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Will the US Labor Movement Rise Again in Chicago? Or is this just a power play at the top? JoAnn Wypijewski details what's really at stake in the great showdown as some of labor's most powerful bosses threaten to quit the AFL-CIO. No-holds-barred profiles of the SIEU's Andy Stern, Hoffa of the Teamsters and the other "insurgents". Jeffrey St Clair tells the incredible saga of the $30 billion bailout of Boeing. How the scandal reached the White House and Don Rumsfeld screamed, Let the woman take the fall. Plus Alexander Cockburn on the Judy Miller story. Get the answers you're looking for in the latest subscriber-only edition of CounterPunch ... CounterPunch Online is read by millions of viewers each month! But remember, we are funded solely by the subscribers to the print edition of CounterPunch. Please support this website by buying a subscription to our newsletter, which contains fresh material you won't find anywhere else, or by making a donation for the online edition. Remember contributions are tax-deductible. Click here to make a donation. If you find our site useful please: Subscribe Now! or write CounterPunch, PO BOX 228, Petrolia, CA 95558 |
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Other Lands Have Dreams: From Baghdad to Pekin Prison by Kathy Kelly ![]() Today's Stories July 20, 2005 Roxanne
Dunbar-Ortiz
July 19, 2005 Joshua
Frank Tariq
Ali John
Ross Davey
D. Greg
Weiher Brian
McKinlay Norman
Solomon Dave
Lindorff Bill
Christison
July 18, 2005 Joshua
Frank M.
Shahid Alam Jude
Wanniski Ron
Jacobs Mike
Whitney William
MacDougall Seth
Sandronsky Richard
Lichtman Paul
Craig Roberts Website
of the Weekend July 15 / 17, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Jeffrey
St. Clair Paul
Craig Roberts Harry
Browne Uri
Davis, Ilan Pappe and Tamar Yaron Andrew
Rubin Patrick
Cockburn J.L.
Chestnut, Jr. Fred
Gardner Christopher
Brauchli Chris
Floyd Ben
Tripp Col.
Dan Smith Jason
Leopold Jack
Random Norman
Solomon George
Ochenski Website
of the Weekend
July 14, 2005 Jeffrey
St. Clair Subcomandante
Marcos Dave
Lindorff Joshua
Frank Jude
Wanniski Dave
Zirin Kevin
Zeese Robert
Jensen Reza
Fiyouzat Carol
Norris Website
of the Day
July 13, 2005 Brian
Cloughley George
Galloway Carlos
Fierro Sarah
Knopp Norman
Solomon Mickey
Z. Jim
Minick Pat
Williams Andrew
N. Rubin Website
of the Day
July 12, 2005 Laith
al-Saud Kara
N. Tina William
A. Cook Jack
Bratich Amina
Mire Dick
J. Reavis Kevin
Zeese Paul
Craig Roberts Website
of the Day
July 9 / 11, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Uri
Avnery Sheldon
Rampton Bill
Christison Robert
Fisk Stephen
Winspear Saul
Landau Behrooz
Ghamari Karl
Beitel Brian
Concannon, Jr. Fred
Gardner John
Whitlow Niranjan
Ramakrishnan Lila
Rajiva Laura
Carlsen Jackie
Corr Dave
Lindorff N.
D. Jayaprakash Seth
Sandronsky Norman
Madarasz Ben
Tripp Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
July 8, 2005 Paul
Craig Roberts Tariq
Ali Monica
Benderman Rick
Jahnkow Christopher
Brauchli Kim
Peterson Joshua
Frank Norman
Solomon Website
of the Day
July 7, 2005 Cockburn
/ St. Clair John
Walsh Mike
Marqusee Gilad
Atzmon Nicole
Colson Jack
Random Norman
Solomon Len
Colodny Cockburn
/ St. Clair
July 6, 2005 Elaine
Cassel Sean
Donahue Jeremy
R. Hammond Joshua
Frank Ali
Khan Michael
Dickinson Norman
Solomon Dave
Zirin Gary
Leupp Website
of the Day
July 5, 2005 Behrooz
Ghamari Elaine
Cassel Ron
Jacobs Bob
Libal Dr.
Peter Rost Mark
Engler Gideon
Levy Dave
Zirin Sameer
Dossani
July 2 / 4, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Lenni
Brenner Laura
Carlsen James
Petras William
A. Cook Brian
Cloughley Saul
Landau Tom
Crumpacker Greg
Moses Dr.
Susan Block Fran
Shor Fred
Gardner Moshe
Adler David
Model Seth
Sandronsky Ramzy
Baroud Suzan
Mazur Ben
Tripp Justin
Taylor Brendan
Bailey Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
July 1, 2005 Christopher
Brauchli Pat
Williams Gary
Leupp John
Stauber John
Chuckman Justicia
y Paz Cockburn
/ St. Clair
June 30, 2005 Kathy
Kelly John
Stauber Virginia
Rodino Jason
Leopold Dave
Lindorff Greg
Moses Norman
Solomon Joshua
Frank Alexander
Cockburn
June 29, 2005 Mike
Schaefer Roger
Burbach / Paul Cantor Sharon
Smith Sam
Husseini John
Stauber Ahmad
Faruqui Linda
S. Heard Stew
Albert Ray
McGovern
June 28, 2005 Paul
Craig Roberts Landau
/ Hassen John
A. Murphy Mike
Whitney CounterPunch
News Service Dave
Zirin Dave
Lindorff Patrick
Cockburn
June 27, 2005 Paul
Craig Roberts Mike
Marqusee Mark
Scaramella Leigh
Saavedra Kathy
Kelly June 25 / 26, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Jennifer
Van Bergen George
Corsetti Mark
Chmiel / Andrew Wimmer Kevin
Zeese P.
Sainath John
Stauber Scott
Handleman Tom
Barry John
Walsh Justin
E.H. Smith Alan
Wallis Ben
Tripp Frederick
B. Hudson Poets'
Basement
June 24, 2005 Ray
McGovern Jorge
Mariscal Desiree
Hellegers Zeynep
Toufe Joshua
Frank David
Lindorff Michael
Neumann Website
of the Day June 23, 2005 Christopher
Brauchli Clay
Conrad Standard
Schaefer P.
Sainath Mark
Engler Norman
Solomon Cockburn
/ St. Clair Kathy
Kelly
June 22, 2005 Kevin
Zeese William
S. Lind Arsalan
Iftikhar Dan
Nagengast David
Krieger Kathleen
& Bill Christison
June 21, 2005 Brian Cloughley Mike Whitney Dave Lindorff Mark Weisbrot Matthew R.
Simmons Dave Zirin Virginia Rodino Paul Craig
Roberts
June 20, 2005 Alan Maass Tariq Ali Mickey Z. William Blum Gary Leupp Jason Leopold Dave Lindorff Alan Maass Uri Avnery Website of
the Day
Hot Stories Alexander Cockburn Subcomandante
Marcos Norman Finkelstein Steve Niva Dardagan,
Slobodo and Williams Steve
J.B. Sheldon
Rampton and John Stauber Wendell
Berry CounterPunch
Wire Cindy
Corrie Gore Vidal Francis Boyle
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July 20, 2005 "Bomba, Vámonos!"Red ChristmasBy ROXANNE DUNBAR-ORTIZ So, it happened that a United Nations seminar on racism was scheduled to take place in the midst of Operation Red Christmas. Was the timing a coincidence or was the purpose to disrupt the UN seminar? The $19.5 million in CIA funding for Red Christmas was announced with the bombing of the Nicaraguan airline at the México City airport, just as I was waiting to board the plane to attend the UN meeting. That day, December 13, 1981, seared my memory with the reality of terrorism and my country's role in state-sponsored terrorism. Once I arrived at the airport, I lingered as long as possible in its immense continuous main lobby. A microcosm of México City, it was lined with pharmacies, boutiques, banks, cafes, bookstores, art galleries, taco stands. I had to do some last minute shopping for items I didn't have time to buy in the rush to turn in my grades, things hard to find anymore in Nicaragua because of the U.S. economic blockade--aspirin, Pepto-Bismo, Bic lighters, batteries, and toothpaste. This airport was new since my travels in and out of the old one in 1968 during protests against the Olympics then being held in México City, protests that culminated in the massacre of hundreds of Mexican students. That airport was then a crowded, miserable place, with CIA agents checking the movements of all U.S. citizens to prevent us from traveling to Cuba, which was what I had been trying to do in 1968. One thing hadn't changed: thong-sandaled Indian women padded to and fro across the elegant marble floors, just as they had on the old concrete ones-mopping them. I checked my watch: 11 a.m.,
nearly time to go through immigration and on to the gate to catch
the Nicaraguan plane. The flight was scheduled for 2 p.m., and
even though the flight was notorious for always being late, the
ticket agent had told me to arrive at the gate two hours before
the scheduled departure time and to stay there. I had arrived
from San Francisco at dawn on the Mexicana tecolote, the
redeye flight. I had chosen that chaotic flight, filled with
Mexican farmworkers wearing jeans and cowboy boots and hats,
hugging I took that advice, and at the Aeronica counter, I had netted one of the two seats left. I tried to resist checking my carry-on leather duffel bag, but the ticket agent had insisted: "Security," he had said. The word echoed in my head; usually they said that size was the issue. At immigration on my way to the international area, the Mexican official snatched my U.S. passport and removed the Mexican tourist card. He asked my destination in English, and when I said, "Nicaragua," he looked up at me and smiled. Of course, I knew that Mexicans appreciated us gringos who defied our government. That made me feel good. I bought five cartons of Marlboros in the duty-free shop, as gifts, not for myself, as I had quit, again. I was two hours early to the Aeronica gate, but I was not the first. It seemed that the other passengers were already there in the austere, modern waiting room--mostly dark, wiry teenagers dressed almost identically in crisp designer jeans, tee-shirts in bright colors, and spotless white athletic shoes. I asked one young woman on the fringe of the group where they were from. They were Nicaraguan students at México's National University on Mexican scholarships, going home for Christmas vacation. But most Nicaraguans who left their country were not returning. They were pouring into San Francisco, complaining that they couldn't make a living in Nicaragua, and there were rumors of war. Suddenly, precious U.S. visas and green cards had, for some, people, become easy to obtain. I looked around and saw only one other possible gringo--bespectacled young, crop-haired blond man. I walked over to him, extended my hand, and asked him if he were going to the UN seminar in Managua. He introduced himself as Clifford Krauss, a Latin American correspondent for Cox News Service in Atlanta. He wasn't aware of the seminar, he said, rather was on a quest to find a Salvadoran combatant, who he heard was in Managua for an interview. He told me he was nervous about the flight because of the CIA program to organize anti-Sandinista forces in Honduras. We discussed the fact that Congress had just granted the CIA nearly $20 million for covert operations, and that the CIA was paying Argentine military officers to train former Somoza national guardsmen. He also said that he didn't trust taking Aeronica, but that the other Central American airlines had stopped flying to Managua under pressure from Washington. he worried that most of the Aeronica pilots and crews had defected, and that there would b no one to fly the plane. He had been waiting two days, because the Nicaraguan plane--Aeronica owned only one jetliner--had not arrived the day before. Clifford and I drifted apart, and I sat down to read. The book was by the founder of the FSLN, Carlos Fonseca, who had been killed in an ambush by Somoza guardsmen in 1976. I was reading about the eastern half of the country:
Suddenly, everyone scurried toward the plate glass window. The Aeronica plane had arrived from San Salvador, where it had stopped to pick up passengers, and was even on time. The line, such as it was, formed at once. The students crowded in as close to the exit as possible, and inevitably, they had to be coaxed back to allow space for the arriving passengers. The Nicaraguan airline agent scolded the students, "Set a revolutionary example!" The young people inched back in unison, just enough to let the arrivals squeeze through. Then, the agent announced that the departure would be delayed until the replacement crew arrived--they were stuck in the México City afternoon rush hour. I visualized the specter of the monstrous traffic jams at la comida, the early afternoon meal when everyone drives home for two hours, then returns to work, and I reconciled myself to a two-hour wait. I knew that if the plane did not leave by 4 p.m., forget it, because there was no night radar equipment at the Managua airport, and night falls all year around at 6 p.m. in Central America. I also thought about Clifford's concern about the crews defecting. An hour passed quickly. The Nica students were all curled up sleeping, propped against each other near the gate. The silence of the waiting room was punctuated with flight announcements. I walked toward the airline agent to ask if the crew had arrived. Suddenly, a glaring light blinded me, then blackness. My ears rang and echoed. I was flat on my back on the floor and shards of glass rained down. An earthquake was my first thought. I lifted my head and took in the sight of people piled on top of each other, writhing, screaming. It was hard to tell that the plate glass window was gone, because every inch of glass had blown out. But the blaze sizzled, and tongues of fire lapped through the gaping mouth that had been the window. I realized that the plane could explode. A man shouted, "Bomba, Vámonos!" Somehow, I got to my feet and moved, for I found myself in the corridor leaning against a cool marble wall. Then, a rush of people running knocked me down. I sat cross-legged, head in hands. Someone grabbed me under the arms and dragged me. I looked up into the blood-soaked face of one of the Nicaragua teenagers. She said, "You know that bomb was supposed to go off in the air and kill us all. You see, your government doesn't even care if it kills its own citizens." As if I didn't know. I saw Clifford nearby, taking notes, his face smudged with soot. He walked toward me. "Well, there went Aeronica Internacional, embarrassing to be gringos, huh?" He offered me a Lucy Strike, and I took it, without a thought of having quit. Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz is a longtime activist, university
professor, and writer. In addition to numerous scholarly books
and articles she has published two historical memoirs, Red
Dirt: Growing Up Okie (Verso, 1997), and Outlaw
Woman: A Memoir of the War Years, 19601975 (City
Lights, 2002). "Red Christmas" is excerpted from her
forthcoming book, Blood on the Border: A Memoir of the Contra War, South
End Press, October 2005. She can be reached at: rdunbaro@pacbell.net
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