pure and simple. But the worst was when one of the rapes occured in front of the children. The victim was young, underage, but that didn't matter. After the attack was over, the victim was killed. Again, in front of the children.

The med teams stopped their work to stare at the grandmother. "And nobody did anything? Where were the men while this happened? Why didn't they stop them?"

The grandmother's answer was succinct. Nobody did, because nobody could. Not without being next. It would be two days more before the children would find safety at the Astrodome. Three days before they were found by the family matriarch and brought to her small house in Houston. I don't know if they ever found the missing parents.

The first two guests of the Astrodome

2005-09-15T08:01:00.000-05:00

Shawn Jacob was one of the first people to seek help in the Houston Astrodome. The 27 year old from Seminole Parish in Louisiana, evacuated with his wife and children to Houston, staying with friends. When they went to gather supplies from the Wal-Mart Jacob got separated. After spending hours wandering the store and the streets in search of his friends Jacob realized that he was unable to even remember the name of the hotel he was staying at. He broke down and went to the police for help.
With little information to go on the Houston PD was uncertain of what to do and took him to the Astrodome for help. He arrived at 2:00 in the afternoon. At that time the Astrodome was not setup to take care of evacuees. the chalk lines that marked cot Boundaries were not even finished. There were no blankets, no food, no beds. As a matter of fact there were less than four Red Cross volunteers at the shelter when Jacob arrived. The volunteers, most of whom identified themselves as grunts or indians rather than chiefs, calmed him, assured him that he would be taken care of and asked him to have a seat in the bleachers. He sat calmly waiting in the bleachers, a persistent reminder of those in need of aid as the Astrodome set up to become a small city with a population of 31,000 people.

The cots arrived at 11pm, and the number of volunteers had risen to 60, Patrick Knapp, shelter manager for the largest red cross shelter in history helped unload the cots, Sysco setup kitchens with food for thousands on the fourth floor and the Houston PD secured the perimeter. An ambulance arrived and took shape as a medical clinic, all the while the small volunteer staff struggled with the enormity of their task. We would later find that volunteers were being turned away at the gate.

The first government officials arrived at 9:00 pm. There was only one problem: they weren't from the US government. They were from the British Consulate there with a message of support from Her Majesty the Queen. The words were welcome, any support at that time was. It would be two days before I met an American official; even then it would be a local judge. A local texas judge in charge of the largest emergncy sheltering operation in United States History.

The first buses from New Orleans arrived at 2:30 am. They were not, as presumed, from the Superdome. Instead they were gathered from the Causeway and shuttled to Houston where they had heard rumors of a megashelter opening up. The Astrodome was originally intended as a refuge for the Superdome evacuees, Knapp fought for equality of all evacuees and won. All in need would be welcome until the capabilities of the facility would no longer bear it.

The bus, a school bus of many years, it's yellow-orange paint slightly chipped. They did not run through the media gauntlet that would be formed later. There was no media there save myself and the helicopters overhead. I waited, wanting to see who came out first. When the doors opened a woman in a brown red cross vest, caucasian, roughly 40 with fading blond hair came running out of the bus, her face a tangled mass of grief and tears. In her arms an infant child: black, maybe a month old, no older. An orphan, and the first of many to come through Houston's open doors. I saw the image, I wanted to take it. I was the only one there and it would have been a famous shot, a beautiful, sorrowful shot. But I couldn't take it. Before I even fully registered what had happened she was gone. I chased down the twisting ramps to find her, to capture a moment so painful as to be paralyzing, but she was gone.

The image of her, frozen in time, clutching that child, wishing with all her heart that the world would help it, help her, still haunts me. I see it more clearly than I could ever capture. I see the dark of night, sense the fears of the staff about the coming flood of evacuees. But mostly I recall with mind-numbing clarity the pain that radiated out from this woman.

That was my introduction to the cost of Katrina, that was my introduction to the needs of the lost. That was my introduction to disasters with the Red Cross.

To sleep perchance to dream

2005-09-15T07:47:00.000-05:00

I haven't dreamt in weeks. At the end of the day in Louisiana or Baton Rouge I fell asleep so deeply that dreams could not follow. Truth be told as tired as I am and have been for so long I don't look forward to the prospect of dreaming. There are too many stories that haunt my subconcious. Too many photographs not taken.

Last night was my first night home after Katrina hit. If I was worried about sleep I needn't have been. I didn't really get that much. A couple of hours before midnight, a light doze until 2 am and then bolt upright for the next 3 hours. Was it the dreams that woke me up? Truth be told I don't know. It would surprise me. After long periods without the nightly purging of bad memories my dreams tend to verge on the palpable. They are full-on sensory experiences complete in every way. There are sounds, sights, smells, tastes. That's what worries me most. After two weeks in a disaster area there are smells I would just as soon never encounter again.

But the big dreams are still in place and I will spend much of today focused on getting my Fulbright Application Ready for submission. I still haven't given up on it despite all that I have done. I believe it can be done and I hope that my experience with Katrina will help it.

Over the next few days expect some mental purging to occur on this page. Expect to hear some of the stories of New Orleans, of the Superdome, of the Convention center, and of the Astrodome. There will be good stories amidst the bad, happy ones to counter the sad ones but many I warn you will not be pleasant.

I will do my utmost to place a note on those that should be avoided by the squeamish.

I will add another brief post after this to start the stories where my own stories start. In Houston.

Bradley

A pause in the Grand Adventure

2005-09-13T11:50:00.000-05:00

I am now officially signed out and about to board a plane back to Washington DC. I promise to update this blog with the stories that I have not been able to tell since my day off.

There has simply been to much to do.

But fear not my vicarious adventurers. For this is not the end, but a pause in the great adventure. Rather, it is like the pause between World War I and WWII. It is the deep breath before the plunge.

Besides A brief seperation from Katrina will do us both some good.

As much as I love it, I need some rest. And I have almost 750 photos in need of editing.

See you soon, back in the real world.

Bradley

Shalon's Day off

2005-09-11T11:00:00.000-05:00

Shalon got up about 6:30 and rolled off the air mattress she shared with her friend Liz at the staff shelter. The two had become fast friends and their significant others were in the same military battalion. The two shared an air mattress because cots weren't pleasant to sleep on. Both girls work in Bulk Distribution, the section of the Red Cross that loads up 24 and 52 foot semis with food and clean water and goes out to far flung distribution centers to hand it off. Shalon had been doing this job for nine days before this, Liz for eight. It was the first and only day off they would have for the entire two week assignment.

But instead of going about resting as I did, they gathered their vehicles, loaded them up with supplies and started driving east. Shalon was a Mississippi native, for the first time since Katrina devastated her home state, Shalon was going home.

The Red Cross has divided Katrina into several different disaster areas. Each one has firm borders that are not to be crossed. Louisiana is separate from Mississipi is separate from Alabama and so forth. While this may make some practical sense it meant that Shalon, based in Louisiana had not been home to see her parents, had not seen the damage to her home state.

The cars filled again with Drinking Water and military MRE's (not nearly as bad as you would think and I know this well) Shalon, Liz and two other Red Cross volunteers took their day off to survey the damage and help those they could.

The first stop was in Picayune Mississippi, Shalon's hometown at her parents home. A dog had taken the territory as his personal domain but would not approach any person. He merely sat and yapped from a distance. As the band entered the house they were told of what the hurricane felt like to those who stayed behind. It wasn't bad in Picayune, they said, but just about halfway through the storm a branch came crashing into the entryway of the small home. Shalon's father, introduced as Mr. Phil, Used the brief calm at the eye of the storm to go up on the roof, haul out the tree branch and spread a tarp out before the winds returned. Two weeks after the storm hit the house was almost fully repaired, but in the interim Mr. Phil had pulled several tendons in his elbow.

Power had been on for four days by the time the impromptu Red Cross team arrived and the supplies would not be needed here. The band then headed south towards waveland and the Decimated Mississippi coast. The drive down was a path through destruction. houses were overturned, one had blown just onto the highway where a car had run into what was once the living room. Others stood in shambles with spray painted signs saying "We're OK" or "Alive and well" hanging on whatever remnants were left.

The roads off the main highway were made of Mississippi clay and looked as if the entire street was picked up 5 feet and dropped shattering the earth itself. At one point a tree skewered through a childs playland and propelled it into the roads. Despite the obvious force, of the trees entry into the bright plastic structure, the little building itself was undamaged. The house it had come from however, was reduced to rubble with a few cinderblocks marking the one-time corners.

A roadside shrine stopped the team once more and here a human face of the hurricane appeared. For scattered around a roadside shrine dedicated to Mary and surrounded by the stations of the cross, were images from a family scrapbook, a beaming couple with a brand new baby, taken in 1991, a slightly older child with a giant plastic whiffle ball bat dated 1994. Two brothers, 6 and 4 by the look of them dated 1997. Finally a picture of the mother with the eldest son at a zoo. Others were scattered in the muddy fields. I saved those I could, others did likewise. We tried to find a mailbox, but to no avail. The house was in ruins. The front door lay 40 yards from its one time home. A recliner had been upended, it's back splintered away and dropped in a tree. There was no frame, no foundation, no remains, not even enough for the DMORT teams to use as a sign. All that was left of that house was memories, and photographs, caked in mud, scratched, and scattered throughout the stations of the cross.

A few hundred yards down the road from the shrine, the road ended. Where once a bridge had stood spanning the Bay that gives Bay St. Louis its name now there were only pillars and gaps. The road crumbled away to nothingness. A nearby rail bridge was likewise devastated. Shalon sat on the edge of a road she had driven innumerable times and stared with tear rimmed eyes and a broken heart at the opposite shore, searching for any signs of an apartment building she once lived in, searching for any signs of a place she once called home. There was nothing left. For mile after mile, street after street, every house will have to be destroyed. Most of them already are. And as you go from sickening sight to sickening sight, you realize that from Slidell to Gulfport and beyond, the structures of the Gulf coast are gone.

Just Gone.

[Authors note 9/14 --There is of course more to write about Shalon and her trip back but it can wait for another day]

R & R in Baton Rouge

2005-09-10T22:25:00.000-05:00

After photographing devastation and tragedy for 10 days I needed a day off. I needed to calm myself and deal with the world that was unaffected by Katrina. It wasn't hard to find this world even in the heart of Louisiana. Baton Rouge got off very light damage wise. Its main problems now are traffic and an unprecedented doubling of the city's population and tripling of its traffic in less than a week. The infrastructure in place can't cope with the challenges and commutes of just a few miles can take in excess of an hour depending. I learned early not to hit the main roads.

But I did have some work to do. My new Treo 650 had disappeared a few days earlier. I'd feared it and all my new contact numbers lost until I recieved an email from Jerry Linebaugh at the River Center in Baton Rouge. The River Center is an arena complex that now houses about 2000 people. The number has dropped dramatically recently from a high of almost 8000. Compared to what I witnessed at the Astrodome, conditions were remarkable. It's not a place to call home, but it's clean and sanitary and safe. The children are starting to return to school. A 4-H club has been formed on site and done field trips to the museum across the street.

After picking up my phone I walked over to this museum to see an exhibit by the French photographer Henri Lartigue. Lartigue's photos were taken as a teenager in the Belle Epoche of Paris. The images were playful and light, self portraits of Lartigue at age 9 with his cat Zizi, photographs of his brother leaping off a small cliff with an umbrella for a parachute. They were happy pictures that eased the mind and I felt my soul relax and my shoulders droop with each distinct echo my footsteps bounced off the walls.

Having not been inside a church since the disaster I stopped in at the Cathedral in Baton Rouge. It was empty save for myself and one man who sat kneeling at the altar oblivious to the world around him. As I went through my own prayers for strength and clarity of vision, he collapsed into silent sobs his forehead lying against the marble steps. A living symbol of pain and grief and suffering exactly below the carved image suffering on a wooden cross. Silence prevailed and I could not bring myself to invade this mans sorrow through conversation or photography. I finished my own rituals and left quietly, leaving the man to resume his quiet vigil at the altar alone. In all the time I was there, he never turned, never moved, never made a sound.

But Ritual and solemnity do not make lasting cures for a heavy heart and exhaustion, so after leaving the church I headed for the Baton Rouge zoo. The Baton Rouge zoo is a small one but it has plenty of animals to stare at. The zoo has some wonderful big cats to photograph as well as a nice array of birds. The sun was bright and those people that recognized me as red cross -- I was wearing a blood donation shirt -- thanked me profusely for coming to help them.

And then I went back to the staff shelter and took a nap. Strangely, or perhaps not, the nap was both roughly as long as and far more restful than any of the nights sleep I've had since I arrived here. Four and a half hours of blissful dreamless sleep. I haven't said much about the staff shelters but the accomodations of the Red Cross volunteers are worthy of note. Many people know what the inside of general red cross shelters look like, the military cots crammed together all in one room. Sometimes there are feeding areas that are separate, often there are not. The staff shelters are much the same with one striking difference: No one is in them that's not asleep and they often get supplied last. The first staff shelter I stayed at didn't even have any cots. All the cots that could be found were being handed to the evacuees. Staff were told that all that was available were some military blankets and a cold patch of concrete. Thankfully we were able to get the last few airbeds from a local Wal-mart as well as some blankets.

After the nap, I was astonished to find I still had an evening ahead of me. Not wanting anything too intellectually challenging I settled on the 40-yr old Virgin. It was neither terrible nor terribly good and worked best with no thought attached. All in all it was perfect for my situation.

Then after the easiest day in my brief history with the red cross I got to sleep remarkably early. It was only 11:30 when I got back to the shelter and another night of blissfully dreamless sleep.

A much needed rest.

2005-09-09T18:57:00.000-05:00

After one of the longest weeks in recent memory I finally get a much needed day off tomorrow. Hurricane Katrina has become my life and it looks like it might be for some time to come. I enjoy what I do here and if the Red Cross is willing to keep me on staff then I should be able to keep going for a few more weeks. The photos are erratic but are appearing on imagenet and being used in local publications.

I also just found out that I am a spokesman for the Red Cross. I knew I was before but when I pitched the story I didn't expect to end up as a named source in the Japan Herald. Google my name and you'll see it across the Associated Press Wires. Looks like this little volunteer gig is going to be wonderful for the resume.

Today was spent following around the leadership of the Red Cross. It's a wonderful thing that they came to talk to people in shelters directly because it's difficult to truly explain the size of this disaster. As I spoke to the leadership and some high profile donors they sat casually debating numbers to boggle the mind. Megashelter housing for months, six months to let the timber in the city desaturate to such a point where the mold in the wood will die rather than spread, 5.5 million meals served so far and more needed. The shots will be used for internal work and we'll see if they like them. They haven't used as many of my shots as I'd like but we'll see.

I also have a piece up on www.redcross.org. It's not going to win a pulitzer but it'll do for now.

I'll try to update this more often. Tomorrow I have to come in and do some work. Even an off day isn't really an off day. It just means getting up later than 6:00am and going to sleep before midnight or 1:00.

As the board of the Red Cross prepared to board her plane she thanked me for my work, gave me a hug and told me to get some sleep. Apparently I look like I need it.

Bradley

Slidell

2005-09-08T17:18:00.000-05:00

[Authors note: If you notice a diminishing quality to my writing it's attributable to a distinct lack of sleep. The night I got here I worked 23 hours and I've managed to reduce my workload to around a reasonable 12. ]

The town of Slidell lies North and a little east of New Orleans. You wouldn' t pay much attention to it on a long drive. You might stop for gas, grab a burger and pass on through. The Hurricane hit Slidell with a terrible and erratic nature. The power has been out for days and is only now being brought back on. The dairy case at Walgreens holds nothing but a line of police tape. Slidell is no stranger to flooding. It's not a common occurence but scarcely one that's noticeable. But it flooded this time. Badly. The mud on the streets, often two or more inches thick, goes inland for over a mile. The high water mark in some places comes up to my chest. "I've been flooded before," one resident told me, "but this is the first time I've ever had my house float away." Thankfully he had evacuated and was no longer in his house. Others were not so lucky. The town reeks of decay and has an almost sulphuric scent. A diagonal cross in red spray paint adorns numerous houses. but this is no mark of salvation; it is the new symbol of death. Each one bears two numbers. The top lists the dead; I've seen this number reach as high as 8.

There is food in the farmers markets, but left in the louisiana sun for a week has made the smell an almost physical barrier surrounding it. I ventured forth only because in spite of the devastation, in spite of winds well over 125 miles per hour, the kumquats were tightly packed, the pineapple resting nicely in its tray and the eggplants sat quietly turning black. The roof however, had collapsed and the winds had ripped open the fences. but the fruit sat quietly dying with no fanfare or observable motion.

The bookstore was a different story. Of all the things that have affected me on this, the bookstore was the only one that truly made me tear up. It was strange given the level of damage I have seen and the horror stories I have heard. Stories, personal stories of rape, murder, abandonment, fear, depravation, and homelessness. I hear these stories from the people who live them, yet what affects me is a book store. The book store looked like it had exploded from the inside. loose pages flapped in the streets. Others sat flapping in the wind, like flies struggling against tarpaper. But what struck we were the titles. A book of short stories open to "The Way Things Were" The children's book illustrationwith a grey elephant in a pink closet and the caption which read: "When I woke up this morning I thought it was all a mirage." Yearbooks fluttered about, a set of encyclopedias lay unreadable, caked in mud to their red canvas covers. The side walls lay two feet away. Strangely some of the bookshelves were left upright. but these were drowned in the black mud of Lake Pontchetrain.

At the Baptist church down the street broken pews were piled in front of the church. These too were covered in lake mud. The smell of mildew hung in the back of the throat and has not left me since. nor has the sneezing. I'll talk to our medics tomorrow about it.

I wanted to see what a Hurricane could do. Now I have. Strangely, I was alright. I wasn't as bad as I thought I'd be. There was a job to do and I did it. I came home and fell asleep. I won't say I slept well, but I slept hard. But then, your tenth 12-hour day can do that to you.

Now too, I intend to go sleep. After all, today was a light day. It's only been 11 hours.

Bradley

Heading south

2005-09-06T17:49:00.000-05:00

I was horribly depressed to find that I missed the first group of Emergency Response Vehicles to head into New Orleans proper. They went on an overnight to the airport and said that while tense they were treated well by the people there. A Red Cross on your back is a comforting symbol to most and rarely a day goes by when I am not thanked repeatedly and vociferously. Since I could not become the first Red Cross team in New Orleans I comforted myself with being the first team from Public Affairs.

Negotiating the deal was not as tricky as I feared and the next morning I was affixing logos to my own vehicle as well as the courier van we would be tailing in. Some of the affected areas fade in and out of contact regularly. Cell phone service may work for one phone service and not for others, between us we had four cell phones and three networks plus the Sat phone. At times all of them worked, at times none of them worked. To counter this in the technological age the Red Cross built a new pony express. A white van would load up with whatever supplies were needed and take them around. The drive was estimated at 14 hours. There were five stops. Each one lying a little closer to our ultimate goal: Chalmette, the far side of New Orleans.

20 miles outside of the city I was shocked by the extent of the damage...or rather, the lack of damage. The trees were bent, some broken. Wind damage was minor. The city fared very well. I and my writer both waited. This would change, we were certain of it.

The marsh trees took a solid hit and a field of stumps stuck out of the marsh a little later in the drive. "That's old damage" said my writer. Nothing exciting. The first shelter held 1500 people. A police captain was doing standup while making the announcements and the crowd on the cots were eating it up. After 4 days in the astrodome where cots were shoulder to shoulder and over 30,000 strong this seemed like a spacious paradise. The staff shelters of the Red cross are more tightly packed.

Next up was a kitchen. More wind damage but still minor. The best thing to see here was the mass of Emergency construction vehicles. They were waiting for the order to rebuild New Orleans. Until that order came their vehicles sat idle, the men lounging about like they themselves were scattered by the wind.

The next post was the most spectacular. I've never appreciated the National Guard before. I've never seen them in action but at this station the Red Cross and the Southern Baptists are keeping the troops fed. And they need the support. The National guard setup in an outdoor facility last week. They slept outside and munched on MRE's (which I've now had. Not as bad as I feared but I don't want to know how it works. ) They were in the hot sun all day and exposed to the elements at night. Yet each day they were flying rescues manning patrols and helping secure the city; on top of the single most effective distribution line I've ever seen. In the 5 minutes I stood there one group of men gave a dozen families Ice, bottled water and food for a few days. They fed Louisiana, the Red Cross fed them.

The army post was across the river from New Orleans proper. We were told that downtown would remain closed, even to us. But we could try another route. It would involve cutting across the top of New Orleans. We were allowedup to the bridge across downtown New Orleans then they turned us back. No traffic was allowed. Not Even the Red Cross. Yet, even here at the borders of downtown the damage was not as widespread as I expected. Cell service was operational, buildings were intact.

What is oft forgotten is that in the brief time between the hurricane and the levee break, reports said that this was not as bad as feared. Downtown New Orleans may be severely damaged. It may even be beyond repair. But the citywide damage is not total. There is still hope.

The trip back was uneventful. The photos filed and the story sent to national. We'll see if they publish either the article or the photos, but at least for now and forever, I was the first Red Cross photographer into New Orleans.

I won't even hide how happy I am to say that.

I am back, I am safe.

and tomorrow there will be other stories.

Baton Rouge HQ

2005-09-03T14:48:00.000-05:00

Awash in a sea of relevant noise the Red Cross Headquarters in Baton Rouge LA appears a slapdash menagerie of laprtops and mobile phones. This is the first time I've seen the fleet of red and white vests that are so iconic of the Red Cross.

We've been sent here to cover PR events. I understand the need to cover Oprah and Jammie Foxx as they come through and the amount of money that they bring in but I still believe that the stories of Hurricane Katrina are those of regular people. They are the stories that need telling. Peyton Mannings efforts are appreciated as are those of Oprah and Jamie Foxx. THey are not however the stories that need to be told. THe stories that need to be told are ones like the 65 year old woman I met who was airlifted off the roof of her building in the New Orleans projects. She didn't have a TV and didn't know the extent of the danger. After she was rescued she was put on the highway and left there until a bus came. It would be a long wait in the hot sun. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, they eventually boarded a bus to the Astrodome. They had a single posession that was taken from their home, a small stuffed mickey mouse.

At the Astrodome they were given a cot, they were given some food. They gathered the family and were thankful to be alive.

The story of their struggle to survive in the hurricane, the lack of forewarning and their inability to evacuate is a story. The fact that an NFL quarterback is unloading a plane of supplies, or that a television legend is going to host a show here is not a story. It is publicity, nothing more.

That unfortunately is what I'll be covering for the next few days: people unconnected with and unaffected by the disaster, looking on those who were.

bradley

Off to Baton Rouge (redux)

2005-09-02T23:25:00.000-05:00

Time for a change of scene

After three days watching the stories unfold out of the Houston Astrodome until they were both figuratively and often literally lying in the street, we are leaving Houston and headed East. Tomorrow I and my writer, (a woman named Glenda Plunkett for those interested) will head off to a star-studded event in Baton Rouge. I'm told that Oprah will be in attendance.

For those who care more about actual progress than self-promotion I am also working on a story about something that could fundamentally reshape the nature of disaster management. It's epic. But you'll have to trust me. I'll get the article out later.

History will continue out of the Astrodome and it definitely should. Regrettably, it will need a new photographer.

In the meantime, I have to pack again.

Bradley

Uncertain Future

2005-09-02T14:41:00.000-05:00

The city of Houston awoke today in a haze. The skyline was blurry, uncertain, unidentifiable. The astrodome, now home to a capacity crowd of 30,000 people is static. The swarm of buses that encircled it is gone. Now there is only one over populated building.

Sleep has been hard to come by for many. For those like myself the long hours are a result of our volunteer efforts, but the refugees had a hard time sleeping due to the glaring and ever illuminated lights of the Astrodome. People were arriving throughout the night and well into the morning. It was a pressure cooker. Too many people were placed in every conceivable nook and cranny. Given the exhaustion, aggravation, and desperation of those inside it was only a matter of time before some fights broke out. The staff, professional to a fault, quickly separated the men. Tension is high.

Few people here look beyond the moment. Few of them are able too. The shelter's purpose however, is to close. These men, women and children cannot stay forever. As such it made myself and my writer glad to see the crowds at the sprint pcs store. They were thereto reestablish communication, start looking for work again, start rebuilding their lives. No one wants to live shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Several have said that they cannot stay too long before new psychological traumas add to the horror of watching their homes destroyed, watching their city flood, and watching their lives fall apart.

But those that help, those that share their stories, and many of them want too, still have a strong dose of southern hospitality. One man I interviewed promised to go home to New Orleans no matter what. He was going to return to his work at a restaraunt. I should come visit some time. He makes a mean ol' jambalaya, he said, and my meal would be on the house.

Echoes of War

2005-09-02T01:16:00.000-05:00

This evening I sat and watched the busses roll into the main parking lot at the Houston Astrodome. Each bus lined up next to the other and disgorged a mass of desperate humanity. Over 60 busses came and went in the space of an hour. Despite the est efforts of the Red Cross staff and local volunteers, some of these people will not be processed by the time the sun rises, half a dozen hours from now. Yet, men and women, some children too, dutifully go to eachbus looking for family and friends. The tears are prolific and the peals of laughter are rare, yet even in dark circumstance these people hope, and they think ahead, and they think back. They should.

My dearest reader, fix the date firmly in your mind. For now is when history is made.

What is taking place at the Houston Astrodome is historic.
It is likely to be the largest influx of men and material since the Berlin Airlift.

Some bits and pieces:

This evening I wandered on the main floor of the convention center. I saw our medics take care of a young boy with epilepsy, give an old woman a walker and treat all manner of cuts and scrapes. Due to the intense nature of medical treatment I am not allowed to take photos of the medical staff at work but can attest to their speed courtesy and their truly remarkable manueverability with a wheeled stretcher. When Aisleways are packed and often less than 5 feet across that would be a major issue for me. Not for them. They also man several ambulances around the building and with their small staff handle the ailments of a major city.

The police surrounding the dome are working 16-19 hour shifts. One chatted with me while indulging in a cigarette. He rarely got it into his mouth so many people came to him and I for questions. There have been a few scuffles but no major incidents on the floor. A moderate surprise given that the Astrodome may now qualify for the most densely populated area on the planet.

The mainly volunteer Red Cross staff as well as the local volunteers are beautiful to watch, but they need more help. These volunteers tend to diverse needs. And every request is a personal one.

Others could be added. Enough to fill a large book, but it is late and the stories must wait until tomorrow.

bradley

My Little Artist

2005-09-01T20:12:00.000-05:00

Across the street from my base at a Houston Holiday Inn lies the Astrodome, where a man, homeless and scared, will sleep tonight with only a 5’ by 7’ rectangle to call his own. A 5’ by 7’ rectangle placed at the center of the Houston Astrodome. His infant daughter, his wife, and his sister were all bussed to safety. So was he. It wasn’t the same bus. Tonight his wife and child sleep in Baton Rouge—He thinks. He can’t know for certain. All he knows is that amid this tragedy, he is alone. His love and his heart missing across state lines.

Back at the hotel and just down the hall from my room, two families one white and one black share a single hotel room. Their daughters usually play in the hallway while the parents watch the news, hoping, praying for signs of security, stability, sanity in the home they were forced to abandon.

One of those daughters, wants to be an artist. She knelt in the hallway with her friend studiously, evenly filling in the lines in the most appropriate hue. Color was considered, nearby color was considered. She sat calmly but always said hello with a giant smile that was wonderfully innocent. Her friend by contrast scribbled, mixed purple and orange in her teapots and quietly stared at me each time I walked to my lavish room, where I sit on the extra, superfluous, wasted bed and write this. A bed, I should point out, larger than the entire world of the man at the Astrodome.

One time I passed the girls, I said hello, and got on my knees so that I could speak to them at eye level. When I praised their work lavishly, one girl said she wanted to be an artist and an actress when she grew up. Her friend just wanted to be a princess. I spoke my family’s love of art, of my cousins, my uncles, my brother and brother in-law. She echoed the sentiment.

“I take art lessons every week,” she said. “Well, except for last Sunday. My instructor had to leave because of the hurricane. You should see my drawing.”

She doesn’t know when she’ll see her art instructor again. She can't even draw. She said this as a matter of simple fact. the weariness of the trip, and the fear of the adults had not tainted her voice. This was the way it was; nothing more. “I can still color,” she said, “but I like drawing better.”

My little artist may be able to color but art instruction, like all instruction, is cancelled in their districts until the water recedes below the children’s heads. Flooding in some areas of New Orleans reach 15 feet tall. There is no way to know when school will resume. There is no way to know when they will return to their homes. Everyone knows this. The parents still watch the news and know and worry that they can’t go home.

As for the little artist?

At least she can still color.

bradley

Megashelter

2005-09-01T16:35:00.000-05:00

I'd picked up my writer and started heading out of Houston when we got a call from Red Cross National Headquarters. We were headed to cover the Astrodome. That was going to be the new home of some 20,000 plus people that had to be removed from the Superdome.

But there was a minor problem when we arrived. It wasn't ready. It's transformation from a bleak arena with only chalk outlines hinting at the scope of the coming flood is the basis of the first piece I'm writing tonight exploring the problems and practicalities of a megashelter. A technique heretofore never used by the American Red Cross.

Too busy to write more.

But I remain in Houston tracing this story for the coming days.

Bradley

houston

2005-08-31T14:12:00.000-05:00

forgive the errors in this as I am new to blogging by treo, I'm hampered further by a lack of a functioning period, hence the commas: this can only be fixed by replacing the phone so it may last awhile, forgive me,

I got into houston just after 8am and have started gathering some material for the trip, the hurricane was kind in terms of turbulence both because of our altitude and the early hour from 38 thousand feet the storm looked like a well whipped merengue pie or a snowdrift sculpted by strong winds, it was quiet and serene -- everything it has not been on the ground,

the death toll is expected to rise sharply in the coming days and rescue workers tell of brushing past the bloated bodies of the dead due to the needs of the living,

that's what is being said elsewhere-- i'll see what it looks like on the ground tomorrow

bradley

The Bright Red Bandage

2005-08-26T15:07:00.000-05:00

Just a quick reminder to all of you to donate blood if you can. August is a slow month and the supplies are running dangerously low especially in Washington. It only takes an hour or so start to finish even for new donors.

So give a couple a pints.

Bradley

An open letter to Karen Hughes

2005-08-24T11:45:00.000-05:00

In your role as the new chief of public diplomacy in the Arab World you have started proclaiming the heretical nature of suicide bombings to the Islamic religion, as well as promoting the United States as a land of tolerance. This is well and good but I’m afraid that it’s not nearly enough to counter the belief, as some sincerely do believe, that President Bush is truly evil, that he hates their religion and wishes to destroy them. Myriad ways of countering this are available to you but few would have the visual impact and psychological significance of President Bush entering a mosque.

As the President has rightly said this is not a war against Islam, it is a war against terrorists. But the President has not backed this statement through public actions. Visiting a moderate mosque would show great support to our Muslim allies and dispel some of the grander notions that exist in the Arab world. Notions like the theory that Bush cannot cross holy ground; a theory that would be comical were it not fueling hatred and suicide bombings. Bush’s presence would act as a counterweight to such ridiculous charges and regardless of the words al-Jazeera, or al-Arabiya choose to place alongside such images, the people of the Middle East will see a kinder side of the President than they have seen thus far. Think of the imagery of the President standing in splendor beside either Afghan president Hamid Karzai or Turkish Prime Minister Recep Erdogan. These images would be broadcast throughout the world regardless of where they took place. They would be positive images a smiling and respectful Bush among the ornate corridors of a mosque: an image of an American President getting to know actual Muslims.

This image would also limit the accusations of a Christian crusade currently echoing throughout the Middle East. Bush’s ill-chosen wording at the beginning of the War on Terror caused every Middle Eastern historian to cringe. The Crusades are not remembered as mythic quests in the Middle East. They are remembered as savage times where Christians stormed through Jerusalem, their horses chest-deep in Saracen blood. It was a war against Islam and a defensive jihad was called. (It might have been as the Prophet himself said a “lesser jihad” compared to the greater Jihad of personal and societal reform, but it is this hook on which fundamentalist ideologues have hung their hat.) Christian crusaders rarely showed any kindness to Muslim holy sites. If Bush is seen treating Islam and Muslims with respect, regardless of how choreographed the scene, it will dampen that analogy.

In the recent announcement you have several Muslims discussing suicide bombings in a television studio, but how much better to discuss these things in an actual Mosque. The image of Bush, reading from the Holy Qu’ran about avoiding zealotry, establishing peace, or leaving vengeance to God would do more to ease your workload than any amount of public service announcements.

Sincerely,

Bradley Hague

A simple pledge...

2005-08-18T15:48:00.000-05:00

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America...

Everyone knows the line. Hand on heart, back straight, eyes on the star-spangled banner at all times. But have you ever sat down and looked at just what it is that you say when you say the pledge of allegiance. It's astonishing. The "under god" is the least potent thing in there.

Fundamentally this is an oath of allegiance. A promise to hold this nation above others. It is a pledge to its integrity and its ideals. It is a promise no less binding than that usually given in a court of law. It has all the intonations of a prayer and at any baseball game there will be a few people ending it with "Amen" rather than "Play ball!"

Though said in public the degree of intent is known only to the speaker. Some say it as a rote memorization without any thought or feeling. For others, it is the most solemn of rituals. One sailor I regularly speak with said that children should not be forced to say the pledge because they don't know what they're agreeing too. (I doubt most adults do either.) One school teacher I know thinks it shouldn't be taught at all as it is jingoistic and inspires blind patriotism.

It seems such a simple thing to cause such a fuss over. A simple pledge to be loyal to your home country. For most of us it is and will forever remain little more than a patriotic gesture. We will not be called upon to prove our loyalty to the United States. We will not have to sacrifice for its integrity or its ideals. But we should know what it means. We, as adult Americans should look at the pledge as a pledge, a promise not to be taken lightly.

The Supreme Court has ruled that it is not mandatory for students to say but most do. People have fought over the pledge, refused it, altered it, some deny it altogether. Some schools try to incorporate other ideals thus teaching the meaning of pledging something. Yet, every child grew up with it, heard it and can repeat those 31 words without error:

I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United states of America.
And to the republic for which it stands;
One nation: under god, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

So think about what it is you are saying and what it means the next time you hear the pledge. Whether you support it or not, it seems a shame to take such wordsmithing for granted and only a fool promises to do something he hasn't paid attention to.

Bradley

[This was inspired by this Christian Science Monitor editorial, and the sheer number of flags viewable from my capitol hill office building. ]

Flashback

2005-08-15T14:41:00.000-05:00

I was late. Heading west by southwest at 100 miles an hour down a two lane highway towards the next rally by Senator Kerry. What thought didn't dwell on my last byline was swallowed up in planning for when I reached New Mexico. It wasn't until I had put a 45 mile ribbon of pavement behind me before I realized I was also alone.

I don't mean alone in my car, though I was that too. I mean completely alone. From one end of the horizon to the other there were no signs of human life. My rear view mirror, slightly vibrating as my speed decelerated was also empty. But nothing, aside from the road I drove on and the sagging power line beside appeared.

It's an odd circumstance to be alone in the modern world. Especially as I recall it now, trapped in a major city. I stopped for a brief moment, pulled off onto a dirt road and turned off the car.

The silence echoed. Occasionally you could feel the wind come and surround you. It was friendly, almost comforting. A light brown sea of dirt and tall grss below a dark blue sky but nothing else: No hawk silhouetted against the sky; no mice scurryinging about the ground, no cries of animals; no crunch of tires; No dull thrum of air conditioners or engines, none of the white noise of the modern world.

A storm gathered to the west with massive, anvil-shaped thunder clouds that would play havoc with the light at Kerry's New Mexico rally later that evening. I wanted to stay. I wanted to bathe in the wind and lie in the rain feeling each drop of the torrent shatter against my skin. I wanted to hear the crash of the thunder and the percussion of the hail. For those uninitiated in the ways of the western United States, storms there are not obstacles they are miracles. They are feasts for the senses. They are works of art.

The air was thick with the smell of rain and the color of every plant became instantly saturated as color rushed to the surface of the world. I follow the sound of the wind across the horizon and tracked it running along the tips of the tall grass. It was magical.

But I couldn't stay. With great reluctance I got back in my car. Heard the engine turn over breaking to pieces the quietude of that place. My tires crunched on the dirt as I turned back onto the highway. In fifteen minutes I would pass the next car. In two hours I would hit the nearest town and in two days I would travel through the mountains at two in the morning to see a sky so full of stars it was blinding.

But that is a recollection for another day.

Bradley

Off and away. Back soon.

2005-08-15T13:43:00.000-05:00

Still here and kicking.

Awaiting news....

Will be back in touch soon.

In the meantime if you're looking for interesting bloggers look at these three

MOAB OXBLOG and CRESCAT SENTENTIA

Power and the Presidency

2005-08-02T15:28:00.000-05:00

I wrote extensively yesterday about how Bush perceives his role as President as well as the level of power he thinks he has.

A brief addendum to that note comes today courtesy of a roundtable interview Bush held with reporters. (hat tip to the Washington Post's Dan Froomkin)

THE PRESIDENT: I don't know how many times I have to tell people that polls go up and polls go down. If you made decisions based upon polls, you would be a miserable leader.

Q But power is perception.

THE PRESIDENT: Power is being the President.

The Imperial Presidency

2005-08-01T15:36:00.000-05:00

It has been clear since the dawn of his presidency that George W Bush is on a quest. He is a man with a vision; an American Saladin, forging from a disparate group of conservatives an alliance almost unrivaled in modern politics. His election efforts in 2004 show him to have successfully mobilized more voters than in any election in American history. His skill at either maneuvering or ramming through his agenda has earned praise from his critics while those in his way have been largely flattened through well placed leaks and choreographed attacks. The Democratic opposition reduced to filibusters and fretting.

Yet, this man, scion of the ultimate Washington insider, heir to a political dynasty and the most powerful man in the world, detests his current home of Washington. He detests Washington reporters who he says revel in bad news and negativity. He hates the pundits with their 10,000 pet issues and implausible solutions. And I'm sure he hates the weather. Everyone hates the weather in Washington particularly in August. But most interestingly, he hates the Congress, that band of bickering bureaucrats who obstruct his agenda.

So President Bush, rather than seek the Congress' approval, has gone around it. For much of his agenda he has bypassed it completely. Rather than ponder the legalities and rules that govern detention of enemy combatants, President Bush moved them to Cuba where they are out of Congressional jurisdiction. Rather than rely on the slow and obstinately independent judiciary to grant subpoenas, the President gave power to the FBI to write their own. Rather than wait for a judge's order to search someone's home without telling them, new guidelines were setup under the Department of Justice allowing and expanding the use of such "Sneak and Peek" powers. Bush appears to believe that he can craft near limitless authority over the mechanisms of power. The examples are numerous but few come closer to proving the imperialist nature of this president than today's appointment of John Bolton to be the new Ambassador to the United Nations.

With this one act, and in defiance of the constitutional role of the Senate to "advise and consent" President Bush has defined himself as the Imperial President. All aspects of government be it the execution of the War on Terror (now renamed the Global Struggle Against Extremism), the appointment of the judiciary, the trials of suspected terrorists and other criminal offenders, all can fall under the auspices of the executive branch.

In his speech naming Ambassador Bolton to his post, President Bush declared that:

a majority of U.S. senators agree that he is the right man for the job. Yet, because of partisan delaying tactics by a handful of senators, John was unfairly denied the up or down vote that he deserves.

Whether 40-45 % of the US Senate is considered a handful is irrelevant. Bush wanted his man, and he made it so he got him. Democrats had promised an up-or-down vote on the nominee once they had received and reviewed certain paperwork pertaining to Bolton's time working with issues of arms control. Bush refused to release the papers thus leading to the stalemate. Senators Kennedy (D-Mass.), Dodd (D-Conn.) quickly criticized the move but were powerless to stop it.

Thus the president has expanded his power even further while simultaneously weakening the power of the Senate. The next battle is brewing over the Supreme Court nomination of John Roberts. Again the Democrats are asking for paperwork, this time relating to Roberts career as a government attorney. Again the Bush administration is denying access to some of that paperwork, although it has released other documents. It is doubtful that Roberts will be filibustered, but a newly enraged Democratic Party could make the process much more difficult than it was shaping up to be just a few days ago.

President Bush believes he is here on a mission. He has, he claims, political power and political capital and he intends to use both. But what he also has is a vision of power and loyalty spreading across the capitol; emanating like rays of a star from the oval office.

Civility in Civil Society

2005-07-25T12:24:00.000-05:00

I was lying on the ground next to the grand fountain the National Sculpture Gallery has while idly looking around for better photographs. My extended frame tripping passing tourists as I pursued an elusive harmony of form, a balance of light and color. Perhaps its because I sought this harmony that the dissonance behind me was so jarring. Amid a sea of neckerchiefed boy scouts (some 40,000 of them will pass through DC on their way to the National Jamboree) My friend Danielle and her friend Anthony spoke about homosexuality and the Boy Scouts of America. Actually, Anthony spoke. But even then it was a rant, a polemic, a diatribe. Danielle sat on the concrete benches idly debating. When a Scoutmaster walked by Anthony sneered and asked if he forced his kids to read the Constitution. It was a rude comment that the scoutmaster rightly ignored.

The problem was that I haven’t been able to ignore it. Usually political diatribes mean little to me and I let them run off my back like water off a duck. So I find myself amazed that this bothers me. Why should such conduct bother me? After all, in this city political polemics are an art form routinely practiced and regularly used. But that is precisely why it bothered me. The Boy Scouts hadn't come from this city. They came from Waxahachee, North Kackalaka, Boise, New York, or some other place outside the Beltway. They were not in the game of politics. They were here for lessons in history, in current events and in civil government.

To badger a single scout leader, forced to shepherd two dozen teenage boys around the nation’s capitol over organizational policy isn’t just unfair: It's not civil. I have issues with the Boy Scouts. I have since I left them over a decade ago. I think their conduct towards religous minorities and homosexuals is appaling and should be changed. But I welcome them here and hope that they are inspired by all the things they see.

I hope they look at the world as if they have just come out of a dark tunnel and everything is bright and shiny and new. I will not shy away from answering honestly those questions that arise and if they wish to involve themselves in a debate over the direction of scouting I won't hold back but I will also be nice, I will be civil.

I hope that you, dear reader, will do the same.

The London Bombings

2005-07-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

I have waited to write about the London bombings until I was able to verify the safety of everyone I knew in London. In a city of 8 million people, odds were slim that my friends would be among the dead or wounded, but I chose not to tempt fate. Thankfully, all friends within 2 degrees of separation are safe and accounted for.

* * * *

The London underground is a dark, dismal place. The newest train cars in London's subway fleet don't allow a tall man to stand erect without hitting his head. The older ones have been responsible for concussions. It was started when Queen Victoria ruled England and the American Civil War was fading into segregation. A week of riding the Northern line, which passes through the King's Cross station, will start to build up a black phlegm usually found in dying smokers. It's badly lit in the interior. It breaks frequently. Oh, and there are rats -- big rats. When you hurtle through it enclosed in a cylindrical steel pillbox you don't seem to notice. It becomes routine. But how terrible must it have been to add fire, smoke, and fear to this equation. How horrible could it have seemed to those scrambling on foot through the darkness with demons in every shadow and death just behind.

That is terror.

The rest of us deal only with fear. We must deal with the fear that, despite having spent 18 billion dollars on airline security in the United States, our vulnerability to an attack like the one yesterday in London has only increased. We must deal with the fear that comes with being able to walk onto the metro station at the Pentagon and not be scanned, not be searched. We must deal with the fact that little kids put quarters on the tracks at popular train crossings and there is nothing to stop a terrorist from placing something else.

This is fear.

The difference between terror and fear is that terror is overpowering. It is a form of madness. Terror clouds judgement, banishes reason and allows the worst of humanity's demons to come forth. Fear is faceable. I hope London will demonstrate this better than Washington has. Washington has given in to terror. Fences are everywhere. Concrete sewage pipes lie overturned on the capitol grounds blocking beauty and promoting anxiety. At the Lincoln Memorial, the area directly behind the great emancipator is fenced off. The public sealed away from the best sunset spot in the city.

Lincoln is safe, Americans are not and that is power of terror.

The reason I have hope for London is that terrorism is not new to my former home. The IRA used to attack the city with irregular regularity; albeit lacking the precision or carnage demonstrated yesterday. Britain countered this terrorism by evaluating its causes, examining rational security options and moving on, its people more aware, its fears more concrete. As terrorism makes its unwelcome return to London, I hope that the British people remember their past. I hope they remember that they have survived terrorism before and will again. And I hope that they protect my friend Charles, as much as they protect Prince Charles and far more than they protect a statue of Cromwell. I hope that London faces its fears, assesses its security and then continues with the business of living.

There is no point saying, "don't be afraid." Fear is normal. Fear can help promote change.

So if you are afraid, be afraid but be rational.

Don't be terrified.

Free, but ...

2005-07-07T13:10:00.000-05:00

Matthew Cooper kissed his son as he left home yesterday uncertain whether or not he would see his only child for some time. The Time magazine reporter then went to court for a final time to press his case and hear his sentence. He was widely expected to go to jail. He did not. Instead, his source contacted him and personally waived his confidentiality agreement with Cooper. It meant that Matthew Cooper would see his son again that very night. Yet, for someone who had barely dodged a prison term Cooper did not seem happy. He was dour at his press conference rarely meeting the eyes of his fellow reporters. When one called out congratulations, Cooper turned and with a dour expression replied, “This is not a victory.”

For Judith Miller and the New York Times, defeat and defiance were prominent. Despite Cooper’s last-minute change, Miller still refused to name the source that leaked Valerie Plame’s status as a CIA operative. If she named one confidential source, she argued, others would not come forward and the public would not get the information it needed. Miller is now in federal custody, to serve out her time in prison. The punishment is intended to be coercive, but few expect her to succumb to the pressure.

While supporters backed Miller’s decision to go to jail rather than surrendering her sources, detractors, including Judge Hogan, saw it as journalists placing themselves above the law. In an editorial in today’s New York Times the company argued the point:

“Ms. Miller bowed to the authority of the court. But she acted in the great tradition of civil disobedience that began with this nation's founding, which holds that the common good is best served in some instances by private citizens who are willing to defy a legal, but unjust or unwise, order.”

Few reporters wanted this to be the case that defines federal law. The details are muddy at best. The case involves an attack by an anonymous source in possible retaliation for political opposition. Moreover, Bob Novak, who first reported the connection, has not revealed any details about his role in the case and was not publicly threatened with jail time despite the fact that his article was the source of the controversy. Despite this many agencies and organizations were dismayed by Judge Hogan’s decision to send Miller to jail with Reporters Without Borders calling it a “severe violation of international law, a dangerous precedent and … a bad signal to the rest of the world.”

Cooper, no doubt thankful for the 11th hour reprieve, went home last night and was able to kiss his son again, Judge Hogan was able to do the same, but Judith Miller, who never wrote an article about the Plame case, sat in a prison cell.

Iraq, Vietnam and Political Cover fire

2005-07-01T14:09:00.000-05:00

Over at The Huffington Post, Timothy Naftali has a wonderful posting on Iraq and Vietnam. Naftali moves beyond the hackneyed cliches to discuss political wars and political cover.

On February 1, 1966, while publicly defending the [Vietnam] war, Lyndon Johnson privately told Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy that the war in Vietnam was a mistake, but that he was stuck...Johnson complained [that] he needed political cover to pull out of Vietnam. What he would have done had the politics been otherwise is by now a parlor game. But the role that political cover could play in ending the war in Iraq should not be.

I'd like to say for the record that I am not giving up on Iraq. I believe it can be won. I believe it must be won.

But since anti-American sentiment is high and drawing down the number of US troops seems to be a domestic priority for Iraqis and Americans alike, we should figure out how it can be done without just turning tail and running. An ill-planned exit can quickly turn into a rout; and even if you're planning to win, you should at least keep you're retreat path clear. Here is where the Congress needs to step in. A Congress which, at the moment, seems accustomed to sniping at each other, firing blank stares, writing bad legislation and creating non-binding resolutions ad nauseum.

Democrats will attack any cover for this President under the guise of: "He made his bed, let him lie in it." While Republicans will claim that even the idea of retreating reeks of dishonor and support for our enemy. Both parties take such delight in shooting at each other that they occasionally forget to aim their barbs at the Iraqi insurgency first. But eventually we must leave Iraq. When we do, it should be with a little more planning and forethought than we had going into it.

Part of the way to give this President cover is to not force a timetable withdrawal from Iraq. It's bad strategy. It's bad policy. It's just bad. However, there needs to be a consensus, a binding resolution that says what the President so forcefully states: "We will be in Iraq until the job is done and not a day longer," verifying and codifying that this is not a land grab and we will turn over the military bases (though not the equipment on them) to the Iraqis as we leave unless we are asked to stay.

The Congress should also pass a binding resolution that we will abide by the Geneva conventions and return all prisoners of war to the government of Iraq as the legal system will bear it. If the Iraqi legal system is able to try Saddam Hussein on charges of war crimes it should be able to charge and try the insurgents as well. This also spares us the difficulties of situations like Guantanamo Bay.

Finally, and this will be the most difficult in the current era. Both Congress and the Administration need to realize that Iraq is a joint undertaking. It is directed by the White House, run out of the Pentagon, funded and overseen by the Congress, and fought by the American people. Every advance, every defeat, arises out of a combination of these elements. For the Iraq war to be winnable these elements must work in concert. But should Iraq prove unwinnable (an occurrence I pray never comes) politicians must understand that it is not dishonoring those who have died to withdraw, saying "we have done what we could." Rather, it dishonors those who will die to say, "We knew we would fail but were too weak to leave."

In 1966 President Johnson said:
Well I know we oughtn't to be there, but I can't get out. I just can't be the architect of surrender.... I'm willing to do damn near anything... I'm willing to do nearly anything a human can do, if I can do it with any honor at all.

Had Johnson backed out then, Vietnam would be a loss rather than a catastrophe. 95% of the troops that suffered and died on the far side of the world would have been spared. I hope that in 2006 Bush doesn't have to echo that thought. But if he does, he should have the courage to back out and Congress should have the courage to help him.

Bradley

Bush Declares World War Three

2005-06-29T13:15:00.000-05:00

A comment largely passed over in the reviews of President Bush's address to the nation last night was pulled from the mouth of the heretofore-never-to-be-mentioned-on-pain-of-death terrorist mastermind, Osama bin Laden. In defending Iraq's place at the center of the new war on terror Bush pulled out the words of his nemesis and more astonishingly agreed with them.

"Here are the words of Osama bin Laden," Bush said, "This third world war is raging in Iraq. The whole world is watching this war. He says it will end in victory and glory or misery and humiliation."

Bush then follows this assertion with a litany of terrorist evils then ends with his favorite tag line: "Freedom is on the march."

But if this is WWIII, as Bush portends, then bin Laden, Mullah Omar, and other terrorists have finally gotten their wish. At the beginning of the War on Terror, Bush said that this would not be a clash of civilizations, it would be a matter of fighting terrorists. Now, using the most dramatic language, ripped from the mouth of his enemy, Bush has countered this assertion.

The statement eerily portrays the binary mindset of Bush and the administration up to this point. Victory and glory or misery and humiliation; there are no other options. You are either with us or against us. That which is not directly supportive of us is directly supporting the enemy.

The statement is powerful not only in its implications of global conflict --The conflict against extremism and radical Islam was always going to be a global conflict -- it is powerful because it mentions Osama bin Laden. Bin Laden is the new American bogeyman. This administration used to avoid any mention of him, lest their casual utterances summon the beast. Even in the two most prominent speeches of the second term, the Inaugural address and the State of the Union, his name was not mentioned once.

But he's back and he has brought the specter of 9/11 with him, handily tying it to the war in Iraq. However, there are extreme risks in resurrecting bin Laden so publicly especially as the CIA chief says he knows where bin Laden is but still cannot capture him. If Americans start focusing on the hunt for bin Laden they might want to know why little progress has been made.

Whether or not the statement bringing bin Laden back into view and proclaiming World War III is remembered is difficult to say. Look to see whether the old foe is brought back even further in the coming months.

Bradley
* * * *

Supreme Court declines journalist protection case

2005-06-27T13:24:00.000-05:00

The Supreme Court today declined to hear cases by two journalists concerning journalists ability to protect the identity of anonymous sources. The decision means that reporters Matthew Cooper of Time Magazine and Judith Miller of the New York Times are out of judicial options and must now face up to 18 months in prison.

The court issued no reason for its decision but opponents of the court's choice have complained heavily. Both Juduth Miller and the New York Times called the decision disappointing: "Journalists simply cannot do their jobs without being able to commit to sources that they won't be identified, " Miller said. "Such protection is critical to the free flow of information in a democracy."

Time Magazine issued a statement saying comment was premature pending final actions.

The case stems from a two-year old investigation is trying to find out who leaked the name of CIA operative Valerie Plame, the wife of former Ambassador Joe Wilson, an outspoken critic of the war. Mr. Wilson was an envoy to the west African country of Niger and was at the center about the disputes regarding sale of uranium ore, also known as "yellow cake" to Saddam Hussein. It is alleged that Wilson's wife was outed in retaliation for his opposition.

Several groups rallied to support the jail-bound journalists. International media rights watchdog, Reporters Without Borders called the action, " a retrograde and freedom-curtailing decision" and " a defeat for all media."

Miller's case is especially unique in the annals of journalistic litigation because she now faces jail time despite the fact that she did not write the story she gathered the information for. Another key question is the level of cooperation from columnist and television commentator Robert Novak, who first publicized Plame's connection to the CIA. He was not subpoenaed for the investigation and has not been threatened with jail time. Novak refuses to discuss the issue with any reporters, including this one.

The case is now being sent back to the Federal Court in the District of Columbia. Unless the reporters divulge their sources they could be incarcarated as early as next week.

Sunset over Another Manhattan

2005-06-27T10:43:00.000-05:00

The children started shouting on the Greyhound half an hour outside New York City each seeing something more fantastic than the next. Constant cries of Look! Look! and Mommy see that? echoed throughout the bus. Cat stirred from her sleep against my left shoulder and looked out at the horizon. Despite children's assurances that they could see the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn bridge we were nowhere near the island of Manhattan.

It's strange going to New York now. This trip stranger than most. It's the first time I'm not in New York to see anyone, the first time I'm staying in a hotel the first time to see the city through tourist's eyes alone. Andrew and Victoria seem to haunt my every step from the door of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and my tour quickly becomes a running commentary on previous trips with them to New York. Cat takes it all in stride. She's been at my side for three days straight. Despite 18 months of friendship, it's more time than we've ever spent together. Our knowledge of each other comes from melancholy emails, drunken phone calls and idle flirtations over long-distance. We met in London, across from Regent's Park, were together for less than 48 hours and headed our disperate ways. In many ways the place we are staying on the Upper West Side is a mirror image of the place in London; and this trip a continuation of that one.

The museums were our first and only goal. The Met's romanesque entrance was masked by gauze-covered scaffolding hiding the beauty of the exterior in a sheet of white. After wandering about inside we made our way up to the roof for a martini before sunset. I'd been up there alone in February, when the Orange curtains of Christo's Gates lined the walkways of Central Park. Now the Home Depot orange curtains were gone and I was glad for it. The hues outside were natural, and the people less emphatic about having an "artistic experience" -- whatever that is.

Cat had no real plans or desires in New York. I had less than 48 hours in the city, she had 72. Neither of us would get even more than a passing glimpse at all the city had to offer. Not that we would have taken it even if we could. We were travelling light: light of heart, light of mind, and light of schedule. We chatted with some artists about local exhibitions and various cities we'd been to, dallying on the roof while the blood red sun found a hiding place at the far end of 84th St.

Afterwards we headed to a small turkish restaraunt on the upper west side. Nothing important was discussed and Cat was all the company one could have wanted. But I missed the hipster world and high class food that was my brother's Brooklyn. It was a world where style mattered as much as substance, and everyone was beautiful. I missed the view from the apartment of my friend Victoria and the visits with her to the upscale bars and restaraunts of her New York. I missed knowing that even in Manhattan, a city I'd never lived in, I was home. As we walked back to our hotel I looked around and saw the island in a new light. A darker light. My light.

No longer supported by my local contacts I could not give Manhattan the light that it needed but I was close. I was there, a friend was with me. It might not have been everything; it might not have sparkled; but at that moment, it was enough.

WH Supports Rove's Comments about 9/11

2005-06-23T15:19:00.000-05:00

The White house today declined to repudiate, deny or even alter the comments made by White House Advisor Karl Rove who said that liberals responded weakly to the September 11th attacks. The comments, made at a meeting of the New York Conservative Party, quickly drew fire from Senior Democrats. If you want to know the full details look here, here or here. If you just want the money quote:

"Conservatives saw what happened to us on 9/11 and said we will defeat our enemies. Liberals saw what happened to us and said we must understand our enemies."

Rove also leapt on the recent comments by Senator Durbin regarding the Guantanamo Bay detention centers, claiming that the senator, and all liberals, supported attacks on our troops. Senator Durbin apologized for his remarks in a teary-eyed speech on the Senate floor.

Rove's comments are astonishing in their callousness. No one after 9/11 didn't want to defeat our enemies. Pacifists were calling for military action if necessary and the resolution to find and bring to justice the terrorists responsible passed 98 - 0. Until and shortly beyond the fall of the Taliban this nation was united in our effort to find and defeat al-Qaeda.

Debates are now more vitriolic, attacks are more personal. It is not enough anymore to say that your opponent is wrong, he must be a Nazi, it is not sufficient to say that prisoners are being mistreated, intentionally or no, they must be tortured or in gulags. And any consideration regarding troop morale, combat preparation or duration of deplayment is regarded as support to the terrorists rather than concern over the general welfare of American soldiers.

Enough is enough.

The majority of Democrats don't blame the Bush Administration for allowing 9/11 anymore than the majority of Republicans think that Democrats wanted to sit down for tea with Osama on the 12th of September. However, this intense villification of any opposing viewpoint means that simple disagreement is not enough. Saying that liberals are wrong, or even that they would take the country down a more dangerous path is not enough. The opposition must be denigrated and tied to the worst, most catastrophic day in American history.

Rove must apologize for his comments. All Americans suffered after 9/11 . All Americans wanted to be protected after 9/11. All Americans wanted wanted justice after 9/11. On the eerily calm day on the 12th of September liberals did not call conservatives Nazi's, conservatives did not call liberals Socialists, we all called each other Americans. Rove's words damage what little unity remains from those halcyon days. They are a stain on the administration, a blotch on the good name of the Republican Party, and a wound to discourse in our democracy.

Mr. Rove, your comments have damaged the debate and the country: accept responsibility and apologize.

Bradley

Integrity on the hill -- No lawyers allowed

2005-06-23T09:29:00.000-05:00

For a blog entitled Politbloggers I have had precious little information here about politics. So I have decided to change that based off of one man's testimony on the hill.

Normally hill testimony is dry, boring and intensely scripted. It has no drama, no fire and little honesty. For the first hour or two experts read introductory statements (which staffers drafted and they have never seen) and everyone looks around at the beauty of the hearing rooms trying to stay awake. The primary sounds, other than the monotonous drone of prepared statements is the ruffling of newspaper and the clacking of blackberry keys. The politicians state their respective talking points and the committee is called to an end with little new information gleaned. In Congressional Investigations there is more drama but still no honesty. Yet, yesterday, in an investigation into uber-Lobbyist Jack Abrahamoff something amazing happened.

A lawyerless bartender revealed with rare candor and genuine honesty his role in the indian gambling scandal that has damaged the Washington Lobbyist Jack Abrahamoff, his partner Michael Scanlon, and weakened the leadership of Tom DeLay. In a long and extraordinarily entertaining hearing David Grosh revealed how he was asked to head an international think tank from his beach house. He wouldn't have to do any work or even attend any of those pesky board meetings, though he went to one - it lasted all of 15 minutes. He left after a while due to ethical considerations. He didn't want to be associated with the federal government and indian casinos. Then he did something that occurs in Washington almost as often as a full solar eclipse: He took responsibility. He was offered a way out. He was offered the chance to say he was used, the victim of circumstance, a man tempted off of the path of truth by Abrahamoff associate Michael Scanlon, but he didn't. He acted responsibly, and though I do not know the man, I am grateful for his example.

In an age when political watchers can easily become cynical and mock-outrage is worth more than sincere concern, it was wonderful to hear about someone who reminded senators that we are all adults, we all make our own decisions and should be held accountable for them.

I hope that the senators were listening to that message as much as the individual points in his testimony.

Bradley

Sri Lanka Update

2005-06-22T12:57:00.000-05:00

Over two weeks pass and there is little progress on my voyage to Sri Lanka.

I still maintain hope but that is fading rapidly.

In the meantime I will keep working at it.

My apologies for the delay in posting. I promise more soon but if you want to read something new there is a posting down below called "Illness and Memory" which I avoided posting before. As almost no one reads this I feel relatively safe in embarassing myself.

Bradley

Hiding in a view finder

2005-06-09T15:24:00.000-05:00

Photojournalism or even journalism in general is a wonderful job. You get to travel. You get to see the world change. You get to be there when events happen. I love my profession. I feel it as a calling, a vocation akin to the priesthood. But I'm often reminded of just what this job entails. The latest reminder arrived a few days ago in an innocuous brown box from Idaho. It was a book called Shutterbabe.

Victoria, my most literary friend, recommended it. It's about a female war photographer and her various adventures both professional and amorous. It's a phenomenal read, but bleak and depressing in parts. It strips away the veneer of exotic adventure and aloofness from the profession of journalism. Fundamentally journalism, photojournalism and broadcast journalism are all very lonely professions -- war journalism above all. For all the outward displays of icy coolness and cone-chilling apathy to the world around us most journalists have ways to hide, even in the field.

I can hide in a window that's less than half an inch square. With my camera to my face I don't care what's in front of me. I can focus on angles, aperture, film speed, shadows. I can think about wide shots, tight shots, everything I need to get the job done without thinking about what it is that you are taking pictures of -- Actually that's only partially true. There are times when the story is so powerful that it tears away your hiding place. It happens in the book and every photojournalist will ache in recognition at the inevitable pain when you stop shooting for the day and look at what you have been recording.

When I returned to the fields of Columbine High School exactly one year into my journalism career to photograph the first anniversary, I was worried. Columbine is an open wound even now, and back then it was still bleeding. I put my camera to my eye and began to shoot: A wide shot of the group; Close-ups of people crying; the solemn procession beside the giant wooden crosses that caused so much controversy a year before; shots of the media covering the event; students hugging and crying. With the light gone and my hands shaking, I walked back to my car, set my camera in the passenger seat and tried not to throw up. I went home on the edge of black tears and depression then sat in the shower trying to rid myself of the physical and emotional dirt.

I still remember those photos. I remember almost all of my photos. The mind isn't a memory card you can wipe clean or a roll of film you can replace. It is an infinite storage unit of old emotions. When I go to Sri Lanka in a few weeks (God willing). I will see orphans, refugees, devastation, famine, and poverty. I've never really seen any of it before. When I get there to photograph bleak subjects under bright skies I'm sure once more I will look at the situation, I will get the wide shot, the close up, the action shot and the portrait. I will look at suffering, I will see pain, and I will once more put that part of me that processes all of it, into a view finder, hidden but ever observant.

Bradley

Two weeks

2005-06-02T13:43:00.000-05:00

One of the most fascinating things about the story of Deep Throat is not one that many people probably noticed. Bob Woodward worked for the Washington Post for a grand total of two weeks his first time around.

The sentiment struck me because it was almost identical to what my first professional editor said to me. "You've got two weeks. If we like you, we'll keep you. "

They did keep me for a little while, they didn't keep Woodward. He left and then came back more sure of himself. He started other goals after those two weeks. He aimed at different stars but journalism was in his blood and it had awoken.

It was nice to feel some sort of kinship to Bob Woodward. The man is a legend in the field, if not a legend writ large. The fact that we share a calling and both heard the exact same words entering our field has me optimistic.

Perhaps it's a small detail but it's interesting to see how much those two weeks mattered. Woodward got nothing published in that time, it wasn't even edited before it got ripped out. But had he not gone to the Post, with no experience, with no real hope, the world would have been a very different place. Felt wouldn't have leaked to just anyone. He trusted Woodward. Without the two week failure at the Post, without the long term friendship with Felt, without the relationship that the two of them had Watergate would never have escaped the Metro section.

Should have...

2005-05-31T07:41:00.000-05:00

I should have arrived in Bangkok a few hours ago. Stiff and sore after the 18 hour flight, I should have stepped off the plane into the intense heat and humidity and entered for the first time a truly foreign land.

I should have gotten off the plane and repeated the rituals of entry that I always say when arriving in new countries.

I should have hauled my 30 pound camera bag over my shoulder to hang on my chest, my duffel on my back weighing roughly the same, a small suitcase of school supplies bumping at my heel.

I should have gone to a little bar, sat down, told the waitress in attempted Thai: I'm sorry I don't speak you're beautiful language, do you speak English?" It's a phrase I have learned in eight languages, all now forgotten.

I should have had a beer. After all, as my friend Vicky says, "You can check off the country if you're there long enough to have a beer."

I should have.

I couldn't.

Because I'm not in Bangkok. I have no suitcase of school supplies for Sri Lankan children, no 30 pound backpack, no camera bag, no beer.

In the last weeks as events oscillated between cavernous lows and stratospheric heights, the center could not hold. I was not strong enough, not prepared enough to maintain the path through the myriad obstacles set in my way.

My friends, those that know, have been supportive. They knew that this project, on this budget was an immense undertaking. They knew that I have fought as hard as I could, but not as intelligently as I might. And while I enjoy their friendship, isolation and thought have been of more comfort to me. Because if the center couldn't hold while I was here than what would have happened if I'd had that plane, that bag, that beer.

I'm not giving up. The planes still fly, the stories are still there. The money is still coming in, though slowly. I am intending to go to Sri Lanka in July now. One more month to get my self sorted out. Plan better, stay longer, maybe even enjoy myself.

I will continue to pursue this project because it is a touchstone to who I am. Even in the planning stages, before a word was written, I found a story. I was a journalist again, something I had not been for a long time. Fundamentally writing is who I am, it is what I do, and I will do it.

This dream deferred is not a dream denied. It is only deferred, paused so that I may see what I need, what I have, and who I am before going.

I will be going to Sri Lanka my friends,

It will just take a little more time.

Bradley

The decline of foreign correspondence

2005-05-27T14:08:00.000-05:00

I have often wondered why journalists don't travel as much anymore. If you read the early accounts of journalists they spent about as much time out of the bureau as in it. They were away from homes and families as much as the military. They were out in the thick of it. These were the gods of journalism and I now understand why.

It's a Pain in the ***.

My trip has been in planning for two months. Buildings are planned in less, and yet I daily encounter delights and difficulties that have sent me on such an emotional and psychological rollercoaster that my stomach recently said it intends to commit hari kari. I've been dealing with logistics, travel security, visa restrictions, terrorism watches, and plane flights. In addition to arranging interviews gathering information and trying to learn "Good God this is a complicated country" in Sinhalese, Tamil and Hindi. All on top of a full time job, small bits of freelance work, and a valiant, though minimally successful, attempt to incorporate a social life.

There are people that do this kind of thing for you but they are attached to organizations. And now that most international work is done by the idiots who choose to go freelance, well we have to do all this stuff ourselves.

It's also that it's expensive. I'm headed to the opposite side of the world--literally. If you dig down through the center of the earth, through to the other side you would surface about 1200 miles from San Diego . The flight alone is half of my budget for this trip and depletes roughly 1/2 of my liquid assets. (a note to all you freelancers out there: when you want to go freelance DO IT CLOSE TO HOME) It's also that by the time you can call around for prices the flight is already sold.

No sane man (or woman, for that matter) would do this job, if you have to think about it's difficulty, you're not meant for it. The idea of doing it with anyone to support is impossible. It's a wing and a prayer lifestyle, and the wings are those makeshift jobbers that worked so well for Icarus.

Long story- short, the trip looks like it will be delayed a week.

In the meantime I'm going to try and patch these wings back together.

Anybody have some duct tape?

Bradley

Sri Lanka

2005-05-24T08:55:00.000-05:00

"I've got a story for you."

The continuous chorus of journalism; everybody has a story for you. Everybody has an angle an edge, a way that they can get something they care about covered. Most times the issue is something few people care about; Sometimes it's not.

My sisters story caught my ear because of one thing: Sri Lanka. As anyone familiar with me knows, my wanderlust has no bounds. From the fragile knowledge of a post-tsunami recovery story I have rangled almost 1500 dollars. A small price compared to the 1100 dollar airfare, but enough. So now I am days away from heading to the opposite side of the world. I am headed to a land devastated by war and awash in blood. A civil war, that has simmered and roiled under the pressure cooker of a four year truce.

But as one of my sources said, "too much blood has seeped into the land for the problems to be solved in this generation." So I go to focus on the next generation. The generation as familiar with waves of death as with waves of violence. I will talk to those who have seen their ocean, and their world destroyed by water which is their life, their death, the murderer of their friends, and their pallbearers as well.

I feel woefully unprepared for what is my first foreign assignment. But the story is there. The ideas are sound. And I can find comfort in a zen saying I found in researching this story:

Leap, and the net will appear.

Good God I hope so...

Bradley

Freelance

2005-05-17T13:41:00.000-05:00

Whenever I tell people I'm freelance there is inevitable envy and people saying, "oh how nice! You get to pick your own stories and follow what you think is important." They gaze at you with awe, especially when you say you have freelanced overseas. It's exotic, it's exciting, it's-- miserable.

Freelance for most journalists is just a code word for being unemployed. It means going door to door seeking alms, angles, anything that might allow you to write for this publication. Anything that allows you to pay the rent. The people that have been freelance, cringe slightly, and sympathize. Those knowledgeable in the code of the journalists look at you and say: “ I couldn’t do that.” You are alone. A fish in an alien ocean. There is no bureau, no office, no agency and no name behind you. The inevitable question of, “who do you work for again?” is answered by the pregnant pause far more than whatever explanation follows. There is a certain thrill of self-reliance but mostly there is rejection. Lots and Lots of rejection.

On my most recent count of stories I have pitched to 40 magazines, newspapers, broadcast agencies and organizational leaflets. 4 have said yes 4 have said maybe. A phenomenal success rate by most standards. but not nearly enough to pay for my current project. (More on that later. Stay tuned.) But most people would give up after the first 20 No's. In London, I was rejected for every job I applied for. Some 30 different news agencies rejected me: some denied me outright, some sent me a kind letter informing me of my uselessness to the organization, most didn't even acknowledge my request. My luck with freelancing is little better.

Now, freelance does have it's benefits. No one can claim any share to your success, save those you delegate it to. The sources are yours, the stories are yours, the victory is yours. And you do get to choose the topics you want, even if nothing is sacrosanct when it comes to writing them. When it works it's a beautiful thing. The days feel magical and you are certain that you could part the seas.

But in the meantime, there is more work to do: networking, chatting with reporters for stories and other subtle leads, trying to find secret routes to editors desks as well as their personal taste. Once you get into a conversation with the editor you have five minutes to wow them and 3 more to negotiate your fee, which will be meager. There are chats with editors you know will refuse you that you call anyway just to let them know you exist. There are hours spent praying to God, to Buddha, to Vishnu, to Edward R Murrow. Anything and anyone that you think might help.

It's a miserable, wonderful, chaotic and often painful existence.

And at the moment--it's mine.

Bradley Hague

Obsession

2005-04-19T15:31:00.000-05:00

How many times have you read or heard that we are a nation obsessed? The Cliche has become a staple of journalists around the world. But what are we obsessed with? Well, it depends on the moment. At various times over the last month we have been obsessed with Marth Stewart, Michael Jackson, Pope John Paul II, Tom DeLay, Terry Schiavo, Pope Benedict XVI, President Bush, Gasoline Prices, Social Security, etc.

The point is that none of these are obsessions. Fads maybe, infatuations, probably, but obsessions? I'm afraid not. The truth of it is America as a whole has too short an attention span to maintain a true obsession. Americans and the American media in particular have all the focus of a hummingbird on crystal meth. We flit from topic to topic with monomaniacal focus. What happened last week? Who cares, it's history. It's old news.

If you want a good example of national obsession you have to look to the east. I mean no insult to the Japanese when I say they have an obsession with time. accuracy is paramount and theer was dismay when trains were found to be operating at a slight delay. What level of temporal malaise could cause such sadness? About 6 seconds.

Yes, you read that correctly. A delay so miniscule that we here in the US wouldn't notice is thought of in Japan as a serious problem. The train crash two days ago which killed almost 100 people occured because the driver was going too fast around the curve, trying to make up for a delay of 90 seconds. 90 seconds which would have gotten him fired. 90 seconds which got him killed.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is an obsession with punctuality.

Because obsessions are problems. Japan is now reevaluating whether it's rigidity needs to be relaxed. They are trying to cope with a national problem and focusing their efforts on correcting it, without losing sight of it's importance.

Americans rapid-fire monomania in comparison lies ignored, unacknowledged, and untreated.

but what else is on?

Cardinal Ratzinger proclaimed pope

2005-04-19T13:27:00.000-05:00

Cardinal Ratzinger has assumed the papacy with the name of Benedictus. In this role he will likely continue along the lines he did while under Pope John Paul II, where he was the keeper of the faith, and the enforcer of the doctrine.

But all popes have their own legacy. Pope John Paul may be remembered for his strides at bringing the church together, and expanding it throughout Africa, Latin America and Asia. Cardinal Ratzinger will be remembered for something very different.

Pope Benedictus XVI will be the first pope since the fall of the Vatican states to try to take the church to war. A war against "the dictatorship of relatavism" and a war that will cause numerous casualties for the church. In a sermon delivered mere hours before the clandestine workings of the conclave then-Cardinal Ratzinger said "We are moving toward a dictatorship of relativism . . . that recognizes nothing definite and leaves only one's own ego and one's own desires as the final measure." Cardinal Ratzinger was determined to fight that dictatorship and to protect the traditions he believed, there is no reason to assume Pope Benedictus, will be any different.

There are few words that could be less pleasant to the churches in America and Europe than that memorable phrase. Reformists and non-believers, who had hoped for a shift leftward were disappointed. Many of the faithful will wonder if the Holy Spirit wasn't speaking too softly for a room full of old men. Some will wonder if the hearing aides of these princes of the church were working properly. Those teaching in the seminaries will be both overjoyed at a new pope who is so committed to his church and it's teachings, and in deep despair. Finding priests is already difficult and as any military recruiter knows, it's harder to get men in war time.

And men are what this church needs. If the Catholic church is to rally the troops and guide with a stern vigilance this unruly worldwide flock it will need priests. Lots of them. Everywhere. Priests that it no longer has and isn't likely to get. In France, there are some areas where children have never seen a priest (source: NYT). Throughout the United States Monastaries are suffering due to a lack of seminarians and the financial and psychological blow of the sex abuse scandals. Many reformist Catholics hoped that a new moderate pope would usher in an era of spiritual rebirth in Europe and the United States, but few had their hopes high. Now that a conservative Cardinal has been appointed, many of those reform-minded Catholics will become more relativist, leaving and weakening the institution.

The church will continue, the faithful will still flock to the open arms of St. Peter's Square. There will not be such an exodus that the great Basilica will be sucked down into a vacuum. But as doctrine is tightened without adequate oversight or enforcement capability, more and more catholics may find less and less time for the pews.

In his first address as Pope Benedictus XVI, the new pontiff said he was , "comforted by the fact that the Lord knows how to work and act even with insufficient instruments." If the new pope wishes to succeed in his goals, he had best hope he can do the same.

Bradley Hague

Illness and Memory

2005-04-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

Nothing lives in my place.

I have no girl, no pets, no plants. I have no one but me and I am not there enough to truly call it living there. I shouldn't feel bad about this. I don't. I can barely take care of myself now. My thumb is four shades darker than black and my ability to care for a pet right now is laughable.

Nothing lives in my place at the moment, nor should it.

But last night as I lay ill in my studio apartment, bathed in the sodium glow of the streetlamp outside my window, staring at the barrier where the orange light, the green sheets, and my pale, ghostly colored skin mingled like old friends, I realized how isolated my home felt, how lonely it felt, how empty it felt. Mine is a small studio, I've had as many as three people staying there at any one point but it really doesn't fit more than one.

In the painful haze of exhaustion and nausea, I could only think of two things. One is that my ceiling fan, the prime contributor to my vertigo-induced nausea needed dusting, and two: how badly I wanted something to comfort me.

I wanted a girl, a pet, a plant.

but strangely, for I've not had one in almost two decades, I wanted a teddy bear.

I had numerous bears throughout my childhood but the one I wanted last night was J.C. No I wasn’t in a pre-pubescent hip-hop phase when I got him, he was bought at the now defunct J. C. Penny’s. He was a white bear that showed much abuse and more love. He was patched, repaired and sewn up repeatedly. One eye was missing and never replaced. Part of his ear had been gnawed off by one of our dogs. He had a blue and white sweater which faded less than a month after I got him. Across its center in bold blue lettering were the words: “J C Bear.”

I wanted him because I wanted comfort. I wanted the value of a pet without the required care for one. I wanted him because I wanted the safety and serenity of my childhood. On that bed, racked by stomach cramps and fever, bathed in a sickly orange glow I had none of that. All I had was pain, sickness, insomnia, and an intense desire for the embrace of Morpheus. In those all too brief moments of rest, before reality and the cold claws of biology ripped me from my slumber I craved comfort and peace. I crushed a crumpled yellow towel kept from my first days in Washington held it against the scooped out hollow of my chest in a pathetic mockery of what I truly craved.

I wanted childhood again: I wanted a life where pain was taken away with the rumbling bass of my fathers voice, the calm melodic tones of my mother bringing tea. I wanted to be away from where I was. Away from who I was. For I have become far too accustomed to pain in the intervening days, far too accustomed to struggle. And I have come far too far from the innocence I poured into that little bear with delight and abandon.

Bradley

Pope John Paul II remembered

2005-04-04T10:45:00.000-05:00

On a blazing hot Wednesday during a dry and dusty August, Pope John Paul II came to my hometown of Denver. It was the first time I had ever seen him. Even through binoculars he was a white dot stepping out of a military helicopter. He could walk on his own then; though he stooped slightly and was obviously old, he had a life in him that was unmistakable. The eager crowd filled up Mile High Stadium cheering with religious fervor the small man in a big hat. That was what he seemed at the time. When he was presented cheers went up that fit the temple of sports we occupied far more than the solemnity of cathedrals. He blessed us in a clear voice with the thick rich accent unmarred by the Parkinson's disease which left him almost unintelligible later in life.

That Sunday, he said a full and formal mass outside in “the cathedral of the outdoors”, otherwise known as a giant open field. The drought stricken grass was trampled flat from the worshippers, and the dust quickly stripped from the air all the moisture the sun could not eradicate. Many people collapsed from heatstroke, others suffered from the elevation. Most were dehydrated and all of us at the end of the week were exhausted. The crowd formed an amphitheater shape to hear John Paul speak. To my young eyes it seemed to stretch for miles. The Pope was still a white dot in the distance. In conduct most unbecoming of a Catholic at mass, I pushed and shoved my way towards the front until I could see a shape that resembled a human being before going the rituals of mass.

They’re the same rituals around the world. The language may change but the tenor and the timing do not. I stood with numerous people saying in Spanish, the words I was saying in English in the same style, same pace, and often with a similarly ritualistic devotion. The Pope gave a homily, as was his tradition, in six languages. He did this without pause, without struggle, and without error. Then he asked us to hold up what we wanted blessed. I held up the gaudy orange backpack that I had so that he could bless its contents: A small silver chain and two rosaries, one mother-of-pearl and one glow-in-the-dark.

At that time I took my religion seriously. I respected it, believed in it. Read about it (the crusades fascinated me). At times I even considered the priesthood as a vocation. But troubles loomed and after my confirmation three years later I left the Catholic Church.

I’ve returned since, after a fashion. I go to church on occasion when it’s not Christmas or Easter. I still have major problems with the policies of the Holy See but I go to mass anyway; I still buy advent calendars, still forget to open them until Christmas Eve; still make Lenten resolutions I never keep, and still feel guilty that I don’t. And when people ask me my religion, I admit, with hesitation, to Catholicism.

At the end of 2000, during the Millennium Jubilee, I went to Rome. I walked through the Puerto Santo, and had all past sins forgiven. I went to mass inside St. Peter’s Basilica, where the Cardinal’s presided, and again outside, where Pope John Paul did. He was much closer this time, blessing the medallion hanging on my old silver chain and the same mother of pearl rosary. I figured it was only fair. He came to give mass at my hometown. I should go to hear mass at his. I didn’t expect fireworks and I didn’t get them. But it felt good. I knew the words, I knew the ritual. And I knew the Pope.

I have never known any Pope besides John Paul II. In a very real sense Pope John Paul II was born the same year I was. He was elected pope, and received his new name only four months after I had recieved mine. Though we were at odds for the majority of our lives we were family, albeit very extended family. It was hard to see him suffer, and it is easy now to see him at peace.

Rest Easy John Paul,

You deserve it.

----
Bradley Hague

Who's the fool?

2005-04-01T09:44:00.000-05:00

Apparently I am.

As both my sources, as well as my own eyes, have retracted their certainty of this information I really should delete this post. But I feel it is important to recognize our mistakes, regardless of how well backed up they may be. My apologies to my non-existent readership.

Bradley 04-06

Perhaps it's fitting that Jeff Gannon (aka James Guckert ) was dining this morning at the National Press Club in Washington on this April fool's day. But as he has been confirmed as a member and sits as a panelist next week on blogging I have to wonder: who is the fool here and who is the prankster?

Bloggers v. Everyone

2005-03-25T14:37:00.000-05:00

Too much has happened politically to even attempt coverage. But if you're coming here that's not what you get. What you get today is why I got into blogosphere.

I've been a fan of blogs for a long time. I'm a journalist, in the new sense of the word and the old. I like the idea of a citizen media and the role that individuals can play in shaping stories.

As such it infuriates me to see the blogosphere become a way to lead the media. No disrespect to many of my fellow journalism bloggers but most of the blogs are atrocious. The ones that get the most hits don't often have the most interesting perspective or the deepest insight, they're the ones that shout the loudest and most creatively. The best ones check their facts but few check their posts. I've yet to see a blog (this one included) that couldn't use a good editor.

As such I'm going to post something that sits outside my second home at the National Press Club here in Washington. It's the Journalist's creed and while few people read it anymore and fewer follow it I thought it might be nice to post.

It may be out of date. But this is what we used to aim for. Maybe bloggers should too.

Journalist's Creed

I believe in the profession of journalism.

I believe that the public journal is a public trust; that all connected with it are, to the full measure of their responsibility, trustees for the public; that acceptance of a lesser service than the public service is betrayal of this trust.

I believe that clear thinking and clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism.

I believe that a journalist should write only what he holds in his heart to be true.

I believe that suppression of the news, for any consideration other than the welfare of society, is indefensible.

I believe that no one should write as a journalist what he would not say as a gentleman; that bribery by one's own pocketbook is as much to be avoided as bribery by the pocketbook of another; that individual responsibility may not be escaped by pleading another's instructions or another's dividends.

I believe that advertising, news and editorial columns should alike serve the best interests of readers; that a single standard of helpful truth and cleanness should prevail for all; that the supreme test of good journalism is the measure of its public service.

I believe that the journalism which succeeds best -- and best deserves success -- fears God and honors Man; is stoutly independent, unmoved by pride of opinion or greed of power, constructive, tolerant but never careless, self-controlled, patient, always respectful of its readers but always unafraid, is quickly indignant at injustice; is unswayed by the appeal of privilege or the clamor of the mob; seeks to give every man a chance and, as far as law and honest wage and recognition of human brotherhood can make it so, an equal chance; is profoundly patriotic while sincerely promoting international good will and cementing world-comradeship; is a journalism of humanity, of and for today's world.

Whither Republicanism?

2005-03-21T15:39:00.000-05:00

While the decline of old Republican values is a long and well explored topic in the blogosphere as well as in academic and political literature of all perspectives, the Terry Schiavo case might just put a final nail in the coffin of the Jeffersonian idealists in the Republican Party.

With this one case, the Republican Party has done more to distance itself from its core of beliefs than any other single action. In this matter the basic tenets of Republicanism fall away.

State’s Rights:
Among the core issues in the Republican party is that the federal government shall only have authority over federal matters. Decisions that affect the state level are best made by the states themselves. This credo has now been interred in the grounds of evangelism with all the solemnity of a rioting mob. This case has been adjudicated by nearly 20 judges in ten different courts all who have legitimate jurisdiction on the issue. It has then been taken out of the state’s hands and placed in the federal court system to assuage religious supporters and create a campaign issue.

Separation of Powers:
The legislature creates the laws, the executive enacts the laws and the judiciary handles any disputes. This is basic civics. It’s also a founding principle of the Republican Party. No one agency can overrule the other. Yet in effect that is exactly what happened. The Republican Party banded together to overturn the results of a judiciary because it ruled against them. This has become a common tactic for the Republicans and is illustrated in a similar, though less flagrant and regrettably legal abuse, in the rigging and emasculation of the ethics committee and the submission of fairly extreme judges to the federal bench. And finally,

Small Government:
A credo supported by Republicans, Libertarians, Independents and even some Democrats. The government should not be involved in every trifling matter. Government involvement racks up large bills and creates meaningless and futile confusion. To quote the current Republican demigod Ronald Reagan, and many others: government governs best when it governs least. In this case the Republican Party has inserted itself not into a business dispute, not into a matter of legality, but into a family squabble over the right to die. It’s a place where no good Jeffersonian should want to be and one that should strike fear into the hearts of small government Republicans.

I feel for Ms. Schiavo, her family, her husband, and all others involved in this case. In a traumatic time each has done what they felt was best (Whether the best for them or the best for Ms. Schiavo cannot be determined and will not be guessed.) However, the case is a fight among family members, about family members.

A good government has no place in it.

Politbloggers

2005-03-21T13:06:00.000-05:00

I'm an addict. I admit it. I'm okay with it.

It took me a little while but I was able to say, "I am a political junkie and a news junkie and I need help."

My therapist told me that I was making huge progress but that sterner measures were needed. He recommended I move to Washington, said an overdose might do me some good. He was wrong. Washington didn't give me an overdose, it just upped the dosage.

Thankfully there are plenty of people in this town that are more addicted than I am.

This is for them. A site by and for the political bloggers of the world that don't belong to any wing. In the beginning though it's just me. Eventually, I hope to add other political know-it-alls to this site (and if you'd like to be one please email me).

It will be more of a news site than an editorial page. I'm a newsman and while I will happily proclaim my opinions I'm slightly less enthusiastic about publishing them. Somethings however deserve a good rant, and I intend to rant about them.

I hope you enjoy the writing and welcome any and all comments you have.

Sincerely,

Bradley Hague

Political football and Terry Schiavo

2005-03-21T13:05:00.000-05:00

Congress convened in an emergency session to write a bill that affected one person, the President not only returned from his travels but actually awoke to sign the bill at 1:11 a.m. The notoriously early riser deciding that it was too important to wait. Now another case has been filed and the defense takes its turn with the woman-cum-political-football that is Terry Schiavo sits in Florida, oblivious to it all. As the match winds down the drama surrounding her is reduced to a litany of blocks, reversals and interceptions of professional football.

The bill passed the Senate under rules allowing for unanimous consent. Only three Senators were present for its passage and while any Senator opposed to the bill could have blocked it, none showed up to do so. Some Democratic senator's sharply criticized the move, but none was present for the vote.

The house had a longer debate but the measure cleared easily. It is worded so as not to give any authority outside this one issue, but it is difficult to avoid setting an emotional and psychological precedent, no matter what the legal status is.

Rep. Barney Frank (D-Mass.): "Every aggrieved party in any similar litigation now will go to Congress, come to Congress and ask us to make a series of decisions. This is a terribly difficult decision which we are, institutionally, totally incompetent to make."

Perhaps more damaging to the case than the question of competence is the question of constitutionality. The bill has already raised troubling constitutional questions for the separation of powers. Should the appeals process continue the case might wind up before the Supreme Court again, (the court declined to hear it the first time, allegedly due to a lack of jurisdiction). But the Republican leadership denies these issues.

In the Washington Post this morning Senate Majority Leader Tom DeLay said "We, as Congress, have every right to make sure that the constitutional rights of Terri Schiavo are protected, and that's what we're doing. It has nothing to do with state's rights. We aren't overriding state law."

Insofar as Florida has no law regarding the removal of a feeding tube generally or the Schiavo case specifically this is true; but it does override ten courts and almost 20 judges.

The Florida legislature is debating a measure to address this difficulty, but the issue just became elevated. Unfortunately for all Terry Schiavo is no longer a football fought over by feuding families, she is a symbol; and is now a pawn in a much larger game.

Congressional Hardball?

2005-03-18T11:15:00.000-05:00

In the hearings about steroid use in baseball yesterday, congress managed to ascertain the known: Several people use steroids in baseball but no one will say who they are. Which leads to a fundamental question: why does congress call hearings to investigate and fail to do so? Were the members so blinded by the starpower before them that they forgot their duty? As the committee basked in the glow of Canseco's false tan they threw softballs that these veteran sluggers shunted aside with ease; and at the end of the day the score was still tied. The hearing was a no-hitter for both sides. Apparently there is a steroid problem in baseball but no one, with the exception of Mr. Canseco, has ever witnessed it happening or spoken about it.

If congress is serious about cracking down on drug use in baseball then it needs to use more than its subpoena power. And if these men, who are held in such repute by the fans, show such open contempt for the congress than maybe congress should hold them in contempt as well.

N I stabbing Victim’s sisters pursue justice to the halls of the White House

2005-03-17T14:19:00.000-05:00

Washington D.C.
On this cold St. Patricks day morning a large crowd of Irish men and women gathered outside the White House festooned with the traditional green of the holiday and wearing emblems of shamrocks. A traditional gathering on this holiday with one significant exception: in years past the President has met with Irish Leaders, politicians, and dealmakers to show support for the peace process. Today, the gathering contained many civil leaders but only one politician from Northern Ireland. The stars of the show this year were women in search of justice.

The McCartney sisters, Paula, Gemma, Donna, Claire and Catherine have never been together on American soil and most had not been in the country since they were children. However they have made their presence felt on this trip to the nation’s capitol as they fight against IRA violence, becoming international celebrities in the process. Their brother, Robert McCartney, was beaten and stabbed outside of a pub in Belfast, allegedly by members of the IRA. Witnesses were threatened and evidence was cleaned up. The attack would have passed with little notice outside Northern Ireland if not for the courage of his sisters.

McCartney’s sisters went to the press, the police and the government to press for action. Catherine, the most vocal of the group, eventually called the consulate in Belfast to press for American involvement. Finally, this morning they walked into the corridors of power in Washington. At the White House this morning Catherine, said, “We hope he will support our cause just like everyone else here in Washington has…We hope he will help us get justice.”

A measure of support can be found in the snubbing of Sinn Fein Leader Gerry Adams. Mr. Adams leads the political wing of the IRA and has been rebuffed by the White House as well as Senator Ted Kennedy (D-Mass), a long-time supporter. “We certainly hope that the leadership of Sinn Fein understands what an albatross the IRA is on them and for the cause of peace in Ireland," Kennedy said after meeting with the sisters yesterday.

Adams for his part has tried to show compassion with the sisters, but warned that they may be manipulated by those with political agendas. The sisters rejected that complaint out of hand. “This is our cause and our cause alone.” Catherine McCartney said. “No one is pulling our strings except Robert.”

Despite the family’s high profile Catherine McCartney, who teaches politics at the Belfast Institute, ruled out any political aspirations of her own, for the moment. “When you get into politics you have to focus on more than one issue,” she said. “We have one issue now and that’s Robert.”

Their one issue has caused an echo throughout Ireland and throughout the Irish American Community. On this St. Patrick’s Day, many hope that the McCartney family will be able to salvage peace out of a violent crime.