“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts”
William Shakespeare: As You Like It: Act 2, Scene 6
Perhaps that seemed true back in Elizabethan times, but I suspect most of us feel rather more like the audience, or part of the scenery, than active players in the tale that is unfolding before us. If indeed we are mentioned within the play, we are the masses offstage, heard of only in the dialogue of others. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, fates of the faceless are only spoken of, and then forgotten, uncounted. The drama is revealed to us, as through a glass darkly, by the news agencies. And it is they who choose the lines we hear, and the characters we are introduced to. And indeed which play we get to watch in the first place.
Case in point. You’ve probably read the Operation Northwoods file by now. If not, humour me and go read the previous entry. Of all the news networks I’ve checked, I found but one single story regarding it, on the ABC site. You would have thought that any journalist with the chance would have jumped all over a story like that.
Similarly, the incident at the checkpoint in Iraq, where a car loaded with Iraqi women and children was torn apart by Coalition gunfire has been buried. The official story from the military is that a number of warning shots had been fired. Yet the only independant witness, a journalist from the Washington Post, claimed that no warning had been given. Since that initial report we have heard nothing on the matter. And so the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, launched at the behest of men with outrageous fortunes, will continue to fall upon the extras, and never the stars.
Just as within the world of theatre there are none more hated than the critics, those who attempt to criticise the information given out by the government will be the targets of vitriol. Sometimes though, despite all efforts, some actual journalism does take place. A surprisingly avant-gard piece from the BBC’s Correspondent programme set out to review one episode of this year’s top tragi-comedy, “War on Terror – The Miniseries.” Gods, I hope its just a miniseries. This baby could run and run.
Speaking about Private Jessica Lynch, Dr Harith a-Houssona reportedly said “I examined her, I saw she had a broken arm, a broken thigh and a dislocated ankle. There was no [sign of] shooting, no bullet inside her body, no stab wound – only road traffic accident. They want to distort the picture. I don’t know why they think there is some benefit in saying she has a bullet injury.”
The Pentagon, when quized recently by the BBC, still refused to reveal publicly what injuries Private Lynch suffered, beyond the claim that she has suffered amnesia. While the poor girl certainly deserves some privacy after her assuredly genuine ordeal, what worthwhile purpose is served by leaving her wounds ambiguous?
Dr Anmar Uday, who also worked at the hospital were Lynch was being treated claimed “We were surprised. Why do this? There was no military, there were no soldiers in the hospital. It was like a Hollywood film. They cried ‘go, go, go’, with guns and blanks without bullets, blanks and the sound of explosions. They made a show for the American attack on the hospital – action movies like Sylvester Stallone or Jackie Chan.”
Maybe all the world IS a stage.
Jerry Bruckheimer, who frequently collaborates with the Pentagon, is probably quite upset that his latest war story failed to win any awards at Cannes. NBC is currently fast-tracking a TV movie to be released by the end of this coming year, though their remake is unlikely to be able to match the budget of the Bush original.
I’ll end this train of thought with a little more of the bard. As the chorus did entreat the audience, in the prologue to Henry V, to view and interpret the scenes before them according to the desires of the performers, and the spirit of the story, it has found its modern echo in the chorus of editors, anchormen, and politicians who expect us to take their version of the truth as absolute.
” O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire,
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that hath dar’d
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies,
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts:
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i’ th’ receiving earth;
For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times,
Turning th’ accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass; for the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this history;
Who prologue-like, your humble patience pray
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.”
History is written by the victor, they say. It has always been the case that nations pull the rug of time over the less pleasant parts of their past. Now though, we live in a time where history is written, rewritten, and rewritten again before our very eyes. Our eyes on the world, the media companies whom we rely upon to inform us of what occurs, tell us half-truths, pruning evidence and aspects which do not suit the agenda of their master.
I consider journalism to be one of the most noble professions, and I do not mean to disparage its practitioners, for I do not doubt that many of them are frustrated by their editors. And I equally do not doubt that sometimes their editors have little choice. Choosing between running a story, and becoming a blacklisted unemployment statistic isn’t terribly difficult.
Fortunately, there are sources of news that are either volunteer based, or at least independant of major corporations. Upon the web, it is often the case that while reporters do indeed tell another side to the stories on the mainstream press, they are equally biased to the other side. Examining both biased versions of a story does at least allow us to get at the germ of a tale. That which is agreed upon by both is most certainly true. Nevertheless, the best way to get to the truth of history has always been to read the original contemporary documents, if such exist. While certain governments have done a most excellent job of destroying records in the name of national security, sometimes one slips through the net, and todays tale is of just one such document.
The National Security Archive is not a place to get reading material for bedtime, unless you desire to never sleep again. As a library and archive of declassified U.S. documents obtained through the Freedom of Information Act it sheds much light into the dark corners inhabited by the U.S. intelligence agencies.
Operation Northwoods may not be news to some of you, but I was totally unaware of it before this weekend. It’s not available in text transcript (in full at any rate, as any document should be read), so I can’t just paste the whole thing here. Thankfully, it was vetoed by President Kennedy, else I doubt very much anyone would be alive to read this. I am going to show restraint, and not comment further at this time. Simply read it, check its authenticity, and compare and contrast with the world’s current problems.
The root of the word “history” is from the greek “hist”, meaning to inquire. To understand history, even the history that unfolds before us, is not a passive act. We cannot just let information wash over us, and hope to gain wisdom. These are not times for sitting back, nor for allowing others to dictate our sources, but for active and vigourous histing!
It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood. Norfolk is one of the driest counties in the UK. While that causes our farmers a world of woe, it does make for great weather for the rest of us.
Anyway, sorry for getting a bit morose at the end of the Iraq thing yesterday. Been so long since I thought hard about that experience, that my slightly increased wisdom found a whole lot more to think about than it did at the time.
Today is Tuesday, and that is a good thing. For upon Tuesday, I and my staunch ally, the Mole, travel down to the campus to drink beer, and hang out with people young enough to be our slightly younger siblings. My favourite day of the week. By beer, I mean of course snakebite and black. Half lager, half cider, topped off with blackcurrant cordial. Drink of champions, and me.
First up, a little about me would be in order I suppose, before we get to the nitty gritty day to day tedium of my life, passed through the sieve of hindsight, leaving you only golden nuggets of interestingness.
I’m a 29 year old male, living in the city of Norwich, UK. Very little of note happens here, which seeing as most noteworthy events are bad for somebody in the locality, suits me just dandy. Frankly, given that no-one who doesn’t know me is ever going to read this thing anyway, I’d be wasting my time to tell you any more.
For our international viewers. “Dr Germ”, who despite her alleged crimes has managed to get a pretty cool nickname, handed herself in today to the allied forces. She, along with a great number of her co-workers, studied mass-murder at the University of East Anglia right slap bang in Norwich. She is the only one, to my knowledge, with a playing card though. It’s flashback time!
It was 1993. A bright-eyed young scientist was making his first steps towards academic brilliance. Across the lab, I was breaking test-tubes, being sick, and headed for a failing grade. Then Saddam came to my rescue.
A Cypriot student was assigned to be my lab partner. Right away my marks began to rise, as he would have nimbly disected anything placed before him before I had even finished vomiting in the toilets. One could place anything before that man, alive or dead, and he would have it neatly pinned and labelled within minutes. All was well with the world for a time, but then things became awkward.
We had struck up a friendship of sorts. And he asked me if I’d like to discect one of the university’s wild rabbits. In his room. I declined as gracefully as I could, and he laughed. The British weakness for small fluffy animals. In Cyprus it was considered perfectly normal to go out, find a cat or dog, take it home and, umm, analyse it. I made discouraging noises.
Not discouraging enough, for he later that month told me that his time at UEA was being sponsored by the Iraqi government, and he would be going to work in the field of biological weapons. He had a “friend” from the said organisation who would love to meet me. And quite probably offer me an exciting new career.
Every life has a number of moments which you look back on and think, blimey, things would be damn different if I’d chosen “b” rather then “a”. As anyone who knows me now would tell you, commiting crimes against humanity isn’t really my thing. Remember though, this was before the world (or me at any rate) heard of of the crimes the Iraqi regime perpetrated upon it’s own people. I considered it quite seriously. It did sound a most marvellous way to see the world, and make some good cash. I was young and foolish, but not quite foolish enough, thank the gods.
He persisted for quite some time, trying to arrange meetings with his contact, but the sense of wickedness was as pervasive in those latter conversations as the reek of formaldehyde and dead things in the labs, and I never had the stomach for either.
And that, gentle reader, is why I shall never be portrayed on a playing card.
What happened to my lab partner I have no idea. The next year I shared no classes with him, and I managed to dodge him the few times we almost came within speaking distance. He graduated in ’94, and went on his way, presumably to Iraq.
I have never met anyone who treated life with such soulless interest. Most biologists chose the subject because of a love of animals, or a sense of wonder at the infinite diversity of life, or in the case of doctors the desire to heal. He would take apart an living animal as a curious child might dismantle a radio. He would have been quite happy to take apart a human, I am sure, if he could avoid the repercussions. In my estimation he was a psychopath, in the true sense of the word, and now I look back with the benefit of somewhat more wisdom, I get shivers down my spine at my brush with such a person. And I pray I never learn what he accomplished in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.
And this would, if I be not mistaken, be one the dullest first entries of a blog ever.
|
|
