While taking a break from work, I visited C&L.  What I found there has left me beyond rage.

And I’m not going to apologize for the bloody image above.  This is something that every goddamn American needs to confront in the comfort of their living rooms, every morning and every night, a constant barrage, until they understand exactly what this is that we have wrought - and until they get off their fat, safe, comfortable asses and FUCKING DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. 

I no longer cry, except on the rarest of occasions.  I’ve been through too much in recent years.  Oh, sure, a hauntingly beautiful piece of music or writing can make the tears well a bit, but to cry from anger or frustration?  No. 

But now, the tears flow freely.  It’s equal parts outrage and goddamn fucking impotence.  Because I don’t know what to do anymore. 

Behold, the world of Mohammed Ibn Laith:

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

And what will America talk about today?  In the L.A. Times, it’s this:

NASA diapers become topic No. 1:  "The recent arrest of diaper-clad astronaut has transformed a somewhat obscure NASA undergarment into a cultural phenomenon."  So let’s all snicker behind our hands, like five-year-olds on a playground, because this is obviously so much more important than the latest Iraqi dead in a war crime of our making.

But in al-Sadriya, Baghdad:

Does “peace” mean that your aunt does not weep as she talks of how the young couples she serves ask her after the X-Ray

"Well is it a child or is it a monster?"

And how she curses the Americans who littered our land with Uranium munitions and then denied us the cancer drugs. Because we needed to be,

contained.

We sand niggers who had been abandoned to the tyrant you had supported for years needed to be,

contained.

And though it was hard for you, though compassion swelled in your noble and peaceful heart we sand niggers needed to be,

contained

For my own good. I needed to be,

contained.

Shall we talk about peace you and I? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

And back in America, ABC urges men to Line on up to assert paternity of Anna-Nicole Smith’s child.  Incidentally, at the moment, Google News has two pf three separate "Entertainment" subheads devoted to the dead former stripper, for a grand total, apparently, of  4,425 "news articles."   Because a dead blonde ex-stripper is, of course, so much more newsworthy than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

 

After the war you said, adding one monstrous lie to another, a new Iraq would be born. A peaceful child of the west aping your ways and repaying you with control of its oil, of its soil, and of its soul. The operation would be brief, the birth pangs almost painless.

 

"We think the price is worth it."

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

"Birthpangs of a new Middle East."

"Well is it a child or is it a monster?"

Shall we talk about monsters, you and I?

No.  Like Time, let’s talk about evil liberal bloggers, naughty girls who say "fuck" and have the temerity to tell the Catholic church to keep its sticky fingers off their bodies.  And let’s try to portray their accuser as someone whose worst offense may be to refer to said bloggers as "brats," rather than the defender of date rape and rabid anti-Semite that he actually is.  Because the antifeminist rantings of a bigoted hypocrite are so much more weighty than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

Meanwhile, back in al-Sadriya: 

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Or shall we talk of the days of age? Shall we talk of the warmth of the weight of age on your shoulder as you guide your aged progenitor as you would a child without letting him know that he is being guided? Shall we talk of guidance across the ages you and I? Or shall we instead speak of the armed foreigner who signals “hello” when he should signal “stop” and of how a confused old man who did not stop quickly enough and who could not lie down died in a whirlwind of fire unleashed by the foreigner? Shall we talk of that you and I? Or shall we talk of a daughter’s screams when she saw her son covered with her father’s blood? Or would you prefer to talk about peace?

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No.  Let’s speculate instead about whether an African-American Democratic presidential candidate tried to mislead the public by attributing his name both to Arabic and to Swahili - actually, it’s attributable to both, but God forbid that intrepid reporter rent boy Mike Allen should let the facts get in the way of a good hatchet job.  Oh, and while we’re at it, let’s get a good giggle out of the fact that his middle name is - (gasp!) Hussein!  Because focusing on whether an African-American candidate is a "rock star" is so much more entertaining than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

While in al-Sadriya: 

We let our eyes and our hands instruct our brain as our trainers taught us to do.

Even if means abandoning them to their fate you do not do go in alone. Wait for your watcher.

Many of the piles of rubble are too big. We move on. When the bulding has collapsed completely or when you see concrete floors hanging and ready to fall you must move on.

Do not risk triggering the collapse of the building until there are two teams with the proper equipment.

We move on to do as our trainers have taught us to do.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because Howard Fineman, of "the Web’s best reporting," thinks Rudy Giuliani is the GOP Obama.  Because everyone knows that strained attempts to draw false analogies in the interest of promoting Rudy idolatry is so much more significant than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

But back in al-Sadriya: 

It must be that my brother’s team has arrived I see him standing surrounded by people and pointing and giving orders. I look my question and he shrugs despairingly. We move on to do as our trainers have taught us to do. Others of us arrive, we organise ourselves and the people who were there and who want to help, showing them, how to clear rubble, and pull the wounded and dead people out. I and the two other experienced ones move back to the stalls.

Where are the ambulances? Where are the police? Will the Americans stop the cars and buses and vans carrying the wounded and the dieing to the hospitals as they have done so often before?

. . .

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because . . . look!  Shiny!  We’re too busy chasing down "scoops" about Nicole and Paris and Britney and K-Fed and Justin and . . . fuck, I can’t even stand to type the names anymore.  Because profiles of vapid celebrities are so much more consequential than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

Still, in al-Sadriya: 

There are enough of us now to start to attend to the dead. An interpreter like a dog in a mask walking on its hind legs speaks to me as I pass him and his American masters. I recognise his accent and politely express the hope that his family is well and are enjoying life in [ the name of the village he is from ] .

I do not think that particular dog will sleep well in its kennel tonight.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because now that the Super Bowl is over, we have to have another celebrity "contest" to distract us.  Because, after all, who wins the Grammys is so much more culturally relevant than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

While this is the lot of the residents of al-Sadriya: 

Showing the helpers how to pick up the pieces of human flesh. Put your hand inside one plastic bag pick it up. Drop it into the plastic sack. Move on to the next piece. One of them has not done this before his hand is shaking so much that he drops a piece of dead human flesh to the ground. But before I can get to him another whose face I recognise from before moves to him and shows him how to do it properly. They stay together the experienced helping the new. The first time is hardest. The new one’s shoulders are moving up and done as he works. He stands up and runs to a stall his helper running after him. He stands his shoulders moving up and down. His helper’s hand upon his shoulder. My brother calls out:

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

They go back to work.

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

Lips moving with each piece that they pick up and put into their plastic sacks.

"O God! Pardon our living and our dead, the present and the absent, the young and the old, the males and the females."

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because the American financial sector that could help provide funding for relief work in Iraq is too busy - after all,

it’s Fashion Week!  And reading about the corporate sponsorships and the designer labels is so much more fiscally critical than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

But for the parents in al-Sadriya:

Climbing out of the van the morgue attendants tell us to put the dead bodies on the ground. I hear a woman scream. Stepping over body after body after body as we walk to the emergency room. The guards do not try to stop up us from entering. We are many and they are few. Bloodied moaning people on the floor, bloodied moaning people on the floors of the corridors. Two old men on the floor against a wall faces grey with pain trying not cry out. More and more people being carried in. Many will die on the floor here as they have before each time that the American predators and their Iraqi underlings open the gates for the jackals to flood through and do their work for them. The people on the floor over whom we step will die of bleeding, and of pain and of not enough doctors, not enough, not enough equipment to take the blood from those who arrive to donate, not enough space.

Going through to the wards.

No sign of our father. I look at my brother - phone?

Nothing.

He says. “Nothing.”

. . .

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

Of course not, because we’re too busy wondering which presidential candidate will become the "

lawyers’ candidate," so we can have yet another ecuse to rant about how "frivolous lawsuits" are destroying the country.  Because reading about ensuring get-out-of-jail-free cards for corporations like Blackwater is so much more imperative than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

As will learn another parent in al-Sadriya: 

A telephone rings on one of the dead bodys. The same tone as on the phone we gave our father. Running my hands through the pockets of the dead boy to find the phone. A woman’s voice screams when she hears mine. Khalil speaks Kurdish. Gesturing to Khalil, “come here, come here,” handing him the phone.

Khalil is to stay. We to go.

. . .

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because while Iraqi mothers mourn their dead children, Americans have to keep busy by envying idiots with too much time and money and too little sense, who will

drop $25K on a Bangkok meal on a whim.  Because reading about such excess (and hoping you can be rich enough to indulge in it someday) is so much more essential than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

While the death everywhere renders eating impossible for the rescuers of al-Sadriya: 

The smell of death in no less strong in the car that drives us back. Or perhaps it is our presence that magnifies it. At Al-Sadriya the scale of the destruction is clear. The crater is five metres in diameter and almost two metres deep. Wherever you step there is blood blackening and thickened on the ground. Shops and homes alike are destroyed and work goes on to take out those buried in the rubble of their homes.

The police and their American masters do nothing.

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

No, because we need to read about the gentrification - nay, yuppification -

of surfing.  Because reading about ways we can waste more of our income trying to keep up with the Joneses and recapture our lost youth is so much more urgent
than the latest Iraqis dead in a war crime of our making.

But for the rescuers of al-Sadriya: 

Abu Hussein tells us to separate our search. I to Al Kindi, my brother to Ibn Al Nafees. Getting into the back with the bodys and driving to Al Kindi hospital. The smell of death is a mix of the smell of the sort of excrement you pass when you have drunk bad water and the meat market on a hot day. It rises to surround me. It is in my hair and my clothes and my throat. I will smell of death when I go into the hospital.

I found my father that night outside the morgue. He had been lightly wounded, his clothes were soaked in dried blood, and he was praying over the body of our friend and colleague Abbas.

I, my brother, and Abu Hussein and his sons, have bought him a new telephone.

"We think the price is worth it."

"The only thing these sand niggers understand is force and I’m about to introduce them to it."

"Birthpangs of a new Middle East."

"Well is it a child or is it a monster?"

What will we talk about today you and I? I do not want to talk about last Saturday. Shall we talk about peace? I would like to talk about peace. I love the word. No, perhaps we are not ready to talk of peace yet you and I, we are not at peace, we are not even at truce.

The only thing a predator understands is force.

We have nothing to talk about you and I.

No.  Because there’s nothing to say.  Nothing can justify this atrocity that we have created, and nothing can justify our willingness to stand by as it continues.  Iraq is now one massive, gaping, bloody wound of a war crime, one for which history
may very well determine us all to be "good Germans."  Our complicity and complacency are obscene, and to say that we opposed the war does not excuse us. 

What the fuck are we doing, people? 

<crickets>

Well, opposition is not enough.  Supporting the other party is not enough.  Blogging about how pissed off we are is not enough.  Standing around at a UFPJ rally clapping for the usual suspects speakers is not enough.  In fact, nothing we’ve done so far is enough.

I don’t want to hear another word - NOT ONE MORE FUCKING WORD - about how "impeachment is off the table."  And if you think Nancy Pelosi’s right about this, go troll someone else’s damn thread. 

This is OUR monster.  We created it, with our smug, satisfied, somnolent willingness to allow the judicial anointing of this fucker - the same willingness that allowed us to support opposition candidates too worried about their fucking dignity to fight for their country when it mattered.  And we abet it withe very day that we allow to pass that we don’t actively push for impeachment and conviction, removal from office, and international war crimes prosecution - for the whole fucking lot of ‘em:  Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rove, Wolfowitz, Feith, Addington, Gonzales, every last goddamn criminal among them.

Because I literally cannot do this anymore.  Every day that I don’t fight to end this obscenity, to "bring justice" (as our war-criminal-in-chief is so fond of saying) to this pack via a 21st-Century Nuremberg, is a day that I’m giving aid and comfort to the enemy.  Because they are the real traitors.  And I’m no longer willing to be an enabling, appeasing Vichycrat.

Consider this an open thread to post information about actual efforts that folks can join:  1) extract our troops; 2) to rebuild Iraq the right way; 3) to impeach these fuckers; and 4) to bring it home to the current crop of candidates that talk is not enough - they need to make these things happen.