Baby­lo­nia Is Her Name

The Star (St. Lucia) - - COMMENT - By Wayne Kublals­ingh

Iwill not put a Whore of Baby­lon into one of the high­est of­fices on the planet, to rule over it. Many have been the crimes of those who, dressed in the milk of hu­man kind­ness, mock and pinch the world, with their evil: Marie An­toinette, con­sort to King Louis XVI in 18th cen­tury, pre-Rev­o­lu­tion­ary France who, when told that the peas­ants lacked bread, quipped, “Let them eat cake”; Madame De­farge, of that same rev­o­lu­tion­ary France, the fic­tional tri­co­teuse in Charles Dick­ens’ A Tale of Two Cities, who knit­ted while the blood of the royals flowed down the cracks of the cob­ble­stones; and Mary I, the 16th cen­tury Queen, Bloody Mary, the first fe­male re­gent of Eng­land, who burnt protes­tants at the stake, like so many logs of elm and oak. This Whore has caused me much dis­tress.

I was in Eng­land in 1992, study­ing, and a mem­ber of the Bri­tish Of­fi­cer Train­ing Corps at Ox­ford Univer­sity. I could read the moves to­wards war like pro­logues to the swelling act of the tragic im­pe­rial theme. The in­cre­men­tal de­mon­i­sa­tion of Iraq by BBC, CNN, ABC, NBC. The pam­phlet of slo­gans creep­ing per­ni­ciously into the pub­lic do­main: War On Ter­ror, The In­ter­na­tional Com­mu­nity, The Weapons Of Mass Destruction, Hu­man Shields. The lin­ing up of the gen­er­als and mil­i­tary ex­perts; the brown hood, Saudi Ara­bia; the Arab League, the United Na­tions, the Coali­tion, NATO. When the first US sor­ties swept the skies, a no-fly zone for the Iraqis, and I saw the help­less anti-air­craft flak stream­ing up into the dark sky, sorry to say, I wept. I was think­ing about the women and chil­dren in cel­lars, and the flour-bag in­fantry who would be killed like rab­bits in their holes. War is war, mas­sacre is mas­sacre.

I was so outraged I wanted to march to Buck­ing­ham Palace with my full uni­form, me, one, as a sig­na­ture, a protest. I con­sulted my Brazil­ian friend, Maceo. I raged against a de­vout church-go­ing cou­ple, an African man, Zedi, and his Bri­tish wife, who sup­ported the war. My wife drew me back on her leash as she would a mad dog. I did not march from Ox­ford to Buck­ing­ham Palace, to visit the Queen, as it were. I wrote a long poem, synchronised his­tory, chron­i­cling the events of the war, for pos­ter­ity, a record and me­ter of a trau­ma­tised and ter­rorised mind, that I wanted to leave to his­tory. And the Lt Colonel, my CO, sug­gested I break ranks with the Of­fi­cer Train­ing Corps, with my one sorry of­fi­cer’s pip, cor­dially.

This Whore of Baby­lon has be­come, with a smarty smile, a guf­faw, a breezy tart­ness, the lat­est in­car­na­tion of ter­ror in the mod­ern Mid­dle East. The as­sas­si­na­tion of sec­u­lar lead­ers. Us­ing the CIA to in­spire, mock, cause regime change: in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Egypt, Syria, and per­haps, more re­cently Turkey. “We came, we saw, he died…” she mocked, with her gig­gly girl-gig­gle, on the death of the Libyan leader, whose death she most likely gave the or­der for. And Osama Bin Laden. Killed and dumped into the sea. They could not afford to keep him alive: he might have be­trayed him­self, his ego, re­vealed the real Saudi con­nec­tion be­hind the 9/11 ter­ror at­tack. For the record, he was the sworn en­emy of the Saudis, and did ev­ery­thing within his power to wage ter­ror against them.

So, if we are to be­lieve that this ge­nial vic­trix, as pres­i­den­tial as hell, with the ap­ple blos­som cheeks, did not have food to carry to school, that her mother was a labour­ing maid, that her fa­ther was a poor silkscreen printer, liv­ing scant­ily, and that she is mis­sion­ary for the rights of chil­dren, women, black folk, how could she not iden­tify with the hun­dreds of thou­sands of women, chil­dren, the el­derly, ter­rorised by her wars in the Mid­dle East and North Africa? Here is what Colin Pow­ell, that war-fool of Empire, said in a leaked e-mail about her: She has “a long track record, un­bri­dled am­bi­tion, greedy, not trans­for­ma­tional”. And, “Ev­ery­thing H.R.C. touches, she kind of screws up with hubris.” He un­der­es­ti­mates her, by far.

Baby­lo­nia is her name. Ev­ery­thing the Bushes could not do, the Neo-Cons, the Wash­ing­ton Con­sen­sus, Dick Cheney, Don­ald Rums­feld, Tony Blair (Chilcot Re­port), the Hawks, the far-lean­ing ‘right-wing’ geno­ci­dal artists, she does, com­pletes. Trump is a mewl­ing school­boy next to her. She is all art. While she smirks, grins, trots upon the stage, her co­horts are busy feed­ing bil­lions of dol­lars in arms, grist for ter­ror, into the maws of Saudi Ara­bia, to con­tinue its blood­shed in Ye­men; and into the mer­ce­nary cof­fers of their ‘moder­ate’ ter­ror­ist groups, to pro­long five years of slaugh­ter and de­ra­ci­na­tion in Syria.

The Amer­i­cans on CNN, NBC, FOX, and the Bri­tish on BBC, seem not to un­der­stand how the young be­come ‘rad­i­calised’. They seem all aghast when their own ci­ti­zens seem to ‘turn’, just like that. When ‘home­grown’ ter­ror erupts they be­gin a fren­zied search for links. Links to Pak­istan, Iran, Afghanistan, ISIS. But the an­swer is sim­ple. Sim­ply turn on the TV, watch the ex­perts, spin­doc­tors, talk­ing heads. Ten US dead are grains of gold, one mil­lion Iraqi dead is a lump of clay. And watch Baby­lo­nia, her smug­ness, chuck­les, as mil­lions of tod­dlers, in­fants, are trau­ma­tised, by her wars, for gen­er­a­tions to come. These would rad­i­calise a slob, a saint.

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