How Enlightenment Dies

National Review Online, November 12, 2004

Amid all the weird, wild wailing in Manhattan, amid the hot air and hysteria in Hollywood, amid all the crazy-lady shrieks of mainstream-media anguish (yes, Maureen, I'm talking about you) and the banshee howling of liberal complaint, Americans heard one overarching theme from the disappointed and distraught left—one meme, one fear, one insult that finally spoke its name. Jesusland (that's what they call it now) had won. The America of Jefferson and Madison had fallen, delivered by Karl Rove into the hands of ranting theocrats, holy rollers and the monstrous ghost of William Jennings Bryan. Writing in the New York Times, an overwrought Garry Wills had this to say:

The secular states of modern Europe do not understand the fundamentalism of the American electorate. It is not what they had experienced from this country in the past. In fact, we now resemble those nations less than we do our putative enemies.

The title of his article? "The Day the Enlightenment Went Out."

Oh really? If it was the fate of the Enlightenment for which Mr. Wills feared, he would have done better looking some 3,000 miles to his east, to lovely, wounded Amsterdam, a city once famed for its brisk, North Sea tolerance, a city that now mourns the death of an artist killed for speaking his mind. On November 2, the very day of the election that was to so sadden Garry Wills, an assassin in Amsterdam murdered the filmmaker Theo Van Gogh—shot him, stabbed him, and then butchered him like a sacrificial sheep. Van Gogh, you see, had transgressed the code of the fanaticism that has now made its home in Holland. And for that he had to die.

The movie that doomed Van Gogh was Submission, a ten-minute film shown on Dutch TV earlier this year. A collaboration with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a Somali refugee and Muslim apostate who is now a member of the Dutch parliament, the film is a caustic attack on Muslim misogyny. Back in September, Marlise Simons of the New York Times described some of its scenes thus:

As she begins to pray, the woman looks heavily veiled, showing her eyes only, but her long black chador turns out to be transparent. Beneath it, painted on her chest and stomach, there are verses from the Koran. More women appear. A bride is dressed in white lace, but her back is naked. The Koranic verse that says a man may take his woman in any manner time or place ordained by God is written on her skin. The images roll on, now showing a woman lying on the ground, her back and legs marked by red traces of a whip. The Koranic verses on her wounded flesh say that those guilty of adultery or sex outside marriage shall be punished with 100 lashes. There are chilling sounds of a cracking whip; there is the haunting beauty of the Arabic calligraphy and soft music.

In a country in which Muslims account for nearly six percent of the population, there was predictable outrage from predictable sources. Ayaan Hirsi Ali added more death threats to her already substantial collection (she has been living under police protection for some years), and Van Gogh gathered a few of his own. Despite that, he declined the help of the cops. They hadn't, he pointed out, managed to save the rightist politician Pim Fortuyn from assassination back in 2002. Besides, he argued, who would think it worth their while to gun down the "village idiot"? And so this appalling, brave, obnoxious, and foul-mouthed provocateur, an opponent of religious intolerance whatever its source—an ornery chain-smoking contrarian who relished describing himself as a "professional adolescent, a die-hard reactionary"—carried on writing, filming, grumbling, grousing, and cursing.

With a horrible—and ironic—appropriateness, Van Gogh's final film was an investigation into the murder of the equally truculent Fortuyn, a killing that he blamed partly on the demonization of Fortuyn by "leftwing, politically correct...politicians." Like Fortuyn, he too was to die for his views and like, I suspect, Fortuyn, in those final terrifying moments Van Gogh would, despite his often-expressed fears for Holland's future (and, half-seriously, his own), almost certainly have been astonished that matters had really come to this—that the Netherlands had fallen so far. Forget the victim's evocative name (he was the great grandson of the painter's brother); even his mode of transport—the bicycle he was riding when the assassin struck—conjures up images of Holland, of the practical, somewhat earnest civilization that nurtured him: a kindly, almost painfully fair civilization so sensitive to the rights of the accused that the full name of the alleged murderer still cannot be officially disclosed; a tolerant, decent civilization that finds itself now threatened.

And who better to explain that threat, than B, Mijnheer B, Mohammed B? After, allegedly (we must, I suppose, use that word) shooting his victim, B started to stab him. In a last attempt to save his life, a desperate Van Gogh reportedly pleaded with his attacker: "We can," he said, "still talk about it." Talk. Dialog. Reason. In response, savagery. The murderer sawed through Van Gogh's neck and spinal column with a butcher knife, almost severing his head. And that, Mr. Wills, is how Enlightenment dies.

The killer then concluded the desecration by using another knife to pin a letter onto Van Gogh's corpse. This letter, which is addressed to Ayaan Hirsi Ali, is a frenzied blend of superstition, anti-Semitism, and, as this extract shows, morbid obsession:

There is one certainty in the whole of existence; and that is that everything comes to an end. A child born unto this world and fills this universe with its presence in the form of its first life's cries, shall ultimately leave this world with its death cry. A blade of grass sticking up its head from the dark earth and being caressed by the sunlight and fed by the descending rain, shall ultimately whither and turn to dust. Death, Miss Hirsi Ali, is the common theme of all that exists. You, me, and the rest of creation cannot disconnect from this truth. There shall be a day where one soul cannot help another soul. A day with terrible tortures and torments, a day where the unjust shall force from their tongues horrible screams. Screams, Miss Hirsi Ali, that will cause shivers to roll down one's spine; that will make hair stand up from heads. People will be seen drunk with fear while they are not drunk. FEAR shall fill the atmosphere on that great day.

And what's in store for the rest of us?

"I deem thee lost, O America. I deem thee lost, O Europe. I deem thee lost, O Holland."

These, regrettably, do not appear to have been the words of a lone lunatic. A total of nine men, all of Middle Eastern or North African ethnic origin, have so far been arrested in connection with Van Gogh's murder. There is the usual, and not unconvincing, talk of shadowy international terrorist connections, perhaps even with al Qaeda. Meanwhile, two other Dutch Muslims have been detained in connection with the Internet posting of a video promising "paradise" for anyone who managed to behead Geert Wilders, a right-wing politician outspoken in his opposition to immigration.

Mass immigration, of course, played a part in creating the social pathologies that cost Van Gogh his life, but its effects were exacerbated by official Holland's embrace of multiculturalism, a dogma that made integration impossible and alienation a certainty. Crucially, the Dutch appear to have abandoned teaching the mutual tolerance, however rough-and-ready, that is essential to the functioning of a free society. Instead they opted for the walking-on-eggshells sensitivities of multiculturalism, and a state of mind in which open debate, if someone somewhere could deem it offensive, was a danger, not a delight. In a country that was drawing many of its immigrants from traditions where notions of tolerance had little or no part to play, the consequences should have been obvious. If liberal democracy is to survive in all its noisy acrimony, all of its citizens—even the most disaffected, even the most devout, even the B's—need to develop a thick skin. In Holland, nobody showed them how. To Van Gogh, multiculturalism was farcical. And for Van Gogh it was a farce that turned lethal.

In the aftermath of Van Gogh's murder people behaved in ways that were thoughtful, thuggish, moving, and almost certainly quite futile. There was tough talk from the government, an outbreak of arson attacks on a number of mosques, and a spontaneous 20,000-strong protest in central Amsterdam: The crowd banged pots and pans, the crowd blew horns and whistles. The noise symbolized Dutch freedom of speech and had been requested by the Van Gogh family. Silence was not the way to honor their Theo.

But for the responses to this crisis that give the best clue as to what will happen next, look elsewhere—perhaps to the decision by two Dutch TV stations to abandon their plans to broadcast Submission, or, perhaps, to the objections expressed by some leading politicians to the deputy prime minister's declaration of war against Islamic extremism. "We fall too easily into an 'us and them' antithesis with the word war," complained one, the leader of the Greens—words beyond parody that Van Gogh would have enjoyed parodying, had he lived long enough to hear them.

Or go, perhaps, to Rotterdam, and stare at a wall. A few days ago, a local artist reacted to the news of Van Gogh's killing by painting a mural that included the words "Gij zult niet doden" ("Thou Shalt Not Kill"). Fair comment, you might think. Apparently not. The head of a nearby mosque complained. The police showed up and city workers sandblasted the inconvenient text into oblivion. Rotterdam's mayor has since apologized, but the damage had already been done.

"Thou Shalt Not Kill." Erased, obliterated, unacceptable. Much like Theo van Gogh.

Brian's Back

National Review Online, July 1 2004

Life of Brian

Do you remember Brian, Brian Cohen? Yes, that Brian. You know, Monty Python's Brian, Life of. Well, 25 years on, he's back—back for his Second Coming. It has been a sly, mocking resurrection, a manifestation confined to a limited number of movie theaters, all timed to take advantage of (a little) this vintage comedy's quarter century and (a lot) Mel Gibson's startlingly savaged Savior. The Pythons themselves have been characteristically reticent about the timing of the film's re-release. Coyly, its director, Terry Jones, merely told the press that it was "just a piece of shameless commercial opportunism on our part. We were just hoping to make a quick buck on the back of Mel's Passion." Well, whatever it took, in a time marked both by the rise of superstitious belief and, worse still, an explosion of religious conflict unthinkable only a few decades ago, the return of sane, gentle Brian Cohen is good news indeed, worthy of a hymn, a hallelujah, or a hosanna or two except for the fact that—as that most modest of men used to say—he was not the Messiah: Perhaps a round of quiet applause will suffice.

It seems strange now, but when Brian's biopic was first released in the U.K., there was furious controversy, angry debate, and (wild language for amiably agnostic Albion) even talk of "blasphemy." Vicars vented, priests prattled, bishops called for a boycott, a few politicians remounted their high horses, and, chicken-hearted EMI pulled its backing (George Harrison stepped in with replacement funding).

In the land of the Pilgrim Fathers, the reaction was, predictably, even harsher. Writing recently in the Village Voice, J. Hoberman recalled how Life of Brian "scored a perfect trifecta—denounced as blasphemy by the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York, the Lutheran Council ('a disgraceful assault'), and the Rabbinical Alliance of America ('foul, disgusting')." The movie was picketed, banned in certain places, and, the ultimate seal of approval, condemned by Senator Strom Thurmond (a whitewashed sepulcher if ever I saw one).

The protests took their toll. On both sides of the Atlantic, cinemas hesitated over whether or not to take the film, but a decent number did the decent thing. The movie found an audience and, so far as is known, neither viewers nor projectionists nor popcorn sellers were bothered by boils, struck by lightning, or plagued by locusts, flies, frogs, or any of the other unpleasantness so often associated with annoying the Man Upstairs. Rumors that one ticket vendor was turned into a pillar of salt somewhere in the north of England can safely be discounted.

As usual, God got it right. Despite being born on the appropriate day in the appropriate town (something that briefly confused the three wise men and led to some unpleasantness over the gold, frankincense, and myrrh), Brian was, the movie makes clear, not the Messiah. He was not Him, his mother was Mandy, not Mary, and his Life was not blasphemy. Reinforcing this point, Brian is shown listening—at a distance, and with some interest—to the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus is portrayed with respect. It is only His message that gets garbled ("Blessed are the cheese makers"?) by a crowd too preoccupied by its own bickering to concentrate on what Christ had to say. Come to think of it, that scene would make a fine sermon in its own right.

This is not to claim that Life of Brian is some sort of religious tract. Far from it. If there's any type of belief that runs through the movie, it's disbelief, unbelief, a world-weary skepticism that reaches its height or its depth (take your pick) on a jam-packed Calvary with the massed ranks of the crucified singing a rousing song that, in its blend of nonchalance, nihilism, and slightly deranged Epicureanism, has few peers:

...If life seems jolly rotten

There's something you've forgotten

And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.

When you're feeling in the dumps

Don't be silly chumps

Just purse your lips and whistle—that's the thing.

And...always look on the bright side of life...

Always look on the light side of life...

For life is quite absurd

And death's the final word

You must always face the curtain with a bow.

Forget about your sin—give the audience a grin

Enjoy it—it's your last chance anyhow...

It has a pretty good tune too.

To be sure, Life of Brian is unlikely to make it very soon into the Vatican's video collection but, unless the Pythons' secularism is of itself "offensive," there really ought to be little in their film to annoy most people of faith—so long as they have a sense of humor, that is. The real target of the movie's satire is not religion as such, but the unholy baggage that too frequently comes with it—the credulity, the fanaticism, and that very human urge to persecute, well, someone.

Watch, for example, poor Brian as he flees Jerusalem pursued by his "disciples." His frantic attempts to deny that he is the Messiah are ignored by a crowd desperate for someone, anyone, anything, to worship, but also intent on proving their own righteousness in that most pleasurable of ways—at the expense of others. Acolytes of Brian's gourd feud with devotees of his shoe, and all indulge in the nasty joys of schism. If Ingmar Bergman had directed Life of Brian, the rest of the movie would have been a grim depiction of an even grimmer religious war, concluding, doubtless, with a bleak finale in some northern European wasteland. But as Bergman didn't, and Terry Jones did, we get a naked hermit, the "miracle" of the juniper bushes, a Pontius Pilate who can't pronounce his "r"s, and, to end it all, that surprisingly cheerful crucifixion.

But as amusing as this movie is (and it is—despite 25 years in the vaults, it stinketh not), Life of Brian is difficult to watch without a sense of sadness. At the time it was made, the Pythons' "Passion" seemed to be taking aim at a soft target. In the West, at least, centuries of superstition, intolerance, and fanaticism seemed gradually to be receding into the past, mourned by a dwindling few. The established religions appeared reconciled to a comfortable, if decreasingly prominent, niche within the secular states of the post-Enlightenment, and where the West led, the rest of the world would surely follow.

Times change. To take just a few wretched examples from the cornucopia of cant on offer on these fruited plains, the nation created by the revolution that was the Age of Reason's finest hour now finds itself lost in nonsense. It is wrapped up in the Rapture, preyed on by Gantrys, prayed at by Falwells, prayed for by Jacksons, dumbed down by creation scientists, and hectored by ranting First Amendment fundamentalists who react to a cross as if they were vampires. Oh yes, fanaticism can be secular too. Just ask the People's Front of Judea (or was it the Judean People's Front?), zealots content to leave Brian to die on the cross, a handy martyr for their cause.

And when organized religion fades, the disorganized variety rushes in. As we stumble back towards the darkness of that beckoning cave, we let ourselves be spellbound by, to take a selection, pagans, Wiccans, shamans, seers, crystal-gazers, aliens, pieces of red string, table-tappers, Gaia, suburban necromancers, sidewalk psychics, and that blend of bunkum, baloney, science fiction, and Hollywood that calls itself the "religion" of Scientology.

But above all—and compared to which those tatty idiocies are nothing but trivia—the return of militant Islam and its encroachment once more on the people and the territories of the West force us to face, yet again, the horrors of religious war, this time an onslaught from Arabia's seventh-century darkness, in which the promise of heaven will be used as a justification for true believers to create a hell on earth for all those who oppose them. In a time when young men fly planes into office buildings in the hope of earning themselves an eternity with 72 virgins, it's difficult to look at those parts of Life of Brian in which the movie played on the baroque cruelty of (what then seemed) ancient history without as much unease as amusement. The long and originally very funny sequence that culminates in John Cleese being stoned for blasphemy now conjures up images of the Taliban's bestial Kabul. Later on, we see the Judean People's Front planning to kidnap and then behead the wife of Pontius Pilate, and the bloodiness of the scheme only serves to underline the utter incompetence of the conspiracy. We laughed then, back in 1979. Beheading? Ridiculous. We don't laugh so easily in 2004. Not after Daniel Pearl. Not after Nick Berg. Not after Paul Marshall Johnson.

So, to break the mood, turn for some words of wisdom from sensible, doomed, hapless Brian. There's a lovely moment when, appalled by the spectacle of the faithful gathering beneath his window, he tells them that, "you don't need to follow me, you don't need to follow anybody. You've got to think for yourselves, you're all individuals." Simple stuff, but, these days, pretty good advice.

Even if it's not The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Veil of Tears

National Review Online, April 21, 2004

"Islam," as Samuel Huntington wrote, "has bloody borders." True enough, but in an age of mass immigration where are those borders? Precise numbers are hard to come by, but there are now thought to be at least 12 million Muslims within the EU, territories where, no more than half a century ago, Islam was little more than exotica, a religion of far-off desert places, its presence a distant, if troubling, memory; the faith of the Ottoman empire that, at its peak, reached the gates of Vienna; the faith of the Moors, who swept through Spain, advanced deep into France, and ruled Andalusia for hundreds of years; the faith of the Barbary pirates, slavers and scourge. And then, when a booming postwar Europe started looking south and east for sources of new labor, history went into reverse. Muslims returned, but as immigrants this time, not invaders. Their stories vary from individual to individual and from country to country, but almost everyone can agree on one point: In France, where there are five million Muslims (about 7.5 percent of the population; other estimates are significantly higher), something has gone terribly wrong.

Even by the low standards of Western Europe, the integration of France's Muslim minority (which is predominantly of Arab/North African ancestry) has been patchy, to put it kindly. Isolated in the desolation of the cités, high-rise, dole-queue suburbs generally located a discreet distance from the principal urban centers, many Muslims are cut off from the French mainstream physically, economically, and psychologically. It's no surprise that the primitive—and reassuring—certainties of Islamic fundamentalism have found an audience. How great an audience is a matter of dispute, and, inevitably in the country of Le Pen's National Front, racist mythologizing. Pick an anecdote or a statistic for yourself, but whether it's rising anti-Semitism, or the horrifyingly routine gang rape of Muslim girls who step out of line, or increasingly politicized violence, they all suggest that a catastrophe is in the making.

And successive French governments have not had a clue what to do. The unspoken, and ludicrous, hope was that most immigrants—including, presumably, their French-born children—would return "home," allowing the problem to subside. They haven't and it didn't.

Affirmative action might (or might not) have helped, but it ran contrary to the founding notion of a republic where all citizens were simply French regardless of race or religion, and was never really tried. Equally, France's prickly sense of its own identity left less room for the sloppy sense of diversity that arguably bought (until recently) a broad measure of social peace on the other side of the English Channel. Meanwhile, high rates of ethnic-minority unemployment (25 percent or more in some areas) meant that the workplace was no longer the effective engine of assimilation that it had once been.

Prompted partly by post-9/11 panic, the government has at least acknowledged that all is not well, but its attempts to help have often made things worse. Last year the then interior minister, Nicolas Sarkozy, no bleeding heart, set up a "Muslim Council" (Sarkozy has also been flirting with support for affirmative action) as an equivalent to similar, and long-established, bodies for Roman Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. A suitably safe moderate was selected as chairman, but when the process moved from selection to election, disaster ensued. Depending on how you count them, fundamentalists won at least one third of the seats. Designed to enshrine a moderate "French" Islam, the new council may in fact have helped legitimate extremists as an authentic representative voice of France's Muslims.

The position taken by the French government over the Iraq war only added to the problem. To the extent that Chirac's motive was to appease the country's Muslims, he failed. By radicalizing the debate, and bringing paranoia about America, "the West," and, quelle surprise, Israel onto center stage, France's president succeeded in inflaming the very hatreds his policy was designed to damp down. To be sure, there were signs, as the tanks rolled into Iraq, that even Chirac was becoming alarmed at the tone that the rhetoric, and worse, was taking. His emollient prime minister was dispatched to make a few emollient remarks: anti-Semitism was, Jean-Pierre Raffarin soothed, a bad, bad thing. But by then, it was too late.

When their policies are failing, politicians like to create a diversion. Jacques Chirac is no exception. A commission he set up last July to look at the treatment of religion in an explicitly secular republic came up with 25 recommendations, including, for example, the suggestion that Yom Kippur and Eid al-Kabir should be school holidays, but the French government has chosen to act on only one, that "conspicuous signs of religious adherence" should be banned from public schools. These include yarmulkes and "large" crucifixes but, given that neither Orthodox Jews nor Assyrian-Chaldean Christians (tiny community, large crosses) pose much of a threat to France's established order, adding these items is just so much multiculturalist window dressing. The real target of this legislation is Islamic head covering. In France that's usually a headscarf ("foulard"). Chirac's frequent references to the veil ("voile") are just demagoguery: The burka, I suspect, is rarely seen in Bordeaux. With opinion polls showing 70-percent approval, the new law swept through the national assembly by 494-36 in February, and then, a month later, was approved 276-20 in the senate. The new rules will come into force from the beginning of the school year in September.

Criticism has come from some very predictable sources. Bin Laden's number two, the nutcase doctor Ayman al-Zawahiri (or a mimic pretending to be al-Zawahiri) denounced the ban as "new evidence of the Crusaders' hatred for Muslims." Those comments, of course, should be treated with contempt, as should complaints from those Muslim countries that have themselves proved very hostile to public displays of any religion other than Islam. France, of course, has seen a significant number of protests, almost always featuring women in headscarves, lambs voting for Ramadan. Other critics have included, Human Rights Watch, senior United Nations officials, the United States, and even, obliquely, the pope.

There are indeed obvious—and compelling—libertarian objections to the new law as a restriction of religious freedom, but to characterize it as a simple expression of bigotry is to do it an injustice. In theory at least, the law is merely a principled application of laïcité, the state secularism that is roughly analogous to the separation of church and state in the United States. Seen in those terms the law is certainly no more oppressive than some of the more rigid First Amendment rulings seen in this country in recent years. What's more, if freedom is the issue, what about the freedom of those Muslim girls who choose not to wear the headscarf, a freedom increasingly under threat from fundamentalist bullying.

In a recent article, one member of the presidential commission recalled how, after initial doubts, he was convinced to support a ban. "Since 1989...and especially in the last two to three years, it has become clear that in schools where some Muslim girls do wear the headscarf and others do not, there is strong pressure on the latter to "conform."  This daily pressure takes different forms, from insults to violence...We received testimonies of Muslim fathers who had to transfer their daughters from public to (Catholic) private schools where they were free of pressure to wear the headscarf.... In the increasing number of schools where girls wear the hijab, a clear majority of Muslim girls who do not wear the headscarf...asked the commission to ban all public displays of religious belief. A large majority of Muslim girls do not want to wear the scarf; they too have the right of freedom of conscience. Principals and teachers have tried their best to bring back some order in an impossible situation where pressure, insults, or violence sets pupils against one another, yet where to protest against this treatment is seen as treason to the community."

To read those words is to understand that the post-Enlightenment West, where the principle of religious freedom has carried little cost in societies where religion was either in retreat, or at the very least accepted boundaries set by the state, is ill-equipped to deal with the challenge posed by an aggressive, growing, fundamentalist faith steeped in a very different tradition. In this conflict, Western notions of what is "political" and what is "religious" are next to meaningless. Seen one way, the hijab is nothing more than a simple expression of piety, seen another it is a political statement, no less threatening than the brown shirts and red stars of previous eras.

That said, it's difficult to avoid the conclusion that, even where it does not topple over into absurdity (under certain circumstances, beards too, and even bandanas, can be banned), the new law will make a bad situation worse, radicalizing the previously indifferent, creating flashpoint after flashpoint, confrontation after confrontation and, ironically, turning the hijab, a symbol of repression if ever there was one, into a token of rebellion guaranteed to appeal to the very adolescents the law is designed to govern. Worse still, this move is highly likely to spur the creation of separate Muslim schools (which under French law would be eligible for generous government subsidy) where the headscarf ban would not apply, something that would deepen still further the intellectual isolation of their pupils from the French mainstream. To add to France's predicament, if there's one thing potentially more disastrous than the enforcement of this law, it would be its repeal. Repeal would be seen as an acknowledgement of French weakness in the face of the fundamentalists, empowering them still further, and would add to the mounting unease of the native French, the Français de souche, about the Muslims in their midst. Jean-Marie le Pen could not ask for more.

Yes, it's a mess, but that's the danger of trying to solve a deep-seated, difficult, and sensitive problem with a quick, politically expedient, fix. Halting the spread of Islamic fundamentalism in France is going to take time, determination, generosity, and, just as importantly, a willingness to fight the battle of ideas in a way that won't be easy in a country held in thrall to the PC bogeyman of "Islamophobia."

Don't hold your breath.

As Rome Starts to Smoulder

National Review Online, December 9, 2003

Human nature never disappoints in its capacity to dismay. The fact that, six decades after Auschwitz, there is, once again, anxiety about rising anti-Semitism in Europe is proof enough of that. Vandalized synagogues, desecrated graveyards, torched schools, tales of beatings, bullying, and thuggery in the streets bring a touch of the pogrom to 21st-century headlines. And then there are all those words, speeches, articles, and opinion pieces in the better papers. They are subtler than 60 years ago, with a more discreet viciousness, carefully calibrated and coded, no Stürmer stridency, no conspiratorial Protocols, just hints and insinuations — well sometimes a little more than that — of something altogether more primitive. In Holland, for example, there's Gretta Duisenberg, grim Wim's grimmer wife. Until recently, old Wim was in charge of the European Central Bank, busily presiding over economic stagnation and a destructive interest-rate policy. Compared with Gretta, however, he was a paragon of good judgment. Asked how many signatures she hoped to gain for a petition calling for economic sanctions on Israel, the charming Mrs. Duisenberg laughingly settled on this number: Six million.

A coincidence, she said later. Perhaps, but Europe has recently seen quite a few such coincidences, evidence, it is alleged, that the lessons of the Holocaust have yet to be learned in the continent that gave it birth. The thought that an old evil may be about to return is disturbing, but, for some, it's an image that is as convenient as it is frightening. To Europe's Left, the specter of the Third Reich has long been useful political theater, a bloody brown shirt to wave at its opponents and, these days, a handy device for suppressing any attempt at serious debate over mass immigration. Take Pim Fortuyn. He was a libertarian free spirit, but, for his comments on immigration and multiculturalism, he found himself denounced as a "xenophobe" and, mark of Cain, a "fascist." End of discussion and, as it turned out, end of Fortuyn too.

Meanwhile, to some Americans, particularly on the right, the notion of a Europe flirting with the worst of its past fits in nicely with their portrayal of a continent as depraved as it is decadent. Think back to the dramas of earlier this year. With the grotesque spectacle of the French foreign minister cynically articulating the case for "peace," what better way to puncture his country's pretensions of moral superiority than to focus on the apparent reappearance of anti-Semitism in the land of Dreyfus, Laval, and Le Pen? Anti-Semitism is bad enough in its own right, but it is also the sin forever associated with Vichy's moral squalor. To highlight its rebirth, particularly at a time when France was under fire for deserting old allies, was a useful way for Chirac's critics to conjure up memories of the period in French history with which it is usually associated, that epoch of white flags, a railway carriage at Compiègne, and, at times, all-too-enthusiastic collaboration.

And to complete that picture of treachery, betrayal, and capitulation, who should turn out to be France's closest ally in the struggle against U.S. "hegemony"?

The Germans.

Bringing this shameful era into the debate may have proved an effective, and not entirely unfair, tactic but it runs the risk of reducing the discussion to crude (if entertaining) stereotypes (full disclosure: I've done a bit of this myself). In reality, France's policy in the face of Baathist tyranny and Islamic extremism has been, like Vichy, a fascinating blend of spinelessness and realpolitik, repellent but more complicated than just another display of cowardice by a nation of cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

While it is, alas, true that Europe has seen some recurrence of "classic" (if that's the word) anti-Semitism, the idea that the continent is somehow moving towards a repetition of the nightmare of 60 years ago is an exaggeration even more absurd than France as chicken supreme. For proof, look no further than the furor over what is still a relatively small number of violent incidents. Despite this, however, there can be no doubt that something wicked is indeed afoot. To understand it, we should look closer at two topics often obscured by propaganda, prejudice, and political correctness. The first is European attitudes towards Israel, the second, extremism among Europe's Muslim population.

When a recent opinion poll found that nearly 60 percent of EU citizens believed that Israel was a threat to world peace, comfortably ahead of those doves in Pyongyang (53 percent), it seemed yet more proof that an old virus was already abroad in the land. Perhaps, but check the numbers and you'll see that the U.S. (also on 53 percent) was rated as just as dangerous as crazy little Kim. That's ludicrous too, of course, but it's evidence that this polling data reflects not gutter prejudice but something almost as insidious: Europeans' desire to accept any compromise so long as it could buy them a quiet life — at least for a while.

It's an attitude that used to show itself in the argument, once popular among large sections of the European Left, that there was a broad degree of moral equivalence between the Cold War's American (Holiday Inn, McDonalds) and Soviet (Gulag, mass graves) protagonists. It's an attitude that regards "peace" (that word again) as a good that trumps all others — so when Israel is labeled the worst threat to world peace, or the U.S. and North Korea are described as being as dangerous as each other, it shows only that Europeans, left powerless by years of relative decline, falling self-confidence, and shrunken military budgets, have realized that both Israel and America are more interested in self-defense than suicide. That these two countries may be fully entitled to take the positions they do is, naturally, quite irrelevant.

This is the context in which Ariel Sharon has taken to talking about "a great wave of anti-Semitism," but Americans — and Israelis — need to acknowledge that it is quite possible to be critical, indeed severely critical, of current Israeli policies without being in any way anti-Semitic. Indeed, even when they are manifestly unreasonable, contemporary European attitudes to Israel are generally best seen not as anti-Semitic, but rather as an extension of that self-loathing that seems increasingly to define Western cultural and political life. Go back to the 1960s and an impressed and remorseful Europe tended to see Israel as a plucky little country, filled with the survivors of the worst that Europe could do to them, cheerily working on their cheery kibbutzim to build a cheerily collectivist future that would in itself be a living rebuke to the reactionary attitudes that had made the Holocaust possible.

Prompted in no small part by Soviet propaganda efforts, that attitude began to change, particularly after the Six Day War and, even more so, in the wake of the 1973 conflict. Conveniently, some might say, in the light of OPEC threats to Europe's oil supply, Israel came to be seen as the oppressor, not the oppressed, a colonialist, "racist" (evil Zionists!) outpost of European savagery, rather than a refuge from it. As such, condemnation of Israeli policy was not so much an expression of European disdain for "the Jews" as yet another manifestation of Europe's hatred for itself. Combine that sentiment with today's televised images of the hard-line response of the Sharon government to the revived Intifada and it's easy to see that the anger now directed at Israel was almost inevitable.

But if it's a mistake to attribute all this hostility to anti-Semitism, it is also a mistake that to deny that European vituperation of Israel has now reached such a level that it may be tapping the wellsprings of a very ancient psychosis, as well as, it should also be admitted, the more "modern" anti-Semitism long associated with Europe's hard Left. Under these circumstances, it is unfortunate, to say the least, that so much of the imagery and the language used by Europe's harsher critics of the Jewish state recalls the anti-Semitism of an earlier era. Coincidence? Doubtless Mrs. Duisenberg would say so.

It is unlikely, however, that there can be any such merciful ambiguity (however stretched) about the curious behavior of the EU's "Monitoring Centre for Racism and Xenophobia," an organization that, appropriately enough given its rather Orwellian name, allegedly decided to shelve publication of a report commissioned from Berlin Technical University's highly respected Anti-Semitism Research Institute on the causes of the increased number of attacks on Jews in Europe. Why? The institute had come up with the wrong answer.

Naturally, that's not the center's explanation. Under intense pressure from its critics (which, with characteristic arrogance, the center is trying to spin as evidence of "how important and sensitive [its] work is"), it has now released the draft report on its website, while continuing to maintain that it is not "fit for publication." It is, they sniff, "neither reliable nor objective," This is a stance in line with its earlier claims that the report was of "insufficient quality," a view, unsurprisingly, the institute rejects. In essence, the Berlin researchers argue that the real objection to their report, which found, plausibly enough, that young Muslims (particularly immigrants from the Middle East and North Africa) were responsible for much of the rise in anti-Semitic incidents, was its lack of political correctness.

This rings true. The EU pursues a relentlessly multiculturalist agenda. Under these circumstances, the publication of data showing that young Muslims, rather than old Nazis, ought to be starring in Brussels's morality play was highly awkward. Inconvenient reality had, therefore, to be changed, or at least ignored, no big deal for a fraudulent (in all senses) "Union" that has long shown its contempt for the marketplace, the nation, history, tradition, and democracy.

So, it's no surprise that the EU's hacks ("independent experts...in the field of racism and xenophobia") repeatedly (according to the Daily Telegraph) attempted to persuade the Berlin Institute to tone down its conclusions. To its credit, the institute refused and we have seen what happened next. To the EU, combating anti-Semitism, it seems, is less important than preserving the dangerous illusions of multiculturalism, and, probably, recognizing the demographics of a Europe where there are more Muslims to appease than Jews to protect.

As a symbol of the dishonesty and confusion that surrounds this issue, that's hard to beat, but in the meantime, France's chief rabbi is concentrating on more practical matters. He's advising young Jews to wear baseball caps rather than skullcaps. Wearing a yarmulke, apparently, might make them a target for "potential assailants."

Not that Brussels would care.

Gas-Mask Chic: Dressing for Armageddon

National Review, September 30, 2002

For reasons that need, sadly, no explanation, we find ourselves living in a nervous, uneasy era, a time when every backfiring car becomes a bomb, every spilled sachet of sugar a plague. Once again, an enemy is out there, but the threat now is not the familiar Soviet-style Armageddon, but the occasional hit-and-run, jihad on the installment plan, which although revoltingly vicious, should, with luck— and preparation—leave most of us unscathed. Preparation? Back in the Cold War years, that never seemed necessary. Mutually Assured Destruction meant that the threat to civilians was both minimal and total. Now attacks seem certain, but the odds of survival are good. Still, with homeland security in the hands of Tom Ridge and Norman Mineta, it may be wise to improve on those odds—and that's just what many Americans are starting to do. In the immediate aftermath of the terrorist strikes some stores saw a surge in demand for guns and televisions, a good first step, but then what?

In Gotham, where I live, New York magazine tried to help out. Its "Survivalist's Guide to Living with Terrorism" offered a series of spooky lists, tailored (of course!) to income level. Silk-stocking survivalists were told to get ready for a designer doomsday with equipment that included a Maxa Beam searchlight ($1,687), Altec suspension expedition backpacks ($329), Eagle Gear "War Bags" ($195), Mobiflex portable shelter systems ($2,700), a Sea Eagle HSR sport boat ($3,200), and, to keep the irradiated rabble at bay, two pneumatic Tasers (priceless). Poorer folk were expected to make do with rather less. Recommendations for Archie's bunker included candles, Ziploc bags, and (don't ask) kitty litter.

Missed that issue? Never mind, there's always the Internet. With its themes of menace, conspiracy, government ineptitude, and the chance to make a buck, the current crisis may be the web's finest hour. And why not? As is pointed out at www.gammascout.com (home of the "Gamma-Scout" radiation detector), "government can only do so much." Indeed. At www.gasmasks.com they avoid talk of politics and get straight to the point: "Do you really want you, your spouse or your children to go through life with breathing disorders or scarred flesh from 3rd degree burns, or worse? It's just not necessary." Well, it you put it that way . . .

So where to begin? With the threat of NBC (nuclear, biological, and chemical) attacks, we are now being offered carnage a la carte. I'll start with the nukes, but first, a disclaimer. As trial lawyers, like cockroaches, will undoubtedly survive the worst that bin Laden can throw at us, it's necessary to say that neither NATIONAL REVIEW nor I am endorsing—or condemning—any of the products mentioned in this survey, which is, I should add, about as comprehensive as this nation's airport security. Full disclosure: My own supplies include a radio, bottled water. Red Army-designed flashlights, a .357 Magnum (Tasers are for wimps), Cipro, potassium iodate, and cans of some nasty-looking beans (my wife is a vegetarian).

Now, back to the nukes. If a nuclear device explodes on top of you, there's not much to be done, but in the case of a dirty bomb, or a more conventional nuke that has gone off at a somewhat safer distance, there are some useful steps that can be taken. First swallow a pill. Fallout will contain radioactive iodine, something that is not only highly carcinogenic, but also thrilling fodder for the thyroid, a gluttonous gland, always greedy for a little more iodine, radioactive or otherwise. Greed, though, can be good: An effective defense against this menace comes from preemptively swallowing "clean" iodine, which should ensure that the duly sated thyroid has no room to absorb any iodine that glows. My own iodine stash comes in the form of potassium iodate pills from www.medicalcorps.org. I'm not convinced there's a huge distinction, but at www.nukepills.com they're selling "FDA-approved" potassium iodide ("different spelling, different drug").

After pills, pillboxes. Those wanting their own purpose-built shelters should check out www.disastershelter.com, but the homes in this line may be of limited use in Manhattan—some of these constructions are rather larger than the average apartment. Helpfully, at www.disastershelters.net (no relation) guidance is given on how to design a better-than-nothing shelter (the euphemism is "expedient") for the real-estate-starved or the simply improvident. One suggestion is to huddle under a table in a basement with "two feet of books or other heavy objects . . . placed on and around the table." Anything by Bernard Lewis should work particularly well. For those who have forgotten their kitty litter, "a 5 gallon bucket with plastic bags could be used for sanitation."

But what exactly would you be sheltering from.' Fallout is see-through, and if you want to see it through, some sort of radiation meter will be essential. But be careful. At the cheerfully named www.planetwide-exodus.com, they warn, accurately enough, that many Geiger counters now on the market were designed for geological research and "cannot handle" the amounts of radiation that would be produced in the aftermath of an attack, which is something they may have in common with us humans. The uncomfortably frank realists at www.homelandprotection.net are offering the Raditect: "the first Gamma Radiation Detector designed for home and office use" for those "nuclear emergencies that would present a long-term health risk, not immediate annihilation." Despite its promising name the focus at www.geigercounters.com seems to be on products for a more sedate era, including the "Inspector," which is, apparently, suitable for "applications requiring higher levels of sensitivity such as checking food for radioactive contamination." Forget food. What about me? At www.twotigersonline.com, there's a "pocket dosimeter" (in essence a personal nuclear odometer) designed to tell you just how irradiated you really are.

If the assault is biological rather than nuclear, coping may be a lot less work. We are already tragically familiar with the effects of anthrax, but conventional medicine—often antibiotics—will usually be able to deal effectively with most biological threats. If you have problems getting hold of antibiotics, www.tetrahedton.org ("an educational corporation" that deals with "health science and government cover-up[s]”) seems to be recommending a rummage through the feedlots. But with supplies of Advance Calf Medic (a possible source of oxytetracyline) being as scarce in Manhattan as a barnyard and a pitchfork, your HMO might, for once, be a better bet.

More practical, if a little unsentimental, are the folks at Gasmasks.com, the compassionate conservatives of viral Armageddon. Their "Biological Survivors Caring Kit" is a complete head-to-toe outfit for someone who doesn't want to get too close: It's something to wear "while caring for a loved one contaminated with a deadly virus, so the caregiver cannot get infected."

Mention of Gasmasks.com raises the question of chemical attacks, the third pony of bin Laden's bargain-basement apocalypse. Comfortingly, some of the protective gear against this threat may be of use against N and B, as well as C, but be sure to watch out for gas-mask grifters. At www.homelandgasmasks.com, there's dark talk of the older (and often foreign) military-surplus masks being offered to "unsuspecting Americans." You can see a few of them (masks, not unsuspecting Americans) at www.approvedgasmasks.com with its rogues' gallery of gas masks fit only for use as a "Halloween costume or conversation piece," a list that includes the Russian M4I Aardvark. From the look of it, you will die laughing long before the gas gets to you.

Approvedgasmasks.com also boasts a wide range of hopefully more effective devices: the Scott ProMask, the SGE 1000, the SGE 400se, the MSA Advantage 1000, the MSA Advantage 3000, the MSA Night Ranger (lens resistant to shrapnel!), the MSA Ultra-Twin, and the M-95 Military. If that's too much to choose from, try the narrower selection at Homelandgasmasks.com (Panoramic Visor, Economy, and, for the kids, the Junior). Fashionistas will appreciate the different colors available at Gasmasks.com: neon yellow, midnight black, or, for the tactless, cobalt blue.

Of course, most such masks are somewhat bulky and difficult to carry around, at least without raising a few eyebrows. In preparing to save your life, you might well lose your job. At www.gasmasks-usa.com, they have a solution for this, a compact "Quick Escape Mask." This may buy just enough time for you to parachute out of your building (www.aerialegress.com), swallow your pill, grab your "One Person Tote N Go Survival Kit" (from www.areyouprepared.com—comes complete with emergency poncho and nine towelettes), and head for the hills, or, possibly, that book-lined table.

Once in the hills, thoughts will turn to longer-term survival. True pessimists will have bought the $6,320 Super Pak (one year, two people, 344 cans, one can-opener) from www.healthywealthyandwise.net. The state of kitchen facilities will, of course, be uncertain, but that won't worry purchasers of "super fresh, super tasting" MREs (Meals Ready to Eat, including country captain chicken, Jamaican pork chop, and many others) from Two-tigersonline.com. Cooking instructions include placing the unopened pouch "inside your shirt, allowing your body temperature to help warm the food inside."

That's the spirit: determined, dauntless, and a little bit daffy. Al-Qaeda doesn't stand a chance.

Ode to Troy

National Review Online, March 21, 2002

"Now. Hear. This."

Bellowed onto a bare stage in New York's West Village, the words are an order, an incantation, and a greeting. They are a shout across time, an introduction to a story that has been told for almost 3,000 years, the story of the anger of Achilles and the prelude to Troy's fall. Homer's Iliad is a primeval tale that never seems to grow old, a source of ancient legend and contemporary truth. It is one of the monuments of our culture, a core text, venerable and venerated, and yet, despite the passing of millennia, it is a saga that remains fresh enough to be reexamined, retold, and reworked

This is what the British poet Christopher Logue has been trying to do with his own extraordinary "accounts" of Homer's epic. These are not translations (Logue knows little Greek), but reimaginings, based on what has come before, but not confined by it. And no, they are not an example of today's usual crass modernization, the "updating" staler than the classic it is designed to replace. Logue's work is steeped in the past, but unafraid of the present. Angry goddesses, he tells us, "had faces like 'no entry' signs [as] they hurried through the clouds." And somehow, we know what he means.

In War Music, a show playing at New York's Wings Theatre until March 30th, Verse Theater Manhattan is now presenting an adaptation of Logue's work. It is a stark, unencumbered production (no scenery, no props). The audience's attention is focused on what matters — the words. War Music is a performance that hovers somewhere between a poetry reading and drama. Moving, brutal, and chilling, it succeeds as both.

The play picks up the story at the point where the Greek warrior Patroclus has gone to try and convince Achilles, his friend and commander, to rejoin the fight against Troy. Patroclus fails, but succeeds in persuading the sulking hero to lend him his armor and his troops. A living El Cid, Patroclus dons Achilles's armor, terrifies and then routs the enemy.

Nothing was left of Hector's raid except
Loose smoke-swaths like blue hair above the dunes,
And Agamemnon's ditch stained crimson where
Some outraged god five miles tall had stamped on glass.

But Patroclus himself will not survive the day. With the god Apollo against him, he is brought low before the walls of Troy and then butchered by Hector, the city's most formidable defender. Looking to avenge the death of his friend, Achilles then manages a grudging reconciliation with his fellow Greeks. The army is rallied. War Music draws to a close with this greatest of heroes setting out in his chariot for battle.

The chariot's basket dips. The whip
Fires in between the horses' ears;
And as in dreams, they rise,
Slowly it seems, and yet behind them,
In a double plume, the sand curls up,
Is barely dented by their flying hooves,
And the wind slams shut behind them.

Hector, we now know, is set to be slaughtered.

I attended the premiere of War Music in Manhattan just over six months ago. One of its producers is a friend, and the warm summer evening was a celebration of a successful debut. More than that, it was an affirmation, a tacit acknowledgement of the West's fragile, yet triumphant cultural continuity. Crossing the years and an ocean, this age-old tale of heroes and gods had been brought from the Aegean to the Hudson, to be performed in a city that, as Troy once was, is famous for its towers. Four days later, two of those towers were gone, vanished, like their predecessors, into fragments and history. Carnage had come to visit, concealed, once more, in reassuring camouflage: in airliners, this time, rather than a wooden horse.

The Wings Theatre is not that far from where the World Trade Center used to stand. In the aftermath of the attacks, the theater's neighborhood was cut off from traffic. With the exception of some benefit performances for the Red Cross, the play was suspended. This current production is a re-launch, lightly tuned up, but heavy now with additional meaning, its savage story of battle, sacrifice, and courage inseparable from images of GIs fighting in faraway mountain caves or of firemen gathering in the lobby of a doomed skyscraper.

The main change to the play since September is that the actress who played Achilles has been unable to resume her role. The actress? An actress playing Achilles? Ah yes, perhaps I should have mentioned this before. All the roles in War Music are divided up between three women, a casting decision that might have surprised old Homer, but brings a fascinating additional dimension to this production. It is a device that succeeds, except when the actresses attempt a war cry. Women cannot roar. Helen Reddy was wrong.

The war cries are themselves a rare example of (attempted) realism in a play that goes to some lengths to avoid it. The sex of its cast is only one example. War Music is as stylized as a Doric frieze; the performers move across the stage in precise geometrical patterns, remorseless as destiny. The three women (an echo, perhaps, of the three Fates) seem to both play and preside over their characters, leaving an impression of individual dispensability in the service of the rules of a greater drama. This sense is reinforced both by the occasional use of third person narration when within character, and the fact that each woman plays more than one part.

This is not to reduce the actresses to ciphers. Far from it. All three give strong performances. Two moments, particularly, stand out.

The first, early on, shows Patroclus imploring the reluctant Achilles to rejoin the fray. It is a delicate, cleverly drawn scene, made more intriguing by the fact that both men are played by women. As a woman, the attractive, strong-featured Jennifer Don can show us both Achilles the warlord and Achilles the lethal, pouting primadonna without ever descending into the high camp that would almost certainly dog a man asked to perform the same role. Similarly, the slight, short-haired and somewhat androgynous Jo Barrick conjures up a convincing portrayal of Patroclus the warrior and Patroclus the coy flirt in ways that a male actor, burdened by contemporary notions of masculinity, would find extremely difficult — at least within the confines of a single character. The conversation between Achilles and Patroclus is, at one level, an exchange between soldiers, and, yet, at another it is clearly much, much more. In Agamemnon's military only a fool would need to ask, and it would be quite unnecessary for anyone to tell.

The second highlight also features Barrick, this time as the goddess Hera, Zeus's wife (and, the audience is reminded, his sister too). It is a performance that illuminates the horror at the heart of Homer's vision, a glimpse into a universe where divinity is not, as twenty-first century man might fear, absent or indifferent, but is, instead, actively malevolent. Cajoling, cunning and cruel, Barrick's Hera seems to come from Hell not Olympus, as she sweet-talks Zeus into abandoning his son Sarpedon to death at the hands of the Greeks. Later on we see a return to this theme as the goddess incites Menelaus ("the redhead?" asks Zeus indifferently) to further acts of slaughter, pointing out random victims for destruction, with a casual, capricious joy.

King human. Menelaus. If you stick
Him, him, and him, I promise you will get your Helen back.

And yet despite these repeated and destructive interventions, it is striking how mere mortals continue to persevere. They accept the notion of an unkind fate, yet attempt to defy its reality. That is their tragedy, and their glory. These are men who want to be remembered well.

War Music's fierce, terrible beauty makes it a text for our times, and so do the circumstances of its restaging. The return of this play to the vicinity of atrocity is yet another victory over the barbarians. In a small way, it echoes the greatest of all Homer's epics: not the poems themselves, but their very survival. Preserved for nearly thirty centuries, his stories still speak to us, and because they have endured to do so, they are a reminder of what our culture's traditions and memory can mean.

Without knowing our past, we are nothing, and in honoring the past, we give our civilization a future.

Embassy Sweet

National Review Online, March 11, 2002

If you want to see yet another unexpected consequence of our new, more disturbing era, take a look at The American Embassy, which premieres on Fox tonight. As a result of 9/11, this fledgling show already faces a once unimaginable identity crisis and a number of difficult decisions about what it wants to do when it grows up. Back in the more frivolous times when it was first imagined (the initial episode was filmed a year ago) everything was all so straightforward. The new series (then planned to be called Emma Brody) was clearly intended as a replacement, or at least a dietary supplement, for Ally McBeal. Ally is losing viewers at about the same pace as Calista Flockhart is shedding pounds, and it must have seemed like a good idea to take the same recipe (attractive, slightly neurotic yuppie, unlucky in her relationships) and try to bulk it up with a foreign location (London!) and a potential love interest (not Robert Downey Jr.!) able to pass a urine test.

And indeed, The American Embassy may succeed on those terms despite creaky dialogue and story lines so derivative that this show's premiere already feels like a rerun. As a not-quite innocent not-quite abroad, Emma (pleasantly played by Arija Bareikis), the not-quite Ally, makes an appealing heroine. Other elements shamelessly borrowed from the McBeal playbook include girly introspection, a wacky office, occasional pratfalls, and large amounts of slightly goofy sex for people other than the heroine.

The closest (in the first episode, at least) that Emma comes to consummating a relationship, and it is pretty close, is in an airplane lavatory. At the last moment, however, the mile-high club is exchanged in favor of the mile-sigh club as Ms. Brody decides this brief, but passionate, encounter has to end respectably. The restroom Romeo is a future colleague and thus, under the rules of today's stern morality, untouchable. For the time being, anyway. As is traditional in these dramas, we can expect plenty of "will they/won't they" suspense over the months to come. In the meantime, viewers are left to wonder why exactly it was that the scriptwriters chose to burden this supposedly romantic character with the unappetizing last name of "Roach."

What is different, of course, is the series' international location, which does, it has to be admitted, add a certain inaccurate glamour to the whole production. Emma is starting work as a vice consul at the U.S. embassy in London and her adventures take place in a charming, storybook city, a Windsor wonderland beyond the boasts of the most brazen travel agent, a fairytale capital of, as Ms. Brody describes it, "backwards traffic and awe-inspiring grandeur." I noticed no fewer than 20 shots of the houses of Parliament, a couple of views of St. Paul's cathedral, a glimpse of Tower Bridge and, as would be expected, an ogle of Buckingham Palace.

This "London" is a fantasy metropolis (trust me, as a former Londoner, I know), something that may lead to bitter disappointment when the first The American Embassy fans show up on Oxford Street, and are confronted by a city that is somewhat grubbier than this show would have them believe. Emma inhabits a London without burger joints, public housing and, it would seem, any architectural development since the Edwardian age. A subplot of the first episode concerns a missing child. Has she been murdered? Is she sleeping under a bridge, or prostituting herself for a line of coke and a slice of bread? Not a bit of it. She turns out to be holed up in a houseboat moored in "Little Venice," a picturesque canal quarter in the west of the city. This is not a show for fans of gritty urban realism.

Even the U.S. embassy itself has gone through a mysterious, and flattering, transformation. America's diplomats turn out to have been moved from the glass and concrete box that can, in reality, be found in Grosvenor Square to altogether more picturesque surroundings, a rather elegant redbrick establishment that, like so much of Emma Brody's London, I found myself recognizing without quite being able to place. Also, can it really be right that her supposed flat is located in a building that looks suspiciously like that wonderfully gothic hotel near St. Pancras railway station?

If Emma's London conforms to the popular stereotype, so do Emma's Londoners. We get to know three, all guys, in the course of the first episode, a transvestite, an aristocrat, and a wimp, which pretty much sums up the traditional American view of the rich range of British masculinity (Full disclosure: Not only am I a former Londoner, I am a British former Londoner). Cross-dressing Gary is Emma's loveable neighbor, smooth Lord Wellington is the potential suitor, a well-bred rival for the lecherous Roach. Finally, there is the local recruit, an embassy clerk with narrow shoulders and a faint resemblance to a Harry Potter gone to seed, who is, at one point, addressed by his American boss as "Brit Man."

Brit Man? Yes, with its foreign locations, exotic natives, and teasing nicknames, there are ways in which this series can sometimes, appear a little, well, colonialist, with the embassy staff in the imperial role, a role that includes living a life largely divorced from that of the inhabitants of the country in which they find themselves. Perhaps it is the same for all diplomats everywhere, but these Americans appear to live an insular existence, seemingly content to socialize amongst themselves, secure in their little corner of a transplanted homeland, happy to play (American) football in front of the Victorian splendor of Hyde Park's Albert Memorial.

Then, right towards the end of this first episode, the outside world comes crashing in. A terrorist bomb explodes outside the embassy. This highly effective sequence was shot some time before the events of last September, but it gains added power from them. The footage turns from color to black-and-white and back again. Scattered scraps of paper float through the air in what is now an eerily familiar nightmare. We see, poignantly, that the flag still flies over the assaulted building, but there are corpses on the sidewalk. The shock of these concluding images is heightened by the contrast with the carefree nature of what has preceded. These scenes may have been filmed as fiction, but they will be viewed as history.

And that is where the once innocuous decision to locate the series in an international outpost of American power has left its producers with a problem not faced by, say, the more domestic (even if it is set in the city of Ground Zero) comfort programming of Friends. In a year of living dangerously, the emotional intrigues of a young vice consul abroad may no longer be enough to convince or satisfy the necessary audience. This may have already been acknowledged by the decision to change the show's name from Emma Brody to the more serious-sounding The American Embassy, a place, claims Fox, "where the challenges of America's controversial role in the world of nations are an everyday reality." The focus seems set to shift away from personal to international affairs as we are promised "an array of stories of much greater complexity than one could ever imagine."

Whether this is what is delivered, and, more importantly, whether we want to watch it, will be one small measure as to whether we, and our popular culture really have changed in the aftermath of that blue, bright, murderous morning.

Rummy and Juliet

National Review Online, December 11, 2001

He is a mauler of mullahs, and a colossus in Kabul, but for the secretary of defense these triumphs may only be a beginning. Squinting through his glasses for media briefing after media briefing, this gray-flannelled generalissimo is America's newest TV sensation. What's more, with every appearance, some say, he is making additional conquests, not of Herat this time, but of hearts, the hearts of women all over America, each beating a little harder at the thought of a man who, these ladies like to believe, doesn't need the help of a B-52 to make the earth move. Donald Rumsfeld, it seems, has become a romantic icon, a History Channel guy who is going to wind up on Lifetime. We shouldn't really be surprised. Chicks dig chiefs, or, to use Henry Kissinger's more elegant phraseology, " power is the great aphrodisiac." In a celebrity-saturated culture, Secretary Rumsfeld may also be benefiting from a subliminal association with an already-established idol, one called Cruise (the actor not the missile). There are, after all, some remarkable similarities between the two men. Both are a little on the short side, both were high-school wrestling stars, Tom Cruise played a naval aviator, and Donald Rumsfeld was a naval aviator. Could it be that in the fantasies of his followers, Rummy is really Maverick?

It took Larry King to try and bring discussion of some of these issues out into the open. Interviewing the defense secretary the other night, CNN's most courageous investigative journalist came out with the question that no one else in America had dared to ask.

"Secretary Rumsfeld…Do you like this image? You now have this new image called sex symbol."

It is safe to say that, unless there was more to Robert McNamara than met the eye, this is not a question that has ever previously been put to a wartime secretary of defense, but there was no need to worry. As we all now realize, Mr. Rumsfeld is someone well equipped to deal with an unexpected challenge, and his response to this latest media impertinence was calm and to the point.

"Oh come on."

As fans of Rummy's press conferences will know, follow-up questions can be dangerous (to the journalist). Larry King, however, is no member of the milksop Pentagon news corps. Eager for martyrdom, he persevered with his line of inquiry, fearlessly claiming that Mr. Rumsfeld was indeed "the guy." At this point, it would be reasonable to hope that the defense secretary would, as befitting his job description, stick to his guns. Our hero wavered. And who can blame him? Told by the seven-times married Mr. King that, when it comes to love-god status, you are now "the guy," it must be difficult to resist.

So, Mr. Rumsfeld admitted that he could be a sex symbol, but "for the AARP." He was, he explained, "pushing 70 years old".

And then came the moment, horrible to watch, when Larry King went too far. He suggested that the hammer of Kandahar was "kidding" about his age, an assertion that brought a stern response.

"I'm 69 and a half years old. Don't give me that stuff."

The Rumsfeld we all know and fear was back. An alarmed Mr. King hastily moved on to safer subjects, such as the role of Kuwait in the current conflict. There was no more analysis of Rummy's attractiveness on TV that evening, and there has not been much since. So far as mainstream media are concerned, this important topic remains largely hidden under a broadcast burqa, driven there either by fear of savage Rumsfeld reprisal or by liberal reluctance to admit that the GOP had finally found a politician who some women actually liked. Newspapers have been no more forthcoming.

So what then is the truth about the defense secretary's sex appeal? The Internet, usually so helpful when it comes to study of this kind, was of little assistance. An initially promising Google check revealed 134,000 entries under "Donald Rumsfeld" (well behind his popular doppelganger "Tom Cruise" (399,000) but closing in on "George Clooney" (143,000)). On closer examination, however, these sites seemed to focus on trivia such as the war, terrorism and the future of the nation. If there were any Rumsfeld fan pages, they were hidden in cyberspace's equivalent of the caves of Tora Bora.

The inevitable next step in this research, from the web to real women, can often be difficult for those of us who surf the Internet, and it was not made any easier by the harsh budgetary constraints within which anyone who deals with NRO has to operate. Plans for a nationwide survey, scientifically compiled by, say, Gallup and broken down by region, income group, age, ethnicity, political affiliation and tendency to watch C-Span had to be shelved in favor of a random series of questions addressed to a far smaller and entirely unrepresentative sample of the fairer sex. However, even after removing the rather over-enthusiastic replies of a few female conservative journalists (this is a family-oriented website), the conclusion was clear: When it comes to the ladies, Rummy has got what it takes.

The revelation that Secretary Rumsfeld remains married, after nearly half a century, to his childhood sweetheart was, to this group, both encouraging (as to his qualities) and disappointing (as to their prospects). Other, less-daunting objections were swiftly swept aside by Rummy's would-be Juliets. Yes, it was conceded, he could be a little brusque, but a straight-talking manner is these days apparently more seductive than a bulk-bought copy of Leaves of Grass.

The "AARP issue" turned out to be even less of a problem. The much younger "Betty" (Chicago, Illinois) offered to "share [Rumsfeld's] early bird special any time." If anything, the defense secretary's age appears to add to his allure. In tough times, daddy is back, and so, incidentally, are his clothes. The always stylish "Susanne" (Pelham, New York) appeared pleased by "her" Donald's fashion sense, a development that may suggest that the next time Naomi Wolf is advising a politician how to dress "alpha" she should steer him away from earth tones and towards Gerald Ford-era gray. So great is the appeal of Adonis Rumsfeld that, Freddy Krueger-like, his power even reaches into the subconscious, and, more specifically, the dreams of "Kathleen" (Washington, DC), an experience she described as "invigorating."

The only sour note in this entire investigation came from a disappointing source, Vice President Dick Cheney. Speaking to US News & World Report from his now traditional "secret, secure location." Mr. Cheney conceded that the defense secretary was "a babe magnet" but only "for the 70-year-old crowd." (He repeated the slur Tuesday night in a Fox News interview.) Well, if that's not a Lieberman moment, what is? Coming from Mr. Rumsfeld, those careful words of qualification were appropriately modest, but from the mouth of Dick Cheney, they sounded a little just a teeny bit envious.

Mrs. Cheney's comments were not recorded.

Moderately Crazy

National Review Online, October 23, 2011

Mullah Omar Mohammed, the Taliban's one-eyed leader, is, we are often told, insane. A twitching, convulsing Cyclops in a turban, this lunatic clergyman is, apparently, a standout kook even in a region famous for its delusional and psychotic despots. Amazingly, however, he might not be the craziest participant in the current crisis. That distinction may have to be reserved for the urbane and superficially more normal-seeming Colin Powell, a man who, according to press reports last week, has expressed an interest in "reaching out" to more "moderate" elements in the Taliban, a task about as anchored in reality as an attempt to find Charles Manson's inner sweetness. The secretary of state has subsequently attempted to "clarify" his position, emphasizing that no such overtures will be made to the Taliban's "leadership," a conveniently elastic term that does little to disguise the bizarre nature of this whole initiative.

To put it bluntly, the idea of a "moderate" member of the Taliban is no more plausible than the notion of a moderate member of the Ku Klux Klan. Intellectually, if it is appropriate to use that term in this context, the Taliban's teachings are not only a rejection of Afghanistan's traditionally (relatively) tolerant religious heritage, but they also go, in their absolutist contempt for the modern world, many steps beyond the already hard-line Islamic fundamentalism that inspired so many of the anti-Soviet mujaheddin. Drawn from the ranks of the orphaned, the dispossessed, and the alienated and inspired by the petty and vindictive certainties of barely educated village preachers, the lopping, chopping, and murderous Taliban are the extremist's extremists, the Khmer Rouge of the Khyber Pass.

It is also worth remembering that their rule is a fairly recent phenomenon. These are fresh-minted fanatics. Time and incumbency will eventually reduce the fervor of even the most ideologically driven of dictatorships. As the years pass, youthful enthusiasm (the Taliban gets much of its support from young men) will evolve into paunchy middle-aged torpor. What's more, as a regime endures, its very success will, ironically, conspire against its core principles. The ranks of the true believers will be diluted by the arrival of careerists and other opportunists, just the sort of pragmatic people who a Colin Powell might look for in his hunt for "moderates." There has not been enough time for this to happen within the Taliban state, and there is at least one good reason to think that it may take a while before it could be expected to do so — the peculiarly retrograde ambitions of the Taliban mean that they have comparatively little dependence on the sort of skilled technocrats normally essential for the smooth running of any society.

Traditionally, even the worst dictatorships have adopted at least some ideas of what we conventionally think of as progress: Trains ought to be made to run on time, electrification must be brought to the countryside, a civil service should function. To achieve such aims, any movement, however despotic, must succeed in co-opting the help of just the sort of technically qualified and, probably, relatively apolitical specialists who might constitute a force for moderation. The Taliban has no need of such people. Their objective, an Afghanistan transformed into a replica of an imagined 8th-Century Arabia, is about destroying, not building, a modern civilization and it is difficult to believe that they will need the assistance of many engineers, scientists or even administrators as they go about their grisly business.

This appears to be true even in the armed forces. While Taliban troops do, undoubtedly, include some trained, professional military, their numbers are fairly few (apart, perhaps from some of bin Laden's own "Arab" detachments), and there are unlikely to be enough of these career soldiers to be worth appealing to as a potential source of opposition to the regime's excesses. This should be no great surprise; brutal, unstructured, and primitive, Afghanistan's civil wars have been fought at a level that requires cunning and enthusiasm rather than sophistication and a West Point style officer corps.

Also, the Taliban military appears, by (admittedly low) Afghan standards, to be fairly cohesive. Warfare in Afghanistan is typically characterized by shifting alliances and repeated betrayals, but the rise of the Taliban has varied somewhat from this familiar pattern. The ideological fervor of Mullah Omar's movement (which was formed in a way that manipulated ethnic — Pathan — identity and yet bypassed much of the usual tribal power structure) and the speed of its early victories mean that its forces are less of a cobbled-together coalition than is normally the case in Afghanistan. The Taliban has, unfortunately, had to absorb relatively few allies of convenience, those fickle friends of a type that the U.S. might otherwise be able to tempt away.

This is true even outside the regime's Pathan heartland, where some degree of coalition forming by the Taliban might reasonably have been expected. Mullah Omar, however, is not really someone, to use a State Department term, known for "reaching out." In non-Pathan areas of the country, therefore, the Taliban have ruled more like an occupying army than a government. Only limited attempts have been made to win over the locals, who will be, by definition, unable to defect from an administration that they never joined in the first place.

This quest for "moderate" members of the Taliban is, therefore, not only a long shot, but could also be counterproductive. It risks confusing, antagonizing, or demoralizing just the sort of local anti-Taliban forces, actual or potential, who could assist U.S. efforts on the ground.

More importantly, perhaps, these hints about the acceptability of some supposedly moderate Taliban faction send out a terrible message elsewhere in the region. The United States is never going to be loved in the Middle East, but, if it is to succeed in this conflict, it must at least ensure that it is respected. When bin Laden's disciples want to attract followers they do so not with images of American strength, but with the idea of American weakness. There is repeated gloating over those outraged corpses in Mogadishu and, now, gleefully, over the destruction of two tall buildings, sent tumbling to their doom on a bright blue September morning.

The appeal of such propaganda in a neighborhood already profoundly hostile to the United States can only be met by the projection of American power, and in a prolonged, tricky, and asymmetrical contest, that is something that will take more than superior military hardware. The U.S. will have to be seen to show uncompromising determination, iron resolution and the unshakeable intention to see this battle through, preferably with allies but by itself if necessary. It must demonstrate to the Muslim world's many waverers that the United States is loyal to its friends, but implacable towards its enemies, that it is not, in other words, the sort of country ready to cut a deal with members of a regime that is still harboring the killers of so many Americans.

Domestically, the political impact of any overtures to elements within the Taliban would be likely to be even worse. Within the United States, American foreign policy is, at the moment, seen as having an unusual moral clarity. After 6,000 funerals, there need be no qualification or equivocation. Right is on our side. That is what those flags, displayed, it seems, on every street are all about. Americans realize that they have been attacked, and their people butchered, by an evil and dangerous assailant. This nation can see that bin Laden, the barbarians who harbored him, and the ideology he represents must be "ended", and it knows that this process may well be long, difficult and bloody. This country understands, in fact, a great deal about the situation in which it now finds itself, and that is why it is giving the administration the very broad support that it needs to do the job.

It is, however, support that could be quick to drain away if the response to the al Qaeda onslaught comes to be muddled by the State Department's familiar blend of cynicism and reflex internationalism, that sleazy instinct for appeasement that comes disguised in the tough language of realpolitik, and which even now, it appears, might be prepared to sell us the concept of the Taliban's kinder, gentler elements.

American Icon

National Review Online, October 15, 2001

It was a moment of laughter in a month of murder, the return of harmless absurdity to a world gone mad. The background was not promising. Bangladeshi Osamaniacs had gathered in their capital city, Dhaka, to show their support for bin Laden and their hatred for you and me. They marched as such mobs always do, violently, noisily, and under the banners of jihad, an embarrassment, I hope, to their faith and a disgrace, I know, to their country. Posters were brandished, some of them showing pictures of the crowd's hero, that grim symbol of Islamic rage, severe in his white turban and dark beard, with, it was to turn out, a rather surprising companion. Clearly visible on some of the posters, muttering, it would appear, into bin Laden's left ear, is Bert, Sesame Street's grouchiest Muppet, a difficult fellow, to be sure, but not an individual with any previously known links to the al Qaeda network.

Pictures of the demonstration swept across the planet, prompting Fox News to run a piece on "Bin Laden's felt-skinned henchman" and the makers of Sesame Street to issue a rather pompous condemnation of the "abuse" of one of their characters ("Sesame Street has always stood for mutual respect and understanding…this is not at all humorous"), although, as a suspicious Fox correspondent was quick to note, the show's spokeswoman would not be drawn on the yellow Muppet's "current whereabouts." Was there something to hide?

Well, don't worry, Bert, as it happens, is innocent. The real explanation for his appearance with the world's most notorious criminal (which can be found on the invaluable www.snopes2.com) lies elsewhere, in that blend of frivolity and technological superiority that so enrages Muslim fundamentalists about our glittering, tantalizing, ubiquitous civilization. For years now the web has played host to the running joke that "evil Bert" has been the crony and adviser of history's wrongdoers. Search the Internet and you can find doctored photographs of Bert with O. J., Hitler, Kevin Costner (some people really did not like Waterworld) and now, it seems, Osama bin Laden. And this — this joke — was the image that a printer in Bangladesh chose to download when he was surfing the web for a picture of Bin Laden to make into a poster for Osama's devotees. Somehow or other the bungling Bangladeshi either failed to notice Bert or, if he did, he omitted to crop him from the photo.

Symbolically, this fiasco could really not be better: whether it was in the reliance on advanced Western technology to create the propaganda materials for protesters who would abolish the future, or whether it was in the pathetic failure to use it effectively, a failure that led to the elevation of yet another symbol of the decadent West over the heads of its ignorant, benighted foes. It may have been an accidental triumph, but who cares? Western culture, represented in this case by the unlikely standard-bearer, Evil Bert, had once again humiliated its dim, dismal, and demented opponents, fools who would run a world, but cannot operate a PC.

And yes, it is okay to laugh, although if you are a woman in Afghanistan please do so only in private (the Taliban have made it a crime for women to laugh in public). This tale of botched posters is marvelously, gloriously funny, a welcome relief after these weeks of grief. Those demonstrators were made to look ridiculous, and it gave this country a wonderful, mocking picture of a contemptible enemy. We need more of such images. The pampered rich kid bin Laden, a designer tribesman with his laundered robes, Timex Ironman Triathlon ("the watch of choice for top athletes"), and Stone Age certainties is a gift to caricaturists, and yet (with some exceptions, notably The Onion) there seems to be a curious reluctance to make fun of this ludicrous figure. In part, probably, this is a consequence of the exquisite sensitivities of the Politically Correct era (should we not be trying some "mutual respect," should we not be making an effort to understand him?) and in part it is the natural inclination of a sheltered, rather soft generation still uncertain as to how to respond in the aftermath of such an appalling, unexpected onslaught. To take one example, according to press reports, we are, apparently, in for a kinder, gentler Halloween. Bin Laden masks, it is being suggested, would be in poor taste.

In fact, such rude, tasteless gestures are very important, and, insofar as they can contribute to victory, they can help honor our dead. It is possible to belittle bin Laden (in fact, if some tabloid accounts are to be believed, it is very easy indeed), without belittling his crimes. Far from trivializing a conflict, humor can be a very useful weapon in its pursuit. Current reports linking the anthrax attacks on the tabloid press to their less-than-flattering descriptions of bin Laden and his acolytes would, if true, suggest that this is well understood by al Qaeda. Laughing at an enemy boosts morale and reminds us that any adversary, however fearsome-seeming, can be overcome. In the Second World War, Hitler was often portrayed in Anglo-American popular culture as a figure of fun, a laughable, histrionic little man with delusions of grandeur, and yet no one would argue that the Allies were not serious about the evil done by his regime or the importance of, to use a currently fashionable term, 'ending' the Third Reich.

So let's have those bin Laden masks, the nastier the better, and take it from there. This is someone to jeer and to scoff at, a clown in a cave to be mocked, parodied, derided, lampooned, taunted, and ridiculed, a jerk on a jihad that we can only despise. Our laughter will help cheer us up, and, who knows, so great is the reach of the Western media (ask Evil Bert), it may also transmit a message to some of those in the Muslim world who now demonstrate their support for terror, an important message about the man that they so admire.

He's a loser.