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CounterPunchers! We Mean It!
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Today's Stories November 6-8, 2009 Mark Greuter November 5, 2009 Pam Martens Vijay Prashad Brian Gallagher Norman Solomon Nadia Hijab Joseph Shanksy Andy Thayer Tracy Rosenberg Website of the Day November 4, 2009 Stan Cox Andy Worthington From Gitmo to Palau: Who are the Uighurs? Robert Weissman Susan Galleymore Ralph Nader Michael Leonardi Bitta Mistofi Robert Bryce Martha Rosenberg Dave Lindorff Website of the Day November 3, 2009 Patrick Cockburn Mike Whitney Franklin C. Spinney Laura Carlsen Serge Halimi John Stanton Sophia Weeks Dave Lindorff November 2, 2009 Steven Higgs Ishmael Reed David Macaray Bouthaina Shaaban David Michael Green David Swanson Ellen Brown Adam Federman James McEnteer Stephen Fleischman Website of the Day October 30 - Nov. 1, 2009 Alexander Cockburn Jeffrey St. Clair / Carl Ginsburg Mike Whitney Joe Bageant Gareth Porter Saul Landau Anthony DiMaggio Dave Lindorff Rannie Amiri Niranjan Ramakrishnan Jayne Lyn Stahl Rev. William E. Alberts Alvaro Huerta Martha Rosenberg Binoy Kampmark Norm Kent Charles R. Larson Roth's "The Humbling:" Nothing Like a Novel From an Old Pro Ron Jacobs David Yearsley Lorenzo Wolff Kim Nicolini Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend October 29, 2009 Michael Neumann Mike Whitney Gary Leupp Conn Hallinan Marshall Auerback Laura Flanders Eamonn McCann David Macaray Mark Weisbrot Stephen Soldz Christopher Brauchli Website of the Day October 28, 2009 Moshe Adler Dave Lindorff Frank Joseph Smecker Alexandra Early M. Shahid Alam Vijay Prashad John Ross Franklin Lamb Gregory Travis Susan Galleymore Website of the Day October 27, 2009 Mike Whitney Patrick Cockburn Stewart J. Lawrence Alan Farago Ralph Nader Dave Lindorff Bouthaina Shaaban Brian M. Downing Elections in Afghanistan, the Second Time Around Iain Boal Carl Finamore Jayne Lyn Stahl Website of the Day October 26, 2009 Bill Quigley / Paul Craig Roberts Uri Avnery Mike Whitney Michael Snedeker Shamus Cooke David Michael Green Martha Rosenberg Patrick Bond Binoy Kampmark Website of the Day October 23-25, 2009 Alexander Cockburn Christopher Ketcham Jeff Gore Gareth Porter Jayne Lyn Stahl Saul Landau Mike Whitney Nikolas Kozloff Ron Jacobs Russell Mokhiber Missy Beattie Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada Stephen Lendman David Ker Thomson Rannie Amiri Ronnie Cummins Norm Kent Charles R. Larson David Yearsley Lorenzo Wolff Ben Sonnenberg Kim Nicolini Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend October 22, 2009 Dan Pearson / Jonathan Cook Paul Craig Roberts The US as Failed State Mark Engler Johann Hari Brian M. Downing Eric Toussaint Tom Mountain Israel Shamir Charles Thomson Website of the Day October 21, 2009 Pam Martens Linn Washington, Jr. Liaquat Ali Khan D. K. Wilson Franklin Lamb Norman Solomon Stephen Fleischman Patrice Higonnet Binoy Kampmark Kevin Coval / Website of the Day October 20, 2009 Sharon Smith Tariq Ali Mark Brenner Bouthaina Shaaban Michael D. Yates Dean Baker Dave Lindorff John Ross Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada Kevin Zeese Gilad Atzmon Website of the Day October 19, 2009 Mike Whitney Greg Moses John Ross Michael Donnelly Jayne Lyn Stahl Eric Walberg Russell Mokhiber Barbara Rose Johnston John V. Whitbeck Christopher Ketcham Website of the Day October 16-18, 2009 Alexander Cockburn Saul Landau Paul Craig Roberts Carl Ginsburg Ralph Nader Nikolas Kozloff Carlo Galli Dave Lindorff Catherine Rottenberg
/ Neve Gordon Marshall Auerback Nicola Nasser Windy Cooler James L. Secor Ron Jacobs Wes Jackson Jesse Lerner-Kinglake David Ker Thomson Against Leaders Missy Beattie Emily Ratner Stephen Martin Michael Snedeker Charles R. Larson David Yearsley Peter Stone Brown Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend October 15, 2009 Andrew Cockburn Brian M. Downing Ramzy Baroud Danny Weil M. Idrees Ahmad Margaret Kimberley Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada Harvey Wasserman Nirmal Ghosh Charles R. Larson Website of the Day October 14, 2009 Michael Neumann M. Reza Pirbhai Gareth Porter Paul Craig Roberts John Strausbaugh Fortress Moon Ralph Nader Dean Baker Charles Modiano Nadia Hijab Walter Brasch Website of the Day October 13, 2009 Peter Linebaugh Shamus Cooke John Ross Brendan Cooney Frida Berrigan Yves Engler David Macaray Dave Lindorff Mark Weisbrot Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada Binoy Kampmark Website of the Day October 12, 2009 Pam Martens Mike Whitney Martha Rosenberg Jessica Arents Eamonn McCann Bill Hatch Sen. Russell Feingold Niranjan Ramakrishnan Gideon Levy Iyad Burnat Alan Cabal Dan Bacher Website of the Day October 9-11, 2009 Alexander Cockburn James Bovard Kathleen and Bill Christison Andy Worthington Marc Levy Tariq Ali Mike Whitney Paul Craig Roberts Alan Nasser Jack Z. Bratich Steve Breyman David Michael Green Dave Lindorff Paul Buchheit Jim Goodman Missy Beattie Michael Leonardi Nadia Hijab Mel Packer David Macaray James T. Phillips Charles R. Larson Michael Donnelly David Yearsley Lorenzo Wolff Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend October 8, 2009 Saul Landau Paul Fitzgerald / Linn Washington, Jr. Marshall Auerback Dave Lindorff David Rosen Chris Darimont / Misty MacDuffee John V. Walsh Stewart Lawrence Charles R. Larson Website of the Day October 7, 2009 Brendan Cooney Paul Craig Roberts Dean Baker Jonathan Cook John Stanton Joanne Mariner Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada Stephen Lendman Sen. Russell Feingold Mary Lynn Cramer Website of the Day October 6, 2009 Mike Whitney Gareth Porter Jonathan Cook Boris Kagarlitsky Iain Boal Ron Jacobs John Ross Michael Dickinson Stephen Fleischman Ira Glunts Missy Beattie Website of the Day October 5, 2009 Pam Martens Mike Whitney Paul Craig Roberts Harry Browne Sara Mann Omar Barghouti Shamus Cooke Brenda Norrell Fred Gardner Binoy Kampmark Copenhagen Blues: McChrystal and the Afghan Trap Website of the Day October 2-4, 2009 Alexander Cockburn Saul Landau Diana Johnstone Greg Moses William Blum Brian Cloughley Russell Mokhiber John Ross Ellen Brown David Ker Thomson David Macaray Gary Engler Robert Fantina Lisa Stolarski / Naomi Archer Anthony Papa Joe Allen Harry Browne Ron Jacobs Charles R. Larson David Yearsley Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend
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Weekend Edition "Jungle Say You Good"Walking With Mr. MuhammadBy MARC LEVY
Our hearts thud inside our heads, our gaunt faces are streaked with sweat, our lean bodies bend and dip as we move forward, trudging like old men through the infinite green. How long has it been? Two hours? Three? Someone hand-signals a two-minute break. I squat, dig into my pack, hand my camera to the weary machine gunner, who sits beside the angular weapon. “Here,” I say. “Take my picture.” Or was it the lanky blond rifleman who will flail and scream after losing his sight in a mortar attack? Or the short thin teenager who walks first in line, and who will years later overdose on drugs? Or the new sergeant who accidentally shot the married man in front of him? “Oh, my god,” he said, trying to comfort the dying lieutenant. Or the Southern soldier who shotgunned a sapper at close range? “Spun round twice, she did,” he said, circling the air with a blood stained finger. “Smile, Doc,” he says. “C’mon. Just once, smile.” “For Christ sake, just take the goddamn picture, will you?” I lean forward, tilt my steel helmet back, lift my head up. My uniform, dark with sweat, clings to my body like a second skin. Three bandoleers with twenty-one magazines crisscross my chest; four grenades hug my pistol belt; my rifle hangs from my shoulder like a stiff metal flag. Scarred by heat and mud my nylon pack holds a dozen canteens, canned food and medical supplies. After the shutter’s mechanical click he returns the camera, which I carefully stow into my pack, and offer him a cigarette. “Thank you much,” he says, and lights it, inhales the smoke deep into his lungs, then releases a gray plume which rises and melts into the tangle of canopy. Someone signals, “Saddle up.” There is the sound of rumpling cloth, the squishing of mud, stifled groans and breaths. Canvass and metal gear rattle as a hundred men adjust their packs, check their weapons, one by one rejoin the single file. Twenty-five years later I hallucinate the photo in a Sumatran rain forest while walking with the earnest Mr. Mohammad. For one week, eight hours a day, I love these jungle treks with this dark-skinned wiry young man who is my guide. I love the sweet organic scent of the dangling thorned curtains of wait-a-minute vines, the forbidding dense underbrush and thick scrub, the ever present gauntlet of exposed twisting roots. I love the endless rocks encrusted with slippery moss, the dragon-like toppled rotting trees. I love how the sun-dapped light filters through ten thousand leafy branches as we sweat and march and make our way. Mr. Mohammad cuts a trail like the teenager who walked first: a hundred times he lifts the well-honed machete up, hammers it down, whack, whack, whack. But today no leeches fall from trees to scavenge our blood, today we are not hunting humans, and they are not hunting us. Today there is no well-concealed ambush site hiding mines and men who lie in wait. No merciless kill zone from which none survive, no tell-tale enemy footprints or their pungent scent. There is no cloud-soaking monsoon, there are no sudden firestorms of smoke and steel. Today there is no glissando chorus of moans or shrieks from the wounded or dying. Today we take no prisoners. Today is a good day. There is only our rhythmic cadence as we ply, bend and shift, carefully step off slippery rocks, or crawl under or over fallen trees. There is only the gentle pulling back of saplings so as not to whip the man behind. But my body is hunched forward, my eyes do not blink, and my index finger is pressed flat to an unseen trigger guard. Who will shoot first? Them or us? From time to time Mr. Muhammad surveys the jungle floor, or the canopy above. “Monkey,” he whispers, and seconds later, high overhead, a troop of gray haired Macaques make jittery vocals as they swing and scamper and disappear. “How did you know that?” I ask. “Monkey, parrot, snake, all jungle friend,” he says. Mr. Muhammad is a good man. A good guide. He has worked with people from around the world. He knows what to say and when to say it. As we cross cold rushing streams, climb soft steep hills, grab roots and trunks to pull ourselves forward through muck and grime, as we plod and trudge past spiraling banyan trees, past brilliant grooves of emerald bamboo, deftly jog down narrow paths, I wonder, what is he thinking? He is a good man. He must know I love these jungle treks. He must. Two hours later, breathing hard, our clothes caked with dirt and sweat, we finally stop, crouch and smile. Speak to me, friend. Tell me about yourself. Are you married? Do you have sons? Do you have land and food? Where is your village? Where are your ancestors buried? Tell me your stories. After a time Mr. Muhammad peers and points to a half hidden den thirty meters away. “Look,” he says, eyeing the empty lair. “Tiger. Maybe gone.” “You wait,” says Mr. Muhammad, who melts into the jungle to cut and carve spears. I lean forward, press my palms to my knees, shift invisible weight off my back. Gulp down windless air. My heart roars inside my head. Sweat bleeds down my face. Take deep breaths, a dream voice says. C’mon, Doc. Deep breaths. Danger arrives when you least expect it. Without thinking I look up. The two-legged monster is ten meters ahead. It is life sized and solid and three dimensional. It stares straight at me. There is ancient fear in its young battle face, there is a lifetime of hard won pain and fatigue, there are infinite valleys of sadness and sorrow. Seconds later this metal and flesh and nylon mimic, this phantom sail, this spectral breeze, flickers like star light then disappears. Danger. Steps. Someone behind me. The claws of my fingers form a throttling fist. “For you,” says Mr. Muhammad. He hands me a ten foot pole with a sharpened point. “You see tiger, you kill,” he laughs. His black mustache accentuates a toothy grin. Drenched with my tears and the tears of my sweat we move out. For an hour we advance like sturdy flag bearers who have lost their flags. Where are you? Show your curved white fangs. Extend your long sharp claws. Hurl your lowing growls. C’mon. Attack. But there is nothing. The animal is gone. Back at camp, a small wood cabin in a slashed and burned field, we see the old woman dressed in rags who lives with monkeys in her rickety hut. “She is crazy,” says Mr. Muhammad. “Her spirit is lost.” The woman follows us with her unseeing eyes until we depart. Inside the dimly lit cabin Mr. Muhammad prepares Nasi Goreng. He mixes water, spices, eggs and rice in a large blackened pot. He strikes a match, lights a handful of tinder, gently blows on it until there is fire. “You have walked jungle,” he says, while stirring the mixture with a metal spoon. “Not like other people.” An inscrutable gaze, as he tends to the food and fire. There is the sizzle and crackling sound of burning wood. The comforting muted scrape of metal on metal. There is the sight of rising scented steam permeating the cabin. Soon the boiling rice erupts with miniature craters. The egg yoke coagulates in scattered strips. Mr. Muhammad empties out the remaining water. He adds a small tin cup of amber shaded cooking oil. “Yes?” he asks, stirring the spoon in widening circles. I turn my head, as if my eyes sting from smoke. Yes, I once lived in the jungle. Yes, the jungle lived in me. You know that. I can tell you know it. “You are much hungry?” asks Mr. Muhammad. “I make, you want.” More? I’ll give you more. I touched the living and dead from sun up till sun down every day of the week for one year straight. Their bloody torn rags, their dark raw muscles bubbling up from broken skin, the tilt of their heads for one last glance. You want more? After the mines hollow flash bang men’s voices shrieked past human bounds; every night legs and arms fell like living rain. More? Their bullets or bombs threw us back or ripped us in half, or blew us skyward; see how the screaming cartwheels fall in strange elastic shapes. Blood. Everywhere blood. It begins to rain but the well built cabin keeps out the heaven sent drops and their steady tattoo. Mr. Muhammad lets the fire die out. He scoops equal portions of the rust-colored fried rice onto two metal plates. The food is good and afterward we talk. In a halting voice, in a haunted voice, I tell him things: This keeper of the unspoiled natural world. This good earnest guide. This man who does not snare or stun the living with clever hand made traps. Does not bash wagging heads with held-high rocks, or skin still pulsing bodies with sharp tipped knives. Or bind struggling arms and legs, stake them down, the better to rip out innards. He does not do that. Does not interrupt the whole time I confess my sins, our sins, theirs; and the knowing touch of his hands on my trembling back comes the moment the rain stops. “Thank you,” I manage to say. Side by side, Mr. Muhammad sets a pair of simple mats and hand woven blankets on the wood plank floor. “When we walk,” he says. “Jungle say you good.” Without fear or doubt or second thoughts he takes the bed on the right. “Now,” he says, “Now sleep.” Marc Levy was an infantry medic in Vietnam/Cambodia in 1970. His work has been published in various online and print journals. He can be reached at silverspartan@gmail.com. Inside the New Print Edition of Our Subscriber-Only Newsletter! Obama and Black America Ten months into Obama-time, the plight of black Americans is terrible. Yet overwhelmingly they rally behind the president. In a powerful report from the Deep South Kevin Alexander Gray asks the question: what should the black political agenda be? Mark Rudd counterposes “organizing” with “activism” and describes what it will take to build a movement. H. Bruce Franklin gives a chronology of the march into Afghanistan. Get your new edition today by subscribing online or calling 1-800-840-3683 Contributions to CounterPunch are tax-deductible. Click here to make a donation. If you find our site useful please: Subscribe Now! CounterPunch books and t-shirts make great presents.Order CounterPunch By Email For Only $35 a Year !
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Now Available from CounterPunch Books! Yellowstone Drift:
"Powerful and shocking ..
Waiting for
Lightning
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