n the summer of 1985, I spent two months in the city that used to be called Leningrad. Along with several dozen other American college students, I stayed in a shabby Intourist hotel. Sharp-eyed old ladies sat at the end of every corridor; curiously unemployed men hung around the lobby. Every day we went to Russian-language classes at the university, where we also assumed we were being carefully observed. But in the afternoons and evenings, we were free to wander the city and to attempt to make friends.
Which we did—although, in retrospect, these were often odd and constrained friendships. Even the process of introduction was fraught. Before leaving for the USSR, one collected the names of Russians from other Americans who had been there, or from friends of friends, usually Soviet Jews who had recently emigrated. Once inside the country, one called up potential acquaintances, using a pay phone to avoid detection, and arrived bearing gifts. Someone had told me to bring a Russian-language copy of Jack London’s Call of the Wild to his Leningrad relative. I still remember the look of disappointment that crossed her face when I presented it. “A book for children,” she murmured with regret.
The Russians I met didn’t want Jack London. They wanted newspapers, magazines, anything with photographs of the United States. They also wanted to talk about the United States—a lot. The intellectuals would ask about politics, or about literary trends, or whether there was really a Communist party in America. Others wanted to know how much our cars cost, and whether working-class people in America really owned houses. None of them had ever been abroad, and in those pre-Internet, pre-satellite-television days, even sophisticated Leningraders could be effectively cut off from the outside world. There were some exceptions: An underground rock musician asked whether I’d met David Bowie, because he already had. But most people only knew the outside world from television. They suspected that much of what they had been told was false, but they weren’t absolutely certain.
Some preferred not to know. Russians who were not refuseniks or rock musicians were often afraid to talk to us. When I asked for directions on the street, people would sometimes look startled by my foreign accent and walk away. Waiters, hotel staff, and university professors kept their distance. In Stalin’s time, people had been arrested for having foreign friends. Although the system was much softer by then, a distinct uneasiness remained.
I never thought I would live to see the day when Stalinist architecture, once thought to be a sinister embodiment of political terror, would acquire a kind of retro chic.If fear was in the background, poverty was in the foreground. Leningrad was crumbling. The faint smell of sewage hung over the canals. Shop shelves were empty. Queues formed rapidly whenever there was a delivery of shoes or sausage. There were no interesting books in the bookstores, and there was nothing but stiff party jargon in the newspapers. Television was boring. You had to have special clout to get theater tickets. Toward the end of my stay, one of my friends asked if I would consider marrying his cousin in order to help him escape. “You’ll be saving someone’s life,” he told me.
I didn’t do it. But as it turned out, it wouldn’t have been necessary. When I arrived in Leningrad, Mikhail Gorbachev had just become general secretary, and the Cold War was still very much alive. But almost as soon as I left, things began to change. Any American who made her first trip across the Iron Curtain even three years later, in 1988, would encounter a completely different world and a different vocabulary—glasnost, perestroika, reform—from the one I had found. Which also means that anyone of any nationality who is more than a decade younger than I can’t possibly have any adult recollection of either the USSR, or the Cold War, or what we used to call “real existing socialism” at all.

ecently, this has begun to seem significant to me. Not because my own experience was significant, but because it means that the living memory of the USSR is now truly fading and the nature of the USSR—its peculiar awfulness, its criminality, its stupidity—is becoming harder and harder to explain. The sense of being surrounded by lies; the underlying anxiety that someone might be listening or reporting on you; the constant, screaming, inescapable propaganda; the sullenness of the crowds on the Metro; the memories of mass terror just below the surface; the useful idiots and the cynical sycophants who supported the whole thing, both in Russia and abroad; all of that is now absolutely impossible to convey.
This does have some amusing consequences. Certainly I never thought I would live to see the day when Stalinist architecture, once thought to be a sinister embodiment of political terror, would acquire a kind of retro chic. In a recent book, a young British author, Owen Hatherley, waxes eloquent about Stalinallee, a monstrous collection of concrete blocks in the heart of what used to be East Berlin. Though the street once stood for all that was alienating and strange, Hatherley now finds it “hugely exhilarating,” representing “socialism with real generosity and grandeur, all its hierarchical features subordinated to the rule of the public’s footsteps.” Admirers of the grim Stalinist skyscrapers in Warsaw and Moscow have multiplied, too.
Somewhat less amusing is the resurrection of old Marxists like Jeremy Corbyn, the newly elected leader of the British Labour party. For many years Corbyn has been writing for the Morning Star, the newspaper of the British far left, proffering anti-American, anti-NATO, anti-Semitic, and even anti-British sentiments. These views no longer alarm a generation that can’t remember who sponsored such views in the past, or why. His conservative opponents have accused him of pushing policies that were last heard in the 1980s, but what does that mean to people who were born in the 1980s? To them Corbyn sounds new and fresh.
Still, the resurrection of the Western far left or the return of forgotten British comrades is not what I worry about the most. My concern is the revival, with amazing speed, of a belligerent Russian state, one led by men who were taught and trained by the Soviet state and are thus prepared to use a familiar blend of terror, deception, and military force to stay in power. One might argue, of course, that such men never really went away. But their level of aggression is rising just as our once formidable ability to counter them seems to have vanished altogether. Instead, we have trouble simply recognizing them for what they are.
This became patently clear in March 2014 just after the Ukrainian revolution, which saw the ouster of the Russian-aligned Victor Yanyukovich and the restoration of the country’s democratic constitution. On Ukraine’s Crimean peninsula, “little green men,” as they later came to be called, suddenly appeared. Equipped with guns, wearing unmarked uniforms, and driving unmarked military vehicles, they began methodically taking over local government buildings and television stations. In almost every major city, local “politicians,” some of whom had previously been leaders of criminal gangs, seemed primed to welcome the little green men, almost as if they had been warned.
The Western reaction was one of confusion, amazement, consternation. What was happening? Was this a local uprising? A civil war? Were these unidentified men Russians from Russian? Were they Russians from Crimea?
In the quarter-century since the fall of Communism, we’ve forgotten what a cynical, unprincipled, authoritarian Russian regime looks like.I knew exactly who they were: Russian special forces. I knew it because they looked, spoke, and acted exactly like the Soviet special forces—then known as the NKVD—who had entered Poland in 1939, the Baltic states in 1940, then all of Eastern Europe in 1945. Like their modern descendants, those Soviet interior ministry troops wore unmarked uniforms or sometimes Polish or Hungarian uniforms, even if they didn’t speak Polish or Hungarian. Like their modern descendants, they also claimed to be coming to the aid of local forces—oppressed minorities, local Communist parties—which in some cases hadn’t even existed until they arrived.
There was nothing unusual about this in the Soviet era. During the whole of its existence, the USSR never invaded another country; no, it merely came to the aid of oppressed minorities or fraternal parties. But it never left without imposing—or, in Afghanistan, trying and failing to impose—its own totalitarian system. When the NKVD, later known as the KGB, crossed any border, it always arrested potential dissidents, took over the media, shut down civic organizations, nationalized companies, and created the fear and poverty I’d later see in Leningrad.
And this is exactly what Russia, under the leadership of Vladimir Putin, a former KGB officer, did after coming to the aid of the “oppressed Russian minority in Crimea” in 2014—though instead of nationalizing companies, the Russian occupiers stole them from Ukrainian owners and gave them to Russians. Time moves on.
Since the Crimean invasion, the Russians have advanced into eastern Ukraine using similar tactics. Adding a twist to the narrative, they have now entered the Syrian conflict too, in order to come to the aid of the fraternal Assad regime. Not only the United States but all of what used to be called “the West” has been flummoxed by these moves, even thrown into strategic disarray. And no wonder. In the quarter-century since the fall of Communism, we’ve forgotten what a cynical, unprincipled, authoritarian Russian regime looks like, especially one with an audacious global strategy and no qualms whatsoever about sacrificing human life. Let me say it again more clearly: Almost all of the men who currently rule Russia (and they are all men) were taught and trained by the KGB. Their teaching and training shows. Why would it not?
This is not to say that Russia is the strongest authoritarian regime in the world, or the one that, in the long term, poses the greatest threat to global order. But it is the one that, again thanks to its KGB-trained leadership, has a special fixation on us: our political system, our media, our financial markets. Iran may want to dominate the Middle East, and China may aim to dominate Southeast Asia. Both might eventually try more directly to undermine the United States and Europe as well. Certainly they are watching Russia’s efforts with great interest. But at the moment, only Russia is focused hard on undermining the institutions of the West, among them the European Union, NATO, and the various treaties that have stitched together the post-WWII and post–Cold War order. A few people in a few Western capitals do recognize what Russia is up to. German chancellor Angela Merkel probably has a pretty good idea. She’s reluctant to draw all of the necessary conclusions, but I’m sure she understands Vladimir Putin’s tactics, if only because she grew up with them in East Germany.
These tactics are not exactly the same as the ones Putin learned in the KGB in the 1970s and 1980s, but neither are they entirely different. In the past decade, for example, the Russian regime has reconstructed a state-run media machine far more sophisticated than anything the USSR ever invented and yet similarly blinkered. Although there are dozens of domestic news outlets, entertainment channels, and magazines, they all toe the same political line, with only a tiny number of exceptions. There is an appearance of variety but a unity of messages. Among them: The United States is a threat; Europe is degenerate; Ukraine is run by Nazis; Russia, unfairly deprived of its role in the world, is finally becoming a superpower again. To anyone who remembers how Communist ideology once sought to express all of history and all of contemporary politics through the lens of one giant conspiracy theory, this is nothing new. But who genuinely remembers?
Abroad, Russian-funded television, websites, and Internet troll factories make similar points in multiple languages. Russia also backs—in some cases financially, in other cases ideologically—politicians, businessmen, journalists, and “experts” who give out similar messages. They include Marine le Pen, the leader of the far right in France; Gerhard Schroeder, the former chancellor of Germany; Vaclav Klaus, the former Czech president, who is now associated with a think tank created by a sanctioned Russian oligarch. Members of the Hungarian and Austrian far-right parties have traveled to Crimea to support the Russian occupation. Syriza, the far-left party in Greece, has deep links to Russia, too.
Fake research institutions, “peace movements,” fictitious political groupings, useful idiots, and agents of influence, both paid and unpaid…We’ve been here before, too. True, the ideology has changed. These days Russia supports whoever is willing to promote its interests, whether far-left or far-right, and whoever can help undermine the established European order. Instead of attempting to foster an international Communist revolution, the primary goal is to keep Vladimir Putin in power and make the world safe for Russian corruption, Russian oligarchs, and Russian money. Which might, in fact, prove a lot more appealing than the dictatorship of the proletariat.
The American president likes to say that this isn’t a new Cold War, and up to a point he’s right. But the conflict we unwillingly find ourselves in isn’t entirely unfamiliar either, and even if we don’t want to see that, the Russians do. Again, this should be no surprise to anyone. Russia is run by men who are deeply attached to the Soviet system, the collapse of which was the most shattering and disorienting experience of their lives. Most Western countries, by contrast, are run by men and women who thought that the collapse of the USSR meant that they could finally move on and think about something else.
Perhaps this is why we in the West haven’t leapt on some of the obvious solutions. We could, for example, seriously reinforce the Western alliance, as we did in the past. We could build up a military deterrent designed to prevent the Ukrainian and Syrian escapades from being repeated in Estonia or Sweden. We could finally take the “information war” seriously. We could fund organizations that debunk Russian disinformation, support credible Russian journalism, and undermine their vast efforts in social media and political patronage. We could worry a lot more about Russian spies and hackers.
We’ve done some of these things, it is true, but without much conviction. And that, I am guessing, is because we just don’t remember how they worked in the past.
I am willing to accept that because I write books about Soviet history, and because I spent that summer of 1985 in Leningrad, I may be a little too inclined to see old patterns in new Russian foreign policy. Although it’s hard to have once written about the Soviet “liberation” of Poland and not now to see the parallels to the Russian “liberation” of Crimea, especially when some of the same language is being used, I do know that there are limits. Putin is not Stalin or even Brezhnev.
But while I might be biased by my experience with the Soviet past, I think it fair to conclude that many people who do not have that experience might be biased in the other direction by the lack of it. Because those younger than 40 don’t remember the USSR, many of them in positions of power and authority and influence are insufficiently inclined to see these same patterns. Because they don’t remember the KGB, they are unable to recognize the tactics it has used in the past. And because they don’t remember how we undermined the KGB, they aren’t yet prepared to resist the KGB, who are once again dedicating themselves to undermining the rules of the civilized world.
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Russia and the Great Forgetting
Must-Reads from Magazine
Hillary Clinton’s Bad Old Days
The Democratic front-runner is still intimately involved with conspiracy-theorist leftists
Joshua Muravchik 2016-03-17
aving tacked to the left in her contest with the self-described democratic socialist Bernie Sanders for the Democratic presidential nomination, Hillary Clinton will almost certainly tack back toward the center in the general-election campaign. She has executed this zigzag before. By this point, her true beliefs may be undiscoverable, perhaps even by her. But her apparent weakness for the counsel of unrepentant veterans of the 1960s New Left gives cause for wonder about the voices she would listen to and the direction she would steer once she reached the White House.
Clinton’s own ideological roots lie in that movement. When the president of Wellesley College yielded to the demand of protesting students that one of their number be added to the graduation program in 1969 to counterbalance the establishmentarian commencement speaker, Senator Edward Brooke, Hillary Rodham was their choice. She delivered an address in which the core idea was this: “Our prevailing, acquisitive, and competitive corporate life, including tragically the universities, is not the way of life for us. We’re searching for more immediate, ecstatic, and penetrating modes of living.”
She was chosen because she had already made a name as an activist, a trajectory that continued beyond Wellesley. Its highlights were recalled in 2008 by none other than Tom Hayden, who as one of the organizers of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) in Michigan was perhaps the preeminent founder of the New Left. Hayden, whose purpose was to retaliate against the Clinton campaign for circulating accounts of Barack Obama’s far-left associations, wrote:
She was in Chicago for three nights during the 1968 street confrontations [at the Democratic National Convention]. She chaired the 1970 Yale law school meeting where students voted to join a national student strike against an “unconscionable expansion of a war that should never have been waged.” She was involved in the New Haven defense of [Black Panther] Bobby Seal during his murder trial in 1970….[A]fter Yale law school, Hillary went to work for the left-wing Bay Area law firm of Treuhaft, Walker and Burnstein, which specialized in Black Panthers and West Coast labor leaders prosecuted for being communists. Two of the firm’s partners, according to Treuhaft, were communists and the two others “tolerated communists.”
It was widely reported that Clinton-family retainer Sidney Blumenthal had furnished the material on Obama’s past, making this a piquant clash. These two men—Hayden and Blumenthal—were New Leftists who had gone on to big careers more by obscuring than revising their youthful radical views. Now each was seeking to damage the other’s favored candidate by dishing on their radical pasts.
Of course, everything in Hayden’s Hillary history happened long ago, and her views, like those of most of us who were 1960s radicals of one stripe or another, have doubtless evolved. Yet in thousands of pages of writings and in countless spoken words since, she has failed to explain in what way they have changed. Instead, she has deliberately blurred the picture.
In Living History, an autobiography issued in anticipation of running for the presidency in 2004, she contrives to make herself seem to have been nothing but a spectator. She claims she went to the 1968 Chicago demonstration merely “to witness history.” She writes that she “moderated the mass meeting” where Yale students voted to join the strike and observed “how seriously my fellow students took” the issues—as if she herself had not been an advocate. She reports that “demonstrations broke out in and around campus” supporting the Black Panthers while she was at Yale, without offering a hint that she took part in any way. As for her summer at the Bay Area’s premier hard-left law firm, she acknowledges only working on a “child custody” case.
The First Lady’s leftish image was really defined by her curious dalliance with Michael Lerner, a fellow 1960s radical who had founded the Seattle Liberation Front. A demonstration the Front organized devolved into rioting, leading to Lerner’s prosecution in 1970 as one of the ‘Seattle Seven.’This evasiveness extended to her descriptions of the events themselves. No mention is made, for example, that the Panthers in the dock in New Haven were on trial for the torture and murder of one of their own (whom they suspected of being an informer), as if it all may have been a matter of government persecution. Regarding Vietnam, she portrays Yale’s chaplain William Sloane Coffin glowingly as having become a “national leader of the anti-war movement through his articulate moral critique” of America’s actions, but she omits mentioning that he traveled to Hanoi in solidarity with America’s enemy, a pitiless totalitarian regime. All this whitewashing and airbrushing prompts one to wonder whether she ever rethought her youthful radicalism or just left it behind because it was impractical or impolitic.
In 1992, when the Bill Clinton campaign sought and won my support as it wooed “Reagan Democrats” back to the fold, I asked Al Frum, then the head of the centrist Democratic Leadership Council, about Hillary’s leftward tug on her husband. He responded that to his surprise she was proving to be a “big help” in keeping the campaign in the middle of the road. So she may have been, but once ensconced in the White House, she emerged at once as being “solidly on the left of [the] administration’s ideological spectrum,” as the Nation noted enthusiastically. Her activities, especially her leading role in the unsuccessful effort to dramatically overall the health-care system, were widely seen as one source of the backlash that brought the Republicans control of both houses of Congress in 1994.
The First Lady’s leftish image was really defined by her curious dalliance with Michael Lerner, a fellow 1960s radical who had founded the Seattle Liberation Front. A demonstration the Front organized devolved into rioting, leading to Lerner’s prosecution in 1970 as one of the “Seattle Seven.” A decade later, he reinvented himself as a “psychotherapist,” creating the Institute for Labor and Mental Health. A decade or so after that, he announced that he had been ordained a rabbi, albeit without having attended any seminary. Rabbinic garb added bite to Lerner’s criticisms of Israel, which were constant and invariably extreme. It also enabled him to formulate a new patter about spirituality that grabbed Hillary’s attention.
Lerner’s spirituality did not signify an interest in man’s relation to the eternal. Instead it consisted of the same leftist causes he had long championed, wrapped in ponderous talk about “mov[ing] from an ethos of selfishness to an ethos of caring and community.” He called this the “politics of meaning.”
Hillary borrowed the phrase when she delivered a major speech in 1993 lamenting a “sleeping sickness of the soul” that she said was “at the root of America’s ills.” This necessitated “redefining who we are as human beings in the post-modern age.” Soon after, in greeting Lerner at a public event, she said, “Am I your mouthpiece or what?” When the speech evinced some ridicule—“what on earth does it mean?” asked the New Republic—Clinton conceded, “As Michael Lerner and I have discussed, we have to first create a language that would better communicate what we are trying to say.” So she had him to the White House for a skull session.
Much as Lerner reveled in press accounts describing him as Hillary’s “guru,” her “politics of meaning” speech echoed themes she had favored before ever encountering Lerner. As the late Michael Kelly pointed out in a stunning New York Times Magazine article, the speech tracked closely her 1969 Wellesley commencement address in which she spoke of “forg[ing] an identity in this particular age” by “coming to terms with our humanness.” Verily, the girl was mother to the woman. The 21-year-old was now 45, but the thoughts were the same.
After the Republican landslide in 1994, Bill Clinton moved sharply back toward the center, Hillary lowered her profile, and Lerner and his politics of meaning were no longer heard from in Washington. The result was a highly successful presidency, whose success is the core reason there may yet be a second Clinton presidency. The only real blemish on the first was the scandal of Bill’s various extramarital moments, which became the focus of an impeachment process. One consequence of this was to cement the role of Sidney Blumenthal as a key adviser to the Clintons, now especially to Hillary.
Blumenthal had been a member of the SDS. He began a career in journalism writing for “alternative” newspapers like the Real Paper and the Boston Phoenix and radical magazines like the Nation and In These Times. He published an anthology that carried an introduction by Philip Agee, the CIA turncoat who declared himself a “communist” and turned his knowledge of America’s secrets over to Cuban intelligence. In the 1980s, Blumenthal began to contribute to mainstream publications and landed a position with the Washington Post, which then leaned more sharply leftward than it does today. Blumenthal’s beat was exposing the wrongdoing—real or invented—of conservatives. His contributions often appeared in its Style section, which suited his method—to besmirch his subject’s reputations rather than critiquing their ideas.
His schoolyard style was vividly displayed in a book he published at the time, The Rise of the Counter-Establishment. I captured his Trump-like approach in a review in these pages:
He reports that Edwin Feulner, president of the Heritage Foundation, read two conservative classics in his freshman year in college, after which “his mind was set in a pattern that would never waver.”…The neoconservatives as a group embraced President Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative as “a way to compensate” for their failure to “broker the Jewish vote for Reagan” in 1984. Further, “a desire for vengeance” against the culture of the 1960’s “led some neoconservatives to feel a measure of vindication when John Lennon was killed” (though Blumenthal offers neither names nor specifics). William F. Buckley Jr. was inspired to launch National Review by an obsessional anti-Semite. Arthur Laffer is fat.
The other side of the coin of Blumenthal’s abusiveness toward ideological adversaries was his sycophancy toward liberals in power or with the potential to get there. NPR’s senior Washington editor Ron Elving has reported this history:
Blumenthal had generated controversy at the New Republic in 1984 with his enthusiastic coverage of…Democratic presidential hopeful…Gary Hart.
The Hart flirtation was soon surpassed by Blumenthal’s infatuation with Bill Clinton, whose 1992 campaign he praised for its potential to bring “epochal change.” . . . Even as the Clintons’ health care bill collapsed and the Republicans took over both the House and Senate in the elections of 1994, Blumenthal remained ardently supportive, touting his access and long interviews with the president.
By 1997, the year Bill Clinton’s second term began, Blumenthal dropped the second shoe, going to work as a White House aide. There he toiled, said the New York Times, as “speech-writer, in-house intellectual and press corps whisperer.” The “impeachment trial…solidified Blumenthal’s relationship with the Clintons,” CNN reported. “Blumenthal routinely provided [them] with information about their Republican opponents…and how to message against them.” It was not only politicians whom Sidney went after. His longtime friend and former fellow-leftist Christopher Hitchens wrote of their reunion in 1998 after an interregnum:
Where was my witty if sometimes cynical, clever if sometimes dogmatic, friend? In his place seemed to be someone who had gone to work for John Gotti. He talked coldly and intently of a lethal right-wing conspiracy that was slowly engulfing the capital. And he spoke, as if out of the side of a tough-guy mouth, about the women who were tools of the plot. Kathleen Willey, who had been interviewed on television the preceding weekend, was showing well in the polls, but that would soon be fixed….As for Monica Lewinsky, he painted her as a predatory and unstable stalker.
Blumenthal’s position as Clinton family consiglieri did not end when Bill left office. Instead, he took up his pen again, producing an 800-plus-page book, settling scores with the Clinton’s critics and detractors. Describing himself as the first family’s “good soldier” and “first knight,” he performed “acrobatic feats of protectiveness [that] are endless,” wrote New York Times book critic, Janet Maslin.
When President Obama named Hillary Clinton secretary of state, she wanted Blumenthal on her staff, but presidential aides vetoed the idea because of Blumenthal’s part in spreading derogatory information about Obama during the primaries. Blumenthal continued nonetheless to function as a confidant and adviser. In lieu of a government salary, he became a consultant to the Clinton Foundation and also to Media Matters, a “progressive media watchdog” Hillary Clinton helped found, and to its closely linked PAC, American Bridge.
According to news stories, his earnings from these positions exceeded what he would have drawn at State.
Mrs. Clinton’s recently released emails include hundreds from Blumenthal. As Politico’s Nahal Toosi put it, “Clinton received advice from many…but the quantity and audacity of the missives from Blumenthal…stand out.” Her address on this private server was reserved for top aides, close friends, high government officials, and former secretaries of state, denied even to most diplomatic and administration officials. When Blumenthal’s outsized presence in her inbox prompted questions from reporters, Clinton dismissed it, saying his were “unsolicited” messages, some of which she had “passed on.”
In truth she often replied to them with appreciation, occasionally asked Blumenthal for more on a subject, and at least once wrote that she was waiting for something he had promised. As the New York Times reported: “Mrs. Clinton…took Mr. Blumenthal’s advice seriously, often forwarding his memos to senior diplomatic officials…and at times asking them to respond. Mrs. Clinton continued to pass around his memos even after other senior diplomats concluded that Mr. Blumenthal’s assessments were often unreliable.”
The attention that Blumenthal’s messages attracted has been magnified by the ongoing controversy over the 2012 attack on the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, which revolves in part around questions about whether Secretary Clinton had done everything she might have to prevent or stop it and whether she had subsequently misrepresented the attackers’ motives. As emails were released under judicial order, reporters were quick to notice that prior to the attack, Blumenthal sent her dozens of messages on Libya. By one journalist’s count, one-third of the released material pertaining to Libya came from Blumenthal, who had no known expertise on the subject.
Blumenthal, however, scarcely limited himself to Libya. The messages consisted mostly of articles he was forwarding, often prefaced with a brief comment. They touched on Algeria, Egypt, Sudan, Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, China, North Korea, Germany, Ireland, the United Kingdom, France, the Netherlands, Georgia, and the European Union, as well as various non-geographic topics. No other country received even a fraction of the attention he devoted to Libya, with one glaring exception: Israel. There was, however, a striking difference between Blumenthal’s Libya messages and those about Israel.
The former are long, detailed, and written in the style of intelligence reports. When called to testify to Congress, Blumenthal surprised listeners by saying he had not written them—and their substance and style confirmed this. Blumenthal, it turned out, was advising a business partnership aiming to secure contracts to provide humanitarian aid in Libya’s reconstruction. One of the partners, a retired U.S. intelligence officer, had authored the memos.
Although Blumenthal’s involvement in this venture created a conflict of interest regarding Libya, his emails do not seem designed to influence policy. They and most of those on other topics seem intended primarily to sustain his own value to Clinton by demonstrating his breadth of knowledge and range of contacts. In contrast, his communications about Israel clearly press a point of view about the country and its policies. They are unfailingly critical of Israel, blaming it for the absence of peace.
When Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in 2009 first publicly endorsed a two-state solution with Palestinians, Blumenthal wrote to Clinton that this was a “transparently false and hypocritical ploy” on which she should try to “catch” him. When the U.S. brokered a cease-fire between Israel and Hamas in 2012, he wrote: “Hope it holds….Bibi refuses a partner for peace, but has encouraged one for war.” When she prepared to speak before the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, he urged using the occasion to diminish AIPAC:
While praising AIPAC, remind it in as subtle but also direct a way as you can that it does not have a monopoly over American Jewish opinion….AIPAC itself has become an organ of the Israeli right, specifically Likud. By acknowledging J Street you give them legitimacy, credibility….Just by mentioning J Street in passing, AIPAC becomes a point on the spectrum, not the controller of the spectrum.
J Street is the counter-AIPAC, calling itself “pro-Israel,” but it devotes the lion’s share of its words and energy to harsh criticism of the Jewish state.
Among the articles Blumenthal transmitted was one by the UK’s Jeremy Greenstock arguing that Hamas sought peace and quoting approvingly a UN official who called Israel’s control of imports into Gaza “illegal, inhuman . . . insane . . . a medieval siege.” He sometimes sent articles by left-wing Israelis on various topics. One, by Gershon Baskin, condemned Israel’s assassination of Hamas leaders. Another, by Yuri Avnery, claimed that “the cult of Masada is becoming dominant” in Israel. A third, by Avner Cohen, argued that Israel should join the Non-Proliferation Treaty and abandon its policy of “nuclear ambiguity.” Blumenthal added the comment that Israel’s policy “is itself the model for Iran.”
Blumenthal offered counsel on U.S. policy by paraphrasing a post by Pat Lang, a blogger whom he called a “friend.” Blumenthal wrote, “The U.S. must be insistent, especially with Israel, playing very firm and tough, or else the talks will collapse, which is likely the Israeli objective.” Another Lang blog that Blumenthal forwarded suggested that U.S. officials had fallen for Israeli “disinformation” in reporting that Syria had transferred Scud missiles to Hezbollah. When Clinton responded tersely, “skepticism not in order,” Blumenthal replied, implying that Israel was nonetheless the real villain. “Of course, if Bibi were to have engaged Syria in negotiations taking its previous gestures seriously,” this might not have happened, he said.
In a piece on Europe’s anti-immigrant parties, Max wrote: ‘The extreme right is also attracted to Israel because the country represents its highest ideas…a racist apartheid state.’ Clinton replied, ‘A very smart piece—as usual.’The author whose writing Blumenthal transmitted most often was his son, Max. Max Blumenthal first garnered public attention with Republican Gomorrah, a 2009 book that describes itself as “a bestiary of dysfunction, scandal and sordidness from the dark heart of the forces that now have a leash on the party.” Building on this, Max secured a post as senior writer for the “alternative” website AlterNet. When Sidney sent Clinton an advance copy of the epilogue of the paperback edition, she raved: “I loved the epilogue….He’s so good.”
In recent years, Max’s focus has been Israel, the subject of a half dozen of his articles forwarded by his father. Max is a mainstay of the fervently anti-Israel website, Mondoweiss, and the even more fervent Electronic Intifada, edited by Ali Abunimah, creator of the BDS (boycott, divest, sanction) campaign. One gets a taste of Electronic Intifada from tweets by Abunimah and Rana Baker, listed on the masthead along with Max as members of the site’s “team.” When three Israeli teenagers disappeared in June 2014 (later to turn up murdered), Baker tweeted: “Wonderful wonderful news three settlers have been kidnapped.”
Max’s specialty is granular detail that gives his work a patina of authority even as the facts he conveys are often wrong. For example, Mondoweiss ran 2,000 words by Max and Philip Weiss debunking the accusation that Hezbollah chief Hassan Nasrallah voiced anti-Semitism. They detailed the sources scoured by Max. But Nasrallah’s own website carried an audio recording of him declaiming the most chilling of the words in question: “If [the Jews] all gather in Israel, it will save us the trouble of going after them worldwide.”
In 2013 Nation Books published Max’s, Goliath: Life and Loathing in Greater Israel. The Nation’s own columnist, Eric Alterman, a harsh critic of Israel’s, called it “shameful” and “awful,” saying “like a child’s fairy tale, each story he tells has the same repetitive narrative, with Israel, without exception, cast as the Big Bad Wolf.” In sum, he said, “this book could have been published by the Hamas Book-of-the-Month Club.”
Of course Sidney cannot be held accountable for Max’s writings, but of the articles Sidney forwarded to Clinton on the subject of Israel, he sent more by Max than by any other author. She never, as far as I can see, commented on Max’s articles that focused exclusively on Israel, but to ones devoted only partly to Israel she sometimes reacted with enthusiasm. In a piece on Europe’s anti-immigrant parties, Max wrote: “The extreme right is also attracted to Israel because the country represents its highest ideas…a racist apartheid state.” Clinton replied, “A very smart piece—as usual.” To another that referred to “the extensive history of Israeli and ultra-Zionist funding and promotion of Islamophobic propaganda in the United States,” she commented, “Your Max is a mitzvah.” To yet another that called the late Zionist blogger Rachel Abrams “an unabashed genocide enthusiast,” she blurted, “Max strikes again!”
The tone of goofy cheer indicates the level of solidarity and intimacy between Hillary Clinton and Sidney Blumenthal. In making a highly successful career near power, Blumenthal has never, to my knowledge, confronted his youthful radicalism to explain which, if any, of the ideas held then seem mistaken today and why. Far more consequentially, the same is true of Hillary Clinton, which is disquieting now that the presidency seems so readily within her grasp. The danger is not that she will reveal herself to be some kind of Manchurian Candidate once in office. Rather it is that, having forsaken radicalism merely out of concern for electability, she will continue to be credulous toward the counsel of the Michael Lerners and Sidney Blumenthals of the world.
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Seattle Protest Roasters
Review of "Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist" By Sunil Yapa
Fernanda Moore 2016-03-16
our Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist, Sunil Yapa’s debut novel, takes place on the first day of the 1999 protests against the World Trade Organization conference in Seattle. Fifty thousand demonstrators, some of them strange bedfellows indeed, surrounded the convention center where the WTO was scheduled to meet: “Teamsters and turtles” marched in solidarity with farmers, labor unionists, NGO workers, consumer-protection groups, and anarchists, among others. When an anarchist “black bloc” began smashing windows, the understaffed and underprepared Seattle police panicked. Within hours, the march turned from a mildly surreal spectacle into a violent showdown between protestors and police, who fired tear gas, pepper spray, and rubber bullets into the crowds in a vain effort to disperse them. Hundreds of protestors were arrested; several WTO meetings were canceled or postponed. Property damage was tallied in the millions of dollars. The cops ran out of tear gas. The following day, Seattle’s mayor called in the National Guard.
Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist
By Sunil Yapa view book
Yapa’s novel opens, fittingly, with a struck match. Victor, a homeless 19-year-old, “with his dark eyes and his thin shoulders and his cafecito con leche skin, wearing a pair of classic Air Jordans, the leather so white it glowed,” is getting high beside the tent he’s pitched below a freeway. Soon he’ll join the marching crowds—not to demonstrate (Victor claims he’s “absolutely allergic to belief”), but to sell weed to the protestors. Victor’s a messed-up kid—lonely, angry, tired, “his heart of hearts poisoned by a bitter, wounded hatred, a sickness of the soul.” Through his jaded eyes, we get our first glimpse of the WTO protestors.
They’re a motley bunch, chanting and singing and “popping out from every hole and door, waves of protestors sloshing in the streets, bright-eyed thousands appearing as if summoned.” At first, all Victor can do is gawk. Topless girls with duct tape across their nipples cry “Death to the police state.” There are “dreadlocked djinns dangling from the lampposts, cameras around their necks” and civil-rights lawyers in combat boots. Yuppies are “stomping into the dawn from their suburban warrens, from their gorgeous mansions that glittered fat on the Sound.” It’s a parade, Victor decides, a bizarre and trippy pageant, all these “sweet, round, high-fructose faces” glowing in solidarity. “Hey, man,” Victor says, sidling up to a hefty guy in a blue jacket—a union man, it turns out, marching right next to all the hippies and freaks. “You need any weed?”
But poor Victor has badly, and hilariously, misjudged the scene. Everyone he approaches—from the union guy to a geezer banging a goatskin drum—recoils, then tells him to get lost. “You guys are some pretty cool heads,” he says, rather desperately, to a pair of groovy-seeming baby boomers.
“Are you trying to sell me marijuana?” the husband snaps, before storming off to tattle to a cop. Even a “sexy undergrad” who plops down next to Victor wants nothing to do with his stash. “Look, you don’t understand. This is a drug-free area,” she tells him. “This is a protest march,” Victor counters, wearily exhaling smoke. “Where’d you hear that?” she says. “This isn’t a protest march. This is a direct action.” And with that, she plucks the joint from Victor’s lips and crushes it beneath her shoe.
It’s a great setup—amusing and revelatory all at once—and it cleverly shines light on both the privileged, fuddy-duddy protestors and the clueless, half-baked kid. Victor’s failed business venture nicely illuminates an interesting paradox: While the rich white folks protest corporate capitalism, the homeless black teenager—a budding entrepreneur!—is desperate for a sale.
In subsequent chapters, Yapa introduces six more narrators. Two are activists, three are cops, and one is the Sri Lankan delegate to the WTO. This should work beautifully—what better way to showcase the protests’ complexities and contradictions than to describe key issues from multiple vantage points across both sides? But hold on.
First we meet John Henry, a holier-than-thou career activist, “a man you could imagine in a dream of the Himalaya, high above the clouds.” (Actually, he’s from Detroit.) Once he was a storefront preacher; now he leads “a congregation in the streets” and spends a lot of time yammering about the beauty of struggle and how much he loves his people. John Henry’s girlfriend—a skinny, dreadlocked white woman named King—is another experienced dissident, “trained in the tactics, techniques, and philosophy of nonviolence.” Deep down, of course, she’s someone entirely different—a woman with a dark (but easy to guess) criminal secret, a violent temper, and a dangerous tendency toward rage.
The novel falls apart. Yapa’s writing turns mushy and sentimental, riddled with rhetorical questions. Everyone waxes moony and philosophical, and all the characters sound exactly the same.On the other side of the barricades, we get Officer Timothy Park—jumpy and hostile, his face disfigured by scars, the very model of a trigger-happy Bad Cop. Right away he gets in trouble for tangling with the protestors; a few pages later, to his partner Julia’s exasperation, he pepper sprays a carload of Quaker activists who give him a little lip. Julia, a tough-talking, gorgeous, Latina cliché (her steely demeanor, naturally, belies her tender and damaged heart) privately considers Park “as radioactive as a blast survivor”—which turns out to be exactly what he is. Park’s mental and physical scars date from the Oklahoma City bombing; Julia was traumatized by the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles. They’re like a roll call of late-20th-century catastrophes.
Julia and Park report to Bill Bishop, chief of police, by all accounts a hell of a guy. A 30-year veteran of the force, Bishop favors community policing, opposes departmental racism, and cheerfully marches—though he’s straight—in Seattle’s Gay Pride parade. Naturally, he’s a secret sufferer, too. Ever since his beloved wife died and his troubled teenage stepson ran away, Yapa tells us, Bishop has had “a heart full of loss and a head full of doom.”
Yapa’s policemen and protestors lack Victor’s spark; they’re drab stereotypes with utterly predictable inner conflicts, artlessly deployed at intervals throughout the novel’s increasingly hackneyed plot. First Park, tipped off by the un-groovy boomers, confiscates Victor’s drug stash; then King and John Henry show up to save Victor from the Man. In a trice, formerly apolitical Victor morphs into a burgeoning activist. (He learned about the power of the people, it seems, by reading his beloved dead mother’s books.) When his new best friends need one more body for “lockdown,” Victor eagerly volunteers; after being chained to fellow protestors, he looks up to see a familiar uniformed man. Guess which police chief turns out to be his estranged stepfather?
As these and other coincidences pile up, the novel falls apart. Yapa’s writing turns mushy and sentimental, riddled with rhetorical questions (“Was there not a single word he could say that had not been emptied of value?”) and bogged down in treacly cliché. “Son, how easily an open heart can be poisoned, how quickly love becomes the seeds of rage. Life wrecks the living.” That’s Victor, channeling Chief Bishop, though it’s often hard to sort out whose perspective the narrative is mired in. Everyone waxes moony and philosophical, and all the characters sound exactly the same.
Symbolic details are invariably overdetermined and overdone. Victor’s Air Jordans, for instance, stand for sweatshop labor, late-stage American capitalism, misplaced materialism, greediness, parental indulgence, and, finally, for fatherly love. We hear so much about fear and loss and loneliness and tears that we grow immune to their significance. Which is frustrating, since Yapa writes beautifully when he wants to. An extended digression describing the Sri Lankan civil war is vivid and convincing, and there are plenty of small moments (as when Yapa describes feuding protestors “yelling philosophies in each other’s faces”) that come across as perfectly apt. Taken together, these sections aren’t quite enough to save Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist. But they certainly leave the reader curious about Yapa’s next novel.
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Don’t Forget Harry James
Giving a scorned musician his proper due
Terry Teachout 2016-03-16
ournalists are fond of marking centenaries, but no particular fuss was made over the occasion of Harry James’s birth 100 years ago this past March. To the extent that he is still remembered today, it is only for having set Frank Sinatra on the road to glory by hiring the young singer to perform with his big band in 1939. Yet James had once been famous enough in his own right for his picture to appear on the front page of the New York Times when he died in 1983, a fitting tribute to a trumpet-playing bandleader described in the paper’s obituary as “a major figure of the swing era” whose big band “remained popular for more than 40 years.”
That was, if anything, an understatement. No jazz instrumentalist has ever been more popular than James. Seventy of his records appeared on Billboard’s pop charts between 1939 and 1953. (The Rolling Stones, by contrast, have had 56 chart hits to date.) During that same time, he and his band were heard regularly on network radio and appeared in 10 feature films, including one with Betty Grable, the celebrated World War II pinup girl and the second of James’s three wives. Long after rock ’n’ roll had decisively supplanted golden-age pop as America’s preferred form of popular music, he managed to keep his band working, continuing to perform in public until nine days before his death.
Why, then, is James mostly forgotten? First, his popularity was and is off-putting to certain critics and jazz buffs, and the way in which he won it was even more offensive to them. As John S. Wilson explained in the Times obituary, James’s success “came only when he added to his repertory romantic ballads played with warm emotion and a vibrato so broad that at times it seemed almost comic.” Still, even at the height of his commercial success, he also played plenty of hard-core big-band jazz, and numerous other critics and scholars, including some who had no use for his schmaltzy hit records of “I Don’t Want to Walk Without You” and “You Made Me Love You,” lauded him. Gunther Schuller, for one, called James “the most technically assured and prodigiously talented white trumpet player of the late Swing Era…possibly the most complete trumpet player who ever lived.”
No less troublesome, especially now that race-conscious jazz critics are on the lookout for egregious examples of “cultural appropriation,” was the fact that James was white. But the color of his skin did not prevent such illustrious black trumpeters as Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, and Clark Terry from admiring his technique and artistry. Louis Armstrong, on whom James initially modeled his playing, went so far as to praise him in characteristically pithy terms: “That white boy—he plays like a jig!”
One must dig more deeply to understand why James is so little remembered today, a venture aided by the existence of Peter J. Levinson’s Trumpet Blues (1999), a thoroughly researched biography that deals frankly with his squalid private life. A hard-drinking, philandering loner who abused his wives, ignored his children, and lost a fortune at the craps tables of the casinos that employed him, James died broke and unhappy. But he left behind ample evidence that he was a great jazzman who made self-destructive career choices, at least where his reputation was concerned.
AS THE SAYING goes, James was born in a trunk. His mother was an acrobat, and his father led a circus band that toured throughout the south. James’s father, himself an accomplished trumpeter, drilled the boy unstintingly in the hope that he would become a classical musician, and Harry developed into a budding young virtuoso with an impeccably polished technique and the iron-lipped stamina that comes from playing marches for circus acts.
But James had other plans. He fell in love with jazz after hearing Louis Armstrong’s early records, and when his family settled down in Texas in 1931, he started playing with local dance bands and working his way up the professional ladder. Benny Goodman, the most famous bandleader of the early swing era, heard and hired him six years later, and within a matter of months the 21-year-old James had become, after Goodman himself, the band’s best-known and most admired soloist.
James recorded extensively with Goodman in 1937 and 1938, and he can also be heard in off-the-air broadcasts of live performances that illustrate even more clearly what Zeke Zarchy, whom he replaced in Goodman’s trumpet section, later said about him: “Fire came out of that trumpet every time he picked up his horn. It was like a guy throwing a spear.” His sound was fat-toned and ferociously intense, and he played with a darting, daring agility worthy of Armstrong in his prime.
James had another spear in his capacious quiver. Like Armstrong, he was also a wholly idiomatic blues player, an accomplishment rare among white jazzmen of the ’30s that added emotional depth to a self-consciously flashy style. As he explained in a 1977 interview with Merv Griffin: “I was brought up in Texas with the blues. When I was 11 or 12 years old, down in what they call Barbecue Row, I used to sit in with the guys that had the broken bottlenecks on their guitars, playing the blues. That’s all we knew.”
James was determined to cover all the musical bases, and he did so with seeming effortlessness. Moreover, he always insisted that he performed sentimental ballads not for commercial reasons but solely because he liked doing so.In addition, he was a talented composer and arranger, a more than competent drummer and dancer, and a physically attractive man whose piercing blue eyes and slender build made him catnip to women—and therefore born to be a bandleader. In 1939 he went out on his own and spent the next two years struggling to find a distinctive ensemble voice. James’s goal was to lead “a band that really swings and that’s easy to dance to.” He also longed to feature himself on ballads, which Goodman had been unwilling to let him play.
Finally, in 1941, he turned the key of commercial success by hiring Helen Forrest, perhaps the most tasteful and expressive female singer of the big-band era, and adding a small string section to his otherwise conventional instrumental lineup. It was with this group that James recorded an unabashedly sentimental arrangement of “You Made Me Love You (I Didn’t Want to Do It),” a 1913 ballad that had been revived four years earlier by Judy Garland. His instrumental version promptly became a million-selling hit, and he rode it to fame and fortune by recording a series of equally fulsome ballads featuring Forrest.
The jazz critic Dan Morgenstern has called “You Made Me Love You” “the record that the jazz critics never forgave Harry James for recording.” Their disdain, while excessive, is understandable: James played the song and others like it with a mile-wide vibrato that has been likened to that of an Italian tenor in full cry, cushioned by sugary violins. He also featured himself on light-classic arrangements like “Carnival of Venice” and “Flight of the Bumblebee” that showed off the spectacularly nimble technique he had acquired from countless hours of youthful practice. At the same time, though, he recorded any number of swinging vocal and instrumental sides, including “Crazy Rhythm,” “Jeffrie’s Blues,” “I’ve Heard That Song Before” (with Forrest), Duke Ellington’s “I’m Beginning to See the Light,” and his own “Let Me Up,” all of which demonstrated his prowess as a jazzman.
The major labels stopped recording him in 1968, the same year in which he made his last appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, and he soon came to be seen not as a still-vital soloist but as the leader of a nostalgia act.James was determined to cover all the musical bases, and he did so with seeming effortlessness. Moreover, he always insisted that he performed sentimental ballads not for commercial reasons but solely because he liked doing so: “I really get bugged about these people talking about commercial tunes…I don’t think we’ve ever recorded or played one tune that I didn’t particularly love to play. Otherwise, I wouldn’t play it.”
James maintained his popularity into the late ’40s, far longer than most of his contemporaries, but changing musical tastes ultimately forced him to disband his wartime orchestra and organize a smaller, stringless group. Nonplussed by the fast-growing popularity of solo singers like Sinatra, he briefly flirted (as did Benny Goodman) with big-band bebop in 1949, but quickly discovered that his fans were uninterested in hearing him perform harmonically complex up-tempo compositions. “It was a big mistake…playing music that was not fundamentally dance music in places where people came to dance,” he ruefully confessed.
After treading stylistic water for several years, James found a new path to popularity. Long a fervent admirer of the no-nonsense swing of Count Basie, he opted to emulate the smooth, streamlined approach of the “New Testament” band that Basie had put together in 1952. Basie’s new group played blues-oriented ensemble jazz with explosively wide dynamic contrasts. It was harmonically advanced but steered clear of the ultra-fast tempos and vertiginous chromaticism of the boppers. His 1957 album Wild About Harry, arranged and performed in this new style, immediately re-established him as a major voice.
James stuck closely to his neo-Basie approach for most of the rest of his life, leading a first-class group of crack instrumentalists (especially in the mid-’60s, when Buddy Rich played drums for him) and programming his hits of the ’40s alongside big-band versions of jazz compositions such as Miles Davis’s “Walkin’” and Horace Silver’s “Doodlin’.” Not only did he continue to solo with verve and authority, but he gradually expanded the parameters of his style, incorporating elements of the playing of such postwar bebop trumpeters as Clifford Brown without compromising his individuality.
Then his luck ran out. The major labels stopped recording him in 1968, the same year in which he made his last appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, and he soon came to be seen not as a still-vital soloist but as the leader of a nostalgia act, playing a steadily narrowing repertoire of pop hits for senior citizens who longed to relive their youth. By the time he died in 1983, he had become a back number.
HOW COULD SO superlative a soloist and bandleader have fallen off the map of jazz? In retrospect, it seems clear that James’s key mistake with those writers who maintain and burnish the reputations of musicians was to present himself as a celebrity bandleader first and a jazz musician second.
Throughout his two-year tenure as a member of Benny Goodman’s troupe, he had recorded to unfailingly powerful effect as a small-group sideman with such distinguished swing-era contemporaries as Lionel Hampton, Billie Holiday, Pete Johnson, and Red Norvo. But after he started his own band in 1939, James never again worked as anything other than a leader, nor did he perform in small groups save on rare occasions with studio-only combos whose members were drawn from the ranks of his own band. As a result, baby-boom jazz fans were largely unaware of his gifts as an improviser.
At the same time, James mostly limited his public appearances to ballrooms and casino lounges. It would not be until 1958 that his band would play a jazz club. Basie and Ellington performed both in nightclubs and in concert halls, and they made a point of recording frequently with small groups of various kinds as well as with their big bands. Because of this, they were seen as jazzmen first and foremost. And even after the center of gravity in jazz shifted from big bands to combos in the ’50s, no one was in doubt as to their continuing musical significance. Not so James, who clung stubbornly to his superannuated matinee-idol status until it was too late for him to remake his image along more modern lines.
James’s refusal to come to terms with his diminished place in the world of American pop culture likely had much to do with the emotional immaturity on which everyone who knew him remarked. Incapable of personal intimacy and embarrassed by his lack of formal education, he spent his free time chasing women, drinking to excess, and gambling away his hard-earned fortune. Such compulsive behavior is usually the mark of a deeply troubled person, and Helen Forrest, with whom James had a romantic relationship in the ’40s, believed that he was happy only when playing for an adoring crowd: “He was at peace, and he knew he was loved when he was playing the trumpet….He knew nobody could hurt him.”
It stands to reason that such a man would have found it inordinately difficult to settle for the limited amount of fame available to the postwar jazzman. But James’s unwillingness to face reality should not be allowed to obscure his musical stature. He was one of the foremost jazz trumpeters of the 20th century, and the groups that he led from 1957 to the end of the ’60s ranked among the very best in postwar big-band jazz. One can—and should—forgive a great many saccharine ballads in return for such consistent excellence.
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Where Have All the Critics Gone?
Long time passing
Joseph Epstein 2016-03-16
ritics, like belly buttons, come in two kinds: innies and outies. The innies—critics, not navels— are appreciative, inclusive, always hoping for the best and, some might say, too often finding it. Those most likely to say so are the outies, who view themselves as guardians of culture, exclusive, permanently posted to make certain no second-rate goods get past the gate and into the citadel of superior art. The innies are hopeful, sympathetic to experiment, more than a touch nervous about the avant-garde marching past and leaving them behind. The outies are skeptical, culturally conservative, and tend to believe, with Paul Valéry, that everything changes but the avant-garde.
A critic is putatively an expert, responsible for knowing his subject thoroughly and deeply, whether it is music, literature, visual art, film, theatre, or any other art. This would include knowledge of its history, traditions, techniques, the conditions under which it has been made, and all else that is pertinent to rendering sound and useful judgment on discrete works of art in his field. Along with knowledge, which is available to all who search it out, the critic must also have authority, the power to convince—a power that has been available only to a few. Whence does such authority derive? Edmund Wilson, a dominant literary critic from the 1920s through the 1960s, places its source, one might say, authoritatively. “The implied position of people who know about literature (as is also the case with every other art),” Wilson wrote, “is simply that they know what they know, and that they are determined to impose their opinions by main force of eloquence or assertion on the people who do not know.”
“Those who cannot do, teach,” George Bernard Shaw famously said, but he would never have said that those who cannot create art, criticize—for he himself, the leading playwright of his day, wrote strong theater and music criticism. One of the many accusations against critics is that they are frustrated artists. Not, as it turns out, true, or certainly not always. The best critics of poetry have been poets: in the modern age, these have included T. S. Eliot, Yvor Winters, W. H. Auden, and Randall Jarrell. Many other important critics have devoted themselves exclusively to criticism without, so far as one knows, ever attempting art: F. R. Leavis in literature, B. H. Haggin in music, Clement Greenberg in visual art, Robert Warshow in film.
The chief purpose of criticism, as T. S. Eliot formulated it, is “the elucidation of works of art and the correction of taste.” The able critic does this through comparison (with other works) and analysis (of the work at hand). When it comes to older works, the result usually leads to deflation or enhanced appreciation. If he is good at his task, the critic will have done an aesthetic service by instructing the rest of us, the incognescenti, in the intricacies and ultimate quality of the art we ourselves have already experienced or soon will.
The reviewer advises you on what to see, read, hear, or not to see, read, hear. The critic accounts for the aesthetic principles underlying his judgments and sets out the significance, or insignificance, of the work at hand.Then there is the more complicated matter of critics instructing artists. (Highly conscious artists, of course, are their own most stringent and best critics.) As men and women who have presumably trained themselves to see trees and forest both, critics can be helpful to artists in informing them where and how they have gone askew or cheering them on when they are doing important work? Harold Rosenberg and Clement Greenberg not only wrote about the contemporary visual art of their day but also coached, for better or worse, many of the artists who produced it. In the best of all worlds, the relation between artists and critics is symbiotic, each helping the other. Most artists would of course prefer to have critics on their side, especially in those situations where criticism weighs in heavily on the commercial fate of the art in question. Without interesting art, of course, critics are out of business.
The one ticket to heaven critics may possess is acquired through their discovery of new art or promotion of neglected art. H. L. Mencken earns a ticket here for helping to establish and find a wider readership for the novels of Theodore Dreiser, Joseph Conrad, and Willa Cather. Edmund Wilson was invaluable in his day for introducing readers, in his book Axel’s Castle, to the great modernist writers and through his reviews in the New Republic and later in the New Yorker to a wide range of works, foreign and domestic, they might never have discovered on their own. Wilson prided himself on what he called his efforts at international literary cross-pollination.
Critics can be immensely disputatious among themselves, and have over the years formed schools from which schisms and thereby further schools have resulted. “Criticism, far from being a simple and orderly field of beneficent activity from which impostors can be readily ejected,” Eliot wrote, “is no better than a Sunday park of contending and contentious orators, who have not even arrived at the articulation of their differences.” Nor, usually, do they, ever.
A. O. Scott, one of the current movie reviewers of the New York Times, uses this Eliot quotation in the survey of the schools and fields of criticism that appears in his book Better Living Through Criticism.1 Note that I have called Scott a “reviewer” and not a “critic.” The reviewer advises you on what to see, read, hear, or not to see, read, hear. The critic accounts for the aesthetic principles underlying his judgments and sets out the significance, or insignificance, of the work at hand.
The distinction is a useful one, and it is noteworthy that Scott fails to explain the difference anywhere in his book. This is a mark of the work’s thinness, and how it inadvertently reveals the true condition of criticism in our time. Better Living Through Criticism is intended as an argument in favor of the enduring power of a great and noble form, but it is in some ways more akin to an obituary.
Not yet fifty, the son of academics, a Harvard magna cum laude, a former assistant to Robert Silvers, the founding editor of the New York Review of Books, A.O. Scott has the perfect resumé of the contemporary bien pensant. Scott is a writer in the glib school of New York Times critics begun by John Leonard and continued by Frank Rich. He is a man who refers to “late capitalism,” always a giveaway phrase for those who wish to make plain their progressivist credentials. (What, one wonders, is to follow late capitalism? Early Utopianism, perhaps; or, possibly, middle Gulag?) Contemporary glibness leaves its greasy prints nearly everywhere on his pages. He avails himself of the words “bullshit,” “sucked,” “punked.” In discussing Kant, he writes: “Having nothing better to do in the Prussian city of Königsberg, [Kant] set about investigating the nature of taste.” He refers to “the political philosopher Isaiah Berlin riffing on an aphorism of the pre-Socratic philosopher Antilochus.” At other times he can become grandiloquent. Apropos of John Ford’s movie The Searchers, he writes: “The mythology of The Searchers has grown more troubling and volatile over time, as it reveals the racial animus and patriarchal ideology, the violence and paranoia, woven into the nation’s deepest well-springs of identity.” Beware, I advise, white men calling other white men racist.
Scott also enjoys taking a refreshing dip in the bathwater of political correctness. He scores off Robert Warshow for his “unreflecting sexism” for using the word “man” instead of the more, as they now say, inclusive “persons,” though Warshow did so more than 60 years ago. He defends jazz, which he feels was insufficiently appreciated because it was the art of a minority group, when it needs no defense, and has always been an art with a small but devoted following, black and white. Elsewhere, siding with the young, he writes: “To look at the record of contempt for jazz, hip hop, disco, rock ‘n’ roll, video games, comic books, and even television and film is to witness learned and refined people making asses of themselves by embracing their own ignorance.”
Scott grew up reading, in the Village Voice and in Rolling Stone, “a great many reviews of things long before I saw them, and in a lot of cases reading the reviews of something I would never experience firsthand was a perfectly adequate substitute for the experience.” He read “Stanley Crouch on jazz, Robert Christigau and Ellen Willis on rock, J. Hoberman and Andrew Sarris on film, Peter Schjeldahl on art.” He was especially taken by a critic named C(ynthia). Carr, who wrote on avant-garde and underground theatre and performance art; what won him over to her was less her ideas than “the charisma of her voice.”
In Scott’s writing, one senses a man much worried about being thought out of it. This fear of not being au courant is a key element in his view of the role of the reviewer. Toward the end of his book he notes that “there is a moral danger—a danger to morale, and to decency—that many of us [reviewers] face as we age.” The danger turns out to be a lapse into nostalgia, a loss of youthful ideals, with a corresponding loss of critical energy. But, then, the kind of reviewer-critic Scott admires is one willing to make mistakes, and for whom one of the gravest mistakes is moderation. One has to imagine, say, Harold Bloom, but a Harold Bloom dragging in Emerson and Freud to write about comic books.
Like the A student he is, Scott brings in the usual suspects from the past on the subject of criticism: Johnson, Shelley, Wordsworth, Arnold, Pater, Wilde, Mencken, Orwell, Trilling, and the obligatory Walter Benjamin. No mention is made, however, of Randall Jarrell, who, as long ago as 1952, fourteen years before Scott was born, adumbrated Scott’s career in an essay called “This Age of Criticism.” Jarrell wrote: “These days, when an ambitious young intellectual finishes college, he buys himself a new typewriter [make that laptop], rents himself a room, and settles down to write…book reviews, long critical articles, explications.” Jarrell, a poet who was the best critic of poetry of his generation, adds: “No wonder poor poets became poor critics, and count themselves blest in the bargain; no wonder young intellectuals become critics before, and not after, they have failed as artists. And sometimes—who knows?—they might not have failed; besides, to have failed as an artist may be a more respectable and valuable thing.”
Does popular culture require study in universities? Wasn’t the movie Casablanca somehow more enjoyable before it was recognized, in film courses and else where, as a classic?When Jarrell wrote “This Age of Criticism,” critics were the dominant figures in American intellectual life. The leading intellectual journals of the time—Partisan Review, COMMENTARY, Kenyon Review, Sewanee Review, Encounter in England—were filled with criticism. Of the now well-known New York Intellectuals, only three, Saul Bellow and Delmore Schwartz and Mary McCarthy, were imaginative writers, and the poems of Schwartz and the novels of McCarthy might never had got the attention they did without their criticism running, so to say, interference for them. The other New York Intellectuals—Warshow, Philip Rahv, Lionel and Diana Trilling, Clement and Martin Greenberg, Harold Rosenberg, Irving Howe, Alfred Kazin, et alia—were critics; the young Norman Podhoretz started out as a literary critic. The universities harbored such critics as R. P. Blackmur, Cleanth Brooks, Robert Penn Warren, Yvor Winters, Ian Watt, and Robert Heilman. Critics in that day were much esteemed; they were heroes of culture. With the blurring of high and popular culture, they could no longer be so. Better Living Through Criticism suggests, if only by omission, why this is so. T
he book is divided between chapters that are disquisitions on various aspects of the traditions of, and changes over the years in, criticism, and chapters that are set up as dialogues in which a Mister Interlocutor, as the old minstrel shows had it, asks the author questions about his own critical career. The book is meant to be a justification for criticism and an apologia pro vita sua of sorts for Scott’s choice of career.
What Better Living Through Criticism leaves out is the old but still essential distinction between highbrow and popular art. Since the time of Matthew Arnold’s Culture and Anarchy (1869) critics of all arts were given their assignment, which was to discover and promulgate the glories of culture, which was itself “a study of perfection.” This same culture, according to Arnold, “seeks to do away with classes; to make the best that has been thought and known in the world current everywhere; to make all men live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light.” Under these marching orders, critics were to be simultaneously missionaries and propagandists. Theirs was a search and destroy mission. They were to search out all that qualified under the rubric “best that has been thought and known” and to destroy all that was pretentious, drivel, crap, which included all middlebrow and most popular culture.
Of course not all popular culture is drivel or crap. Lots of it gives pleasure without bringing corruption in its wake. Much of it informs us, in ways that high culture does not, about the way we live now, which was once the task of the novel. Yet does popular culture require study in universities? Does it require a corpus of criticism? Wasn’t the movie Casablanca somehow more enjoyable before it was recognized, in film courses and else where, as a classic? Why do I find it immensely appealing that the late Julius Epstein, who with his brother Philip wrote the screenplay for Casablanca, when complimented on the movie, replied, “Yes, it’s a pretty slick piece of shit.”
In an earlier day some believed that even attacking popular culture, which then often went by the name “kitsch,” wasn’t worth the time and energy put into it. Best to leave it alone altogether. Harold Rosenberg twitted (not, mind, tweeted) Dwight Macdonald for spending so much time writing about the movies. What Rosenberg thought of Robert Warshow’s interest in popular culture is not known. Warshow’s tactic was neither to attack nor exult in popular culture, but to explain its attractions. His two essays on why Americans were attracted to gangster and western movies are among the most brilliant things ever written on the movies and on popular culture generally.
Today the standard of highbrow culture has been worn away, almost to the point of threadbareness. For political reasons, universities no longer feel obligated to spread its gospel. Western culture—dead white males and all that—with its imperialist history has long been increasingly non grata in humanities departments. Everywhere pride of place has been given to the merely interesting—the study of gay and lesbian culture, of graphic novels and comic books, and more—over the deeply significant. Culture, as it is now understood in the university and elsewhere, is largely popular culture. That battle has, at least for now, been lost.
In “This Age of Criticism,” Jarrell was actually bemoaning the spread of criticism, which he felt was choking off the impulse to create stories, plays, and poems. He also felt critics were insufficiently adventurous, content to dwell lengthily on the same small body of classic works. His dream of repressing the field has come to be a reality.
And so we are left with A.O. Scott, whose key thesis is that criticism is “the art of the voice.” His own voice, in his reviews and in Better Living Through Criticism, is that of a man who vastly overestimates his own voice’s significance and charm. The Age of Criticism Randall Jarrell condemned is over and done with—but in a way he would not in the least have approved. Were he alive today, Jarrell might have to seek work reviewing video games.

Everyone worth reading avidly reads COMMENTARY. Can you afford not to?
“ In 1975 the Economist said of COMMENTARY: “The world's best magazine?” Take away the question mark and that statement still stands, thirty-eight years later. It's still the magazine America's liberals dread most, and the one America's enemies can't afford to ignore. It's the point of the conservative spear in the never-ending fight against the insanity of the left, whether it's in foreign policy or economic policy, social and cultural issues, or the arts—and no one does a better job standing up for Western culture and America's interests and those of its allies, including Israel. In fact, surviving the next three years—the Obama administration home stretch—and building the foundations for an American resurgence afterward will be impossible without reading COMMENTARY in print and online. „

Arthur Herman
“ There’s an enormous amount of shouting in the wild west of conservative media. That has its place, and is often a sign of the energy on the right. But amidst the cacophony there’s a special need for serious, considered, and compelling argument, presented in the hope of persuading, not just punishing. This is where COMMENTARY has always shined, perhaps more now than ever before. It aims to tackle the best arguments of its intellectual opponents, not just the easiest targets. It’s a journal I’ve read for nearly 30 years and I can’t think of a time when I’ve valued it more. „

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Charles Krauthammer
“ COMMENTARY isn’t just an important magazine. It’s an indispensable one. It’s been indispensable for half a century, and it is today. It’s indispensable for understanding the moment we live in, and it’s indispensable for laying out a path forward. The challenges we confront are great, but COMMENTARY is used to facing grave challenges without fearful cowering or wishful thinking. So we need COMMENTARY today as much as we ever have, and we need it to be as strong as it’s ever been. „

William Kristol
“ COMMENTARY’s writing is predictably engaging and edgy, but its content is anything but homogeneous. Center-right perspectives characterize contributions, but not predictably so. Jewish affairs are thematic, but not always. Controversies of the day are the usual subjects, yet offered only with reflection well apart from the frenzied 24/7 news cycle. Intellectual honesty and analytical rigor characterize COMMENTARY and that is why even its political critics concede that they are still enlightened by the very arguments they often oppose. „

Victor Davis Hanson
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Mark Steyn
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Elliott Abrams
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Bret Stephens
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Ruth R. Wisse
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David Brooks
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The School Runners
Review of "The Last Thousand" by Jeffrey Stern
Jonathan Foreman 2016-03-16
2015 exposé on the Buzzfeed website created a stir by savaging the notion that the massive expansion of education in Afghanistan has been one of the triumphs of the international military effort. It was titled “Ghost Students, Ghost Teachers, Ghost Schools.”
The Last Thousand
By Jeffrey E. Stern view book
“As the American mission faltered, U.S. officials repeatedly trumpeted impressive statistics— the number of schools built, girls enrolled, textbooks distributed, teachers trained, and dollars spent —to help justify the 13 years and more than 2,000 Americans killed since the United States invaded,” wrote a Pakistani-American journalist named Azmat Khan. The U.S. government’s claims are, Khan said, “massively exaggerated, riddled with ghost schools, teachers and students that exist only on paper.”
One-tenth of the schools that Buzzfeed’s employees claimed to have visited were not operating or had not been built. Some U.S.-funded schools lacked running water, toilets, or electricity. Others were not built to international construction standards. Teacher salaries, often U.S.-subsidized, were being paid to teachers at nonexistent schools. In some places local warlords had managed to divert U.S. aid into their own pockets.
The tone and presentation of the article leaves little doubt of its author’s conviction that 13 years of effort in Afghanistan, including the expenditure of 2,000 American lives and billions of dollars ($1 billion on education alone) were pointless and the entire intervention a horrendous mistake.
Unfortunately, it is all but certain that some of the gladdening numbers long cited by USAID and others are indeed inaccurate or misleading, especially given that they are based in large part on statistics supplied by various Afghan government ministries. The government of Afghanistan is neither good at, nor especially interested in, collecting accurate data. Here, as in all countries that receive massive amounts of overseas aid, local officials and NGOs have a tendency to tell foreign donors (and foreign reporters) what they think the latter want to hear. They are equally likely to exaggerate the effectiveness of a program or the desperate need for bigger, better intervention.
Moreover it would be remarkable if there weren’t legions of ghost teachers. No-show or nonexistent salaried employees are a problem in every Afghan government department. This is true even in the military: The NATO-led coalition battled for years to stop the practice whereby Afghan generals requested money to pay the salaries of units that existed only on paper. As for abandoned or incomplete school-construction projects, such things are par for the course not only in Afghanistan but everywhere in South Asia. India, Nepal, and Pakistan are littered with them. You don’t read about them much because no development effort has ever been put under the kind of (mostly hostile) scrutiny that has attended America’s attempt to drag Afghanistan into the modern era. Given the general record of all development aid over the past half century and the difficulty of getting anything done in a conflict-wrecked society like Afghanistan, it may well be the case that reconstruction efforts by the U.S. military and U.S. government in Afghanistan were relatively effective and efficient.
Despite all the money that may have been wasted or stolen, there really has been an astonishing education revolution in Afghanistan that is transforming the society. It is an undeniable fact that the U.S.-led intervention in Afghanistan has enabled the education of millions of children who would never have seen the inside of a school of any kind had it not been for the overthrow of the Taliban. The World Bank and UNICEF both estimate that at least 8 million Afghans are attending school. This means that even if a quarter of the children who are nominally enrolled in school aren’t getting any education at all, there are still 6 million other kids who are; in 2001 there were fewer than 1 million children in formal education, none of them female.
To get a sense of what education can achieve in Afghanistan, even in less than ideal circumstances, you can hardly do better than to read The Last Thousand, by the journalist and teacher Jeffrey E. Stern. It tells the extraordinary story of Marefat, a school on the outskirts of Kabul. Marefat (the Dari word means “knowledge” or “awareness”) was originally founded in a hut in a refugee camp in Pakistan. After the fall of the Taliban regime in November 2001, its founder, Aziz Royesh, brought the school to Afghanistan and set it up on a windblown patch of desert West of Kabul. By 2012, Teacher Aziz, as he is known to all, had enrolled a total of 4,000 pupils and was sending students to elite universities around the world, including Tufts, Brown, and Harvard.
The school primarily caters to the Hazara ethnic minority, of which Aziz (a former mujahideen fighter) is a member. As anyone who read The Kite Runner or saw the movie made from the bestselling novel by Khaled Hosseini knows, the Hazara have long been the victims of oppression by the majority Pashtuns and Tajiks. The Hazara (who account for about 10 percent of the Afghan population) bear a double ethnic burden. They are Shiites—heretics in the eyes of the Sunni majority of the country. And they look Asiatic. Indeed, they are widely but probably wrongly believed to be the descendants of Genghis Khan’s invaders.
The Last Thousand is a powerful and important book, especially in the way Stern conveys the sense of betrayal and the terror that many Afghans feel at the prospect of international abandonment.Hazara were traded as slaves until the early 20th century. As late as the 1970s, they were barred from government schools and jobs and banned from owning property in downtown Kabul. As if certain parallels to another oppressed minority weren’t strong enough, the Hazara are well known for their appetite for education and resented for their business success since the establishment of a democratic constitution, and they have enthusiastically worked with the international military coalition—all of which has made them particular targets of the Taliban.
From the start, Aziz was determined to give his students an education that would inoculate them against the sectarian and ethnic extremism that had destroyed his country. He taught them to question everything and happily educated both boys and girls, separating them only when pressure from conservative politicians put the school’s survival at risk. (When fathers balked at allowing their daughters to go to school, Aziz assured them that a literate girl would be more valuable in the marriage market.) Eventually the school also found itself educating some of the illiterate parents of its students and similarly changing the lives of other adult members of the school community.
The school’s stunning success in the face of enormous obstacles won it and its brave, resourceful founder affection as well as benefactors among the “Internationals”—the foreign civilian and military community in Afghanistan. When John R. Allen, the tough U.S. Marine general in command of all international forces in Afghanistan, finished his tour in February 2013, he personally donated enough money to the school to fund 25 scholarships. Thanks to reports about the school by a British journalist, a “Marefat Dinner” at London’s Connaught Hotel co-sponsored by Moet & Chandon raised $150,000 for the school in 2011. But by early 2013, Teacher Aziz was in despair for Marefat’s future, thanks to terrorist threats against the school and President Obama’s declaration that he would pull out half of America’s forces within a year regardless of the military and political situation in the country.
It’s a fascinating story. Which makes it a shame that much of it is told in a rather self-indulgent and mannered way. Stern’s prose tends to exude a world-weary smugness that can feel unearned, especially given some shallow or ill-informed observations on subjects such as Genghis Khan, Blitzkrieg, and the effect of Vietnam on current U.S. commanders, and his apparent ignorance of the role of sexual honor in Hazara culture.
Most exasperating, Stern patronizingly assumes an unlikely ignorance on the part of the reader. There are few newspaper subscribers who, after 15 years of front-page stories from Afghanistan, have not heard of the grand assemblies known as loya jirgas, or who don’t know that Talib literally means student. Yet Stern refers to the former as “Grand Meetings” and the latter as “Knowledge Seekers.” He also has his characters refer to Internationals as “the Outsiders,” even though any Afghan you are likely to meet knows perfectly well that the foreign presence comes in different and identifiable national and organizational flavors: Americans, NATO, the UN, the Red Cross, Englistanis (British), and so on. The same shtick apparently frees Stern from the obligation to specify an actual date on which an event occurred, or the actual name of a town or province.
Even so, The Last Thousand is a powerful and important book, especially in the way Stern conveys the sense of betrayal and the terror that many Afghans feel at the prospect of international abandonment. The Hazara children and staff at the Marefat school fear a prospective entente with the Taliban enthusiastically promoted by foreign-policy “realists” in the U.S. and UK. They correctly believe it would lead to cultural concessions that could radically diminish their safety and freedom—if not a complete surrender to murderous Pashtun racism and Sunni bigotry.
The book’s main characters are concerned by what seemed to be the imminent, complete departure of all foreign forces as part of the “zero option.” This option was seriously considered by the United States in 2013 and 2014 when then–President Karzai, in the middle of a bizarre descent into (hashish-fueled) paranoia and poisonous anti-Westernism, refused to sign a bilateral security agreement with the Western powers.
Aziz confessed to Stern (who was teaching English at the school) that he himself was in despair but was trying to hide his gloom from his pupils. He began to to urge his students, graduates, and protégés—especially the female ones—to be less vocal in their complaints about discrimination against Hazara, and he himself began controversially to cultivate unexpected allies such as the Pashtun presidential candidate Ashraf Ghani. But Marefat’s staff, students, and their parents had few illusions about the future. As one young girl said to Aziz: “If the Americans leave, we know there is no chance for us to continue our education.”
Although the future of Marefat and its Hazara pupils is uncertain, it is comforting that so much has already been achieved by the education revolution in Afghanistan. Assuming that the Taliban and its Pakistani government sponsors are not allowed to take over or prompt a collapse into civil war, this revolution may well have a tremendous and benign effect on the country’s future. After all, more than 70 percent of the Afghan population is under 25 and the median age is 17. Unlike their parents, these youths have grown up with television and radio (there are more than 90 TV stations and 174 FM radio stations), cellphones (there are at least 20 million mobile users), and even the Internet. Their horizons are wider than anything the leaders of the Taliban regime could even imagine.
As Stern relates in a hurried epilogue, the bilateral security agreement was finally signed in September 2014 after Karzai’s replacement by a new national unity government. There are still U.S. and other foreign troops in Afghanistan, even if not enough.
In Stern’s sympathetic portrayal of the Hazara and their predicament, it’s hard not to hear echoes of other persecuted minorities who put their trust in Western (and especially Anglo-Saxon) liberator-occupiers. The most recent example is the Montagnard hill tribes of Vietnam who fought alongside U.S. Special Forces and were brutally victimized by the victorious Stalinist regime after America pulled out of Indochina. Something similar happened to the Shan and Karen nations of Burma, who fought valiantly alongside the British during World War II but ever since have had to battle for survival against the majority Burmans who sided with the Japanese. In today’s Afghanistan, Gulbedin Hekmatyar, the Pakistan-backed Taliban leader, has overtly threatened the Hazara with something like the fate of the Harkis, the Algerians who fought with French during the war of independence between 1954 and 1962: At least 150,000 of the Harkis were slaughtered with the arrival of “peace.”
The Last Thousand should remind those who are “war-weary” in the U.S. (which really means being weary of reading about the war) that bringing the troops home is far from an unalloyed good. Having met the extraordinary Teacher Aziz and his brave staff and students through the eyes of Jeffrey Stern, and knowing the fate they could face at the hands of their enemies, one finds it hard to think of President Obama’s enthusiasm for withdrawal—an enthusiasm echoed distressingly by several candidates in the presidential race—as anything but thoughtless, heartless, trivial, and unworthy of America.
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William Kristol
“ COMMENTARY’s writing is predictably engaging and edgy, but its content is anything but homogeneous. Center-right perspectives characterize contributions, but not predictably so. Jewish affairs are thematic, but not always. Controversies of the day are the usual subjects, yet offered only with reflection well apart from the frenzied 24/7 news cycle. Intellectual honesty and analytical rigor characterize COMMENTARY and that is why even its political critics concede that they are still enlightened by the very arguments they often oppose. „

Victor Davis Hanson
“ COMMENTARY is an indispensable read on the Arab Spring, the Afghan war, the future of American conservatism, and all the other crazy stuff out there. But you already knew that. What I really love about it is that it’s a full-service operation, and its back-of-the-book guys—the fellows who write about music, literature, and all the things that make life worth living as the world goes to hell—are the best in the business. There is an observation in a Terry Teachout piece on the wonderful singer Nancy LaMott about “Moon River” that has stayed with me for almost two decades. I fished it out from the back of my mind to impress a gal at a Goldwater Institute reception only the other day, and it worked a treat. So thank you, COMMENTARY! Likewise, my differences with the arts’n’culture crew unsettle me far more than the geopolitical ones: reasonable people can disagree on how large a nuclear arsenal those wacky mullahs should be permitted to own, but I’m still agog at the great Andrew Ferguson’s mystifying praise for the New York Times obituaries page a couple of issues back. That’s COMMENTARY for you—provocative to the end, on matters large and small. In these turbulent and dismaying times, we can all use a huckleberry friend waiting round the bend, in the mailbox each month and on the computer screen every morning. For any journal of opinion, as “Moon River” teaches us, there’s such a lot of world to see. COMMENTARY sees most of it with piercing clarity: it can’t know all the answers, but it asks all the right questions, and with great farsightedness. It deserves your wholehearted support. „

Mark Steyn
“ COMMENTARY has played an invaluable role in American political discourse for decades, offering thoughtful analysis on issues rather than sound bites or bumper stickers. Especially when it comes to U.S. foreign and defense policy, COMMENTARY has time and time again been ahead of the crowd, anticipating trends and developments that others react to only after the fact. I can't imagine not being a COMMENTARY subscriber. „

John Bolton
“ In the midst of today’s political rancor, COMMENTARY Magazine provides a rare venue for thoughtful discussion. COMMENTARY’s talented writers provide insightful analysis of foreign affairs, domestic policy, and the politics of the day. COMMENTARY is a treasure not only for conservatives, but for anyone looking for in-depth exploration of the issues that influence America’s public dialogue and shape the nation’s future. „

Karl Rove
“ It's notorious, and true, that government officials hardly read anything. Memos, sure; nowadays, emails and tweets as well. But magazines? People barely have time to eat lunch or see their kids, so how can an intellectual monthly affect public affairs? The question is a good one. How did COMMENTARY do it? The answer is that officials, like all citizens following American foreign policy, need a way to understand the world around them. When prevailing theories fail, when conventional wisdom is clearly at variance with what they see before their eyes, the outcome for senators and congressmen and White House officials is what the shrinks call cognitive dissonance. They may say one thing but believe another, or simply be unable to square previous beliefs and policies with the clear effects of U.S. conduct. They've lost the ability to explain the world. And then came COMMENTARY, offering month after month of piercing, bracing analysis—and value judgments of right and wrong, and clear writing about American gains and losses. Here was an insistence on looking reality in the face. Here was plain argument, seeking no quarter intellectually and giving none. And it mattered. It shamed some people, and emboldened others; COMMENTARY demanded that we conform policy to the opportunities and dangers that really faced America. In years of confusion and obfuscation, that striking clarity changed policies, and changed American conduct, because it changed the way we understood the world. „

Elliott Abrams
“ For more than 60 years, COMMENTARY has been a go-to source on matters of the greatest importance to our nation and our civilization. Today, its full-throated defense of the United States and freedom is as eloquent as it was a half-century ago, and no less urgent. Issues of the day will change, news cycles come and go, but COMMENTARY remains an indispensable authority in the battle of ideas that help to shape our world. Its continued success is both an indication, and source, of the country’s intellectual health. „

Donald Rumsfeld
“ COMMENTARY is America's most important monthly journal of ideas, period. For nearly seven decades it has published the best and most exciting writing from the most important thinkers: Saul Bellow and Lionel Trilling; Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Jeane Kirkpatrick; Paul Johnson and Ruth Wisse; Cynthia Ozick and—of course—Norman Podhoretz and Midge Decter. Is there anything remotely like it? No. It is the lamp by which America, and Israel, and the Jewish people, may find their way to safety. I'm proud to be published in its pages. „

Bret Stephens
“ Irving Kristol once called COMMENTARY the most influential magazine in Jewish history. Certainly, no publication had a greater influence on me as I evolved from adolescent reader (arguing over its articles with my father and older brother) into a “frequent contributor” who made it my intellectual home. The magazine did not exploit American freedom to escape from civilizing duty but rather activated the intertwined responsibilities of citizens and members of a group. American Jewry can boast of many contributions to the welfare of this country and the Jewish people, but few as fortifying as COMMENTARY. „

Ruth R. Wisse
“ Edward Shils noted that there are four means of education in the modern world: the classroom, bookstores (especially used-bookstores), the conversation of intelligent friends, and intellectual magazines. For me intellectual magazines were more important than any of the other three, and no magazine among them more so than COMMENTARY. I first happened on COMMENTARY as a student browsing in the University of Chicago Bookstore in 1957. I have not missed an issue since. The magazine spoke to my intellectual interests and passions, and still does. As a reader and as a writer, I should be lost without it. „

Joseph Epstein
“ Why does COMMENTARY matter? Since 1945, no other monthly magazine has so consistently published serious, provocative argument and analysis. No other monthly magazine has viewed America and the world through such a wide angle, encompassing economics, politics, society, culture, religion, and diplomacy. No other monthly magazine has published such a celebrated and wide-ranging list of editors and contributors. Cerebral, critical, and committed, the point of view found in its pages is as unique as it is formidable. And in a world of Iranian nukes, rising anti-Semitism, radical Islam, American disarmament, bipartisan neo-isolationism, and disintegrating institutions, reading COMMENTARY is more than a pleasure. It is a necessity. „

Matthew Continetti
“ COMMENTARY has long been an unmissable landmark on the American intellectual landscape. These days it shapes debate, propels argument, and explains society with renewed vigor and force. It is one of the small group of essential reads for anybody engaged in politics, Judaism, foreign policy, national manners, and morals. „

David Brooks
“ Anyone looking for a definitive exposition of a significant historical moment—whether UC Berkeley's Free Speech Movement, say, or the battles over "general education" at Harvard—has at his fingertips an inestimable gift: COMMENTARY's archives, which contain countless gems of reporting and analysis. Today's generation of COMMENTARY writers is building an equally invaluable store of knowledge for future researchers and scholars. „

Heather Mac Donald
“ I first subscribed to COMMENTARY in 1973, as a recovering liberal who had invested four years of my young life in writing speeches for a constellation of McGovernite candidates and office-holders. Living in Berkeley at the time, I relished COMMENTARY as a guilty pleasure, feeling grateful that the magazine arrived each month discreetly disguised in a plain, brown wrapper that concealed its suspiciously neo-conservative content. In the militantly leftist community in which I functioned forty years ago, receiving regular monthly installments of the most degrading porn would have produced far less embarrassment than my growing devotion to the persuasive prose of Norman Podhoretz and Co. Yes, my personal journey from left to right-center involved the usual biographical factors, including the three P’s: paychecks, parenthood, and prayer. Paychecks, because they arrived with shocking subtractions in the form of onerous and incomprehensible taxes; parenthood, because responsibility for a new generation forced a longer-term perspective; and prayer, because my own growing Jewish observance led to the conclusion that my “idealistic” ’60s generation, with all its narcissism and preening self-regard, might not provide life’s ultimate answers after all. Fortunately for me, reading COMMENTARY with near-religious regularity helped to organize my onrushing insights and experience into a more coherent world view. In a dark time in our nation’s history, while surviving (temporarily) in the most unhinged corner of the continent, this incomparable publication persuaded me that I wasn’t alone. „

Michael Medved
“ Just as one begins to despair of hearing the strong voice of sanity and courage, leavened with charm and good humor, in our modern polity, COMMENTARY arrives, and once a month one can be reminded that there are indeed some clear-sighted and articulate people who seem actively to enjoy the battle for truth. „

Andrew Roberts
“ Every month in print, and every day online, COMMENTARY somehow manages to pull off a dazzling balancing act: intellectual but unpretentious, serious but never boring, timely but not fleeting. On the leading questions of the day, it offers fresh and unfamiliar insights. And on the emerging questions that will dominate the years to come, it often sees things first and clearest. It is simply indispensable. „

Yuval Levin
“ In a time of passion, COMMENTARY champions reason. Against lies, COMMENTARY speaks for truth. Confronting those who would doom to death the Jewish people, COMMENTARY is a magnificent continuing achievement of American Jewish life. „

David Frum
“ COMMENTARY has become my new go-to website for news analysis because it is measured, substantive, thoughtful, and written for news consumers of all shapes and sizes. When juggling all the issues of the day and thinking them through, I find myself going back to COMMENTARY again and again to see if there’s anything more that can help me add the ingredients needed to finalize an argument. I like the mix of foreign policy and national political news, as well as the discussions about America’s place in the world and what it should be. I’m a print subscriber and a frequent website visitor, and I follow all of the writers on Twitter. Thank you, COMMENTARY, for providing such consistently helpful content. „

Dana Perino
“ There is more commentary in the world than ever before—whether in print, on the air, or on the Internet. But there is still a dearth of serious, informed commentary that reports, analyzes, and argues without ever stooping to name-calling or vitriol. If you further narrow down the segment of the commentariat that looks at the world from a conservative and Jewish perspective—well, you’re left with only one choice. The magazine you are now reading. COMMENTARY has changed over the years—for instance, it now publishes this blog—but one thing that has not changed is its steadfast commitment to providing the best analysis from the most informed writers of the most important ideas in the world, all written in clear prose that appeals to a general audience. There is nothing else like it. Never has been, never will be. „

Max Boot
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