For Immediate Release - November, 2001

A man plugged in. Mike. His headset rests on still wet hair and he is fingering a cup of hot coffee that steams through a slit on the cap. He says goodbye to one customer asking about 52 inch televisions. There is a thirty-second silence where his eyes close and his hand settles around the cup like a wilting flower. The phone rings.

Mike: This is electronicsontheweb.com. Mike speaking, how may I help you?

Caller: Mike, hello. This is Frank Smith. I am calling about your digital cameras.

Mike: Yes, sir, what kind of questions do you have?

Frank: Well, I'm looking for a small camera than can fit in a pocket. But I want to take pictures a long ways away.

Mike: Okay. Do you want to print the pictures? Or are they just for sending by email?

Frank: Both I guess. We're taking a trip soon. (Pause) Um. I want to, oh man.

Mike: What size images will you be printing?

Frank: There's. Um. What was that?

Mike: How big a picture do you see yourself making?

Frank: Picture?

Mike: Yeah. I only ask because that'll determine what size megapixel camera you look at. The more megapixels the bigger a picture you can produce without distortion. Does that make sense?

Frank: Um, yeah.

Mike: If you don't think you'll be making photos larger than 8x11 then you can go with a 2.1 megapixel camera.

Frank: Right.

Mike: Were there any specific cameras you were looking at?

Frank: Um. No. I'm sorry, um, Mike was it?

Mike: Yes.

Frank: Are you aware of what happened this morning?

Mike: What do you mean?

Frank: The Trade towers? That two airplanes flew into them?

Mike: I heard something when I came in to work.

Frank: It's still early out there right?

Mike: Right.

Frank: They're not saying anything right now, Mike, but I know it's terrorism. Two accidents don't happen so closely together, you know what I mean?

Mike: Are people getting out?

Frank: The towers crashed.

Mike: Crashed?

Frank: Didn't you know? Both Towers fell down.

Mike: (Pause) Oh my god.

Frank: First one, then the other. I'm sorry to tell you but you could see people falling.

Mike: Oh man.

Frank: I'm retired military Mike, and I don't know where you stand but I think we need to strike back, quickly and hard. I'm sorry if you think I'm an old war-monger, but I'm not. I just think we stopped early. I was part of the left wing that was sweeping into Baghdad in Desert Storm. We were so close to ending it when they called us back. If we'd finished it maybe this wouldn't have happened.

Mike: Hm.

Frank: I know you'll probably hang up and say, "Who was that crazy guy?" And you may be right. I've just seen our country trampled on and friends killed. I started in Vietnam as a Private so I've watched people die for 30 years. And this kind of thing makes me so mad. We never willfully attacked civilians Mike. It's one thing to shoot at me because I carry a gun, but to shoot a teacher walking down a street. (Pause) I am so mad. Sorry you have to take this from me.

Mike: That's alright.

Frank: Kind of makes buying a digital camera a little silly. I'm sitting down here in Georgia, six months retired and buying a camera for a trip to Hawaii in 3 weeks and all I want to do is go back over and fight. If they asked me tomorrow to suit up, I'd go. This is American soil, Mike.

Mike: Right.

Frank: But here I am buying a camera. The selling goes on no matter what's happening. Have your phones been busy today?

Mike: A little quieter than usual. But it's still early and some people don't know yet.

Frank: They'll know soon enough. You're going to think I'm crazy but I think we need to respond with severe force. We need to . . . they're never going to rest until we're all dead. It's not the same Mike. They hate us. They’re dedicated to one thing. They have the will. And we're. The people are dying. Falling from Towers Mike. People.

Mike: Sir.

Frank: I'm sorry Mike. I uh, I need to call back. What camera did you say was best?

Mike: A 2.1 megapixel model.

Frank: Right. Hey, Mike, thanks for your help. Sorry you had to hear an old military man spout off. The people I protected are dying and I'm sitting down here. I feel so useless. (Pause) I was planning on going to a movie today. (Pause) Well, you have a good day.

Mike: You too.

The line clicks and Mike looks hard at the steam escaping through the cap. He rubs the sides of the cup. Other voices drift in. A television is on close by. Sounds of sirens. His phone rings.

[note: This fiction arrives at the Indo-Pak borderlands of 1947 from a decisively Punjabi-Hindu angle. Punjabi-Muslims have the same story to tell, and they do. Much of the hatred between Indians and Pakistanis today derives from family members killed in that one-year period. That one event. When your grandfather or uncle or aunt or brother or sister was violently murdered in the name of someone else’s religion, the shift to jingoism is a short trip. Partition was South Asia’s trail of tears and Partition was shared by all Punjabis, regardless of which side of the line they now stand on.]

The train car normally holds only twenty passengers. Today there were over fifty of us, pushed together like animals, the men holding the luggage closely to their sides, and their wives and children even closer. There are still blood stains on the walls, from previous attempts to India. Smoke from cigarettes fills the already claustrophobic train car. This must be some kind of punishment. I just don’t know what we did. I want to ask Daddy if there is any way we can change what we did, if they’d forgive us and let us go back home, but he is busy passing a liquor bottle from mouth to friend to mouth again.

This is bullshit, I hear a man scream. Nehru and Jinnah share their cocktails and tear our lives apart. Where are they now? Safe I tell you.

Amit and Dhiya are running through the people, squeezing their ways from corner to corner. Even in this prison, they still play the roles of secret asian men. Dhiya comes back to me. She hides behind Mummy’s sari and whispers my name.

Raja, she says, Look Raja. See what I have found.

I turn around and there, in her hand, is a bone.

Strange, isn’t it, she says. Whose do you think it was?

Maybe a murderer, I say. Or a demon.

Maybe it was lunch, she says. Maybe someone got so hungry, he ate his wife.

Or his little daughter, I say.

Stop. That’s not funny.

Dhiya disappears again and I don’t see her for another ten minutes. I don’t follow her and Amit. I stay close to Mummy. I hold Mummy’s hand, which is sweaty and shaking. She doesn’t look down at me. She stares blankly at the dried red wall of the car.

And then I hear Daddy screaming. Holding the bottle of scotch above his head in one hand and a pistol in the other. Loud enough for everyone in the car to become completely quiet. Not a sound but his epithets.

If they come, he screams. If they break the walls, I swear to all of you. I will do it myself. I will put a bullet in the heads of my wife and my children. I will not let them touch my family. They will not get their filthy hands near them.

Amit and Dhiya are pushed against Mummy and me now.

Amit says quietly, I wish you had your telescope.

Why, I ask.

So we could crawl into it. And get far away from here.

The men are playing cards. Standing up. The bottle has long been dry and their drunkenness is slowly fading into a frustrated tiredness. Women scream at each other to move to the side, to give more space. But there is none to give. We are all together here, trapped. Fourteen more hours of this and we will all assuredly be crazy. I want to join Dhiya, who is pulled inside her tears, these feathers of cries that bounce off the walls like echoes. I want to steal Daddy’s pistol and break it in half. I want to buy one million bullets and kill every Muslim I see. I want to know why we are here.

If I were a space traveler, I would jump in my flying space ship and go straight up. To Neptune. Or the rings of Saturn. I’d bring everyone on the train with me and build the largest castle in the universe. Mummy could grow a garden and Daddy could start a business. And Amit and Dhiya and I could become secret alien men. We’d slide across the rings like rocks on water and find out all the secrets of the aliens. We’d learn where they hid their zapper pistols and we’d break them in half.

And if they tried to kick us out, we’d beat them. We’d tear their antennae off and they wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop us.

Dhiya reaches under her kurta and pulls out a doll. Amit grabs it quick and shows it to me.

She brought it with her, he says.

Don’t let anyone see it, Dhiya says. Someone will try to take it from me.

I say, Put it back under your kurta. Hold tight to it. When we get to Delhi, Daddy will buy you so many more. But don’t lose that one. That’s all we have left from home.

Dhiya smiles. She kisses the doll then hides it again.

Everyone has headaches now. People lean against each other, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. Mummy holds Dhiya in her lap and Daddy has his arm around Amit and me. He is our protector, he says. He will not let anyone hurt us.

I want to say, Where’s your pistol Daddy, but I don’t. Instead I let him hold us in his strong grasp and I pretend that everything is completely fine. That we are simply going on vacation. To see some fantabulous waterfalls, or maybe we’re going on pilgrimage to Ayodhya. We’ll pray to Lord Ganesh for our new beginnings but there will be none because we will only stay there three days then go back home. And Dhiya will have her dolls and Amit will have his soldier army figures and I will stare at the sun and not care that it hurts my eyes because I am home. Home. I will beat up Anand every day and make sure he knows that he is nothing but a servant. I will make him polish my shoes and carry my schoolbooks behind me as I skip to school. And Amit and Dhiya and I will become the most amazing detectives in the world. The king of the earth will invite us to a private luncheon where he will serve the best chicken biryani money can buy. He will show us to our room and there will be one thousand dolls waiting for us. Dhiya will laugh and jump in the air. She will not be crying. She will not be crouched in Mummy’s lap, trying to forget the human bone she held earlier. There will not be this constant reminder of death and fear. Nobody will be listening to see if the Muslims have caught up to us with knives and guns, ready to tear us limb from limb. None of this will exist. Nobody will want to hurt us. And Daddy will not threaten to shoot us in the head. He will love us and never hurt us and not get drunk and scare us like we’ve never been scared before. That is the truth I tell you. The king of the earth is writing a letter to us right now. Telling us this was just a test to see if we are worthy. I am not lying. It’s happening right now. It’s the truth.

None of this is really happening.

Because folding paper becomes difficult the more times it is
folded. Not due to the fact that fire made the sky beautiful, but
that paper has the ability to change dimensions.

The difference is as large as that between voices on the
telephone. But the opposite of purple is not green. Although the
word violent is close in the alphabetical sense, to violet, it
creates a completely different life force. Not because brick walls
are aggressive towards the wind, or that raindrops damage flower
petals to the point of emergency.

The way you said that word, the one that starts with a d and ends
with y, made my stomach twist into an old landscape. There are
parts of the creek that look like a fairy tale and, this is not an
ocean.

By now the moon had dropped into the horizon, all hopes of
flying abandoned.

She could no longer cover her own ground. The speed, the lack
of straight lines and corners. Moving so rapidly that earth comes
in fragments, meanings dropped, skipped over. The arbitrary
nature of thought left a vacuum. Being surprised by the weather
was one thing.

Again the lack of ocean found her crying for her own
dehydration. The fact of the doorframe continued to hang on her
words. Carefully she pried her fingers off.

Edges are not dangerous, it is only fear. Red slides are far better
than arguments. Some kind of mountain.

She couldn’t stay still long enough, the dictionary was so old
there was no mention of automobiles, and the movie wouldn’t
play or rewind.

How can space be covered? Too much space, the lack of space.
Carpet is only temporary, she reminded herself, and flash
photography is no kind of friend.

I am a woman, to some extent. As far as language can take me.

She stood, patiently, under the weight of her last sentence. The
tension beneath her surface, the perils of her dimension, made it
seem as though she might topple over at any moment.

Cradling the telephone she whispered sweetly before hurling it at
the wall. The connection between that and writing troubled her.

The problem was in her body, not the making of reality with
names.

How much time is spent in ones lifetime waiting for another
time? She waited by the screen door, waited for him to receive
the part of her that, in the last few months, had become his. She
watched as the dog across the street continued to bark.

I call myself the halfway point between nothing and what you
say.

One eye closed makes depth perception impossible. As if seeing
the same thing would make it comfortable. As if it would
suddenly exist, there as a solid describable thing.

And time. Whether or not it’s the stronghold dimension, or just |
choice, like waiting.

Getting dressed had become a literary endeavor. She found
herself naked again and again, piles of clothing now useless.

This problem of interior space. Where to put mirrors, failing
vision, random reflections. She attempted to bolt through the sky
but found herself under the train tracks, again.

Inside language she had no way to reach him. The thing was in
between them, not in him or her.

Courage; the root is coeur, French for heart. Heart rage. A fault
line down her mid section. A crack in her chest, a vein of black
lightning burn.

If dissonance is a measure of closeness, we are inseparable.

Noetic silence.

Could doors be a metaphor for it, or do they always open in both
directions?

Language could do nothing for her now. Just then an angel
dressed in black walked by, and the sky turned into an oil
painting.

The world is always in the same place and time is not
somewhere else but there is a difference. She had yet to figure
out how to move mountains.

She knew the shape of someone’s lips could decide entire
realities.

Circular definitions. She wanted to be a dictionary in his favorite
back pocket.

What do you mean by language? She felt like a small head
painted on the wall above the door to an unknown building.

The power of perspective threw her into an amalgam of
problems. Similar to the process of befriending death.

How could I not have a look on my face.

The surprise attack of September 11, 2001 was immediately compared to the Imperial Japanese Navy's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. All the cartoon images of a ridiculous little President Bush disappeared from the political cartoons and haven't been seen since. September sounds like December and the dates 11, 2001 and 7, 1941 are interchangeable. The one constant is: America the wronged. America the just. Japanese Americans set their teeth and hold their breath today as they held it in 1941.

And they count themselves lucky they're not Islamic or Arab. They did the right thing in response to Pearl Harbor. They're in Bush's cabinet, they're in the House and Senate. Yes, they did the right thing. Or did they? American minorities – Islamic, Black, Mexican, Indian, Asian, have noted their patriotism on one hand and the intolerant acts of groups of white Americans on the other.

The New York Times reported that a third of the people responding to a survey conducted by GOP pollster Bill McInturff two weeks after the 11th would favor detaining Arab American citizens until their loyalty could be proved. In the same article, Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii recounts his meeting with "frightened Muslim leaders" who told him of 200 incidents of bigotry in the first week after the 11th. "I said to them, I'm not trying to sound facetious, but I think there were more than 200 incidents in one day in Los Angeles during that period."

If whites had leveled 200 acts of bigotry against the Japanese in Los Angeles, would the Japanese have feared for their lives and anxiously jumped at the chance for protection in a concentration camp, isolated from the rampaging whites? Sen. Inouye apparently believes they would, and they did. But the truth is, whites behaved reasonably for weeks after Pearl Harbor. The night of December 7th, Nisei in the National Guard found themselves manning machine gun emplacements around San Francisco Bay, while others found themselves invited in out of the rain to sleep behind the 16-inch guns. They were treated "just like other Americans" until the officers received different orders weeks later.

Japanese in the city and on the farms did not fear for their lives. They didn't want concentration camps. They didn't fear whites. So what is Sen. Inouye saying? Exactly what is the Japanese American hero of WWII become a U.S. Senator saying? Let us say Inouye was right about white wrath against the Japanese Americans being worse in 1941 than against the Muslims in 2001, it's still wrong, still illegal isn't it?

He says the Japanese Americans did not have an organization to speak up for them. "Today every organization one can think of is speaking up for you, whether it's the churches or the Red Cross or the YMCA." This is supposed to reassure the Muslims?

And he's wrong, the Japanese Americans did have their own civil rights organization to speak for them. From the night of December 7th, the Japanese American Citizens League was busy telling their people to be good, and beware, and telling the newspapers and the radio that they were good Americans and telling Congress that they were watching the care of Japanese American civil rights. Surely, Sen. Inouye knows the JACL recognized by Congress as the spokesman for Japanese American civil rights.

Perhaps he's embarrassed by the JACL's much publicized giving up of their civil rights, as a patriotic gesture, in support of the removal of "all persons of Japanese ancestry" from the west coast to concentration camps. It doesn't make sense now, after 9/11, but more embarrassingly, it didn't make sense then, after Dec. 7th.

The Japanese of Hawaii were not interned. It would have been wrong, but in the heat of the moment, it would have made sense, to intern the Japanese of the Territory of Hawaii. But the neither the government, nor the army, nor the navy did so. The islands were placed under Martial Law, and life went on. Sen. Inouye can be thankful that he’s a Japanese-Hawaiian.

Against all sense, the army decided that all the suspicious Japanese Americans were on the West coast of the American mainland, and were dangerous. And those who weren't dangerous were in danger from whites wanting vengeance for Pearl Harbor. And who beat this senseless drum repeatedly in the newspapers? Mike Masaoka, the spokesman for the JACL.

He didn't question the logic of suspecting all Japanese Americans living across an ocean from Pearl Harbor. He agreed with it, and set aside Japanese American civil rights, in order to save the wartime government the bother of with selfish protests and resistance in court over the concentration camps.

The only anti-Japanese act Sen. Inouye can recall occurring on Hawaii seems to have come three months after Pearl Harbor, when the War Department stopped drafting the Japanese on March 30, 1941. The JACL's Mike Masaoka was sure the government would be so grateful for JACL-led cooperation with the internment of 123,313 Japanese Americans in nine concentration camps that they would respond favorably to the JACL's request for an all-volunteer, all-Nisei combat unit to fight America and the Japanese American reputation.

In 1943, the government responded, and the JACL idea of interned citizens volunteering for the all-Nisei 442nd bombed. Only 805 of those interned in the concentration camps volunteered. Clearly the JACL did not speak for the men they had worked so hard to intern. All they knew was they were not free. They had no citizens rights and were unsure whether they had retained their U.S. citizenship. And the JACL expected them to volunteer, from camp, to fight as a prisoners unit in the hopes of earning the right to be called "Americans"?

As free men, 10,000 Nisei from Hawaii who volunteered. Sen. Inouye was one them, and gave distinguished service. He was not humiliated or blackmailed into joining the 442nd. He did not put his parents out of their homes and into concentration camps as hostages, to guarantee the quality of his service.

The JACL's Masaoka, disappointed by the number of volunteers from the camps, asked the government to draft the interned Nisei, so they might prove their loyalty. For the safety of the people in camp and the boys in the service, Masaoka wisely led Japanese America to shun and ostracize all who challenged the legality of the military orders and the camps in the courts.

Since the end of WWII, Congress, the media, and the movies have cited Mike Masaoka and the JACL as the authorities on every bill, every story, every movie, every fact dealing with Japanese America. Every Japanese American from the mainland seeking public office has found it essential to be both a member of the JACL and an admirer of Mike Masaoka.

Mike Masaoka was a part of Norman Mineta's successful 1974 campaign for Congress, and later Robert Matsui's successful 1978 campaign for the same house of Congress. As the only Japanese Americans in the House of Representatives, Mineta, from San Jose, and Matsui, from Sacramento, were the most identifiable leaders of the campaign to redress the wrong of putting Japanese Americans in concentration camps. They shared credit with the JACL when Congress passed redress and President Reagan signed it into law in 1988. Happy ending.

That is the story Inouye tells the jittery Muslims and Mineta tells the Organization of Chinese Americans. And there's something wrong with it. The JACL, the Japanese American civil rights organization, did not challenge the government or the camps during the war. Rather the JACL attacked all Nisei who raised issues of the Constitution and challenged the camps, and saw to it that they were ostracized in Japanese American society to this day. Then when the war was over and it was safe, they adopted the resistors' objections to the camps as their own stand.

* *

The white press barely noticed the difference between the 1978 JACL campaign and all the previous JACL whimpers for redress that left the JACL flush with words of praise for their sacrifice and creation of the heroic 442nd, and left Japanese America sacrificed again. The difference was money.

The JACL asked for redress, but no money. The campaign begun in 1978 was the first to included intruders, non-JACL Japanese American voices raising public—rather than exclusively Japanese American—demonstrations for redress. Local mayors and Japanese American celebrities as well as JACL and non-JACL people spoke at the sites of Relocation Centers—feeder camps—outside of Seattle and Portland.

Thirty-three years after the end of the war, non-JACL Nisei organized redress groups as alternatives to the JACL for the first time. One demanded redress money from Congress, and another filed a federal class action lawsuit which promised to bring the Japanese Americans more money when it reached the Supreme Court. These new groups were the first to publicly recognize the men who had challenged the racially selective camps and the draft in the U.S. courts. The JACL had never mentioned the Heart Mountain Fair Play Committee, the Minidoko Civil Liberties League, the Boys of Amache, resistors from eight out of the nine camps. Resistors!

Instead of hiding their existence behind the heroism of the 442nd, like the JACL, the new Redress groups of 1978 used the resistors to organize for their cause. "NISEI: The Quiet Americans," (1969) by Bill Hosokawa, was the first of several versions of JACL history that celebrated Mike Masaoka's role as spokesman and leader. In every book Hosokawa through Masaoka (or Masaoka through Hosokawa) dismisses the draft resistors as a nameless few who, to use Masaoka's words, "broke faith with America" and whose traitorous unpatriotic acts threatened the reputation of the brave and bleeding 442nd.

There are many specific questions that the JACL, as the primary voice for Japanese American rights, should have taken to court and demanded answers for: Was it legal to intern American citizens of Japanese ancestry? Was it legal to draft men from a concentration camp? Does an unarrested, uncharged individual forced into a concentration camp for an unstated time, enjoy the rights of U.S. citizenship? Why was it wise for civil rights organizations to set aside the pursuit of civil rights? What was wise about their ecclesiastically arguing for the vague and nonspecific "faith in America"?

If the JACL had lost its faith in civil rights and the courts, they should have given up the "authority" over Japanese America that civil rights had won them. But they didn't. They continued to doubletalk civil rights and faith in America, around claims of Japanese Americans still being new to America and therefore fearful and superstitious, as well as unanimous in their support the JACL. The claim that Japanese America was too afraid of the court to turn to it in wartime sounded good, but it was a lie. There were Japanese Americans who put their faith in the law and went to court and won!

The resistors having won their case was the proof that Japanese America didn't look to camps for their salvation. Other cases challenging the camps formed the precedent that might have seen redress carry in the Supreme Court. The NATIONAL COUNCIL FOR JAPANESE AMERICAN REDRESS lawsuit for redress would have brought every former internee or their heirs $25,000 apiece. Congress was afraid redress would win big in the Supreme Court.

As redress slowly caught fire with Japanese American celebrities and the press, the JACL once again asserted itself as a civil rights organization, supported by Congressman Norman Mineta. The JACL bill that Congress passed saved the government billions that would have to have been paid had the class action suit been won in the Supreme Court. Mineta was a prominent member of the JACL and, by coincidence, was also Mike Masaoka's brother-in-law. Norman Mineta was appointed Secretary of Commerce on Clinton's last cabinet and when Bush was elected, he named Mineta the Secretary of Transportation.

Just before September 11 Mineta, after a hard fight, had Mike Masaoka's words immortalized on The Japanese American Memorial to Patriotism During WWII in Washington, D.C. In 2001, Mineta and the JACL spoke to the Organization of Chinese Americans (OCA), a civil rights organization, about the wisdom of Mike Masaoka's unconditional embrace of the concentration camps and his refusal to challenge the camps in court in order to win an unstated number of unasked for and unpromised favors from the government.

For fifty years since the end of the WWII, no credible Japanese American—within earshot of the whites—has criticized the JACL for abandoning their people's civil rights. White experts on Japanese America such as Roger Daniels, of the University of Cincinnati, say the JACL was wise to accept the camps, and ignore their rights under the constitution, because of the racist atmosphere of the time that placed their lives in danger. The JACL has glorified the 442nd's role in camp history at the expense of the camp resistors for fifty years.

The JACL rhetoric doesn't figure in the defining number of 442nd volunteers and draftees. They are the brothers or brothers-in-law of resistors. Some gave money to support the resistors' defense. Their sympathy is with the resistors. The reason they did not resist was that they feared being alone and in jail. It was easier for them to say nothing, join the crowd, and go to war. Others who went to prove their loyalty on the battlefield did not see their gesture as proving the camps were justified.

They were glad that there were Nisei who stood against the camps. This group of individual 442nd veterans who supported the resistance was unexpected and uncovered too late for this book—or any of the new crop of books and documentaries on the resistance.

The fifty years after the end of war, fifty years of wondering about why the Japanese Americans never mounted a resistance to the camps, was briefly interrupted by a contrary view provided by a Nisei vet, of all people: John Okada’s NO-NO BOY (Charles Tuttle:1957) It came as a relief to see the pervasive view of Japanese American helplessness and passivity during camp years has been misguided. But it was the only book before or after that even vaguely criticized the unnamed leadership of Japanese America.

I was visiting the plowed and grown over remains of Heart Mountain with Lawson Inada, the resistor Yosh Kuromiya and his wife, Irene. We trudged over a field of dried grass toward Heart Mountain, standing like a burnt popover against the sky, as Yosh looked for the spot, the place in camp where he had sat and sketched the mountain. Finally he sat down on the yellowed dried grass and took out his sketch book, looked at Heart Mountain, and drew a line. Something about Yosh, the economy and the directness of the way he expressed himself in words and in his drawing, inspired Lawson Inada to write DRAWING THE LINE (Coffee House Press:1997), a book of poetry, and the first book about a resistor written by a Japanese American. There had been other books written by white scholars, both by admirers and enemies of the resistors, but this book was Japanese American. Nearly fifty years after sixty-three Nisei young men resisted the draft, a Japanese American, a sansei, who was in camp, publishes the first book telling of what he understands and how that contributes to his understanding of himself. It remains only the second Japanese American creative work on the resistance in print.

Two television documentaries, "Rabbit in the Moon" by Emiko Omori, and "Conscience and the Constitution" by Frank Abe, and a book by William Hohri, "RESISTANCE: Challenging America’s Wartime Internment of Japanese-Americans," with entries by resistors Mits Koshiyama, Yosh Kuromiya, Takashi Hoshizaki, and Frank Emi, are the first works by Japanese Americans to demonstrate that the JACL has failed in silencing the questions about the organization’s integrity and their behavior toward the camp resistors.

William Hohri was a plaintiff in the class action suit that was on its way to the Supreme Court when Congress passed the redress bill, mooting the lawsuit. I was invited to speak at a meeting of Hohri's National Council for Japanese American Redress in Chicago. We were both surprised when a man describing himself as a draft resistor, and one of 63 from Heart Mountain, stood up. Jack Tono came to California to help bring resistors out of the shadows, and when they, in turn, helped bring out other resistors, the writing of this book began.

I met Emiko Omori in LA to talk up John Okada's novel, "NO-NO BOY," which I had published with Jeff Chan, Lawson Inada, and Shawn Wong. The author was dead, the book contract had lapsed, and we felt the book should be in print. John Okada was a Nisei veteran who had interestingly chosen as his Nisei everyman a young man who had refused to volunteer for the 442nd in 1943, and refused the draft in 1944. Bob Onodera did the cover and designed the book; Shawn Wong handled the business of storing, mailing, and filling orders; the others kicked in $250 apiece; and we were publishers. Mail order sales were surprisingly good, and publishers that had turned us down before, now came calling.

"NO-NO BOY" led American publishing to discover an untapped audience for Asian American literature and continues to sell well. I recruited Frank Abe and Kat Wong to write press releases for the first event to kick off the redress campaign in Seattle in 1978. Frank Abe did such a good job that KIRO Newsradio, in Seattle, offered him a reporter's slot. I've crossed paths with them all, over the course of thirty-odd years of trying to meld Asian American theatre and Asian American history into an ongoing dialog.

I introduced James Omura and the resistors to groups of Japanese Americans and Asian American audiences in the hope of stimulating a new look at the new stuff of past and present conclusions. The JACL's decision to give in to the white racists brought out by WWII might have been wise from a white point of view, but I think it was disastrous to American civil rights and Japanese American self esteem and history.

For Japanese Americans to make excuses for the JACL is to say that the resistors and the Japanese American people were not that important. For Japanese Americans to say that they and their civil rights were not important seems a terrible thing. Now, since September 11th, another race has fallen under white suspicion, and the JACL and the Japanese Americans in Congress and government continue to rewrite history in a way that exalts the passive, obedient, and the Jap-hating Japanese Americans while condemning the resistors who said the camps and racism were wrong. Who betrayed the dream of an America ruled by law? And who enhanced the dream?

October 24, 2001

The Poet, by Pablo Neruda (translated by David Magdalene)

Yesterday I walked through life, in the middle
of a sad love, yesterday I treasured
a small page of quatrains
for they opened my eyes to living.
I sought out goodness in the marketplace
of greed. I breathed the silent waters
of envy, the hostile inhumanity
of masks and strangers.
I lived in a world of marshy seascapes,
and a flower, a white lilly,
devoured me in the splash of waves.
Where I put my foot, my soul
was in the teeth of the abyss.
In this way my poetry was born, scarcely
rescued from the stinging nettles, clutching
to loneliness like a punishment,
kept away from the garden of love
until my most secret flower was dead.
Isolated like subterranean water,
which flows through benighted corridors,
going hand in hand, the isolation of each of us,
the everyday fear and hatred of the other.
I knew that they were living, hiding
half of themselves, like fishes
in a strange ocean, and in the muddy
wastes of the ocean floor, they met death.
Death opens door and roads.
Death slides along the walls.

A Prayer for Anthony

Alvin Toffler vis-à-vis the technological revolution wrote we were experiencing the equivalent of coming out of the caves. Ironically we seem to be going back to the caves. Not just the fugitives such as Bin Laden, but the putative victors, such as Vice-President Dick Cheney, who apparently has been running a shadow government from an undisclosed bunker in the eastern United States.

This being the case, I daresay we might have more to learn from a study of our Neanderthal forebears than the latest high-tech guru. Be that as it may, we, the peoples of the world, must try to find a way to emphasize our common humanity over technology. This is where the future will be won or lost, and I feel it's only by communing with the Ancients throughout the ages as well as our contemporaries that we guarantee a future. Science must inevitably lead us back to religion, technology to spirituality, psychology to philosophy. Despite what the Bill Gateses and others might have us believe, there is still a question as to whether we'll indeed find the Holy Ghost in the machine. But there is no question in my mind that if one is to seek out the Holy Ghost, one will find the Holy Ghost, and you don't need a machine to do it.

Our nemesis remains the mass-consumer culture, forever diverting us from our true quest for Self. Now more than ever we need vigilance. We must dismiss the irrelevancies of the present day. As I write this several months after September 11^th, it's as if, were I to believe my TV, September 11^th never took place, and there is yet nothing more important in life than eating a McDonald's hamburger or wiping myself clean with a Cottonelle toilet tissue.

In the beginning was the Word but in our society we concede that words are only words and have essentially lost their meaning. But that's okay, they say, because we're a visual image culture anyway. But what I'm seeing is that visual images are fast losing any meaning, and then what? A beautiful young half-naked woman handling a boa constrictor gets six seconds before I click my remote. Six seconds. Just like Bin Laden got?

Silenus Son of Pan

Nem con nem diss
A never-ending hunger
Guy with big snakes down street
Married to the blonde
Satyrs with the nethers of horses
A puppy grows polka is king
Nemertes a worm a Nereid
Willing to fall we have debts
We can’t pay we are compromised
Walking in the pure gray light of morning
It can’t be denied Sileni are good
People but the bus went away
Never came back because nobody
Comes back walk through the woods
In silence weep for your gone
Bacchante

Mister Important

An imitator paid for their black market supper. Radovan heard Ianthe call. Carried poems in pocket. No more angel crapola. Mel the “Straw Man”—Great White Hope of Poetry Department mission suicide.

Radovan got home to Ivangrad and had her and she was hot. A certain Egyptian goddess who’ll remain nameless. Radovan’s poetry reeks of rejection. Lesbians deluded.

Mister Cadillac’s daughter rode bare-chested through Sarajevo.

People drunk secret police. Armored vehicles the original band. Informer to Andrew Marvell.

“Bitch, don’t come ‘round here with your crying,” Poet’s Market tells Radovan. “Whatever it is you want get it on the Internet.”

Jekyll & Hyde: by day sweet demure Dickinson scholar, at night raging Bukowskian. Talking informer Belgrade. Miasma who feeds on the young. Smacked-out Iraqi and Archie Andrews who grew up to become an astral rapist.

In Kosovo, Radovan had her. A little hole named Lisa-Marie. Demons inside bull teachers armed with concealed weapons. “Manned” her in the black tank nasty. Bombs exploding and shrapnel flying as Radovan shot her in the mouth. Two fish sandwiches. 12,000 uniformed security police as well as 10,000 working undercover. Lawyer Brown out of wold.

Lisa-Marie was waiting for him when Radovan returned to Kosovo. Ralph Waldo Emerson said all unsolicited manuscripts shall be burned. Dino Rossetti sticking his booty in Ralph Waldo’s face. Radovan sent Ralph Waldo book-length poem, told him, “Burn this, you son of a bitch!”

The righteousness of their rage, families forced to watch. Paramilitary members of Serbian Radical Party standing on her front porch. Old man Rimbaud trading slaves, ogling her left knee with artillery and other heavy weapons.

Ghosts from worse atrocities than Bosnia were that possible. Poets in search of Truth not beauty.

“Hi,” Lisa-Marie smiled as Radovan walks by, “Hi! Don’t you remember me?”

Cicadas cry, “Mallarme is dead he no longer sings.” The blonde was a long way from Black Oak, Arkansas, fled last year rather Albania. White Eagles bearded out of prison.

Cloning poets, ethnic cleansing, Radovan saw the crisis through to the end. Given the best equipment and trained in martial arts, the dental hygienist showed Vachel Lindsay a kindness.

The Montreal Expos are counting on Mel, remember him(?), the white-haired boy of my Poetic Generation. Bukowski is dead and Shakespeare is dead—who among us will assume the mantle? Radovan Karadzic, our lonely nation turns to you. Pregnant men, the bawdy pipefitter, secret police. American Nazi Party is on the move.

“Do you want to flip me off again?” Radovan tightened his grip around Lewis Carroll’s throat, the Rev. Charles Dodgson guilty of returning Karadzic’s verse with a mimeographed rejection which began, “Dear Sir or M’aam, as the case may be . . . ”

Things were going pretty good for Jack Spicer and his Kosovar cutie, the Blessed Virgin Mary in battle dress. Yeah, they were talking about getting married. The Virgin said, “Now, Jack, anytime NATO gets the urge to bomb me, I’ll be there.”

Jack: “Ok.”

Paramilitaries hankering for. Always had his poems eager to recite. Greeks develop alphabet so they can write down Homer. Internet marketing research know more about you than Secret Police. Lamb’s wool caps with Deathe swoosh.

The noose is secure. Radovan holds his phallus in his hand. Mormons in Mexico, Confederates in Brazil. Copycats in Littleton. Mass tortures and killings of Bosnian Muslims. The guy knocked Boris Pasternak into the ditch by opening the SUV’s door as it sped by and hitting him with it.

Yes, friend, the Poet Radovan Karadzic sold his soul to the Devil to get published. He took his gun, the one with silver bullets, and shot Lucinda the Great Pretenda (that shadowy hoe) shot her dead.

A poem by Radovan Karadzic:

                        Morning Bomb
                        In the deepest night,
                        I anticipate dawn;
                        And through its hidden cracks,
                        I toss a morning bomb of laughter.
                        Yes, I throw a bomb on Man.

Suspects confirmed same role in Kosovo, serving charismatic Arkan.

Karadzic Our God becomes spy mad gambler gigolo. Kills thousands of men, works voodoo to get laid.

“Don’t you remember me?” Lisa-Marie presses Karadzic. “I was in your Tennyson class a couple of months ago.”

Returning Radovan’s poems, Oscar Williams accused the Montenegrin of “setting Poetry back five years.” Williams sought writing “fresh and original,” not the “mere resurrection of dead facts you reiterate.”

Radovan went to the Poetry reading where no one acknowledged him. “Last summer we talked about getting married,” Lisa-Marie persisted. Radovan no longer sought to elude her. “On weekends we stayed in bed. Remember, Radovan, before the bombing began?”

It was like Radovan didn’t even exist, as if the Poets had mistaken him for mere metaphor.

“I should’ve known better than to pull the Guru’s whiskers,” Radovan sighed into his shot of milky cognac. No one made any indication of having heard him although Theodore Roethke took notes.

Chicken John shoots his neighbor’s chickens as they wander into his yard and he shoots his neighbor, too.

“But what about your fiancée, the Egyptian?” Mary says with her dying breath.

Karadzic, Father of Serbs, remembered bittersweetly, Lisa-Marie throwing her panties at him across the bed. There were two Radovans, both named Radovan, so Radovan starts calling Radovan Pierre Reverdy because Radovan said Radovan looks like Pierre Reverdy which is a lie.

Yeah, one day when nobody was looking Pierre Reverdy took the train to the Walmart in Belgrade and purchased a Malibu Barbie.

“Call it what you want,” Ogden Nash said, “He set his face against Parnassus.” “This is what you get for the way you treated us,” Malibu Barbie told Pierre Reverdy. “Their signature is a slit throat on their victims.”

You remember Lisa-Marie. They killed her and forced her grandfather to eat her liver.

Radovan said, “Sure I remember you. You’re Lisa-Marie.”

Lisa-Marie smiled.

“When we were younger,” Radovan continued, ”you’d threatened me with ‘No Pussy.’

“’No pussy for you tonight,’ you’d say if I did something which displeased you. You usually got your way.

“Now we’re older and you tell me, “No Chinese Restaurant!’

“I want to be there for your Death Scene, Lisa-Marie. Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Father of Blank Verse, was beheaded by Henry VIII. That ought to tell you something.”

No longer Jekyll & Hyde, Reverdy & Karadzic. Dr. Reverdy lost. Now it’s Hyde & Hyde.

On April 20, 2002 more than 100,000 concerned men, women and children converged on the Capitol building in Washington, D.C. to voice their dissent on several pressing issues. Four “camps” had met separately at different locations with various political and social agendas, and had—to their credit—set aside minor differences in order to walk in solidarity against aspects of United States foreign policy. The four groups were: those opposed to the so-called “War on Terror”; those urging an end to the Israeli occupation of Palestine, and calling for Palestinian statehood; those who seek the closing or restructuring of the International Monetary Fund; and those calling for the withdrawal of US military troops from Colombia, and more specifically, the closing of the former “School of the Americas.”

Despite their differing political aims, the groups shared at least one belief in common—that capitalism is a cause of war. Themes of the day included the injustices of “Global Capitalism,” and the marriage between big business, politics, and the military. The event constituted a true moment of solidarity, as strange bedfellows gathered in opposition to both US foreign policy and the war. In a gathering which was largely ignored by the mainstream media, they paraded through D.C. carrying signs, banners, and puppets. There was a time in this country when 100,000 people coming together to voice their displeasure with US policies would garner attention. On April 20, this was not the case.

It was a day characterized by images that some might have considered shocking. Jews and Palestinians walked hand in hand, delivering messages of love and solidarity, and imploring the world to recognize that the roots of their conflict are not as simple as many would like to believe. Another image, although not as immediately moving, required a second look: pictures of Jesus Christ and Che Guevara held aloft side-by-side. One might ask, “Who are these people whose causes can be embodied both by a religious revolutionary and a leftist one? One whose teachings provide the basis for much of modern American religion and politics, and another who was assassinated by the CIA, a socialist who was also Fidel Castro’s right-hand man?”

This experience raised a number of questions for me. If Jesus were alive today, how would he feel about the “War on Terror?” Would he be a socialist? Would he be an activist? How would he feel about globalization, sweat shop labor, NAFTA? Why are American Christians suspiciously absent from the anti-war and anti-capitalist movements? Following 9-11, an atmosphere of vengeance swept through the Western world, especially in America. Someone had to pay. Many American Christians plastered the phrase “God Bless America” wherever possible. Even the President discussed the attacks on America in terms of good and evil. Were Jesus alive today, might he have responded with the following?

"Bless those that persecute you; bless and do not curse them . . . live in harmony with one another, do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; never be conceited. Repay no one evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of it all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peacefully with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the Wrath of God, for it is written ‘vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, ‘if your enemy is hungry, feed him, if he is thirsty, give him a drink, by doing so you will heap burning coals on his head.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:14-12:20)

To associate with the lowly and avoid conceit is to stand in opposition to the very core of capitalism, and one might argue, America itself. We live in a culture of individualism, indulgence, consumerism, and materialism. Capitalism champions individual wealth, and what one can achieve through the exploitation of others’ labor. It is the socialist rather than the capitalist who argues for the betterment of society through pacifism, compassion, and the suppression and rejection of conceit. The socialist views capitalism as a form of competition based on an unending struggle over scarce resources. That competition, coupled with the desire to “win,” are most certainly capitalist concepts, and concepts which the Bible frowns upon.

Furthermore, a true capitalist champions individual achievement, and often refuses to give up his or her own wealth for the good of society. The Bible also addresses this attitude: “We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves; let each of us please his neighbor for his good, to edify him.” (Romans 5:1-5:3) The socialist looks to sacrifice individual wealth for the sake of society. Here, again, we see the word of God as a harsh critic of indulgences and individualism. Furthermore, this indicates a compassionate tone towards those less fortunate (read: frustrated terrorists).

Many in the movement on April 20 suggested that terrorism would end if people across the world were fed instead of bombed. The suggestion that the wealthy should hand over their wealth to the poor—especially to hostile peoples who are poor—is a decidedly anti-capitalist, even Christian position. In the Book of Acts, Paul declares: “I coveted no one’s silver or apparel. You yourselves know that these hands ministered to my necessities, and to those who were with me. In all things I have shown you that by so toiling one must help the weak, remembering the words of Jesus, how he said ‘It is more blessed to give than receive.” (Acts 20:33 - 20:35) Imagine Jesus shouting this last statement from Constitution Avenue when addressing the IMF and World Bank, institutions which keep poor nations in perpetual debt while dictating that they maintain an economy that cannot be self-sustaining, the sole purpose of which is to manufacture goods to export for American (Western) consumption.

Some might even say that Jesus’ sacrifices were themselves examples of socialism. Giving up material comfort for the betterment of society, and refusing to hold onto the word of God or any resources for himself. (Bad capitalist!) In the book of John, Jesus says: “He who reaps receives wages, and gathers fruit for eternal life, so that sower and reaper may rejoice together. For here the saying holds true, ‘one sows and another reaps.’ I sent you to reap that for which you did not labor; others have labored, and you have entered into their labor.” (John 4:36 - 4:38) These words suggest class consciousness—those with the means of “production” allowing those without to share equally.

There is an apparent sense of equity in the Bible, and in the teachings of Christ. Passage after passage speaks highly of social equity, while exhibiting disdain toward those who retain wealth and resources for themselves. Furthermore, there is little in the Gospel to indicate that Jesus would be a proponent of sweatshop labor—or lowering work standards to the point of human rights being violated—in the name of capital. If anything, careful reading reveals that Jesus was decidedly anti-war and anti-capitalist, as well as pro-compassion and pro-socialist.

Many anarchists and communists reject Christianity, while sharing its critique of the war-makers, and of the willingness of legislators to act as a higher authority. In other words, many of these activists champion humanity over patriotism, and peace over any form of oppression—not in the name of Jesus per se, but in the name of basic human decency.

Jesus spoke often of the importance of spirituality over materialism. The secular activist may substitute the phrase “basic human decency” for spirituality here. In the book of Mark, Jesus says: “Woe to you, blind guides, who say, ‘if anyone swears by the temple, it is nothing; but if anyone swears by the gold of the temple, he is bound by his oath.’ You blind fools! For which is greater, the gold or the temple that has made that gold sacred?” (Matthew 23:16-23:18) Non-Christian activists similarly claim to value social well-being over wealth or material goods. Granted, Jesus is not speaking here about social well-being, but rather is addressing the importance of valuing an institution or idea which is rooted in goodness and decency over the acquisition of wealth. For the non-Christian activist, a parallel may be made by saying, “ ... for which is greater, the riches of the oil, or the slain Iraqi children whose lives were taken in order to keep oil prices at a certain level?”

The Book of Matthew contains several wonderful examples of Jesus’ rejection of capitalism and embrace of social welfare. As Americans we are taught that our “salvation” can come in many forms vis-a-vis consumerism. “What do I have to buy to be happy?” You will be happy if you just buy this new car! You will get laid if you drink Budweiser! You don’t want to be a loser, you want a SONY stereo system! Post 9-11, American politicians and leaders recommended an interesting new take on American consumerist salvation: “Fight terrorism: go shopping!”

In the context of the Gospel, the book of Matthew provides us with an interesting parallel: “And behold a person came up to him [Jesus] saying, ‘Teacher what good deed must I do to have an eternal life?’ And he said to him, ‘Why do you ask me about what is good? One there is who is good. If you would enter life, keep the commandments.’ He said to him, ‘Which?’ And Jesus said ‘You shall not kill, commit adultery, steal, or bear false witness. Honor your father and mother, and, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ The young man said to him ‘All these I have observed; what do I still lack?’ Jesus said to him, ‘If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in Heaven; and come follow me.’ When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful; for he had great possessions.

“And Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Truly, I say to you, it will be hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” (Matthew 19:16 - 19:24)

Somewhere Adam Smith is turning in his grave. This marriage of Christianity and capitalism—belief systems that are direct opposites—is the great irony of American society. Minimum wage, social welfare, and any interruption of the sacred “market” for the sake of social well-being over capital are the equivalent of a “secular sin,” and yet many of our laws and institutions remain predominantly Christian. Jesus preached living modestly, and not in abundance, and it is no secret that the American system champions not only profit, but profit at the expense of basic human decency.

The Book of Matthew also features another wonderful anti-capitalist position when Jesus asks: “For what will it profit a man, if he gains the world and forfeits his life?” (Matthew 16:26) But isn’t gaining the world what America, and by extension, global capitalism, is all about? Expand markets, deplete resources, and move on, militarily if need be. For what other purpose are summits held at which the richest individuals and nations in the world map out the economic (read: social) future of poor people across the globe? Those who speak out against free trade, globalization, and capitalism in America are regarded as Marxists having committed what is tantamount to a secular sin. Was Jesus THAT dissimilar from Karl Marx? Both men preached social equity, modest living, and the rejection of wealth, conceit, and materialism.

So where were all of the Christians speaking out against greed and war on April 20? Why are Christians suspiciously absent from forms of protest which seem to be overtly Christian in principal? Furthermore, how is it that in America these seemingly polarized ideals (Christianity and capitalism) are so intertwined as to render criticism of either to be the worst of offenses? In the Book of Matthew, Jesus says: “When the son of man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep at his right hand, and the goats at his left. Then the king will say to those at his right, ‘Come O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee a drink? And when did we see a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? And when did we see the sick or in prison and visit thee?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison, and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see the hungry, the thirsty, the sick, the imprisoned, and not minister to thee?’ And he will answer, them ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.’ And they will go away into punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” (Matthew 25:31 - 25:46)

Jesus is saying that it is one’s faith rather than one’s deeds which lead to salvation. In other words, in the eyes of Christ, it means nothing to oppose greed, suffering, state-sponsored murder, war, and exploitation unless that activism is done in the service of the Lord. Clearly, I am not arguing that Christians have been completely inactive. But this passage alone suggests that Christianity can lead to a certain passivity. Christians are not required to fight against injustice so long as their faith is intact. Let God sort ‘em out. But if that is the case, then how to explain America’s (read: a “Christian” society’s) tendency to be such a proponent of war and greed? This position is neither passive nor neutral. Some may say that Christian Americans have taken this attitude to the other extreme. Many Americans appear to actually believe that God is an American and a patriot, that he values divisive borders over humanity as a whole, and that he is in favor of the war on terror, for example.

It can be difficult to observe a nation of Christians so blind to their own injustices. But it is even more difficult to realize that these same Christians are particularly adamant about conflating God and country. God loves the war on terror? If God blesses America, does that mean that he also blesses our nuclear arsenal? Does he bless the daisy cutter bomb? Does he bless the IMF and World Bank? Does he bless napalm? Does he bless President Bush’s statements of vengeance and judgment? Does he bless the CIA assassination of Patrice Lumumbu, a democratically elected Congolese president who made the mistake of having diplomatic ties with the USSR? Does he bless Lumumbu’s replacement, Mobutu, who was hand-picked by the CIA and subsequently received love and aid from the US while killing nearly as many of his own civilians as Stalin? If God blesses the US as a whole, then he must also bless all of her indiscretions and thus condone them. However, if he does not, then he is not happy, and if he is not happy, then Christians should be similarly displeased. Some have mobilized on this point but many more have not. The question remains, why don’t more Christians oppose global injustices? Perhaps they are paralyzed by a fear of disrupting a system whose propaganda machine has successfully persuaded them that being anti-America is equivalent to being anti-God.

	For Immediate Release guest-edited by Christopher Luna
Volume II, Number 8 September 1, 2002