Babylonia Is Her Name
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.