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Should the Left Cheer the Dollar's Drop? How to make the bankers scream: Robert Pollin, world's best obituarist of Clintonomics, explains it all for you. Do police states make people feel safer? Vicente Navarro on Franco's Spain, Cockburn on Ireland in the Fifties under the Catholic Hierarchy, Alevtina Rea on growing up in Brezhnev-time. Capitalism's true utopia? St Clair on the Pentagon's no-bid arms contracts. How's the press doing in Iraq? Patrick Cockburn tells all to Omar Waraich. 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 May 25, 2005 John
Ross May 24, 2005 Dave
Zirin Michele
Bollinger Winslow
Wheeler Uri
Avnery Michael
Donnelly Joshua
Frank Stephen
Dunifer Paul
Craig Roberts
May 23, 2005 Esther
Sassaman / Thomas Nagy Mike
Whitney Ramzy
Baroud Michael
Dickinson Walter
Brasch Dick
J. Reavis Maria
Tomchick Norman
Solomon Kevin
Zeese Website
of the Day
May 21 / 22, 2005 David
H. Price Gabriel
García Márquez Oren
Ben-Dor Gary
Leupp Laith
al-Saud Elaine
Cassel Greg
Moses Fred
Gardner Dave
Lindorff Alan
Maass William
Blum Tom
Crumpacker Niranjan
Ramakrishnan Doug
Giebel Evelyn
J. Pringle Carolyn
Baker Chris
Floyd Frederick
B. Hudson Ben
Tripp Poets'
Basement
May 20, 2005 Dave
Lindorff Kevin
Zeese Paul
de Rooij Christopher
Brauchli Mark
Engler Joshua
Frank Robert
Jensen Jeffery
R. Webber
May 19, 2005 Bill
Forman Stan
Goff Neve
Gordon Michael
Dickinson Karyn
Strickler Andrew
Freedman Paul
Craig Roberts
May 18, 2005 Jean
Bricmont Laura
Carlsen Mike
Whitney Joshua
Frank George
Galloway Manuel
Garcia, Jr. Dwight
D. Eisenhower Dave
Lindorff
May 17, 2005 Mickey
Z. Petuuche
Gilbert Paul
Craig Roberts Ramzy
Baroud Robert
Jensen / Pat Youngblood Stan
Cox Dave
Zirin Diana
Barahona Website
of the Day
May 16, 2005 Michael
Gillespie Jason
Leopold Jesse
Muldoon Norman
Solomon Robert
Cray Patrick
Cockburn Website
of the Day
May 14 / 15, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Saul
Landau Gary
Leupp JoAnn
Wypijewski Ben
Tripp Brian
J. Foley Tom
Barry Mitchell
Verter Mike
Ferner Dan
Smith Mark
Scaramella Don
Fitz Diane
Farsetta Michael
Dickinson Ron
Jacobs Fred
Gardner Farrah
Hassen Douglas
Valentine Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
May 13, 2005 Tom
Stephens Patrick
Cockburn Mike
Whitney Chris
Floyd Jenna
Orkin Dave
Lindorff Joshua
Frank Website
of the Day
May 12, 2005 Paul
Craig Roberts Uri
Avnery Greg
Moses Carolyn
Baker Pat
Williams William
S. Lind Jack
Random Gary
Leupp
May 11, 2005 Patrick
Cockburn Kevin
Zeese Christopher
Brauchli Zalman
Amit Robert
Shull Mike
Whitney Dr.
Teresa Whitehurst Norman
Solomon
May 10, 2005 Richard
Drayton Dave
Zirin Jackie
Corr Dave
Lindorff Michael
Donnelly Reza
Fiyouzat Scott
Parkin Stephen
Babcock Alan
Farago Michael
Neumann Website
of the Day
May 9, 2005 Louis
Proyect Robert
Fisk Kevin
Zeese Joshua
Frank Sasha
Kramer Andrew
Wimmer Jeffrey
Webber Jeffrey
St. Clair
May 7 / 8, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Gary
Leupp Saul
Landau Joe
DeRaymond Daniela
Ponce Heather
Williams Gregory
Elich Anis
Memon John
Chuckman Mike
Whitney Ron
Jacobs Colin
Kalmbacher Lance
Selfa Fred
Gardner Ben
Tripp Mickey
Z. Richard
Joseph Dr.
Susan Block Poets'
Basement
May 6, 2005 Patrick
Cockburn Erin
Yoshioka Sam
Husseini Dave
Lindorff Kevin
Zeese Joshua
Frank Dan
Bacher P.
Sainath
May 5, 2005 Carles
Mutaner Carl
G. Estabrook Farrah
Hassen Kevin
Zeese Michael
Leonardi Bennett
Ramberg Ray
McGovern Norman
Solomon Nicole
Colson Brian
Concannon, Jr.
May 4, 2005 Colin
Kalmbacher John
Walsh Greg
Moses Ali
Khan Chris
Floyd Linda
S. Heard Dave
Zirin William
S. Lind Gary
Leupp Website
of the Day
May 3, 2005 Dave
Lindorff Brian
Cloughley Ira
Kurzban Seth
Sandronsky Gilad
Atzmon Michael
Donnelly Alex
Sanchez Peter
Linebaugh
May 2, 2005 Ron
Jacobs Stan
Goff Karyn
Strickler Joshua
Frank Kevin
Zeese Vicente
Navarro
April 30 / May 1, 2005 Alexander
Cockburn Gabriel
Kolko Jennifer
Loewenstein Lee
Sustar Saul
Landau T.W.
Croft Nikolas
Kozloff William
Blum Dave
Lindorff Joshua
Frank Doug
Giebel Steven
Erlanger Fred
Gardner Mike
Whitney Kurt
Nimmo Joe
DeRaymond Michael
Dickinson Mickey
Z. Justin
Taylor Poets
Basement Website
of the Weekend
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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May 25, 2005 "The Struggle is Never Done"Sweet Revenge at Terminal IslandBy JOHN ROSS
For a muckraker, nothing works quite as well as his or her's own nose. If it smells bad, there is bound to be substantial malfeasance afoot. Upton Sinclair was a senior muckraker who made all us juniors look like we were sniffing sweet daisies. "The Jungle" stank about as bad any scandal could ever stink. And you know what? It's still stinking. A couple of winters ago I got stuck out on the frozen tundra up there in the northwestern corner of Iowa, teaching corn-fed farm kids about the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. Since Subcomandante Marcos instructs us to be a Zapatista wherever we happen to be, I took the opportunity to poke my nose into the local meat packing plant. In the past decade, Cargill and Tyson have bought up most of the mom and pop packers in the region, busted the unions, and bought in the Mexicans. No pork chop or chicken wing gets packed anywhere in the USA today if it isn't packed by Mexicans. They are the latest low folks on the immigration totem pole and just like the Micks and the Bohunks, the Polacks and the Krauts and the Squareheads and the Dagos, they too get to lose their limbs at the minimum wage. I tell you, this shit stinks. I'm tickled crimson to be receiving
a 2005 Uppie from the good barristers at the ACLU but I'm even
more overjoyed to be receiving it here atop Liberty Hill in San
Pedro California where I was incarcerated by the United States
Actually, I had first ripped up my draft card some years previous when Dwight D. Eisenhower sent the marines into Lebanon to protect a fascist Christian Falange regime, went south to Mexico, grew me a garden, built me a home and a family. But by 1963, we were hearing the strains of "We Shall Overcome" seeping through the static on our short wave and Dr. King was preaching his dream to a nation that was uddenly listening, After the Klan blew up four little girls in a Birmingham church, it was time to go home and resist. I arrived in San Francisco in January 1964, picked up a picket sign, and marched around everywhere. We wanted our Freedom Now! Hundreds of us got arrested every weekend at the Sheraton Palace Hotel or up on Auto Row demanding that our black comrades be employed as chambermaids and Cadillac salespeoples. I Aint A-scared of Your Jails Cause I Want My Freedom. Now! The FBI computers must have been powered by molasses back then and it was a wonder that Hoover ever got his guy. But when Special Agent Ralph J. Fink (that's right -- Fink!) showed up on Mullen Avenue near the top of Bernal Hill, I knew the jig was up. Cool, you guys can drive me to work, I told the brown shoes -- I had caught on with some penny ante subcontractor janitoring down at the Federal Building. One of my jobs was to wipe off the FBI transoms every night. Me and this little Muslim cat James were systematically sabotaging the citadel, taking down the official portraits of LBJ that hung above every desk, scrawling "Viva Fidel!" in red crayon on the back, and hanging them back up. By the time I got busted, I think we had removed every one of those annoying black and yellow nuclear shelter signs from the premises. I wasn't a pacifist. I always figured I'd pick up the gun to defend our own but not to kill or be killed in a capitalist war. So I copped to no contest. One of Vince Hallinan's boys was my lawyer. My sentencing was set for late July and I put on a big show for the judge. I read him a declaration in my bad Purepecha, the language of my neighbors back home in the mountains of Michoacan, one they had written up themselves saying the Vietnamotas were not their enemies. I drove old William Sweigert batty by caterwauling verse after verse of Bob Dylan's "Masters of War." I read him Bertolt Brecht's poem "To Posterity" -- "Ah what an 1age it is/ when to write a poem about a tree/ is a kind of crime/ because it is a silence/against injustice-- I did everything but tap dance for Hizzoner and in the end, he stifled a yawn and sent me off to Terminal Island right here in San Pedro for two years, 18 months suspended provided I found work in "the national interest". I immediately applied to Julian Bond at the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee in Atlanta for a job. So the marshals snapped on the cuffs and they chained me up to a string of prisoners they were moving south. Whenever we got out of the car to piss along I-5, I rattled my chains energetically to the great consternation of my fellow convicts. I just wanted everyone to know that I was a prisoner of LBJ's bloody war. The big gate at Terminal Island slammed shut behind me late on the afternoon of August 3rd 1964. 24 hours later, Lyndon Baines Johnson faked a phony attack on a U.S. destroyer in the Gulf of Tonkin and began bombing mainland Vietnam. Although LBJ had to go to Congress to rubberstamp the Big Lie, the Gulf of Tonkin was where the war began. I was already locked up in TI. the only place to be, the first Hell-No-We-Won't-Goer on the record books. Unlike its forebodingly grim name, Terminal Island turned out to be a median security joint for low-grade federal prisoners. I shared space with the mobster Mickey Cohn and a few minor Hollywood celebrities. I looked at my time there as a challenge to my organizing capabilities and soon formed the Convicts Committee Against U.S. Intervention (Anywhere.) Some of my comrades were Maurice Ogden, a poet and film-maker incarcerated on perjury charges because he had signed a loyalty oath swearing that he was not now nor had even been a member of the Communist Party (he hadn't either -- Ogden was a Trot), Ben D., a middle-class black drug-runner who posited that his had been a political crime (it was too), and Blackie Campbell, doing his third bid for counterfeiting. Blackie had fought in the Spanish Civil War as a member of the Canadian McKinzie-Papineaux Brigade and was a repository of stories of popular struggle. Blackie also showed me how to print leaflets on a bed of gelatin he had smuggled out of the kitchen and the leaflets were my waterloo. "I shed my blood for my country" the warden yelled at me. "Well, I'm in your fucking jail for mine" I shouted back, and the guards hammer locked me off to the Hole, the jail within the jail. Isolation was hard time. They kept the lights on day and night and I began to lose track of where I was. I suppose I stayed half-way sane by repeating that mantra of Uncle Ho's: "being chained up/is a luxury/ for which to compete/ the chained at least/have a place to sleep." They took me back to The Hole after the Free Speech Movement exploded up at Berkeley that fall. Said I was a pal of Mario Savio's and had to be watched. The day I hit TI, my parole officer, a bullet-headed skunk named Victor Urban saw that I had a civil rights jacket and assigned me to the shoeshine stand in the guards' headquarters. Now this job was traditionally a prime smuggling conduit and true to racist profiling, it had always been occupied by a black man. In sending me up there, Victor Urban was setting me up to get shanked. So I went to the guy whose job I had been assigned, an old Central Avenue skag dealer named Bernard who had run on the streets with the great tenor player Dexter Gordon and jazz fixed it up between us. Well, wouldn't you know it but my first customer up there was that bullet-headed skunkVictor Urban and I really fucked up his shoes. But pretty soon I was snapping and grinning and jeffing, putting a really high shine on them Florshiems. Captain Harry, a black guard who rumor had it was a hangman during the war in Germany, even tipped me a buck for my clowning. I ran my time to ten months at TI. A lot of bad stuff happened. A sadistic dentist ripped out most of my teeth and broke my jaw. Folks ask me, my own mother in fact, why I'm toothless. Well, that's why. So my time got short and then it was done. I rolled up my bed, tied on my free shoes, and pocketed the Greyhound voucher north to San Fran. The bullet head walked me out to the prison gate. He didn't want to ever see me back at Terminal Island again. "Ross" he barked, "you know you never learned how to be a prisoner." Put that on my tombstone, comrades! "He never learned how to be a prisoner!" Wow! Although we go to jail with depressing frequency in the class war, none of us are ever going to learn how to be prisoners. Finally, I want to take one more minute to dedicate my Uppie to an old "companero de lucha" who just passed on to the big picket line in the sky. Efren Capiz was a campesino leader from Michoacan, a Purepecha Indian who spent decades fighting for his peoples' land. Capiz was neck-deep in a billion battles. I could sit here all night and tell you about them but maybe I'll write a book instead. Down the years, Capiz got to be known for his peculiar war cry: "Zapata Vive y La Lucha Sigue! -- "Zapata Lives and the Struggle Goes on!" Only Capiz would keep repeating the "sigue" part until they had to peel him away from the microphone: "Zapata Vive y La Lucha Sigue -- y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue y Sigue." Efren Capiz was absolutely right. The struggle is never done. Once again, my gratitude to the ACLU for this honor and their hospitality but most of all, for bringing me here to San Pedro to tell my tale tonight in the shadow of Terminal Island. It tastes like sweet revenge. John Ross is on the
road to Istanbul for the World Tribunal on Iraq War Crimes in
late June, with touchdowns in the UK, Ireland. Scotland, Spain,
Catalunia and Amsterdam tracking resistance to the corporate
globalization of the planet and Zapatista imprints in the old
world. Contributions to offset the travail of travel can be
sent in the author's name to 3258 23rd Street, Apartment 3, San
Francisco Ca. 94110.
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