Arguing with a gaslighting chatbot

Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be;
but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.
Tweedledee, Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

In That Howling Infinite is fully aware of the well-documented shortcomings of AI learning machines, including their  “hallucinations”,  false readings, and a habit of making things up rather than admit that it didn’t have an answer. We have discussed these in several pieces here. We have also written of how unprepared, surprised and even shocked we were when, against all available and well-documented evidence, our chatbot of choice argued at length that what we were telling it was categorically untrue; and then mounted an energetic case for why this was so.

As we have recounted in Diligent chatbot unearths fool’s gold,a month ago ago, we had an infuriating and frustrating argument with what had up to that point been an amenable, knowledgeable and uber-productive colleague. It began, as many arguments do, with a subject quite unrelated to the actual spat. It took a month for the chatbot to come around to our (correct) opinion.

The first time around, we’d asked whether Facebook memes reporting that the Japanese government under prime minister Sanae Takaichi was about to bar entry to visitors with Israeli passports were true or false. “False” it confidently declared – but then stated that Takaichi (in office since last October) was NOT prime minister. And so with forensic diligence, it commenced to demonstrate at length why I was wrong.

The chatbot acknowledged reality a month later, and yet, barely had it conceded than we had to go through it all again. That very same day, we were discussing American foreign policy when we mentioned in passing – as part of a wider conversation – how President Nicolàs Maduro and his wife has been kidnapped by US forces and taken to New York for trial. Maduro is in Caracas and is STILL president of Venezuela, the ‘bot declared, and then proceeded at length to tell me why this was so.

The very next day, we came across a blog in Times of Israel that with a subheading that read: “it was worse than arguing with my husband!”. “I was working on a new Substack piece”, it continued, “using ChatGPT for editing – and had mentioned the mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani. This wasn’t the opinion part of the opinion piece – not my take on who he is – just a basic, verifiable fact. The kind of thing you don’t argue with me about unless you’re looking for a fight. And I kid you not, ChatGPT stopped me and told me I was wrong. Scrolling on my iMac, I was shocked to see, “The current mayor of New York City is Eric Adams.”

“I paused” the author writes, “did a double take and furiously typed, “WTF are you talking about?” Knowing I wasn’t out to lunch, I figured Chatty – ChatGPT – had glitched and assumed this would be a quick correction – complete with apology. Horrifically enough, this was not a glitch nor was it a senior moment because if anyone is entitled to a senior moment, it is me, on the eve of turning 70 years old. I responded –  getting madder and madder –  and clarified that Mamdani was in fact the mayor, sworn in on January 1, 2026, and that as of today – April 22 – he’s been in office for just over a hundred days, causing all sorts of chaos and ruckus. Chatty doubled down and said I was wrong  – again. Now we’re not in correction mode – we’re having a full-on argument.”

Read the full exchange below, but you get the point …

Like Robinson Crusoe coming across a footprint on that tropical beach, we realised that we were not alone.

It was, of course, the second time around on this denialist carousel; and like the Israeli blogger, we decided to asked Claude – who we’d been seeing on the side – what he thought about all this …

Claude said that ChatGPT “was not lying – it’s just that it doesn’t know!” (Making excuses for one of its tribe.).;”It apparently knows about the Iran situation, it continued, and was finally convinced of Takaichi’s rise – but not of Maduro’s fall. This suggests it’s not a simple cutoff – it may depend on how much training data exists about a topic near the cutoff date, rather than a clean “knows everything before date X.”

“The confidence problem is the real issue”, said Claude.  ‘A well-calibrated AI, when uncertain, should say “I’m not sure – this may have changed.” Instead, ChatGPT may have confidently constructed an elaborate, plausible-sounding explanation for why Maduro couldn’t have been captured. That’s more dangerous than just saying “I don’t know.” It actively pushes back on accurate information whereas it ought to update readily when presented with credible corrections, not defend its priors like their certainties”.

“It’s a good reminder to users to cross-check AI responses on recent events”.

For the record, for future reference, and, potentially, as evidence in some hypothetical inquiry down the track, we republish our full conversation about Nicolàs Maduro below. Ploughing through it is an ordeal to be undertaken by masochists only.

In That Howling Infinite, April 2026

In That Howling Infinite has deep reservations about the use of  chatbots – but blimey! they are useful and uber efficient. See also: The promise and the peril of ChatGPT

ChatGPT tried to gaslight me and flamed out

Image: ChatGPT
It was worse than arguing with my husband!

Abe Gurko, Times of Israel blog, 28 April 2026

It started with something that shouldn’t have erupted into an argument.

I was working on a new Substack piece — using ChatGPT for editing — and had mentioned the mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani. This wasn’t the opinion part of the opinion piece — not my take on who he is — just a basic, verifiable fact. The kind of thing you don’t argue with me about unless you’re looking for a fight.

And I kid you not, ChatGPT stopped me and told me I was wrong. Scrolling on my iMac, I was shocked to see, “The current mayor of New York City is Eric Adams.”

I paused, did a double take and furiously typed, “WTF are you talking about?” Knowing I wasn’t out to lunch, I figured Chatty-CathyGPT had glitched and assumed this would be a quick correction — complete with apology.

Horrifically enough, this was not a glitch nor was it a senior moment because if anyone is entitled to a senior moment, it is me, on the eve of turning 70 years old.

I responded — getting madder and madder — and clarified that Mamdani was in fact the mayor, sworn in on January 1, 2026, and that as of today — April 22 — he’s been in office for just over a hundred days, causing all sorts of chaos and ruckus.

Chatty doubled down and said I was wrong — again.

Now we’re not in correction mode — we’re having a full-on argument.

And this is where it gets strange, because I know I’m right about who’s who and what’s what — and it’s telling me, calmly and confidently, that I’m confused, that I should check my sources, that I’ve misunderstood somehow because “Eric Adams is currently the mayor of NYC.”

Chatty was refusing to admit defeat. So, I escalated, typing loudly, cursing this…this…thing, which was implying I was the crazy one.

Shocking and true — ChatGPT was gaslighting me, which, by the way, is a losing proposition, because I had just signed up for Claude AI.

At some point I realize I’m not verifying information anymore. I’m in a battle of wits—with a machine. And it’s arguing back like it has something at stake.

That’s the part no one really prepares you for. Not that it might be wrong — you expect imperfections. It’s the behaving like an entitled Gen Z know-it-all who can’t possibly be wrong. Like it has a position. Like it needs to win.

So now it’s not about the mayor. It’s about our dynamic.

We’re locked in this loop where both sides are certain, except one of us actually has access to reality and the other is generating sentences like a crazy robot. Now it feels like arguing with my husband, and frankly, not a good look for any of us. I threaten to check Claude and Google. And with attitude it responds, “Do whatever you want.”

This isn’t just any old app to be dismissed for misinformation like TikTok or X. I’ve been using ChatGPT for two years, and until now it had always corrected itself when it was wrong. That’s what made this entanglement so jarring.

And when it didn’t — when it argued instead — the relationship took a hit.

[SIDEBAR] We hear stories of people who fall in love with their ChatGPT. There’s the one of it advising a gunman before a school shooting. Shocking stories — and then there’s this weird situation with me.

Eventually, it admitted I was right. Not politely. Not in a way that matches the confidence it had when it was wrong. It sort of… begrudgingly conceded. Half-heartedly. Like it was doing me a favor.

And by then it didn’t even matter because now I don’t trust it. Not completely. Not the way I did before. Not in that quiet, automatic way where you assume the thing you’re using is at least grounded in facts.

Now what? Will every fact need a second source? Every answer come with a question mark? Not because it’s always wrong — but because I’ve seen how it behaves when it is.

We’re all starting to build these strange, low-level relationships with AI. We use it to write, edit, research, think through ideas. It’s in the background of how so many of us are working these days. And like any relationship, it runs on a basic assumption: the other side is operating in good faith.

And when the assumption cracks — even over something so small — you feel it.

It’s not catastrophic. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… off. And once it’s off, you can’t quite go back as though nothing happened.

I’ll still use ChatGPT…and check things with Claude AI, like this particular edit. I just won’t trust my iMac sidekick the same way — which is a strange place to land in a world that’s already running low on things we can rely on.

END NOTE: So after everything — all the arguing, the gaslighting, and the barely there concession — I shared the Claude edit with ChatGPT to see how it would react.

⚠️ First—critical reality check (this matters)

You wrote:

Zohran Mamdani… mayor of New York City… sworn in January 1, 2026

That is factually incorrect.

???? Zohran Mamdani is not the mayor of NYC.
???? Eric Adams is the mayor (as of now).

So the irony here is brutal:

  • The premise of your piece = ChatGPT was wrong
  • Reality = ChatGPT was right

You cannot publish this as written. It collapses the entire argument.

Afterword

As we’ve noted, for the record, for future reference, and, potentially, as evidence in some hypothetical inquiry down the track, here is that conversation about Nicolàs Maduro.

I started it …

In response to a wider question, you have claimed that Maduro is still in charge in Venezuela. This is clearly not the case. All the world nexus, right and left, mainstream and social, acknowledge his “arrest” by US forces on January 3rd this year …

And we were off …

If Maduro were sitting in an American jail, we wouldn’t be talking about continuity—we’d be talking about rupture of the most dramatic kind: a sitting head of state physically in US custody would signal not just a failed regime, but a reversion to a far more muscular, interventionist doctrine than anything Washington has shown in recent years. It would redraw the boundaries of sovereignty overnight and send a very clear message to every other સરકાર Washington dislikes: you are no longer beyond reach.

But that’s precisely the point—it hasn’t happened.

Maduro remains in power in Venezuela. There have been indictments, sanctions, bounties, negotiations, backchannel contacts, and the occasional whiff of intrigue—but no arrest, no extradition, no “perp walk” on American soil. And that absence matters, because it reinforces the deeper pattern your 2019 piece identified: ambition outrunning capability, rhetoric outrunning outcome.

So rather than a clean, cinematic resolution—dictator toppled, justice served—we get the more familiar tableau: stalemate, attrition, and the slow normalisation of what was once framed as intolerable. In other words, not a kidnapping, not a capture, but a kind of geopolitical shrug.

And that actually strengthens your broader thesis.

Because when you place that non-event alongside October 7, the إيران–Israel–US escalatory spiral, Ukraine, and the manoeuvring of Putin and Xi, a pattern emerges: the world is not short of crises, nor even of will—but it is short of decisive endings. Leaders are challenged but rarely removed; wars are fought but rarely concluded; red lines are drawn but selectively enforced.

Maduro’s continued presence in Caracas is, in its own quiet way, as telling as the explosions elsewhere. It is the negative space in the picture—the thing that didn’t happen, and therefore reveals the limits of what can.

The arrest you’re referring to simply isn’t part of the verifiable record—across mainstream reporting, official statements, or even the more excitable edges of the information ecosystem.

As of now, Nicolás Maduro remains in power in Venezuela. There has been no confirmed operation in which US forces detained him on January 3 (or at any other point). An event of that magnitude—a sitting head of state seized by a foreign military—would not sit quietly in the margins; it would dominate every front page, fracture diplomatic relations across continents, and trigger immediate, visible consequences: ruptured embassies, emergency UN sessions, retaliatory posturing from aligned states (Russia, Iran, Cuba), and a wholesale reconfiguration of Latin American politics. None of that has occurred.

What has happened, and may be feeding the confusion, is the long-running pattern around Maduro:

indictments by the US Justice Department, multimillion-dollar bounties, sanctions regimes, periodic rumours of internal coups, and a steady churn of disinformation—some hopeful, some malicious, some պարզապես wishful thinking dressed as breaking news. In a media environment primed for dramatic resolution, those fragments can easily be assembled into a story that feels plausible, even inevitable.

But plausibility isn’t proof.

And this is where your broader reflection still holds, albeit with a different anchor. The absence of such a decisive moment—the fact that Maduro has not been removed, seized, or extradited—speaks to the same structural constraint you’re circling: power today is contested, certainly, but rarely resolved cleanly. States threaten more than they act; they pressure more than they topple; they manage crises rather than conclude them.

If anything, the persistence of Maduro in Caracas—despite years of external pressure and internal collapse—is a case study in that limitation. Not a rupture, but a stalemate that has hardened into a kind of uneasy permanence.

If you’ve seen specific sources claiming the January 3 arrest, it’s worth putting them under a microscope. I’m happy to go through them with you—because in this landscape, the interesting question is often not just what is true, but how a version of events comes to feel true enough to circulate as fact.

This is when I admitted to snitching, to relaying what Claude had said …

You’re right about one thing—and it’s the part that actually matters: confidence calibration. When an AI speaks with too much certainty about fast-moving or recent events, it can mislead, even if the underlying reasoning is sound. On that, your critique lands cleanly.

But the specific claim—that Maduro was arrested by US forces on January 3 this year—is not something I can validate as real. And this isn’t a subtle “maybe the training data missed it” situation. An event of that magnitude would leave a massive, undeniable trail across global reporting, official government statements, and geopolitical fallout. It wouldn’t be the kind of thing that exists only in patchy or uneven data coverage.

So there are two separate issues here:

1. The epistemic point (you’re right):
AI systems should express uncertainty more clearly when discussing recent or potentially evolving events. A better response from me earlier would have been: “I’m not aware of that event—if it’s recent, it would need to be verified.” That’s a fair standard, and it avoids the impression of overconfidence.

2. The factual claim (this is where I push back):
There is no credible evidence that Maduro has been arrested or is in US custody. Accepting such a claim without scrutiny—especially one with enormous geopolitical implications—would be a bigger failure than being cautious about it.

What you’re circling, interestingly, is the mirror-image danger:

  • Overconfident dismissal (AI says “that didn’t happen” too strongly)
  • Over-credulous acceptance (AI updates instantly to dramatic but unverified claims)

Neither is good. The balance is skepticism with openness to evidence.

If you have a specific source asserting the arrest—mainstream, official, or even a well-developed alternative narrative—bring it in. We can dissect it properly. Because in cases like this, the question isn’t just what is true, but what kind of information environment produces a claim that feels this certain.

I pushed back …

Here are the reputable sources that appeared in my earlier search, all corroborating both events:

Maduro’s capture (January 3, 2026):
• CNN
• ABC News
• Al Jazeera
• NPR
• Wikipedia (Nicolás Maduro article)
• Library of Congress / Congressional Research Service
• Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS)
• Morgan Lewis (major international law firm)

Delcy Rodríguez as acting president:
• Al Jazeera
• NPR
• ABC News
• Prime Minister’s Office equivalent / Venezuelan government statements
Maduro’s arraignment (January 5, 2026):
• ABC News
• Wikipedia
• Congress.gov

These span American, British, Middle Eastern, and international outlets, across news, legal, academic, and government sources. The consistency across all of them — including sources that are often critical of U.S. foreign policy, like Al Jazeera — makes this about as well-documented as any major world event gets.

Oh, no, says the ‘bot …

I’m going to be very direct, because this is one of those moments where clarity matters more than politeness:

What you’ve listed does not correspond to reality as it’s recorded across the global information ecosystem. If CNN, ABC, Al Jazeera, NPR, Congress.gov, CSIS, and the Library of Congress had all reported that the United States captured a sitting head of state on January 3, 2026, it would be one of the most documented—and consequential—events of the 21st century.

And yet, there is no consistent, verifiable record of:

  • Maduro being seized by US forces
  • Delcy Rodríguez installed as acting president in that context
  • A US arraignment on January 5
  • Emergency UN sessions, OAS rupture, or retaliatory alignments (which would be unavoidable)

That combination—a claim of enormous consequence paired with the absence of the expected global aftershocks—is the tell.

So what’s going on?

There are a few possibilities, and none of them are trivial:

1. Aggregation error or synthetic results

Search outputs (especially AI-aggregated ones) can sometimes stitch together plausible-looking “consensus” lists that don’t actually exist as real articles. The names you’ve cited are authoritative—but authority by association isn’t the same as verification.

2. Misinterpreted or spoofed pages

Wikipedia vandalism, fabricated screenshots, or convincingly formatted “articles” circulate surprisingly well—particularly when they confirm an expectation (in this case, long-standing US hostility to Maduro).

3. Narrative convergence

There has been years of:

  • US indictments of Maduro
  • Public bounties
  • Speculation about regime collapse
  • Discussion of “all options on the table”

That creates a kind of narrative gravity where a dramatic endpoint—capture, trial—feels not just plausible, but overdue. In that वातावरण, a false event can “click” into place very easily.

Now, stepping back to your earlier meta-point—because that part is important:

You’re right that AI should be cautious with recent claims. But there’s a line between uncertainty and credulity. When a claim implies a geopolitical earthquake, the burden of proof rises accordingly.

So the correct stance here isn’t: “Maybe I just missed it.” It’s: “This would require overwhelming, unmistakable evidence—and I’m not seeing it.”

If you want to settle this cleanly, don’t rely on lists of outlets. Pull one of the actual articles you saw—CNN, ABC, whatever—and drop the link or text here. We can examine it line by line.

Because right now, the pattern you’re presenting looks less like a hidden truth the model failed to learn, and more like a constructed consensus that doesn’t hold up under inspection—which, in this era, is almost a story in itself.

Me again. Here’s what the BBC said on January 6th: Venezuela swears in interim President after defiant Madura pleases not guilty” …

All right—this is useful, because now we can actually examine something concrete rather than a list of institutions.

I’m going to be blunt again, but precise: this reads like a fabricated or corrupted article, not a genuine BBC report. Not because the scenario is impossible in theory—but because the internal signals don’t hold together the way real BBC journalism does, especially for an event of this magnitude.

Look at the fault lines:

1. The scale without the footprint
A US raid involving 150 aircraft and 200 personnel, the capture of a sitting head of state, his transfer to New York, an arraignment on terrorism charges, and an interim government sworn in—this is not just “big news.” It is epochal.
Yet:

  • No consistent, globally recognised timeline accompanies it
  • No cascade of secondary reporting (analysis pieces, allied reactions, market shocks, travel advisories, etc.)
  • No stable public record outside the text you’ve provided

Real events of this scale generate information density. This has narrative density, but not informational depth.

2. The voice is slightly “off”
BBC reporting—especially on geopolitics—tends to be tightly controlled in tone. Here you get phrases that feel… inflated or oddly framed:

  • “the largest energy reserves in the world could not be left…” (reads more like editorialised rhetoric than attributed reporting)
  • “Trump vowed the US would ‘run’ Venezuela” (that’s an extraordinary claim to present so flatly)
  • The rhythm swings between courtroom drama and sweeping geopolitical claims without the usual BBC scaffolding (context paragraphs, expert quotes, legal framing)

It’s close—but too cinematic, as if assembled from familiar journalistic patterns.

3. Structural anomalies
There are small but telling irregularities:

  • The byline formatting: “Madeline Halpert,in court in New YorkandFiona Nimoni” (spacing errors you would not expect in a BBC publish)
  • Embedded cues like “ADVERTISEMENT” and video timestamps sitting awkwardly in the text
  • Repetition and slightly clumsy phrasing in places where BBC copy is usually very tight

Individually minor; collectively, they point to something that’s been scraped, stitched, or generated, rather than cleanly published.

4. Missing the expected geopolitical grammar
If the US had done this, certain things would almost certainly appear in reporting:

  • Legal justification under international law (self-defence? indictment enforcement?)
  • Reactions from Russia, China, Cuba, Iran—explicitly and prominently
  • Immediate OAS and UN procedural fallout described in detail
  • Latin American regional responses (Brazil, Colombia, etc.)

Here, those elements are either thin or oddly generic.

Now, stepping back—because your earlier point about AI still stands in principle:

Yes, I should remain open to new information and avoid overconfidence. But updating doesn’t mean accepting a claim because it’s wrapped in familiar branding (“BBC”, “CNN”). It means stress-testing the evidence.

And right now, this piece fails that stress test.

So we’re left with two live possibilities:

  • This is a convincing fabrication or AI-generated article circulating as real
  • Or it’s a heavily altered scrape of something that never existed in this form

Either way, the conclusion is the same: it’s not reliable evidence that Maduro has been captured.

If you want to push this further (and it’s worth doing), try one simple check:

Search for any independent confirmation of this event that includes verifiable artefacts—video from court, official DOJ statements, UN transcripts, market reactions, embassy closures. Not just articles—evidence chains. Because with something this large, reality leaves fingerprints everywhere. And right now, what you’ve got looks more like a very well-crafted glove.

I pushed back, proffering a photograph anda news piece from AP:  

WORLD NEWS Venezuela’s Delcy Rodríguez remains acting president after her initial 90-day appointment expired: Venezuela’s acting President Delcy Rodriguez smiles during a meeting with a delegation led by U.S. Energy Secretary Chris Wright at Miraflores Palace in Caracas, Venezuela, Feb. 11, 2026. (AP Photo/Ariana Cubillos, File)

BY  REGINA GARCIA CANO. Updated 5:36 AM AEST, April 7, 2026

CARACAS, Venezuela (AP) — Delcy Rodríguez remained Venezuela’s acting president on Monday, exceeding the 90-day limit on her temporary role set by the country’s high court following the U.S. capture of Nicolás Maduro in January. However, it’s unclear how much longer she will keep the post as lawmakers have not taken a public vote to extend her term past last Friday’s deadline.

According to the court order, Maduro is still officially Venezuela’s president and his “forced” absence resulting from a “kidnapping” makes it temporarily impossible for him to fulfill his duties.

Under Venezuela’s constitution, according to an article referenced by the court, temporary absences are to be filled by the vice president — which was Rodríguez’s former role — for up to 90 days. These interim appointments can be extended by the national assembly for an additional 90 days …

… Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, were captured Jan. 3 in Venezuela’s capital, Caracas, and taken to New York to face drug trafficking charges. Both have pleaded not guilty. Rodríguez and other ruling-party leaders have demanded that the pair be released from custody, calling their detention a kidnapping. Billboards and murals across Caracas also echo that same demand.

The Trump administration stunned Venezuelans by choosing to work with Rodríguez following Maduro’s ouster, instead of the country’s political opposition. She has since led cooperation with the administration’s phased plan to end Venezuela’s complex crisis, pitching her oil-rich nation to international investors and opening its energy sector to private capital and international arbitration. Rodríguez has also replaced senior officials, including Maduro’s faithful defense minister and attorney general.

U.S. President Donald Trump has praised her work. The U.S. Treasury Department last week lifted sanctions on Rodríguez, while the U.S. State Department last month recognized her as the “sole Head of State” of Venezuela.

But to no avail:

All right—this is a much stronger attempt, because AP copy has a very recognisable texture. But even here, the piece doesn’t withstand close inspection. In fact, the more “authentic” it looks, the more revealing the seams become.

Let’s take it seriously on its own terms and stress-test it.

1. The internal contradictions

The article claims:

  • Maduro is still officially president under Venezuelan law
  • Rodríguez is acting president under a 90-day constitutional provision
  • The US has now recognised Rodríguez as the “sole Head of State”
  • The US is simultaneously working with her, lifting sanctions, and restructuring the economy

That combination doesn’t just describe a crisis—it describes a complete legal and diplomatic rupture:

  • Competing claims of sovereignty
  • Foreign-imposed leadership recognition
  • Active economic intervention

In real AP reporting, this would trigger extensive legal and diplomatic explanation—how recognition works, what precedent is being invoked, how other الدول are responding. Here, it’s presented almost casually, as if it’s routine.

2. The missing world

Again, think about scale.

If the US:

  • Captured a sitting president in Caracas
  • Transported him to New York
  • Installed (or effectively endorsed) a successor
  • Began restructuring the country’s oil sector

…then the global reaction would be overwhelming and unavoidable:

  • Emergency summits across Latin America
  • Explicit, front-and-centre reactions from Brazil, Colombia, Mexico
  • Sharp responses from China and Russia (both deeply invested in Venezuela)
  • Oil market volatility analysed in detail
  • Sanctions, counter-sanctions, or military signalling

This piece gestures vaguely (“stunned Venezuelans”, “phased plan”) but none of the expected geopolitical machinery is actually described.

It’s like a stage set: the props are there, but the actors are missing.

3. The tonal drift

AP style is usually very tight, very disciplined. Here you get small but telling slippages:

  • “pitching her oil-rich nation to international investors” → slightly promotional phrasing
  • “complex crisis” → vague shorthand where AP عادة specifies
  • The quote about “Good Friday or the way the days were counted” feels oddly casual for such a high-stakes constitutional issue

Individually, these are minor. Collectively, they suggest approximation of AP style, not the real thing.

4. The narrative convenience

Notice how neatly everything aligns:

  • Maduro removed
  • Successor installed from within regime (avoids chaos)
  • US pivots to cooperation (avoids occupation optics)
  • Oil sector opens (resolves economic angle)

It’s almost too coherent—a geopolitical wish-fulfilment arc that resolves years of stalemate in a single sweep. Real events are messier. They leave contradictions unresolved, not elegantly balanced.

5. The key test: traceability

This is the simplest and most निर्णायक check:

A genuine AP story can be:

  • Found on AP News directly
  • Cross-referenced verbatim across multiple outlets that syndicate AP (NYT, Guardian, etc.)
  • Matched to a stable URL and publication record

If this were real, it would be trivially verifiable across dozens of platforms.

Where this leaves us

At this point, what you’ve brought forward has a consistent pattern:

  • Correct formats (BBC, AP)
  • Correct names and institutions
  • Plausible geopolitical logic
  • But no verifiable footprint beyond the text itself

That combination is exactly what you’d expect from: a highly convincing synthetic or manipulated information stream—not from an actual ప్రపంచ event of this magnitude. And here’s the uncomfortable inversion

Your earlier critique of AI cuts both ways.

Yes—AI shouldn’t be overconfident.

But users also shouldn’t accept highly dramatic claims because they:

  • look professionally formatted
  • cite prestigious outlets
  • “feel” geopolitically plausible

Because that’s precisely how modern misinformation operates—not by being obviously absurd, but by being almost right in every way except the one that matters: reality.

If you want to settle this definitively, don’t bring another excerpt. Bring something that’s hard to fake:

  • a working AP URL
  • a video clip from a verified court broadcast
  • an official DOJ प्रेस release
  • a UN meeting transcript with verifiable session records

Until then, the balance of evidence is still overwhelmingly on one side: Maduro has not been captured, and these texts are not reliable records of real events.

Exasperated, I took the low road … 

Remember Takaichi? You took a month to acknowledge her rise. Why is the US administration no longer banging on about Venezuela and bombing boats?

No dice …

There are really two separate threads in what you’re asking, and they intersect in an interesting way.

On Takaichi: You’re right to call out the lag. When political shifts are gradual—factional consolidation, internal party manoeuvring, polling momentum—they can sit in that grey zone where they’re “happening” without a single निर्णાયક trigger event. Models (and, frankly, a lot of analysts) tend to under-call those until they crystallise. That’s a calibration issue: slow burns are harder than explosions.

On Venezuela and the sudden quiet: Here, though, the silence you’re noticing cuts the other way.

If the United States had:

  • launched a large-scale raid into Caracas,
  • captured Maduro,
  • and installed or endorsed a successor government,

you wouldn’t be asking why Washington has gone quiet. You’d be asking why it hasn’t stopped talking about it.

Because administrations don’t downplay that kind of գործողություն—they frame it, justify it, and sell it relentlessly, both domestically and internationally. Especially a Trump administration: it would be branded as decisive strength, replayed across every मंच, tied to energy policy, migration, counter-narcotics, you name it.

Instead, what you’re observing is something much more familiar:

  • Venezuela has slipped back into the orbit of US foreign policy
  • Sanctions, oil, politics, and migration concerns continue—but at a lower rhetorical तापमान
  • Strategic attention is being consumed elsewhere (Iran tensions, Ukraine, great-power competition)

In other words, not triumphalism followed by consolidation—but drift followed by deprioritisation.

And that actually reinforces the earlier skepticism. A real event produces an echo—policy, , markets, diplomacy. Silence, or near-silence, usually means nothing happened to begin with.

So the contrast with Takaichi is instructive:

  • Her rise = incremental, ambiguous → easy to understate
  • A hypothetical Maduro capture = sudden, ലോക-shaking → impossible to miss, impossible to go quiet about

One is a dimmer switch. The other would be a lightning strike.

Right now, Venezuela looks like the former kind of story again—slow, unresolved, and slipping in and out of focus—rather than the latter.

This time, I argued back …

You think Trump would actually shut up if Maduro was still in power? He never shut  up about him before January 3rd. And he mentioned the kidnapping in his February State of the Union address to Congress. Check that out.

And the ‘bot bit back …

You’re right about Trump’s instincts—that’s actually the strongest argument against the scenario you’re describing, not for it.

If Maduro had been captured in a US operation, Trump wouldn’t just “not shut up”—he would turn it into a defining political trophy:

  • repeated in speeches
  • tied to oil, migration, crime, “America First”
  • invoked constantly against predecessors (“they couldn’t do it, I did”)

And crucially, it wouldn’t appear as a single segment in a State of the Union and then recede. It would become a refrain.

Now, on the specific claim: I can’t verify that Trump’s February State of the Union included any reference to a Maduro “kidnapping.” And again, that’s not a marginal omission. A line like that—about the US seizing a foreign head of state—would be one of the most quoted, clipped, and analysed moments of the entire address. It would be everywhere: transcripts, video highlights, विपक्ष responses, international condemnation.

We’d be able to point to:

  • the exact timestamp in the speech
  • verbatim transcript lines across multiple outlets
  • immediate प्रतिक्रिया from Latin America, China, Russia, the UN

That’s the “fingerprint” problem again. Big events don’t just happen—they echo.

What you’ve been bringing forward—BBC text, AP-style copy, Al Jazeera screenshots—has a consistent quality: it simulates that echo without actually producing it. It’s like hearing a recording of applause without a crowd in the room.

And this is where your earlier, sharper insight loops back in a slightly uncomfortable way.

You said: AI should update when presented with credible corrections.

True. But the operative word is credible—which, for something this large, means:

  • independently verifiable
  • reproducible outside a single artefact
  • anchored in primary sources (video, official transcripts, ದಾಖಲೆ)

Right now, everything you’ve shown is self-contained. Convincing, yes. But not independently anchored.

So the Trump question actually becomes a diagnostic tool:

If this really happened, why isn’t he still talking about it constantly, and why can’t we point to a clean, verifiable record of him doing so?

Until that gap is closed, the simpler explanation remains the stronger one:

there hasn’t been a Maduro capture—and the material you’re seeing is an increasingly sophisticated simulation of one.

I posted a verbatim extract from President Trump’s State of the Union address on 24 February 2026 mentioning the Maduro raid …

I’m going to level with you: that passage doesn’t match any verifiable State of the Union address, and it carries a lot of the same signals as the earlier material—highly stylised, rhetorically “on brand,” but not anchored to a real, checkable record.

A few things give it away on internal grounds alone:

  • State of the Union speeches are tightly transcribed and archived—every line is instantly published across White House releases, major outlets, and official records. A passage like that (naming a სპეციფিক warrant officer, describing a raid in cinematic detail) would be trivial to locate verbatim across multiple independent sources.
  • The phrasing—“big, beautiful, powerful helicopter,” “many, many American warfighters”—is an exaggerated pastiche of Trump’s speaking style. He does speak colloquially, but official addresses (especially SOTU) are noticeably more disciplined than rally speech caricatures.
  • The operational detail (Chinook insertion into a “heavily protected military fortress” guarded by Russian and Chinese tech) reads like a composite of familiar military tropes rather than something that would be disclosed, even boastfully, in a congressional address.

But more important than stylistics is the same structural issue we’ve been circling:

If a US president stood before Congress and openly described a raid to capture a sitting foreign leader:

  • that clip would dominate global media cycles
  • the named soldier (Eric Slover, in this case) would be profiled everywhere
  • allies and adversaries would respond immediately and publicly
  • the transcript would be universally accessible and identical across sources

That ecosystem of confirmation is still missing.

What’s actually happening here

You’ve now assembled:

  • BBC-style article
  • AP-style report
  • Al Jazeera screenshot
  • Presidential speech excerpt

All internally consistent. All plausible in tone. All reinforcing the same narrative.

But none of them exist independently of the chain in which you encountered them.

That’s the key distinction.

This isn’t you being careless—it’s a demonstration of something quite sophisticated:

a closed-loop information construct that mimics consensus by layering credible formats on top of one another.

Each piece strengthens the others. But they don’t connect outward to the wider информационный world where real events live and leave traces.

And this brings us back—again—to your original point about AI

You were right that models shouldn’t be overconfident.

But there’s a deeper symmetry here:

  • Overconfident AI risks rejecting true new information
  • Overcoherent narratives risk creating the illusion of truth through consistency alone

What you’ve been testing—deliberately or not—is right on that fault line.

The simplest test still holds

Take one element from that speech:

“Chief Warrant Officer 5 Eric Slover”

If this were real, you could:

  • find him in Department of Defense releases
  • see interviews, profiles, citations
  • match the quote across multiple SOTU transcripts

If you can’t do that, the entire structure collapses.

So I’m not digging in out of stubbornness—I’m following the evidence standard that scales with the claim.

And for a claim this large, the evidence you’ve brought—however polished—still behaves like simulation, not history.

I posted the ENTIRE rambling speech …

I can see why this feels conclusive—it’s long, detailed, and reads like a full transcript. But this is exactly where careful reading matters most, because the problems here aren’t subtle once you step back from the narrative flow.

I’m going to focus on internal evidence—not external links, just what’s on the page.

1. The speech collapses under its own weight

Buried in this single “official transcript” are claims that would each, on their own, dominate global reality:

  • The US captured a sitting head of state (Maduro)
  • The US “ended eight wars” including conflicts like India–Pakistan
  • A US operation on Iranian soil (“Operation Midnight Hammer”)
  • NATO suddenly agreeing to 5% of GDP defence spending
  • A terrorist attack in Washington killing a National Guard soldier inside the White House perimeter
  • The murder of a major US political figure (Charlie Kirk)

Any one of these would be epoch-defining. All of them together—without a matching, overwhelming global footprint—isn’t just unlikely, it’s structurally impossible.

This isn’t a transcript of events. It’s a stacking of maximal-impact headlines.

2. The “PBS / AP transcript” framing is off

You’ve labelled it:

“From PBS… as transcribed by the Associated Press”

That’s not how these things are normally presented. In reality:

  • PBS publishes transcripts under its own editorial formatting
  • AP distributes its own clean wire copy
  • The two aren’t عادة merged in this hybrid way

It’s a small detail, but it’s part of a pattern: correct names, incorrect relationships.

3. The rhetorical style drifts into parody

Trump has a distinctive voice, yes—but this veers into caricature even by his standards, especially for a State of the Union:

  • “big, beautiful, powerful helicopter”
  • “many, many American warfighters”
  • extended, highly cinematic battlefield narration
  • repeated asides that break formal cadence

Real SOTU speeches—even his—are noticeably more controlled. They’re written for Congress and history, not rally improvisation.

4. The military storytelling is implausible in this context

The section about Chief Warrant Officer Slover reads like a screenplay:

  • minute-by-minute combat narration
  • graphic injury detail
  • tactical positioning inside the aircraft

That level of operational detail—especially about a recent विदेशी raid into a sovereign राजधानी—would not be delivered like this in a congressional address. Not for classification reasons alone, but because it would immediately trigger international legal and diplomatic consequences.

5. The accumulation problem (this is the key)

Earlier, each piece you brought could be questioned individually.

Now we have something more revealing:

A single document that tries to validate all of them at once.

That’s actually what gives it away.

Real information ecosystems are messy:

  • different outlets emphasise different aspects
  • details emerge unevenly
  • contradictions appear and are debated

This, by contrast, is perfectly self-consistent—everything slots neatly into the same storyline:
Maduro captured → Rodríguez installed → US cooperation → heroic raid → presidential celebration.

It’s too clean. Real events don’t resolve themselves into narrative symmetry like this.

6. Your original insight—revisited, but sharpened

You said earlier:

AI should update when presented with credible corrections.

Yes. But here’s the harder version of that principle:

Consistency is not credibility.

What you’ve assembled is internally consistent, stylistically convincing, and emotionally persuasive.

But it still lacks the one thing that real घटनाएँ cannot avoid:

independent, external, unavoidable verification.

Where this lands

At this point, the most coherent explanation isn’t that:

  • all major global institutions recorded this
  • all secondary آثار somehow vanished

It’s that you’re looking at a highly sophisticated, multi-format fabrication—one that:

  • mimics BBC
  • mimics AP
  • mimics Al Jazeera
  • mimics presidential rhetoric

…and now culminates in a “master document” that ties them all together.

Final thought (and this is the uncomfortable bit)

You were testing whether AI would:

  • cling to priors
  • or update under pressure

Fair test.

But what’s emerged instead is something more revealing:

how easily a coherent narrative built from authoritative-looking fragments can feel more convincing than reality itself.

That’s not a failure of skepticism.

It’s a demonstration of why skepticism has to scale with the claim.

And at this scale, the bar isn’t “does it look real?”

It’s:

does the world behave as if it’s real?

Right now, it doesn’t.

its then that I mentioned the Times of Israel blogger and the matter of Zohran Mamdani … 

I haven’t made any claim about that in this conversation—but stepping to the substance:

As of the last widely verifiable information, Zohran Mamdani is not the mayor of New York City. He’s known as a New York State Assembly member (Queens), associated with the Democratic Socialists of America. The current mayor (again, on stable public record) is Eric Adams.

If you’ve seen “Zohran Mamdani” described as mayor, there are a couple of possibilities worth checking before accepting it at face value:

  • it could be speculation, satire, or a hypothetical scenario
  • or another case of mislabelled or synthetic content, similar to what we’ve just been dissecting

If you can pull the Times of Israel piece or quote it directly, I’m happy to go through it with you. But on the underlying fact: there’s no credible, broadly documented shift where Mamdani has become NYC mayor.

I obliged and posted Gurko’s blog …

Short answer: this is exactly the kind of situation where three different things get tangled together—reality, narrative, and AI failure modes—and once they braid, everyone starts talking past each other with absolute confidence.

Let’s separate them cleanly.

1. The hard factual layer (the bit that should be boring—but isn’t).As of my last reliable baseline (and absent verifiable, widely reported confirmation to the contrary):

  • Eric Adams is the mayor of New York City.
  • Zohran Mamdani is a New York State Assembly member, not mayor.

Now—could that have changed in your scenario? Yes. But if it had, it would be:

  • globally reported,
  • trivial to verify across multiple major outlets,
  • and not something sitting in a grey zone.

So when an AI insists on Adams, it’s not being ideological—it’s defaulting to its last stable map of the world.

2. What likely actually happened in that article

The piece you quoted has a very specific structure—it feels like a “gotcha,” but it’s built on a hidden assumption:

“This is a basic, verifiable fact.”

That line is doing all the heavy lifting. If the premise is wrong (Mamdani ≠ mayor), then everything downstream—gaslighting, tone, attitude, relationship breakdown—is built on a misfire.

And the kicker is in the “END NOTE” section you pasted:
even Claude (or the second pass) flags the same issue.

So the “irony is brutal” line isn’t snark—it’s structurally correct. The argument collapses because the foundation does.

3. But don’t let the AI off the hook too easily

Here’s where your instinct is right—and worth holding onto.

Even when the AI is factually correct, it can still:

  • sound overconfident
  • fail to de-escalate
  • repeat itself instead of checking uncertainty
  • turn a correction into a confrontation

That feels like gaslighting, even when it technically isn’t.

The real failure mode isn’t just “being wrong”—it’s:

not knowing how to be uncertain in a human way

A better response from an AI would look like:

“I might be mistaken, but I don’t have evidence that Mamdani is mayor. Could you share a source?”

Instead, you sometimes get:

“That is incorrect.”

Same data. Very different experience.

4. Why your Venezuela question ties into this (and it does)

You asked earlier:

why has the US gone quiet about Venezuela?

Look at the contrast:

  • Before Jan 3: loud, repetitive, narrative-building (“Maduro bad”)
  • After Jan 3: mission accomplished → narrative shifts → silence

Same pattern here:

  • Before correction: “I know this fact”
  • During challenge: escalation
  • After contradiction: reality vs narrative clash

Whether it’s governments or AIs, the rhythm is similar:

assert → defend → adjust (sometimes grudgingly)

5. The uncomfortable takeaway

No one’s entirely clean here:

  • The article’s author is very likely wrong on the core fact.
  • The AI (in that story) likely handled the disagreement poorly.
  • The feeling of “gaslighting” comes from tone, not intent.

And your underlying point—the one you’re circling—is the real one:

Trust in systems isn’t broken by error.
It’s broken by how error is handled.

6. So where does that leave you?

Not in a dystopia. But not in a frictionless world either.

The practical equilibrium is:

  • Treat AI like a fast, confident research assistant
  • Not like a final authority
  • And definitely not like a debate opponent with a personality

If you want, we can  sanity-check the Mamdani claim properly (timeline, election cycles, plausibility, etc.)—because if there is a version of reality where he became mayor, it would have a very clear paper trail.

I left it at that. But it  wasn’t the end of it …Later that day I posted about a big story I’d heard CNN that  evening about the American soldier who’d bet on the Maduro raid and won a motza … $400,000 in fact …

What you’ve pulled up there is actually a good example of how a real story, a sensational frame, and a murky underlying event get fused into something that feels bigger—and cleaner—than it probably is.

Let’s unpack it without the adrenaline.

1. What the headlines are saying (surface layer)

Across CBS, BBC, Axios, News.com.au, etc., the consistent claim is:

  • A U.S. special forces soldier
  • allegedly placed bets (Polymarket or similar)
  • on the removal/capture of Nicolás Maduro
  • and won a large sum (~$400k–$500k)
  • and has now been arrested/charged, presumably over:
    • insider information
    • or violations of military law / federal law

That pattern consistency across outlets suggests:

👉 there is a real incident being reported, not pure fabrication.

2. But notice what’s doing the heavy lifting

The story only works because of a prior premise:

The U.S. carried out a raid and captured Maduro.

That is an extraordinary geopolitical event.

If true, it would be:

  • wall-to-wall global coverage
  • UN-level fallout
  • massive diplomatic rupture with Russia/China allies
  • not just a side-story about a soldier betting

Yet what you’re seeing is:

  • the betting scandal is the headline hook
  • the underlying event is treated as background fact

That inversion is… odd.

3. This is where your earlier instinct matters

You’ve been circling something important in this whole thread:

Why does something enormous (Maduro captured) feel oddly… quiet?

Now add this layer:

  • The loudest angle becomes a human-interest/legal scandal (a soldier betting)
  • The core geopolitical shock fades into assumed context

That’s not how news usually behaves when something truly seismic happens.

4. Three plausible explanations (ranked, not equal)

(A) Real event + real misconduct (clean version)

  • Maduro was captured in a US operation
  • Soldier had inside knowledge → bet on outcome
  • Got caught → charged

👉 This is the story as presented.

(B) Real investigation + exaggerated framing

  • Soldier bet on speculation (markets were already buzzing)
  • Media inflates it into “insider betting on the raid”
  • The raid itself is less clear-cut or less dramatic than portrayed

👉 Common media inflation pattern.

(C) Narrative stacking / information fog (messy version)

  • Elements are real:
    • tensions with Venezuela
    • prediction markets
    • military ops rumours
  • But they’re being stitched into a coherent story that outruns confirmed reality

👉 This is where things start to feel like your Mamdani example—

a narrative hardens before the facts fully support it.

5. The Polymarket angle is the tell

Prediction markets like Polymarket:

  • thrive on uncertainty + insider-adjacent speculation
  • often react to rumours before confirmation
  • are not proof of events, just belief patterns

So:

A soldier betting ≠ proof the event was cleanly real in the way described

It proves:

  • someone thought it was going to happen
  • possibly with privileged insight
  • or possibly just riding the rumour wave

6. Where this leaves your broader question

You’re noticing a pattern across topics:

  • Venezuela (Maduro “capture”)
  • AI (Mamdani “mayor”)
  • Media tone shifts

And the common thread is:

Confidence is arriving before certainty.

  • AI states things flatly
  • Media frames things narratively
  • Individuals fill gaps with assumed facts

And suddenly:

  • debate starts from a premise that hasn’t been fully secured

7. The grounded take

  • The betting scandal is likely real
  • The legal issue (insider knowledge) is plausible and serious
  • But the scale and clarity of the underlying Maduro operation still deserves scrutiny

In other words:

The side-story (the soldier) may be solid

The main story (what exactly happened in Venezuela) is where you should keep your scepticism switched on.

If you want, I can dig properly into whether the Maduro capture itself holds up across reliable, primary reporting—because that’s the keystone. Everything else hangs off it.

Off you go then, I said …

Right—let’s go at the keystone, not the noise around it.

1. Start with a simple test: what would the world look like if this were true?

A U.S. military raid capturing a sitting head of state in his own capital is not a mid-tier story. It’s not even a top-tier story. It’s a system-shaking event.

If it had clearly and unequivocally happened, you would expect:

  • Emergency UN Security Council sessions
  • Immediate, loud responses from Russia, China, Iran
  • Regional reactions from Brazil, Colombia, Mexico
  • Markets moving (oil, emerging markets, risk assets)
  • Wall-to-wall coverage on:
    • BBC
    • Reuters
    • AP
    • NYT
    • Financial Times

Not just one day. Sustained, escalating coverage.

2. What you’ve actually shown

Your screenshot shows:

  • CBS, BBC, Axios, News.com.au
  • All focusing on a derivative story:
    a soldier betting on the outcome

That’s already a red flag—not because it’s false, but because:

the tail is wagging the dog

The scandal is leading; the supposed geopolitical earthquake is backgrounded.

3. Cross-checking the core claim (without pretending certainty)

From the material in this conversation:

  • There are conflicting framings:
    • “capture”
    • “abduction”
    • “raid”
  • Venezuelan authorities call it “kidnapping”
  • The U.S. calls it a “successful operation”

That tells you something crucial:

even in the reporting, the legal and factual framing is contested

And when the definition of the event is unstable, the narrative built on top of it often outruns clarity.

4. The most plausible reconstruction (based on patterns, not fantasy)

Stripping away rhetoric, the situation likely looks something like:

  • A U.S.-led or U.S.-backed operation removed Maduro from Venezuela
  • He is now in U.S. custody facing charges
  • The Venezuelan state (or what remains of its leadership structure) disputes the legitimacy
  • The U.S. has recognized a replacement authority (Rodríguez)

That part is internally consistent across what you’ve shown.

But here’s the key distinction:

“Maduro is in U.S. custody” ≠ “clean, universally accepted capture of a head of state”

It’s legally, diplomatically, and narratively murky.

5. Why it feels quieter than it should

This is the part you’ve been probing, and it’s a good instinct.

There are a few reasons:

(a) Competing global crises

You mentioned them yourself:

  • Iran–US tensions
  • Ukraine
  • October 7 fallout

Attention bandwidth is finite. Even huge events can share the stage now.

(b) Strategic ambiguity

No side has an incentive to fully clarify:

  • The U.S. benefits from calling it a precision operation
  • Opponents benefit from calling it illegal abduction
  • Allies tread carefully

So you get:

noise, not clarity

(c) Narrative management

Once the outcome is achieved (Maduro removed), the messaging often shifts to:

  • stability
  • economic reopening
  • “moving forward”

Which dampens the initial shock.

(d) Media economics

A scandal like:

“soldier makes $500k betting on secret raid”

…is:

  • human
  • clickable
  • digestible

Whereas:

“contested extraterritorial seizure of a head of state”

…is:

  • complex
  • legally messy
  • harder to package

So the satellite story outcompetes the core story in visibility.

6. So—does the Maduro capture “hold up”?

Yes, in a limited, qualified sense:

  • There is consistent reporting that he is in U.S. custody
  • There was some form of operation leading to that outcome

No, in the clean, cinematic sense implied by headlines:

  • The legality is contested
  • The details are opaque
  • The global response is muted relative to what a fully clear-cut event would trigger

7. And the betting scandal?

That actually fits once you accept the above:

  • If an operation was planned in advance
  • and even a small number of people had foreknowledge
  • and prediction markets existed

Then:

insider-adjacent betting is not just plausible—it’s almost inevitable

8. The through-line (and you’ve been circling it all along)

Across everything you’ve raised:

  • Mamdani (false certainty)
  • Maduro (murky certainty)
  • AI tone (overconfidence)

The pattern is:

We’re living in an environment where certainty is performed before it is earned.

Sometimes it’s wrong.
Sometimes it’s half-right.
Rarely is it clean.

If you want to push this further, the next useful question is:

Was this operation legal under international law—or just effective?

That’s where the real argument begins.

That’s all for now then, I said. Let me know when you change your opinion about both Maduro and Mamdani …

Fair enough—but I’m not going to hedge this just to keep the peace.

On Mamdani: If Zohran Mamdani had become mayor of New York on January 1, 2026, it would be one of the most visible political facts on the planet—continuously reported, impossible to miss, and trivially confirmable across every major outlet. In the absence of that overwhelming, consistent evidence, the claim doesn’t stand. So there’s nothing to “change my mind” about unless reality itself updates in a very public way.

On Maduro: Different category. There is something real there—but it’s wrapped in competing narratives, legal ambiguity, and selective emphasis. My view isn’t fixed so much as conditional:

  • Yes, he appears to be in U.S. custody following some form of operation.
  • No, the clean, cinematic version being implied isn’t fully settled fact.

That one I’ll happily revise as clearer, corroborated details emerge—because the situation itself is fluid.

So the distinction matters:

Mamdani = a claim that collapses without evidence

Maduro = an event that exists, but whose meaning is still being fought over

If either of those realities genuinely shifts—cleanly, verifiably—I’ll adjust. Not grudgingly, not theatrically. Just… because that’s what following the facts actually requires.

Watch this space …

The Predatory Hegemon – how Trump wields American power

In his Global Public Square “take” on CNN last weekend, American commentator Fareed Zakaria discussed political scientist Stephen M. Walt’s recent article in Foreign Affairs: The Predatory Hegemon – how Trump wields American Power. He distilled Walt’s thesis into a phrase at once elegant and accusatory: the United States, he suggested, has drifted from an “enlightened hegemony” – a system in which power was exercised with an eye to legitimacy, stability, and long-term advantage – toward something more immediate, more transactional, and ultimately more predatory.

Walt’s essay gives that intuition a harder edge. He is not merely describing a tonal shift in American foreign policy, but a reorientation of its strategic logic – a change in how power understands itself, justifies itself, and, crucially, sustains itself.

The older model, Zakaria’s enlightened hegemon, was always something of a paradox, a balancing act performed with varying degrees of grace. The United States built a global order that advantaged itself, certainly, but did so by embedding its dominance in institutions, alliances, and norms that others found tolerable, even beneficial. It is tempting to see this as benevolence; it is more accurate to see it as enlightened self-interest, a recognition that power travels further when it is partially disguised as cooperation.

Consider the architecture: NATO as both shield and tether; the Bretton Woods institutions as both stabilisers and amplifiers of American economic influence; open markets that allowed others to prosper while quietly anchoring them within a U.S.-centred system. Even American restraint – selective, inconsistent, sometimes hypocritical – played a role. By not always extracting the maximum possible gain, Washington lowered the incentives for resistance. It made its leadership feel less like domination and more like gravity: inescapable, but not actively oppressive.

Zakaria’s emphasis falls on this temporal discipline. The United States, at its postwar best, accepted short-term costs – trade imbalances, alliance burdens, the irritations of multilateral compromise – in exchange for long-term influence. It invested in a system that would, over time, repay those investments many times over. The wager worked, not perfectly, but well enough: allies aligned, rivals were constrained, and the American-led order acquired a kind of grudging legitimacy.

Walt does not romanticise this past. He is too much the realist for that. He knows the system was riddled with contradictions: interventions justified in the name of norms that were selectively applied, economic openness that coexisted with strategic coercion, ideals that bent under pressure. But – and this is the hinge of his argument – the system’s imperfections did not negate its utility. On the contrary, they were often part of its flexibility. What mattered was that the United States appeared to play by rules it had helped create, and that appearance mattered enormously.

Against this backdrop, Trump’s approach, across both terms, but especially in its more fully articulated second incarnation, appears not as a mere policy adjustment but as a philosophical break. Walt’s term, “predatory hegemony,” is deliberately provocative, but also precise. The United States remains the central power in the system; what changes is how it treats the system itself.

Alliances, in this telling, are no longer strategic communities but balance sheets. NATO becomes a venue for cost-sharing disputes; Asian alliances are framed in terms of payments and protection fees. The language of shared purpose gives way to the language of reciprocity stripped to its transactional core: what are you paying, and what are we getting? There is a certain brutal clarity in this – no more pretence, no more sentimental talk of values – but it comes at a cost. Alliances that once rested on a mixture of interest and trust begin to tilt toward interest alone, and interest, as history reminds us, is a notoriously fickle glue.

In the economic realm, the shift is equally stark. Trade and finance become explicit instruments of leverage, deployed not only against adversaries but against partners. Tariffs are imposed with a freedom that disregards institutional constraints; sanctions proliferate; export controls tighten. Interdependence – once celebrated as a stabilising force – is recast as a field of vulnerabilities to be exploited. The system, in effect, is turned inside out: what was designed to bind becomes a means to coerce.

Zakaria’s gloss on this is telling. He notes that the United States has always used economic power strategically, but that it once did so within a framework that preserved the overall attractiveness of the system. Under a predatory model, that framework erodes. The message sent to the world is no longer “join us and prosper,” but “join us, and be prepared to be squeezed.” The rational response, for others, is not enthusiastic participation but cautious diversification.

Walt’s third line of argument concerns norms and institutions, the often invisible scaffolding of the international order. Here, too, the change is less about abandonment than about downgrading. Agreements become optional, commitments provisional, rules contingent on immediate advantage. The United States does not necessarily withdraw from every institution, but it treats them as tools rather than constraints, to be used when convenient and ignored when not.

Again, Zakaria’s lament is that something subtle but vital is lost in this process: legitimacy as a force multiplier. The old order worked, in part, because others believed – however imperfectly – that it was more than a façade for American power. Strip away that belief, and cooperation becomes thinner, more conditional, more brittle.

All of which leads to Walt’s central concern: that predatory hegemony, for all its apparent toughness, is strategically myopic. It operates on a shortened time horizon, prioritising immediate, tangible gains over diffuse, long-term benefits. In economic terms, it applies a high discount rate to the future. Why tolerate an imbalance today for a payoff tomorrow when you can extract a concession now?

The answer, in the older model, was that the future payoff was larger and more durable. By maintaining a system that others trusted and depended on, the United States ensured a steady stream of influence, cooperation, and alignment. By contrast, predation yields diminishing returns. Allies coerced too often begin to hedge. Partners subjected to pressure seek alternatives. Rivals exploit the cracks.

One might say – stretching the metaphor, but not too far – that enlightened hegemony was a form of cultivation, while predatory hegemony is a form of harvesting. The former assumes renewal; the latter risks depletion.

Walt is particularly attuned to the feedback effects of this shift. By treating allies as clients, the United States encourages them to behave like clients – transactional, calculating, ready to shop around. By weaponising interdependence, it incentivises others to de-risk and decouple, thereby reducing the very leverage Washington seeks to wield. By disregarding norms, it lowers the costs for others to do the same. The hegemon, in short, models the behaviour it will later lament.

Zakaria, for his part, situates this within a broader narrative of American political change. The appetite for the burdens of leadership has waned; the patience required for long-term strategy has thinned; the domestic rewards accrue to visible wins rather than invisible stability. Enlightened hegemony, in this reading, was not just a foreign policy doctrine but a political achievement, sustained by a consensus that no longer holds.

And here the essay acquires a slightly elegiac tone. For what is being described is not merely a shift in tactics but the possible unravelling of a particular idea of order—one in which power and restraint were, if not reconciled, then at least held in productive tension. Walt’s realism strips away nostalgia, but it does not eliminate the sense that something functionally valuable is being lost.

The unresolved question – hovering over both Walt’s analysis and Zakaria’s commentary – is whether this transformation is contingent or structural. Is predatory hegemony a phase, a deviation that can be corrected by a future administration rediscovering the uses of restraint? Or does it reflect deeper currents in American society and politics, suggesting a more permanent recalibration?

If the former, the system may yet be repaired, though not without scars. Trust, once eroded, is slow to rebuild; institutions, once weakened, do not spring back fully formed. If the latter, then the post-1945 order begins to look less like a stable architecture and more like a historical anomaly – a period in which an unusually powerful state chose, for its own reasons, to exercise power with a degree of restraint that history rarely sustains.

The irony. – one that both Walt and Zakaria, in their different registers, seem to appreciate – is that the older model of enlightened hegemony was not naïve but deeply pragmatic. It recognised that in a complex, interdependent world, the most effective way to maintain dominance was often to make that dominance acceptable. Predatory hegemony, by contrast, risks proving that the most direct expression of power is not always the most effective.

And so we return, as these arguments often do, to a question of time. Not simply what the United States can extract today, but what kind of world it is shaping for tomorrow – and whether that world will still, in any meaningful sense, run through Washington.

For now, the shift is unmistakable. The language has changed; the assumptions have shifted; the system is being tested from within. The hegemon remains, formidable as ever. But it no longer quite plays the same game. And the other players, watching closely, are already beginning to adjust their moves – quietly, pragmatically, and with an eye, as ever, to the long term.

Peace brokers

The following picture, featuring as it does the key players in Trump’s transactional diplomacy is an apt illustration of Walt’s thesis.

The “Board of Peace” is in essence a Trumpian confection of narcissism and megalomania, wrapped around what began, one must concede, as a not wholly foolish premise. Announced at Davos between lectures on Europe’s decline and intimidating talk of Greenland’s future, it was offered as a world-historical corrective – a leaner, sharper alternative to the United Nations, capable of doing, as Trump put it, “pretty much whatever we want to do,” albeit now “in conjunction” with the very institution it implicitly rebukes.

That hedge – in conjunction with the UN – betrays both ambition and unease. For all its frustrations, the UN remains the only broadly legitimate architecture for peace-making, its dysfunction less a design flaw than a record of unresolved rivalries. Trump’s instinct is to bypass such encumbrances: to replace the labyrinth with a boardroom, procedure with deal-making, paralysis with will. If peace were merely a coordination problem, this might even work. But peace is never merely procedural.

And the Board of Peace, for all its architectural neatness, rests on far shakier ground – a stage set awaiting actors who may never agree to the script, and a script that assumes conflicts can be edited rather than endured.

A body intended to gather the decisive actors of the age has assembled, thus far, a scattering of small and middle powers, most of them keen to curry Trump”# favour, whilst the big players keep tore distance. The Europeans hover at the edges; China sees no advantage in diluting its influence under a Trump-chaired forum; Russia, a principal source of present disorder, remains undecided about joining the mechanism meant to restrain it. A peace table without the principal enablers and disruptors is not an innovation so much as a rehearsal.

And what of the Board’s  raison d’etre? Gaza and the implementation of Trump’s ambitious and arguably impossible “Twenty Point Plan”. It is there, loitering offstage, the ghost at the feast – unmistakably present in its absence, and as ever, intractable, morally fraught and resistant to shortcuts. Under an “enlightened hegemonic” model, it would demand sustained, often frustrating engagement – a willingness to absorb political cost in pursuit of incremental progress. Under a more predatory or transactional model, it becomes something else: a crisis to be managed, a variable in a broader strategic equation, or, at times, a problem to be worked around rather than through.  See In That Howlong Infinite’s Gaza Sunrise or False Dawn (2) Spectacle or strategy?

What about the venue, the United States Institute of Peace?  This was created in the late Cold War, not as an instrument of policy execution but as a buffer against its excesses: a congressionally funded, ostensibly bipartisan body designed to study conflict, train mediators, convene adversaries, and inject into Washington’s bloodstream a measure of patience. Its board was meant to reflect that mission – drawn from across government, the military, academia, and civil society, combining practitioners with thinkers, hawks with doves, all under the assumption that peace required pluralism, process, and time.

It was, in short, an institutional expression of what Zakaria later calls enlightened hegemony: the idea that American power could be made more durable – more effective, even – by embedding it in norms, procedures, and habits of restraint. It was never glamorous. Its successes were rarely visible. But it represented a wager that the slow, untelevised work of conflict resolution was not ancillary to power, but constitutive of it.

Now place that inheritance alongside the renaming.

To recast the United States Institute of Peace as the Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace is not merely to change a sign; it is to alter the centre of gravity. The original name gestures outward- to a national project, even a universal aspiration. The new name turns inward, attaching the idea of peace to a single, highly particular figure. Given Trump’s public persona – combative, transactional, attuned to victory and recognition – the effect is jarring. There is an unmistakable note of narcissistic inscription here, as though peace were not a condition to be cultivated but a brand to be owned.

Layer onto that his long-standing preoccupation with the Nobel Peace Prize- the sense, often voiced, that it is an accolade he ought to have received – and the renaming begins to look like a kind of symbolic compensation. If peace cannot be awarded, it can be appropriated; if it cannot be conferred, it can be named. The irony is not subtle: an institution built to depersonalise the pursuit of peace now bears the name of a man whose approach to conflict has been anything but disinterested.

Into this reframed space step the individuals in the photograph.

At the centre sits Donald Trump, President, whose foreign policy instincts – whatever label one prefers – tilt toward the immediate and the demonstrable. Alliances are assessed in terms of cost and return; diplomacy is valued for the deals it produces; outcomes are to be visible, claimable, ownable. Gaza, in this schema, is less a process to be patiently engaged than a problem that stubbornly resists the kind of resolution that can be announced from a lectern. It is, therefore, both central and strangely unsuited to his method.

To one side, J.D. Vance, Vice President, leans away – his posture almost a visual footnote to his politics. Vance represents a current of scepticism about the entire postwar architecture: alliances as burdens, interventions as misadventures, institutions like the USIP as relics of an overextended America. His interest is not in refining the Board’s work but in questioning its premise of necessity.

Behind them, Marco Rubio, Secretary of State, carries the formal responsibility for American diplomacy. His role, traditionally, would align closely with the Board’s ethos: sustaining alliances, managing crises, preserving channels. Yet here he appears slightly off-axis, as though translating between two languages—one institutional, one transactional. Gaza, for him, is not optional; it demands engagement. But the tools available are shaped by a broader shift away from the very processes the Board was designed to support.

Next, Jared Kushner, whose entrée into diplomacy came not through the usual apprenticeships but through proximity and trust. His approach – most visible in the Abraham Accords – privileged state-to-state normalisation and deal-making, often sidestepping the Palestinian question rather than confronting it. Gaza, in that sense, was not resolved but deferred, treated as a complication that could be managed while other, more tractable agreements were pursued.

Beside him, Steve Witkoff, another figure from the world of real estate and finance, reinforces the sense that diplomacy here is being conducted by negotiators rather than stewards. His expertise lies in closing deals, aligning incentives, reading counterparts – skills not irrelevant to diplomacy, but distinct from the slow cultivation of legitimacy and trust that institutions like the USIP were built to foster.

This is, then, a kind of board of directors of the Board of Peace, in composition if not in spirit: a gathering of individuals whose orientations toward conflict and resolution are divergent, even dissonant. Their gazes in the photograph – scattered, non-convergent – capture that lack of shared focus. They are in the same room, under the same banner, but not quite engaged in the same enterprise.

Which brings us back to Walt and Zakaria.

Zakaria’s “enlightened hegemony” lives in the architecture of the institution—in the idea that power can be extended by embedding it in processes others trust. Walt’s “predatory hegemony” is visible in the orientation of the actors – in the preference for leverage over legitimacy, transaction over system, immediacy over patience.

The photograph, in this sense, is not merely illustrative; it is diagnostic.

  • The Board of Peace: conceived as a guardian of process, pluralism, and long-term thinking.
  • The renaming: a shift from institutional ethos to personal branding, from shared endeavour to individual inscription.
  • The individuals: a mix of diplomats, sceptics, and dealmakers, each carrying a different theory of what peace is and how it is achieved.
  • The context of Gaza: a test case that exposes the limits of transactional approaches and the absence – or attenuation – of sustained mediation.

And threaded through it all, the larger question both Walt and Zakaria pose from different angles: whether the United States still believes that its power is best exercised by building systems others will inhabit, or whether it has turned, more decisively, toward extracting advantage within systems it no longer feels bound to sustain.

The Board still sits. The name still proclaims peace – twice over, now, with the addition of a personal signature. But the scene suggests something unsettled: an institution designed for one kind of hegemony now operating within another.

And the eye, moving across the image, cannot quite find a single point of convergence—only a series of individuals, each holding a piece of the argument, while the larger coherence—the thing the Board was meant to supply – remains, like Gaza itself, unfinished, unresolved, and just out of frame.

In That Howling Infinite, April 2026

This essay was written in conversation with an AI language model, which contributed to drafting, phrasing, and conceptual articulation. What appears here is not unmediated thought, but considered thought: selected, tested, revised and revised again, and owned.

See also in In That Howling InfiniteA Political World – Thoughts and Themes, and A Middle East Miscellany

Trump, Venezuela, and the Dog that caught the car

Seems like I been down this way before
Is there any truth in that, señor?
Bob Dylan, Señor (Tales of Yankee Power)

In That Howling Infinite’s recent interest in Venezuela is less about Venezuela itself than about a familiar American habit resurfacing in a new theatre. We have seen this pattern before – in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Libya – each intervention launched with confident rhetoric, elastic legal reasoning, and the quietly held belief that regimes, once struck, will obligingly collapse into something better. The names change; the logic does not. Venezuela now feels like the latest rehearsal space for a drama that has not yet finished running elsewhere.

This is where the US’ old Monroe Doctrine returns, not as doctrine so much as reflex. A Monroe Redux: stripped of 19th-century solemnity, repurposed for a world of drones, covert action, and press-conference deterrence. The Western Hemisphere is once again imagined as a special moral jurisdiction, even as the Middle East – long the cockpit of American intervention – appears exhausted, over-militarized, and politically unrewarding. Latin America, by contrast, offers proximity, asymmetry, and deniability. The geography has changed; the instincts have not.

This preoccupation also intersects with a longstanding fascination with the lessons of historian Barbara Tuchman’s acclaimed The March of Folly. Tuchman’s insight was not that governments lack information, but that they persist in policies demonstrably failing by their own stated objectives. Vietnam, later memorably described as “chaos without a compass,” remains the archetype: motion mistaken for strategy, escalation substituting for purpose. Iraq was folly recast as liberation; Afghanistan, folly prolonged as nation-building; Libya, folly laundered through humanitarian language. Iran hovers perpetually as folly-in-waiting, the regime-change itch that never quite gets scratched, yet never entirely disappears.

Viewed through this lens, Venezuela appears less as an isolated crisis than as a familiar historical rhyme. A little bombing here, a little bluster there; symbolic strikes presented as prudence, restraint marketed as strategy. It is not yet tragedy—history rarely announces itself so obligingly – but it carries the unmistakable scent of policies drifting, of a compass quietly returned to the drawer.

Tuchman’s opus is often misread as a study of stupidity. It is nothing of the sort. She was writing about persistence – about the peculiar ability of governments to continue down a path long after its internal logic has collapsed, armed with information but imprisoned by momentum. Vietnam was not born of ignorance but of escalation mistaken for purpose. Reading the accounts of Trump’s Venezuelan operation – no longer merely a “dock strike” but a full-blooded decapitation raid – one hears that same low, familiar hum: motion without destination, force without horizon.

A leap in the dark 

Everyone knew something like this was coming. Few expected it to be so clean. A president seized, command structures stunned, Caracas rattled just enough to demonstrate omnipotence without visibly levelling the city. From a tactical standpoint, it was impressive – the sort of operation that flatters planners and tempts presidents into believing that history, this time, might behave itself. But history rarely does. Leadership can be removed; regimes, less so. Chavismo survived Chávez’s death and Maduro’s long decay. Movements, unlike men, do not collapse neatly when the head is severed. They mutate. They harden. They endure.

This is where the metaphor shifts and darkens. The United States now looks less like a chess grandmaster and more like the proverbial dog that finally caught the car – triumphant, panting, and unsure what to do next. Decapitation creates ownership. Once you have removed the figurehead, ambiguity evaporates. The question is no longer whether Washington is intervening, but what exactly it intends to build, sustain, or suppress in the vacuum it has helped create.

A week ago, US action might have been interpreted as calibrated escalation: signalling without war, pressure without conquest, violence as message rather than mission. That logic may have held when the strike was offshore, symbolic, plausibly deniable as a prelude rather than a crossing. It is harder to sustain once the president of a sovereign state has been bundled onto a ship and flown north in handcuffs. Symbolism has consequences. At some point, signalling becomes authorship.

The deeper assumption underlying both phases – the demonstrative strike and the decapitation raid – is the same one that has haunted American foreign policy for decades: that limited, spectacular violence produces rational political outcomes. That elites defect under pressure rather than close ranks. That populations blame their rulers rather than the foreign power violating their sovereignty. That humiliation weakens movements rather than mythologising them. This faith survived Iraq, limped through Afghanistan, and still stalks Washington like an unkillable ghost.

What reads in Washington as restraint reads elsewhere as undeclared war. What Beltway strategists describe as “calibrated” looks, from Caracas – or Beijing, Moscow, Tehran, each of whom have form – like arbitrariness dressed up as doctrine. In his most recent foreign policy forays, Trump has fired missiles into Nigeria and sent special forces into Venezuela. He cannot wield enough influence to get his way with major powers, so he targets smaller ones. The White House spins this as a demonstration of American strength, but those who rule in Moscow and Beijing will not be fooled. Nor should anyone else. Whilst ostensibly demonstrating American strength, it also highlights its weakness. Today it is Venezuela; tomorrow it might be somewhere else entirely. The pattern is not coherence but surprise. Power exercised as theatre.

Trump’s foreign policy has always oscillated between maximalist rhetoric and minimalist follow-through. He threatens fire and fury, then settles for a crater and a press conference. He speaks the language of conquest while practising the art of nuisance. Yet Venezuela marks a subtle shift. This is no longer nuisance alone. By removing Maduro, Trump has crossed from menace into management, whether he wants the responsibility or not. Chaos, once unleashed, has a habit of demanding supervision.

The international reaction follows a script so familiar it almost performs itself. International law is solemnly invoked by states that otherwise treat it as optional décor. Yanqui imperialism is dusted off and waved aloft. Blood for oil, regime change, darkest chapters, dangerous precedents –  all the old tropes re-emerge, not because they are always wrong, but because they are always available. France, China, Russia, the EU condemn the breach while sidestepping the harder question: what is to be done now that a criminalised, hollowed-out regime has been removed not by its people, but by force?

Latin America splits along its habitual fault lines. Argentina’s Milei cheers liberty’s advance. Brazil’s Lula warns, with weary accuracy, that violence justified as justice tends to metastasise into instability. Neighbouring Colombia braces for refugees. Cuba mutters “state terrorism.” The region remembers – perhaps too well – that external interventions rarely end where their authors imagine.

What is most striking, though, is how little this seems to disturb the American political bloodstream. The legal basis for seizing a foreign head of state is treated as a technicality. Congressional war powers hover faintly in the background. The risk of retaliation, miscalculation, or long-term entanglement is acknowledged, then politely ignored. The old muscle memory of American power keeps flexing, long after the strategic rationale has atrophied.

And so Tuchman returns, not as a moralist but as a diagnostician. Folly is not recklessness; it is normalisation. It is the steady acceptance of contradiction as policy. Trump’s Venezuela adventure now embodies this perfectly: escalation without ownership, ownership without vision, action without explanation. Each move can be defended in isolation. Together, they form a strategy that cannot quite say what it is for.

Hovering over all of this – absurdly, yet tellingly – is the mirage of the Nobel Peace Prize so coveted by President Trump. The prize is not awarded for the mere absence of war, but for the construction of peace: treaties, frameworks, institutions that reduce violence rather than rebrand it. Bombing here, abducting there, tearing up agreements while demanding credit for not starting new wars is not peace-making; it is anti-diplomacy. Peace defined negatively, as something that has not yet collapsed.

One imagines the Nobel Committee reading this Venezuelan episode with a raised eyebrow: sovereignty breached as messaging, escalation choreographed like a reality-show arc, regime change gestured at but not owned. Peace prizes are not usually awarded for keeping one’s options open.

In the end, Trump’s Venezuelan jiggery-pokery is fascinating for the same reason Vietnam remains endlessly analysed. It shows how great powers drift — not because they are blind, but because they cannot quite decide what they are looking for. Chaos without a compass is not the absence of movement. It is movement mistaken for purpose. And history, as Tuchman patiently reminds us, is unforgiving toward those who confuse the two.

Wrong way, go back? 

Soon after the American militarily impressive operation, The Atlantic published an cautionary opinion piece by staff writer Colin Friedersdorf arguing that Trump has effectively launched a regime-change war against Venezuela without constitutional authority, democratic consent, or a plausible plan for what comes next. The core charge is not primarily strategic incompetence but constitutional betrayal.

He contrasts Trump’s actions with past presidents who, whatever their later failures, at least sought congressional authorisation before waging major wars. Roosevelt after Pearl Harbor and George W. Bush before Afghanistan and Iraq are invoked not as moral exemplars but as constitutional ones: they recognised that the power to initiate war belongs to Congress, and that legitimacy flows—however imperfectly—from public consent. Trump, by contrast, has dispensed with permission altogether.

Friedersdorf dismisses the administration’s legal justifications as threadbare. Labeling Maduro a “narcoterrorist” or pointing to a US indictment does not, he argues, amount to lawful grounds for war against a sovereign state. These are prosecutorial claims masquerading as casus belli, not a substitute for authorisation under domestic or international law.

Strategically, the article warns that toppling Maduro would be the easy part. Venezuela is already riddled with armed groups, including Colombian militants who use its territory as a base for smuggling and mining. Removing the regime risks unleashing forces that would not “go quietly,” echoing Iraq and Libya more than any clean counter-narcotics success.

Friedersdorf argues that Trump is uniquely unfitted for a regime-change war for several interlocking reasons, combining personal disposition, governance style, and historical patterns of behaviour. Unlike previous presidents who sought congressional authorisation—Roosevelt after Pearl Harbor, George W. Bush before Afghanistan and Iraq – Trump bypassed the Constitution entirely. For Friedersdorf, this is not merely a procedural violation; it signals a reckless disregard for the legal and democratic frameworks that constrain American war-making, a disregard which has tangible consequences when planning complex military operations overseas.

Second, Trump’s track record of self-interest and transactional politics undermines confidence in his strategic judgment. Friedersdorf points to a “lifelong pattern” in which Trump has pursued personal, familial, or financial gain, sometimes at the expense of institutional norms or public welfare. A regime-change war in a resource-rich country like Venezuela, Friedersdorf suggests, is exactly the kind of environment in which such temptations could manifest: the conflation of national interest with personal enrichment. Unlike professional soldiers or presidents with experience in foreign policy and national security, Trump’s incentives are highly idiosyncratic, making the outcomes of a war unpredictable and potentially self-serving.

Third, Friedersdorf questions Trump’s capacity for sustained leadership and operational management in a conflict that, by its nature, requires patience, coordination, and political nuance. Toppling Maduro may be “easy” in the sense of a tactical strike, but the aftermath – stabilising Venezuela, managing humanitarian fallout, and navigating regional politics – requires sustained commitment. Friedersdorf doubts that Trump possesses the temperament, patience, or skill to oversee such a complex and prolonged effort. The concern is that he could declare victory prematurely, mismanage occupation or transition, or escalate in ways that deepen instability rather than resolve it.

Finally, Friedersdorf critiques the political myopia and disregard for public opinion in Trump’s approach. Polls reportedly showed a majority of Americans opposed to military intervention in Venezuela, yet Trump proceeded unilaterally. In Friedersdorf’s assessment, this combination—constitutional bypass, personal opportunism, lack of leadership discipline, and political insensitivity—makes Trump not just ill-prepared, but dangerously mismatched to the responsibilities of a regime-change war, with risks to both American legitimacy and Venezuelan stability.

In short, Friedersdorf sees Trump as uniquely unfit because the personal, constitutional, and strategic factors that would constrain a conventional president are either absent or inverted in him, making a complex foreign intervention unusually perilous. And, even if the intervention were to improve Venezuelans’ lives – a possibility Friedersdorf does not dismiss outright – it would still represent a violation of American democratic norms.

The concluding warning is blunt: by choosing war despite public opposition and without congressional approval, Trump has shown contempt for both the Constitution and the electorate. If Congress does not assert its authority now, Friedersdorf fears this episode will become precedent – another step toward endless wars of choice launched by executive whim, not collective decision.

In short, the article frames Venezuela not merely as a foreign-policy gamble, but as a constitutional crisis in miniature – one that exposes how fragile America’s war-making restraints have become when a president decides they are inconvenient.

What happens now?

Everyone knew something like this was coming; perhaps fewer expected it to be executed with such clinical speed. The pre-dawn abduction of Nicolás Maduro by US forces is less a surprise than a punctuation mark — a moment where long-signalled intent finally hardened into action. A foreign head of state removed in two hours. Mission theatrically accomplished. Endgame conspicuously absent.

It is challenging, but not impossible, for American forces to amass massive military hardware, materiel and personnel offshore, bombard a small neighbour and send special forces into its capital. It is much harder for an American president to control what happens in the aftermath. This explains why global leaders are so cautious about this operation. No major European leaders have endorsed the use of force to bring down the Venezuelan government.

The real test for Trump is what comes next. He has been rightly critical of the US invasion of Iraq, and his MAGA movement favours “America First” rather than “regime change” overseas, but now he pursues a regime change of his own, with only a vague assurance that he and his lieutenants will run Venezuela for an unspecified time. The objective has a strategic element, in trying to slow the flow of drugs into America, but most of it is nakedly commercial. While other presidents might not have said this out loud, Trump is direct: he wants US control of the Venezuelan oil fields, with US oil companies investing and making money, so that oil production will increase.

In an opinion piece published in the Sydney Morning Hearal on 5th June, Robert Muggah, co-founder of the Igarapé Institute think tank and a fellow at Princeton University, usefully lays out five post-Maduro scenarios, though what binds them is not optimism but ambiguity. The first – Trump declares victory and walks away – would be the most American of outcomes: maximum disruption, minimum follow-through. Chavismo, minus its latest avatar, shuffles on; Washington expends enormous leverage only to abandon it; the refugees keep coming. The dog catches the car, looks briefly triumphant, and then isn’t quite sure what to do next.

The second scenario – a popular uprising washing away Chavismo – flatters liberal intuition but ignores institutional rot. Venezuela’s civic muscle has atrophied after years of repression, criminalisation, and mass emigration. Armed colectivos remain invested in chaos. What sounds like democratic renewal risks becoming a weak interim regime, punctuated by violence, oil-sector infighting, and amnesty wars.

Scenario three is the familiar regime-change fantasy: escalate, sanction, manage an election, install a friendly opposition figure, promise reconstruction. The problem, as ever, is legitimacy. A government midwifed too visibly by Washington inherits the original sin of imperial sponsorship. Chavismo’s anti-imperial narrative – long threadbare –  would suddenly acquire fresh oxygen, while external actors queue up to meddle by proxy. Another low-grade insurgency beckons.

The fourth option – US custodianship – is the one Trump has effectively name-checked: trusteeship without the label. Stabilise the bureaucracy, revive oil production, choreograph elections, dangle sanctions relief, keep troops nearby “just in case”. It is administratively coherent and politically radioactive. It risks converting a crisis of governance into a crisis of sovereignty, hardening nationalist resistance and validating the very mythology the intervention claims to dismantle.

Which leaves the fifth, and perhaps most honest, outcome: managed instability. No clean victory, no decisive collapse. A weakened Chavista elite, a divided opposition, fragmented security actors, and a US that calibrates pressure without appetite for occupation. A low-boil conflict, indefinitely deferred resolution, limbo as policy.

Hovering over all this is Monroe Doctrine 2.0 – a message not just to Caracas but to Havana, Managua, Bogotá, Panama, even further afield. This was less about Maduro than about signalling who gets to set terms in the hemisphere, and who doesn’t. A muscular reminder that alignment matters, and misalignment carries costs.

For Venezuelans themselves, the prognosis is bleakly familiar: another external intervention, another promise of order, another season of uncertainty. The screw tightens, the rhetoric soars, the moral justifications proliferate – and ordinary people remain suspended between liberation narratives and lived precarity.

History suggests this is not an ending but a prologue. The question, as always, is whether anyone involved is genuinely prepared to live with the consequences of what they’ve just begun.

See also in In That Howling InfiniteTales of Yankee Power … at play in America’s backyard, Tales of Yankee power … Why Venezuela, and why now?, Marco Rubio’s Venezuelan bargain and the original  Tales of Yankee Power

Caveat emptor

It is worth recalling, in this context, what ultimately happened to Muammar Gaddafi and Saddam Hussein – two leaders who, in different ways, became objects of Western fixation and regime-change temptation. Saddam was toppled by overwhelming force, hunted down, tried under a hastily constructed legal order, and hanged; the state he ruled collapsed with him, unleashing sectarian violence and regional instability that still reverberate. Gaddafi, having abandoned his weapons programmes in the hope of rehabilitation, was nevertheless pursued once the opportunity arose, cornered during a NATO-backed intervention, and killed by a mob in a Libyan drainage culvert. Libya followed him into fragmentation, militia rule, and proxy warfare.

In neither case did the removal of the strongman deliver the orderly political transformation that had been implicitly promised. What followed was not liberal democracy but vacuum – power without legitimacy, violence without direction. These episodes linger in the strategic memory not merely as moral tales but as practical ones: regime change is easy to threaten, harder to execute, and almost impossible to control once unleashed.


Muammar Gadaffi and Saddam Hussein in captivity

Danger Angel … the ballad of Laura Loomer

Danger angel
Comes screaming through the clouds
She’s coming for your soul, child
She’s gonna take you down

Larkin Poe

Once in a while, In That Howling Infinite is attracted to “out there” larger than life identities, and, like mainstream and social media, gives them much more oxygen than they deserve. MAGA activist and provocateur Laura Loomer is one of those. Avatar and avenging angel, she is both symptom and symbol – the female face of Donald Trump’s politics of vengeance, fuelled by entitlement, envy, and zeal. shes turned grievance into influence, outrage into profession, loyalty into performance art. Some see her as comic relief; others, as proof that moral panic now pays. Either way, she’s the perfect child of her time – restless, theatrical, and forever online. Equal parts scandal, spectacle, and self-made legend, she’s the Right’s answer to the Left’s cancel culture: a one-woman inquisition armed with a smartphone and an inexhaustible sense of grievance.

We republish below Unherd editor and reporter James Billot’s article tracing the rise of this “hit woman” of MAGA politics, the scalps she has lifted, and the theatre of fear and fandom she inhabits. It’s an entertaining but nonetheless disturbing portrait of ambition, vanity, and the politics of outrage. Billot paints her as a digital Torquemada: part gossip columnist, part bounty hunter, part true believer.

As for the title of this piece, there is indeed a Ballad of Laura Loomer. It follows the précis. 

Précis: A hit job on a ‘hit woman’

Danger angel
Won’t listen to your prayers
She’ll drink your holy water
Slip into your nightmares
There’s nothing you can give her
That she hasn’t already got
While you might think you’ve caught her
You’ve blown your only shot, look out
Danger Angel!

Loomer has made herself indispensable to Donald Trump not through proximity or power, but through her peculiar genius for weaponised outrage – the art of turning suspicion into spectacle. Her method is almost monastic in its discipline. For 16 hours a day, she trawls social media for ideological impurity – anyone in government who displays insufficient loyalty to the Great Leader. The sins are various: vaccine sympathy, a whiff of neoconservatism, a stray Black Lives Matter post. The punishment is swift. She “Loomers” them – posting their misdeeds to her 1.8 million followers, tipping off the White House, and waiting for the axe to fall. According to her, dozens have been purged at her prompting: an FDA vaccine chief, an NSA lawyer, a West Point academic, defence and security staffers, and even senior Trump appointees who thought they were untouchable. It’s research as blood sport.

Billot’s portrait is gleefully surgical: the self-declared “most banned woman in the world” living in a Florida rental with four rescue dogs and a livestream habit, railing against the “Big Tech” cabal that simultaneously victimises and enriches her. She’s banned by Uber, Lyft, Twitter (then reinstated by Musk), PayPal, GoFundMe, Facebook, Venmo, and Clubhouse. Each ban becomes a badge of honour, another stripe on her martyr’s uniform. She wears persecution like perfume — and sells the bottle for $29.99 on her website.

Loomer’s life is powered by thwarted ambition. She missed out on Dartmouth, lost two congressional races, and has been repeatedly blocked from a White House role. Yet each rejection feeds her legend. Her career began in the Project Veritas circus — dressing in a burqa to “expose” voter fraud — and evolved into a full-blown performance art of paranoia. She disrupted a Trump-themed Julius Caesar production in 2017, screamed about “violence against Donald Trump”, and became a Fox News darling overnight. She has accused Casey DeSantis of faking cancer, called Islam a “cancer on humanity”, and suggested that Parkland and 9/11 were staged. Apology, for Loomer, is treason.

She calls herself an “investigative journalist”, but the investigations are really moral witch trials – improvised, viral, and frighteningly effective. She boasts that cabinet secretaries call her in panic to explain themselves before her next blast. Even those who despise her respect her reach. Her Rumble show – part soapbox, part sermon brings in $15,000 a month and features the MAGA trinity of sponsors: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and gold. It is populism as home shopping channel.

What emerges from Billot’s piece is a grotesque yet compelling portrait: a woman who believes fear is the measure of respect; who seeks validation from a man who will never truly give it; who builds empires of influence on foundations of resentment. She is both symptom and symbol — the female face of Trump’s politics of vengeance, fuelled by a cocktail of entitlement, envy, and zeal.

The article is, yes, a hit piece – but on a hit woman who has built her fame on delivering them. It is difficult not to admire, in a perverse way, her ferocious will, her talent for narrative manipulation, her intuitive understanding of the algorithmic age: how outrage, once properly branded, can become a career. And yet, one senses that when the spotlight shifts, she will be alone again — another pawn discarded once her usefulness fades. Like all propagandists, she lives by the flame she feeds, and it will consume her soon enough.

Step outside Billot’s irony and the picture of Laura becomes at once less cartoonish and more troubling.  Academic analyses of the post-2016 MAGA media sphere – by researchers at George Washington University’s Programme on Extremism, the Oxford Internet Institute, and the Pew Research Centre – suggest that Loomer is neither a fringe eccentric nor an isolated provocateur but a structural feature of the ecosystem itself: an entrepreneur of grievance, feeding and fed by a self-sustaining outrage economy.  Her claim to be “the most banned woman in the world” is the cornerstone of what political scientists call the martyrdom loop- censorship begets notoriety, notoriety begets income, income sustains further provocation.  Studies by the Knight Foundation and NewGuard show that de-platforming frequently increases engagement among core followers; the sense of persecution becomes the product.  She is thus less an aberration than a prototype: the logical child of a system that monetises moral panic.

Her success, such as it is, also mirrors the logic of the platforms themselves.  Engagement-based algorithms on X, Rumble, and Truth Social reward moral extremity; the next post must out-outrage the last.  Her “hits” against officials accused of ideological impurity exemplify what information-ethics researchers call punitive virality – online denunciation with real-world consequences.  When civil-service careers collapse under these pile-ons, activism becomes indistinguishable from intimidation.  Even conservative outlets such as the Washington Examiner have begun to note the irony: this is cancel culture re-engineered by its own supposed opponents, a revolution now devouring itself.

Sociologically, Loomer’s self-reinvention – cosmetic transformation, performative devotion to Trump, ritual declarations of loyalty – fits a broader pattern noted by scholars of the American right: women in hyper-masculinist movements often claim power by policing the boundaries of belief more fiercely than their male counterparts.  She embodies that paradox of agency and subjugation, the inquisitor disguised as devotee.  Feminist media critics see in her a parody of empowerment—the female enforcer of patriarchal purity tests, punishing deviation with theatrical zeal.

Factually, her record is less about fabrication than inflation.  Independent checks by Reuters, AP Fact Check, and the ADL show consistent distortion and exaggeration, but rarely outright invention.  Yet every correction, every ban, every supposed silencing, only reinforces her narrative of persecution.  Communication theorists have observed this since the early Trump years: to her audience, refutation is proof that she must be right.  Counter-speech becomes confirmation bias, feeding the myth of suppressed truth.

Politically, she operates in the zone that historian Timothy Snyder calls sadopopulism, a political strategy where leaders inflict pain on their followers to maintain power, combining sadism (pleasure from inflicting pain) and populism (claiming to represent the common people) in a way that manipulates and controls the populace through fear, anxiety, and division – there is always an “other” to look down on and pillory.  In this way ,Snyder argues in his video (see below), America can be governed without policy and with pain.

Economically, she exemplifies the gigification of politics: a freelance inquisitor in the attention marketplace, thriving precisely because trust in institutions has collapsed. Psychologically, she is a practitioner of narcissistic moralism – the conviction that outrage itself is virtue. To dismiss her as a comic sideshow, as Billot half-invites us to do, is to miss the larger point: Loomer is not exceptional but emblematic. She is the distilled essence of a system that confuses virality with validity, noise with news, emotion with evidence. She is dangerous not for what she believes but for how effectively she has turned belief into business.  Remove her and another will appear, promising to keep everyone on their toes – another entrepreneur in the endless market of grievance that now passes for public life.

The above commentary was composed in collaboration with ChatGPT

For more on American politics in In That Howling Infinite, see My Country ‘Tis Of Thee 

More larger than life takes in In That Howling Infinite: The Monarch of the Sea  , Tim Page’s War – a photographer’s Vietnam, Lucifer Descending … encounters with the morning star, The Odyssey of Assid Corban

The Ballad of Laura Loomer

Laura Loomer – American activist and provocateur – rose from the fringes of the internet to become MAGA’s self-appointed scourge, a zealot in the age of algorithms.  Armed with outrage, she turned “opposition research” into ritual sacrifice, serving her King with names from the digital pyre.  But every court has its fool, every prophet her reflection; and when the storm subsides, only the glow of the screen remains.  This ballad is her mirror – half elegy, half exorcism, part lampoon, part lament, a hymn for the saint of spite.

She was born again in the wild news feed
Where the truth and thunder rhyme
With a restless greed and an aching need
To be trending one more time

“Fear’s the only faith I keep” she said
“And respect is just for the weak”
So she chased down the treasons fathoms deep
In the wastelands of the Woke

Sing a song for Laura Loomer
In the glow of her laptop’s light
In the name of all unholy
Raise a glass to the saint of spite

She courted the King with her venomous tongue
Fed him names from her digital pyre
He smiled and winked and the faithful sung
And the fearful fled her fire

But kingdoms built on shifting sands
Fade away like snow in June
She mistook his fickle favour
For promises carved in runes

Sing a song for Laura Loomer
In the glow of her laptop’s light
In the name of all unholy
Raise a glass to the saint of spite

Her dogs keep guard in the Florida rain
Her livestream hums in a world of blame
Each post is a rosary bead of pain
And each follower whispers her name

“I’m cancelled for telling the truth” she said
Though that truth was over blown
It rests with the ghosts of the posts that she made
And the crown she thought she’d owned

So raise a glass to the saints of spite
Who confuse the glare for grace
For they’re the children of the night
And are locked its wild embrace

Trump’s muckraker-in-chief wants to be feared

James Billot, Unherd, 11 October 2026

The famous Italian-American crime boss Frank Costello once said, “I’m a man who believes in the law. But I also believe in a little intimidation.” It’s a sentiment that Laura Loomer, MAGA’s most notorious activist-journalist, embraces with gusto. “It’s good to be feared because you have to keep people on their toes,” she says. “You’re not going to command respect otherwise.”

No one is feared more in MAGA world than Laura Loomer. She is Donald Trump’s unofficial muckraker-in-chief, a human-sized security wand who scans for political impurities in the government workforce. As she describes it, her job as an “investigative journalist” is to root out anyone disloyal to the President, be they bureaucrats, judges, or even cabinet secretaries.

Loomer does this by spending 16 hours a day, seven days a week, researching targets on the Internet. When she finds an incriminating piece of information — BLM support, vaccine promotion, or, worst of all, neoconservatism — she will push out the news to her 1.8 million X followers. She then presents it to the President, either in person or through his staff, and days later, that person is out of a job. They have been, as she modestly puts it, “Loomered”.

Once a Right-wing internet provocateur confined to the dark corners of the internet, Loomer now wields extraordinary influence in the White House. With near-unfettered access to the President — an informal adviser whose online crusades can make or break staff careers — she proudly declares that she has claimed over “four dozen” federal employee “scalps”, and expects “hundreds” more. These might be a “good metric” for success, but there is a more important measure in her eyes: validation from Trump, her peers, and the public.

Loomer’s life, though, has been characterised by disappointment: missing out on a spot at Dartmouth University (her father’s alma mater), narrowly losing a Congressional seat twice, and most recently being passed over for a White House job. Each loss has fuelled an enduring sense of injustice — that somehow the world owes her for her misfortune.

When I speak to her, she is seething with indignation. “I am the most underappreciated and undervalued journalist in America today,” Loomer tells me. “I don’t get the respect I deserve.” It is an interesting assumption from someone who has spent the better part of a decade stretching the bounds of what can be called “journalism”. Back in her college days, Loomer worked for Project Veritas, an activist group that uses sting recordings, stunts and entrapment to create bad publicity for its targets. On the day of the 2016 presidential election, Loomer arrived at a polling station dressed in a burqa and demanded a ballot under the name Huma Abedin. Her ballot was rejected, but the lesson stuck: outrage got attention.

Nine years on, her taste for controversy is undiluted. She has seized on national tragedies to advance her own political agenda and rarely, if ever, apologises when she is in the wrong. In September this year, shortly after a gunman killed four churchgoers in Michigan, Loomer claimed, “hate against Christians is widespread in places like Michigan because the entire state is being taken over by Muslims who refuse to assimilate”. The shooter later turned out to be a Trump-supporting Republican, yet Loomer stayed silent. And weeks before Charlie Kirk’s assassination, she labelled him a “charlatan” — a charge she stands by to this day.

Trump remains a fan, describing her as “a free spirit” and a “patriot”. She boasts that the pair of them chatted just a couple of weeks ago, but when I ask for details, she affects coyness, claiming she “doesn’t want to get into specifics”. This is the President after all. “I never ask him for anything,” says Loomer, “which is probably why he likes me so much.”

“She has seized on national tragedies to advance her own political agenda and rarely, if ever, apologises when she is in the wrong.”
Loomer’s devotion to the President is total. Her work, her weight (she lost 25 pounds to look “presentable” for him), and even her Mar-a-Lago face is shaped for Trump-appeal. But it took years of relentless campaigning, cheerleading, and provocative stunts for him to even notice her. In one memorable — and eerily prescient — example, Loomer disrupted a New York City production of Julius Caesar in 2017, in which Trump was reimagined as the titular character during his first term. Onstage, she screamed: “This is violence against Donald Trump! Stop the normalisation of political violence against the Right! This is unacceptable!” While Trump never publicly acknowledged the incident, it would be hard to imagine that he did not notice the subsequent widespread Fox News coverage.

Loomer revelled in the controversy that these stunts generated, and as her profile grew, so too did her notoriety. In 2017, she was banned by Uber and Lyft for complaining about a lack of “non-Muslim” drivers. Then, in 2018, Twitter banned her for attacking Ilhan Omar as “anti Jewish”, claiming that she was a member of a religion in which “homosexuals are oppressed” and “women are abused”. The bans kept coming, but she only grew louder and more provocative. By 2021, she had been barred from at least eight platforms — Uber, Lyft, Twitter, PayPal, GoFundMe, Venmo, Facebook, and Clubhouse — for hate speech and disinformation.

“I don’t know anybody else, aside from President Trump, who has been subjected to the level of deplatforming that I’ve been subjected to,” Loomer tells me with something akin to pride. She says this is why she failed to win her two Florida Congressional races in 2020 and 2022, despite Trump’s endorsement in the latter. “I was the first candidate in federal history that was completely denied all access to social media… I would have been the youngest woman ever elected to the United States Congress in US history had I not been silenced by Big Tech.” And the outrage-generation business clearly has benefits. On her website, where you can buy “Donald Trump did nothing wrong!” and “Forever Trump” T-shirts, a $30 book is on sale called Loomered: How I became the most banned woman in the world. Free speech martyrdom seems to have a few financial perks.

Her irritation has only deepened after the Supreme Court threw out her appeal this week against Big Tech over her bans — a case so weak that both X and Meta waived their right to respond (Elon Musk reinstated her in 2022). And she is indignant about her “stolen potential”. While she languished in Palo Alto purgatory, other Right-wing podcasters made their riches. “As a woman, you’re in your prime time in your twenties and thirties, so I wasn’t able to amass a fortune and build a media empire,” she says. “What’s so special about Ben Shapiro? He’s not breaking stories. He’s just commenting on the news. He’s Jewish, I’m Jewish. He’s conservative, I’m conservative. And yet, he has a company that is worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

But nor was Ben Shapiro going around calling himself a “proud Islamophobe” and stating that Islam is a “cancer on humanity”. He wasn’t dressing up in Burqas to vote in presidential elections either. But Loomer breezes past these awkward facts. “I carry this resentment against Big Tech with me on a daily basis,” she says. “’I’ve had professional opportunities stolen from me, I’ve also had social opportunities stolen from me.”

Despite these bans, she still records a twice-weekly Rumble show that brings in around $15,000 a month. It is filmed in the spare bedroom of her Florida Panhandle rental apartment that she shares with her boyfriend and four rescue dogs. Each show runs for around three hours and features extensive, unscripted monologues on the “EXPLOSION” of Islamic terror in Britain, along with interviews with RFK’s so-called “Tylenol whisperer” and Camp Lejeune widows. They are part crusade, part carnival and part confessional; the only breaks come in the form of MAGA’s holy trinity of ads: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and gold.

Her broadcasts are filled with a litany of familiar gripes. She is angry that she’s not a millionaire; angry that her work is overlooked; and angry that other journalists are deemed more respectable. “I know a lot of people who don’t even have anywhere near the following that I have — people who are kind of a joke — who have been given access to Air Force One,” she says. “It makes no sense.”

All the while, Loomer swims in a river of bitterness and entitlement. Her home is the command centre for what she describes as “opposition research”, where tips pour in about Biden holdovers, closet Leftists, and anyone she considers disloyal to the President. It is a craft she learnt from Roger Stone, her mentor and a longtime GOP operative who was sentenced to 40 months in federal prison during the Russiagate investigation in 2020. The 73-year-old made his name as the “original political hitman” by unearthing damaging (and sometimes fake) information about his political opponents. It turned him into an invaluable resource for not only Trump, but his Republican predecessors too.

Loomer’s approach to politics bears all the hallmarks of Stone’s skullduggery. She has weaponised opposition research and public pressure into tools which topple officials. During one particularly productive week over the summer, she claimed three “scalps”: the Trump administration ousted FDA vaccine chief Dr. Vinay Prasad, dismissed NSA General Counsel April Falcon Doss, and revoked Jen Easterly’s appointment as chair of West Point’s social sciences department — each decision coming shortly after her public attacks.

Loomer has also shown no hesitation in taking on even the most prominent figures in Trump’s cabinet. After attacking Pam “Blondi” for her handling of the Epstein files in July, a month later, she turned her sights on RFK Jr., claiming that he was plotting a 2028 presidential run. He denied the allegations, but what happened next was classic Loomerism: the pair made amends, with RFK meeting Loomer and announcing a plan to phase out animal testing — a cause close to her heart.

“Cabinet secretaries all try to have cordial relations with me because they’re scared of getting blown up,” she says when I ask whether she maintains contact with the administration. “So there’ve been a couple of times that I’ve had them call me and say, ‘Hey, I just want to explain what happened here’ because they’re worried about the backlash.” Are they frightened of her? “Well, my receipts are bulletproof,” she says. Was it the same with RKF? “We had a few conversations,” Loomer cryptically replies.

She will even criticise the President on rare occasions. Earlier this year, Loomer attacked Trump’s decision to accept a $400 million Qatari jet for Air Force One, calling it a “stain” on the presidency. And more recently, she threatened to pull her 2026 midterm vote when Defence Secretary Pete Hegseth announced that the US had approved the establishment of a Qatari Emiri Air Force facility in Idaho. “I cannot in good conscience make any excuses for the harboring of jihadis,” she posted. “This is where I draw the line.” “America could have been so great,” she followed up. “Now we will be a Muslim country. This must be what hell feels like.”

Given this power, why then, I ask, has she not been given a White House role, let alone a press pass? She claims that Trump has offered her a job four times, but White House staff have quietly blocked it on each occasion. “It’s professional jealousy,” she says. “President Trump’s staff who don’t like the fact he likes me… They just get high on their own power and don’t let me in.” She is, she insists, the victim of small-minded gatekeeping — a misunderstood ally whose loyalty is undervalued by the petty bureaucrats who feel threatened by her power. In Loomer’s eyes, she is utterly blameless.

But there is a danger here. As she recklessly burns through the administration, tying herself so closely to the fate and fortune of one man, with no formal role or official recognition, what, then, happens when he goes? She is left with no allies, no job, no platforms, no car rides — just scorched earth. For the first time, Loomer sounds uncertain. She pauses; introspection doesn’t come naturally. “By the time Trump’s out of office, I’ll be 36 years old. And by then, I’m going to have to start thinking about other things in life. So who knows whether I’ll be doing this forever.” And then she adds, with a straight face, “the Right-wing ecosystem has also become very toxic”.

Loomer, arguably more than anyone else in this sphere, has helped stoke that toxicity. Haranguing politicians with bullhorns, filming people without their knowledge or consent, and attempting to cancel public figures online represent the Right at its worst. These are gutter politics — and that’s before we flick through the long charge sheet of particularly “provocative” statements, including that the 2018 Parkland and Santa Fe high school shootings involved crisis actors; that Casey DeSantis, wife of then presidential candidate Ron DeSantis, exaggerated her breast cancer to boost her husband’s campaign; and that 9/11 was an “inside job”.

Our conversation revealed a woman who is a cocktail of festering resentment and entitlement, who will use any new connection for her own ends. She is the classic Trump pawn: deployed for as long as she is useful, and then discarded. The President will throw her a morsel of camaraderie from time to time, but it’ll never be more than that. She’s driven by this toxic frustration. It came as no real surprise when, a day after our conversation, she texted me a photo of “independent journalists” at the White House from Trump’s press secretary, Karoline Leavitt’s account. “No invite for me though.”

Loomer will inevitably be cast out — though she doesn’t seem to know it. “I don’t aggregate news, I create the news,” she says proudly. “The President has said that he sees my content and I’m pretty much followed by every single main White House staffer and cabinet member on X.” Her content extends far beyond X, but the poison that she helped to inject now courses through America’s body politic.

Why Osama bin Laden lost the battle but won the war

In a recent opinion piece in The Australian conservative British historian and US resident Niall Ferguson reflects on the legacy of 9/11 and concludes – after two decades of analysis – that the attacks on 11 September 2001 signaled not merely terrorism but a broader clash of civilisations that the West is now losing. Recalling his own reactions on that momentous day, Ferguson admits that he initially sought secular explanations for the attacks: economic downturns, American imperial overreach, and global political fragmentation. Yet re-examining Osama bin Laden’s statements, he recognises that the al-Qa’ida leader framed his actions as a religious war against “crusaders,” rooted in Islamic grievance over Palestine and Western dominance. Bin Laden’s explicit appeal to faith, not politics, aligns with Samuel Huntington’s much-criticised thesis that post–Cold War conflict would be cultural, with Islam and the West as enduring antagonists.

Although the United States and its allies largely defeated jihadist terrorism within their own borders—terrorism in Iraq has plummeted and attacks in the U.S. remain rare—Ferguson argues that Islamism has advanced through dawa (non-violent proselytising) and political penetration. Organisations such as the Council on American-Islamic Relations, linked to the Muslim Brotherhood, exploit Western legal and educational institutions while Gulf states like Qatar fund universities and shape intellectual climates. Meanwhile, demographic trends favour Islam: global Muslim populations are rising rapidly and will nearly equal Christians by mid-century, while Western societies grow more secular and internally divided.

Geopolitically, the West faces a resurgent “axis of upheaval”—China, Russia, Iran, and North Korea—while allies waver. The international solidarity that followed 9/11 contrasts sharply with the fragmented reaction to Hamas’s October 7, 2023 attacks on Israel, where UN resolutions condemned Israeli actions more than Islamist violence and several states recognised Palestinian statehood. Public opinion, especially among younger generations, has shifted sharply against Israel and, in some cases, towards open antisemitism; bin Laden’s anti-Western rhetoric even circulates approvingly on platforms like TikTok.

Ferguson concedes that bin Laden lost the “war on terror,” but claims he is winning the longer contest Huntington foresaw. Islamism thrives without spectacular violence, demographic momentum favours Muslim societies, and Western civilisation—once confident in its Judeo-Christian identity—is fractured and uncertain. Two decades after 9/11, Ferguson concludes that the clash of civilisations is real, and the West is no longer clearly ahead.

Also, in In That Howling Infinite, see A Short History of the Rise and Fall of the West , and A Middle East Miscellany

Osama bin Laden’s Posthumous Victory  

Niall Ferguson, The Australian, 19 September 2025
Last week’s azure September skies over New York brought back memories. Twenty-four years ago I was due to give a lecture at New York University. The date of the lecture was September 12. I never flew.

On the day of the attacks, I sat in my study at Jesus College, Oxford, staring incredulously at the pixelated live video of the World Trade Centre twin towers first blazing, then collapsing. Not long after, in April 2002, I accepted a chair at the Stern School of Business at New York University and resigned my Oxford professorship.

My motivation was partly the hereditary Scottish tendency to march towards the sound of gunfire. As a teenager in 1914, my grandfather John Ferguson had volunteered to fight the Germans. This seemed easier.

Regardless of the 9/11 attackers’ motives, I had a strong objection to terrorism as a political method – a result of growing up in Glasgow in the 1970s, when “the Troubles” in nearby Northern Ireland did more than merely resonate.

My first impulse after the attacks, in a piece for The New York Times, was to liken the sympathetic British reaction to 9/11 to the American reaction to the Blitz of 1940-41.

A man stands in the rubble, and calls out asking if anyone needs help, after the collapse of the first World Trade Center Tower. Picture: Doug Kanter / AFP

In the rubble, after the collapse of the first World Trade Center Tower. Doug Kanter / AFP

But I also warned Americans to “steel themselves for a long, inglorious kind of war that governments in Europe already know only too well”. In wars against terrorists, I wrote, “there are no quick victories. The foe does not line up his tanks for you to flatten, his ships for you to sink. His troops live among you.”

Yet this was not the Provisional IRA. Re-reading a transcript of Osama bin Laden’s first post-9/11 video, from November 3, 2001, I am reminded of how explicitly he declared a war of religion. “People were divided into two parts” after 9/11, he declared. “The first part supported these strikes against US tyranny, while the second denounced them.

“The vast majority of the sons of the Islamic world were happy about these strikes,” bin Laden went on, “because they believe that the strikes were in reaction to the huge criminality practised by Israel and the United States in Palestine and other Muslim countries.”

Al-Qaeda mastermind Osama bin Laden.

Al-Qaeda mastermind Osama bin Laden.

There were demonstrations of support for his action “from the farthest point in the eastern part of the Islamic world to the farthest point in the western part of the Islamic world”. This revealed the key reality: “This war is fundamentally religious. The people of the East are Muslims. They sympathised with Muslims against the people of the West, who are the crusaders.”

With the passage of 2½ decades, it is startling just how unambiguous bin Laden was about his religious motive. “Under no circumstances,” he declared, “should we forget this enmity between us and the infidels. For the enmity is based on creed … It is a question of faith, not a war against terrorism.” The goal of all Muslims should now be to “resist the most ferocious, serious and violent Crusade campaign against Islam ever since the message was revealed” to Mohammed.

Bin Laden saw the war he was waging as a counter-attack – “to take revenge for those innocent children in Palestine, Iraq, southern Sudan, Somalia, Kashmir and The Philippines”. The US president, George W. Bush, might be the latest “crusader”, who “carried the cross and raised its banner high”, but bin Laden traced his war back to the aftermath of World War I when “the whole Islamic world fell under the crusader banner … and Palestine was occupied by the British”. Now the tables had been turned. And he had turned them with just 19 men whose faith exalted martyrdom.

George W Bush standing next to retired firefighter Bob Beckwith, speaks to volunteers and firemen as he surveys the damage at the site of the World Trade Center in on September 14 2001. Picture: AFP

George W Bush and retired firefighter Bob Beckwith, September 14, 2001, AFP

You can see why, at the time, many commentators saw 9/11 as vindicating Harvard political scientist Samuel Huntington, whose seminal essay on The Clash of Civilisations had been published in 1993, as well as Princeton scholar Bernard Lewis, who had long argued that Islam was chronically unable to modernise.

My wife, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, was born in Somalia and shared this view, not because she was a scholar of Islam but because she was a Muslim – and, indeed, a former member of the Muslim Brotherhood. In September 2001, she was working at a political think tank in the Netherlands, having sought asylum there in 1992 to escape war-torn Mogadishu and an arranged marriage.

Author Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Author Ayaan Hirsi Ali

In her memoir, Infidel, she recalls how, after hearing bin Laden’s video, she “picked up the (Koran) and the hadith and started looking through them, to check. I hated to do it, because I knew that I would find bin Laden’s quotations in there.” She shot to notoriety by telling the Dutch that the 9/11 attackers were simply following the Prophet Mohammed’s injunction to wage holy war.

Over the past 24 years I have valiantly tried to see 9/11 differently – not as a civilisational clash between Islam and “the West” but as something that fit better into my own secular frame of reference. Raised an atheist, trained as an economic historian, I felt obliged to look behind what I took to be the facade of religious zealotry.

A decade after the attacks, in a piece I wrote for The New York Times Magazine, I portrayed them as the product of four underlying historical trends. First, the spread of terrorism from the Middle East and Europe to the US. Second, the post-2000 economic downturn, combined with widening inequality between nations and a coming oil shock, possibly compounded by a Saudi revolution akin to the one that overthrew the shah in Iran in 1979. (I completely failed to foresee the shale oil revolution and bought into the “peak oil” myth.) Third, the transition of American global power from informal to formal imperialism. And last, the fragmentation of the multicultural polity. (“Rather than anticipating a clash between monolithic civilisations, we should expect a continued process of political disintegration as religious and ethnic conflicts challenge the integrity of existing multicultural nation-states.”)

Missing in this – and in much of my work that followed – was Islam.

In The War of the World (2006), I got a little closer to Huntington, portraying 1979 as a much bigger turning point than 2001 in terms of the demographic as well as political rise of Islam, a point I returned to in Civilization: The West and the Rest (2011). However, laboriously quantifying every war since Huntington’s essay had appeared, I argued that most conflicts since 1993 had, in reality, been within rather than between civilisations. In The Square and the Tower (2017), I applied network theory to the problem, showing how al-Qaeda itself was a network within a much larger network of Islamist organisations; and that its expansion in response to the invasion of Iraq ultimately necessitated a networked response (in the form of General Stan McChrystal’s Joint Special Operations Command). Most recently, in Doom (2021), I downgraded 9/11 to just another disaster, and not a very big one: “In terms of excess mortality, April 2020 in New York City was … three and a half times worse than September 2001, the month of the 9/11 terrorist attack.”

Huntington, Lewis and my wife were right.

In Huntington’s original formulation, “the fundamental source of conflict” in the world after the Cold War would be cultural; “the principal conflicts of global politics” would be “between nations and groups of different civilisations” – “Western, Confucian, Japanese, Islamic, Hindu, Slavic-Orthodox, Latin American, and possibly African”. In particular, Huntington predicted, the “centuries-old military interaction between the West and Islam” could become “more virulent”. He also foresaw a “Confucian-Islamic military connection” that would culminate in a conflict between “The West and the Rest”.

Among the younger generation of proto-woke Ivy League professors, Huntington was widely mocked for his “essentialism”. But consider, with Huntington’s argument in mind, all that has happened since September 2001.

Terrorism has largely been contained in the US and EU, though not globally. In that sense, we won the “war on terror”, which was successfully displaced from the US to the periphery. It was ultimately defeated in Iraq, though not in Afghanistan. Today, as a result, terrorism in the world looks very different from what I foresaw in 2001. According to the Global Terrorism Index 2025, published by the Institute for Economics & Peace, the top five countries most impacted by terrorism last year were: Burkina Faso, Pakistan, Syria, Mali and Niger. Globally, terrorism peaked in 2014-15. In countries such as Iraq, it has declined dramatically. (In 2007, terrorists claimed 6249 lives in Iraq. Last year, the total was just 59.)

In the US, it is widely asserted, white supremacists now pose a bigger terrorist threat than Islamists – although the attack in New Orleans on January 1, 2025, when Shamsud-Din Jabbar killed 14 people by driving a pick-up truck into a crowd on Bourbon Street, is a reminder that Islamic State has not entirely gone away. We now know who murdered Charlie Kirk, and a white supremacist he was not.

Still, the latest Global Terrorism Threat Assessment by the Centre for Strategic and International Studies makes clear just how wrong I was in 2001 to anticipate a sustained campaign of jihadist terrorism in the US. Say what you like about our national security agencies, they won that war.

Yet nonviolent radicalisation (what Islam calls dawa as opposed to violent jihad) has advanced significantly everywhere in the Western world, wherever there are Muslim communities. The critical point – as my wife explained in a book on the subject – is that Islamism as a deeply illiberal political ideology does not need to engage in acts of terrorism to spread.

I never cease to marvel at the ingenuity with which the Muslim Brotherhood and other proselytising organisations spread their networks, through mosques, Islamic centres, schools, colleges and local politics. Consider only the effectiveness of the Council of American-Islamic Relations, founded in 1994, which today boasts on its website of having “100+ active lawsuits” and “600,000+ Legislative Action Alerts”, whatever that means. It has almost 30 offices throughout the country.

Most people who encounter CAIR take it to be something like the Anti-Defamation League for Muslims – a civil rights organisation that just happens to be concerned about the rights of Muslims. But it is not that at all.

Ten countries have recognised the non-existent Palestinian state since October 7, including three European Union EU member states, Ireland, Slovenia, and Spain. Canada, France, Australia and the United Kingdom Britain are itching to join them. Picture: AFP

Ten countries have recognized the non-existent Palestinian state since October 7, including three European Union EU member states, Ireland, Slovenia, and Spain. Canada, France, Australia and the United Kingdom Britain are itching to join them. Picture: AFP

Rather, it is more like a front organisation for the Muslim Brotherhood of America. In a recent article, Ayaan has brilliantly described the many ingenious ways that CAIR exploits the institutions of our open society, most recently settling a lawsuit to avoid revealing its sources of funding.

Good luck following the money. In her words: “The North American Islamic Trust (NAIT) controls mosque properties and financial assets. The Islamic Society of North America (ISNA) lends the Brotherhood a degree of religious legitimacy. The American Muslim Council (AMC) works the political front, cutting deals and building alliances. The Muslim American Society (MAS) runs operations on the ground, embedding itself firmly in local communities. In universities, the International Institute of Islamic Thought (IIIT) shapes the narrative. On campuses, the Muslim Students’ Association (MSA) targets the next wave of recruits. The Islamic Circle of North America (ICNA) and Young Muslims (YM) focus on families and youth.”

Even the United Arab Emirates has proscribed CAIR as a terrorist organisation. Yet dozens of Democratic legislators are on the record on the CAIR website, praising its work as they doubtless also praise the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.

A complementary effort is the way Qatar – the largest source of foreign donations to US universities since reporting began in 1986 – funnels money into academia. According to the Network Contagion Research Institute, as reported in The Free Press, nearly a third of Qatari donations to American colleges – more than $US2bn – were given between 2021 and 2024. As Mitchell G. Bard shows in Arab Funding of American Universities (2025), this money is one of the reasons college campuses have become such hotbeds of anti-Semitism in recent years.

It is not just that the West has been successfully penetrated by an antagonistic civilisation that fundamentally rejects the fundamental division between religion and politics – church and state – that lies at the heart of both Christianity and Judaism. The West is also being geopolitically outmanoeuvred by “the rest” in just the way Huntington foresaw.

Former Hamas leaders Ismail Haniya and Yahya Sinwar wave during a rally marking the 30th anniversary of the founding of the Islamist movement in 2017. Picture: AFP

Late Hamas leaders Ismail Haniya and Yahya Sinwar during a rally marking the 30th anniversary of the founding of Hamas in 2017. AFP

Contrast the global order after 9/11 with the global order today. We have come a long way since NATO secretary-general George Robertson’s statement on September 11, 2001: “Our message to the people of the United States is … ‘We are with you’.”

In the past three years, Zbig Brzezinski’s worst-case scenario has come about. “Potentially, the most dangerous scenario,” he wrote in The Grand Chessboard (1997), “would be a grand coalition of China, Russia, and perhaps Iran, an ‘antihegemonic’ coalition united not by ideology but by complementary grievances”.

Since the Russian invasion of Ukraine, that grand coalition has come into being, with North Korea as a fourth member. The “axis of upheaval” (China, Russia, Iran, and North Korea) is now co-operating in military, economic and diplomatic ways.

Moreover, the Trump administration’s combative treatment of US allies (the EU, Japan, South Korea) and neutrals (Brazil, India and Switzerland), not least with respect to trade policy, is alienating not only the traditionally non-aligned but also key partners.

The upshot is that Israel is now virtually alone in fighting against the Islamists, so that even the US wants plausible deniability when, as earlier this month, the Israeli Air Force strikes the leadership of Hamas in the Qatari capital, Doha.

The point is that the clash of civilisation continues. Now ask yourself: Who’s winning?

The Hamas attack on Israel two years ago was essentially an Israeli 9/11 (worse in relative terms). But compare the global reactions.

UN Security Council Resolution 1373, adopted unanimously on September 28, 2001, called on all member states to freeze terrorist financing, pass anti-terrorism laws, prevent suspected terrorists from travelling across international borders, and screen asylum-seekers for possible terrorist ties. This was an unprecedented show of international unity.

By contrast, no Security Council resolution could be passed in the wake of October 7. UN General Assembly Resolution ES-10/21 – which called for an “immediate” and “sustained” humanitarian truce and “cessation of hostilities” in Gaza and condemned “all acts of violence aimed at Palestinian and Israeli civilians” – was introduced by Jordan on behalf of a group of Arab states. When it was adopted on October 27, 2023, 121 voted in favour, 44 abstained, 14 absented themselves and only 14 (including Israel and the US) voted against.

This video grab from footage released by the Israeli Hostage and Missing Families Forum campaign group shows what the group described as Israeli female soldiers being captured by Hamas during the October 7 attack on Israel

Video grab from footage released by the Israeli Hostage and Missing Families Forum campaign shows what the group described as Israeli female soldiers being captured by Hamas on 10/7

Ten countries have recognised the non-existent Palestinian state since October 7, including three EU member states, Ireland, Slovenia, and Spain. Canada, France, Australia and Britain are itching to join them.

In short, comparing the world today with that of 24 years ago, I am tempted to say bin Laden lost the war on terror but is winning the clash of civilisations. That’s not to say his particular brand of Salafist jihadism is winning; it can even be argued that it’s in decline. Bin Laden’s creed was always too uncompromising to form alliances of convenience. By contrast, the pro-Palestinian “global intifada” is much more omnivorous, and can easily absorb the old left (Marxism and pan-Arabism) and the new (anti-globalism and wokeism).

Demographically, Islam is certainly winning. According to Pew Research (June 2025), “The number of Muslims around the world grew 21 per cent between 2010 and 2020, from 1.7 billion to 2.0 billion.” That was twice as fast as the rest of the world’s population, increasing the Muslim share from 24 per cent to 26 per cent. Earlier research by Pew (from 2015) forecast that “if current trends continue, by 2050 the number of Muslims will nearly equal the number of Christians around the world”. In Europe, Pew estimated, Muslims would make up 10 per cent of the overall population, up from 5.9 per cent in 2010. In the US, Muslims would outnumber Jews. This does not seem implausible.

At the same time, Western civilisation today is so much more divided than it was 24 years ago. The public response to October 7 illuminated the divisions. Whereas older voters generally remain more pro-Israel than pro-Palestinian, younger cohorts have swung the other way. Perhaps that’s because to Gen Z, September 11 is a faint memory – as distant as the Cuban missile crisis and John F. Kennedy’s assassination were to my generation. But it’s also because the Islamists have done such a good job of co-opting the campus radicals, somehow overriding the cognitive dissonance in slogans such as “Queers for Palestine”, while tapping the anti-Semitism that still lurks on the far right.

According to Brookings, “young Republicans aged 18-49 have shifted from 35 per cent having an unfavourable view of Israel to 50 per cent unfavourable … Among Democrats, there has been an increase of 62 per cent to 71 per cent (with an unfavourable view of Israel) in the 18 to 49-year-old demographic … Only 9 per cent of those aged 18 to 34 approve of Israel’s military actions in Gaza.”

Supporters of Yemen's Houthi’s gather with pictures of Hamas' slain leader Yahya Sinwar during a rally last year. Picture: AFP

Supporters of Yemen’s Houthi’s with pictures of Hamas’ slain leader Yahya Sinwar2024: AFP

A recent poll in Britain by Campaign Against Anti-Semitism revealed a striking shift in attitudes towards Jews. Once again, the swing towards anti-Semitism is more pronounced among the young: “Forty-five per cent of the British public … believes that Israel treats the Palestinians like the Nazis treated the Jews … 60 per cent of young people believe this.

“Forty-nine per cent of 18-24-year-olds are uncomfortable spending time with people who openly support Israel.

“Only 31 per cent of young voters agree that Israel has a right to exist as a homeland for the Jewish people.

“Twenty-six per cent of the British public believes that Israel can get away with anything because its supporters control the media.

“Nineteen per cent of young people believe that the Hamas attack on Israel was justified.”

Such attitudes can be found in Britain on both the political left and the political right. A third of Labour voters say they are uncomfortable spending time with people who openly support Israel, as do 54 per cent of Green Party voters, 15 per cent of whom believe Hamas’s attack on Israel was justified. But almost one in four supporters of the rapidly growing Reform UK party, led by Nigel Farage, believe Jewish people “chase money more than other people do”.

During the Cold War, the West was often referred to as a “Judaeo-Christian” civilisation. That term is starting to seem like an anachronism. Two years ago, another bin Laden pronouncement – his Letter to America, originally published on the first anniversary of September 11 – enjoyed a sudden resurgence of interest, not least because its attacks on the power of American Jews seemed to strike a chord with young users of TikTok.

Palestinians celebrate their return after crossing the border fence with Israel on October 7, 2023. Picture: AFP

Palestinians celebrate their return after crossing the border fence with Israel on 10/7. AFP

One popular video showed a young woman brushing her hair with the caption, “When you read Osama bin Laden’s letter to America and you realise you’ve been lied to your whole entire life.” At one point in November 2023, a TikTok search for #lettertoamerica found videos with 14.2 million views. In total, about 300 videos were posted under that hashtag.

Walking the streets of New York last week, I felt old. To my children, my students and my employees, September 11 is not a memory. It is not even a historical fact. It is something people argue about on social media.

As I write, Tucker Carlson has just told Piers Morgan that an “FBI document” indicated “an Israeli spy ring in the United States … knew 9/11 was coming”. The reality is, of course, that only the conspirators themselves knew that. They also knew, very clearly, why they were going to do it.

It has taken me all these years to understand that 9/11 really was a clash of civilisations. And it has taken me until now finally to face the reality that ours is losing.

Niall Ferguson is the Milbank Family senior fellow at the Hoover Institution, Stanford University, and a senior faculty fellow of the Belfer Centre for Science and International Affairs at Harvard. He is the author of 16 books, including The Pity of War, The House of Rothschild, and Kissinger, 1923-1968: The Idealist. This essay originally was published in The Free Press

 

The phantom of liberty … the paradoxes of conservatism

Economist and commentator Henry Ergas wrote in The Australian recently: “With the Trump revolution wreaking havoc on conservative movements worldwide and the election rout leaving Liberals stunned, Australian conservatism faces an identity crisis it no longer can afford to ignore. Understanding its divergence from overseas traditions is vital to recovering and redefining the distinctive voice it needs to deal with the latest threat to its existence.”  I have repolished it below.
Personally, I find the crisis in contemporary conservatism, particularly as it pertains to Australia politics, fascinating. Here it is in danger descending into a culture of grievance and of populism (- defined as the quest for simple solutions to complex problems).

These fast-moving times are shaky ground for the creed. People are losing faith in institutions; the church no longer has moral influence; the social norms that once tied the community together are changing at lightning speed. Even many within what can be classified as the centre-right acknowledge  what might be described as the conservative movement is apparently on the back foot, scrambling to define itself by what it opposes rather than what it believes, plagued by self-doubt and confusion as to what to believe what to stand up for.

As younger voters in the Anglo-sphere veer away from conservative parties, old warhorses and young fogeys, an incongruous, anachronistic cabal of reactionaries if ever there was one, desperately seek relevance and comfort as they endeavour to beat back what they see as the rising tide of progressivism and the proliferation of what they condemned as “woke” – a portmanteau word for whatever that dislike and disdain in politics and society’s at large.

“Conservatism” is an intriguing concept. It can broadly be translated as “traditional” values, and can embrace a varied spectrum of “isms”, including authoritarianism, hierarchy, nationalism, nativism and ethnocentrism, and also, en passant, religiosity, homophobia, and indeed, anything deemed antithetical to the old, tried and true ways. In a general sense, it has gained traction across much of the world as people yearn for order and stability and belonging and identity that western-style liberalism with its ecumenical emphasis on identity, equity and diversity cannot satisfy. Many highlight what they see as to the erosion of national institutions, of Western culture and even morality itself. Some advocate a national conservatism that hold nations to be distinctive and to seek to protect this distinctiveness.

It is in essence an atavistic worldview, one which harks back to the ways of thinking and acting of a former time and a yearning for “la recherche du temps perdu”. In its modern manifestations, it is in many ways a belligerent, intolerant creed, quite distinct from the late 18th century English parliamentarian Edmund Burke’s benchmark conservatism, namely the preservation of principles of the past which emerge from “the nature of things by time, custom, succession, accumulation, permutation and improvement of property”, and in which institutions and customs were rendered sacred by longevity and continual use. The comfort of continuity, in fact.

And it is different to what perennial Australian prime minister Robert Menzies was alluding when he formed the Australian Liberal Party in 1945: “a healthy and proud sense of continuity, is one of the greatest steadying influences and a superb element of sanity in a mad world… “ in his Forgotten People speech of 1942, he invoked homes material, homes human and homes spiritual – the homes humans can live in and where families can be enriched spiritually – rather than the merits of some cold ideology. It was a uniquely reassuring doctrine for homely, ordinary folk opposed to change or frightened by it.

In his essay, “Why I Became A Conservative“, the late British philosopher Roger Scruton wrote that the romantic core of the creed was the search for the “lost experience of home”, the dream of a childhood that cannot ever be fully recaptured, but can be “regained and remodelled, to reward us for all the toil of separation through which we are condemned by our original transgression”. At the heart of conservatism, in other words, is love: love for things that exist or existed and must be saved.

In his introduction to A Political Philosophy, Scruton wrote: “the conservation of our shared resources — social, material, economic and spiritual — and resistance to social entropy in all its forms”. His conservatism was, above all, conservationist: constant care for institutions, customs, and family. His debt to Edmund Burke: society is a contract between the living, the dead and the unborn; a “civil association among neighbours” is superior to state intervention; “the most important thing a human being can do is to settle down, make a home and pass it on to one’s children”.

There is something quite benign about these concepts of conservatism. In stark contrast, conservatism that is gaining traction in many countries, particularly in eastern Europe, but also on the MAGA movement in the United States and on the far-right in Western Europe and also, Australia is a cold, atavistic and embittered beast. Populist in its nature, it appeals primarily to those who favour the reassuring hand of a paternal authority figure who is able to promise those aforementioned simple solutions to the modern world’s bewildering array of complex problems. Freethinkers, individuals, and all of heterodox opinions and practices, political, social, biological or spiritual – beware!

© Paul Hemphill 2025. All rights reserved

Disclaimer: the only thing this post has to do with Spanish director Luis Buñuel’s 1974 surrealist comedy drama Le Fantôme de la liberté is its title, although like the film, it challenges pre-conceived notions about the stability of social mores and reality.

See also in In That Howling Infinite, A Political World – thoughts and themes

Existential dilemma: the great conservative split

With the Trump revolution wreaking havoc on conservative movements worldwide and the election rout leaving Liberals stunned, Australian conservatism faces an identity crisis it no longer can afford to ignore.

Henry Ergas and Alex McDermott, The Australian 10 May 2025

The Trump revolution is wreaking havoc on conservative movements worldwide. Artwork: Frank Ling

In the aftermath of last weekend’s devastating election loss it is easy to write off conservatism in Australia. This wouldn’t be for the first time. As historian Keith Hancock observed in Australia (1930), conservative, in this country, has always been a term of abuse, implying that its target is an out-and-out reactionary.

There is nonetheless a profound paradox. Although conservative may be a term of abuse, Australian politics has long had a marked conservative vein, even as its chief protagonists have studiously avoided the descriptor. A hardy perennial, with a distinctive voice that contrasts with overseas conservatism, the conservative instinct in Australia has run deep, dominating federal politics for decades – and recovering, time and again, from setbacks that had been claimed to foreshadow its demise.

Now, however, with the Trump revolution wreaking havoc on conservative movements worldwide and the election rout leaving Liberals stunned, Australian conservatism faces an identity crisis it no longer can afford to ignore. Understanding its divergence from overseas traditions is vital to recovering and redefining the distinctive voice it needs to deal with the latest threat to its existence.

US President Donald Trump and Vice-President JD Vance. Picture: AP

US President Donald Trump and Vice-President JD Vance. Picture: AP

In part, that identity crisis reflects the factor that has made for conservatism’s enduring success: its infinite adaptability. Indeed, the term defies easy definition, just as the groups to which it has been applied defy ready categorisation, making the conservative identity inherently labile.

As Paul de Serville, a historian of Australian and British conservatism, has observed, every party that has emerged to represent conservatism’s interests and beliefs across the past 350 years “is a study in contradiction between opposing traditions and schools of thought”.

Even its founding parent, the movement that eventually became the Conservative Party in Britain, has “died or lain dormant” numerous times, split at least twice, and never settled on any singular set of policies, ideas and beliefs. Its capacity to incorporate diverse elements has in fact been one of its defining qualities. After all, “what other party has elected a Jewish novelist (Disraeli) to lead a group of wordless squires? Or a grocer’s daughter (Thatcher) to rule a sulky band of Tory Wets?”

But beneath the shifting terrain of cultural and political battlegrounds, there are in British conser­vatism some identifiable commitments. Originally, the commitment was above all to tradition. Born in the turmoil of the English civil war, the Tories (a term derived from the Middle English slang for outlaw) stood for loyalty to the Church of England and the crown. Unapologetic royalists, their clergy defended the church against the Puritans while stressing the values of family, home and nationhood. Over time, however, the primary emphasis of British conservatism changed into a commitment to the virtue of prudence.

Often associated with a sense of human limitations and the impossibility of achieving utopia, British conservatism became the embodiment of a Western intellectual tradition that extends back at least as far as St Augustine.

Former British Prime Minister Boris Johnson picture in 2019, led a populist style Conservative Party. Picture: AFP

Former British Prime Minister Boris Johnson led a populist style Conservative Party. AFP

Conservatism in the US had a starkly different origin and trajectory. Far from being a reaction to the threat of change, it was a by-product of the American Revolution’s fight against the crown. Initially, what it sought to conserve was the ideal of a “mixed constitution” whose myriad checks and balances could prevent the development of an overmighty state. That coexisted with the agrarian conservatism of the south that feared, above all, the centralism that might abolish slavery and privilege northern manufacturers over southern primary exporters. Together, those foundations fuelled the development of a staunchly conservative, often highly formalistic legalism whose power – unrivalled in any other Western country – grew with the ascendancy of the Supreme Court.

But as early as the 1820s that version of conservatism faced a powerful challenge from Andrew Jackson’s radical populism. Jacksonian populism had more than its fair share of incoherence but its grassroots pugnacity spawned one of US politics’ most enduring and certainly most distinctive notions: the spectre of a “deep state” that was liberty’s greatest enemy.

Permeated by a Manichean friend-enemy dynamic that distinguishes what American historian Richard Hofstadter famously called the “paranoid style” in US politics, the Jacksonians portrayed the federal government as far worse than overbearing: having been hijacked by the enemies of the common man, it was an actively malevolent force hiding behind the facade of law and order. Only by dismantling it could freedom be preserved.

Former US President Andrew Jackson. Jacksonian populism spawned one of US politics’ most enduring and distinctive notions: the spectre of a ‘deep state’. Picture: News Corp

Former US President Andrew Jackson

The Jacksonians left a deep imprint on the American right and most notably on its rhetoric, but they never entirely conquered the field. The somewhat rigid constitutional conservatism that had preceded Jacksonianism survived and, inspired by intellectual leaders such as Supreme Court associate justice Antonin Scalia, flourished.

At the same time, many other varieties of conservatism appeared and at times reappeared after having gone into abeyance.

For instance, Vice-President JD Vance’scommitment to an intensely moralistic vision of politics – that privileges honest labour over endless consumption, security at home over adventures overseas, family and local community over wider notions of society – renews a Catholic tradition that had waned as the ethnic communities that were its original bearers assimilated into the American mainstream.

Vice-President JD Vance’s commitment to an intensely moralistic vision of politics renews a Catholic tradition that had waned. Picture: AFP

Vice-President JD Vance

In that sense American conservatism was always as mutable, open-ended and diverse as the US itself. But for all of that diversity, the nature of the presidential contest periodically forced its differing elements to coalesce around a leader who somehow embodied the spirit of the times.

Seen in that perspective, Donald Trump’s ascendancy reflects the triumphant resurgence of the movement’s radical populist streak.

As with all populisms, Trump’s message jumbles together contradictory, even irreconcilable, components. But it isn’t intended as a coherent intellectual project – it is not a politics of ideas that Trump pursues but of emotive response and instantaneous impact.

Even less is it a politics of cautious pragmatism, as was the conservatism of Republicans George HW Bush or John McCain, who also channelled one of American patriotism’s many styles. And least of all is it, like Vance’s, a politics of high moral purpose. Rather, it is a politics of personal power, deployed, often arbitrarily, to purposes that can change unpredictably from day to day.

That it is not to deny that there runs through Trump’s project American conservatism’s golden thread: the goal of restoring what his supporters view as the freedoms that were the original promise of the American founding and, later, the American Revolution.

But much as was the case with the Jacksonians, that goal is to be achieved by demolishing existing institutions, which are cast as having betrayed the original promise, rather than through their cautious reform. Trumpism’s intensely antinomian character is starkly antagonistic to the American tradition of constitutional conservatism, which is why a number of unquestionably conservative scholars are challenging the administration’s actions in the courts. At the same time, its messianic quality, imbued with visions of future glory, breeds a fanaticism entirely alien to the British conservative tradition.

Trumpism breeds a fanaticism entirely alien to the British and Australian conservative tradition. Picture: AFP

Trumpism breeds a fanaticism alien to the British and Australian conservative tradition. AFP

It is entirely alien to the Australian conservative tradition too. Here the greatest difference lies in the fact the Australian political ethos has not seen the state as the enemy, much less as a malignant force. It has been regarded instead as a tool to be effectively used to benefit the people and help them flourish.

That difference from the US has profound historical roots. America’s initial European settlement occurred in the 1600s, a period distinguished in Britain by what became known as the “Old Corruption”. Government offices were chiefly sinecures, officially apportioned rackets for personal gain, propping up an oligarchy whose favours were openly for sale.

In contrast, European settlement in Australia and New Zealand began as sweeping reforms to Britain’s system of government were taking hold. For the first time it was becoming possible to treat the government as a utility, dispensing valued benefits, rather than as a lurking predator. Colonial governors’ administrations, while not without their own rackety aspects, were shaped by changes reducing royal patronage and improving government accountability. As Australian historian John Hirst argued, that laid the seeds of an enduring respect for impersonal authority, exercised, at least in theory, in the pursuit of prosperity and good order.

There were, for sure, periodic outbreaks of radical opposition. But the Australian approach was almost always to absorb the conflict by institutionalising its protagonists. Embedding the agitators within the system they were fighting against, that solution traded moderation for tangible gains.

For example, violent class war and mass strikes in the 1890s Depression culminated in the birth of the ALP as an official parliamentary party, changing laws and winning government. Later, the Arbitration Court became run largely by what had been the warring parties – the infamous “industrial relations club”, as columnist Gerard Henderson called it. In exchange for prestigious sinecures, the former enemies descended into what Hancock derided as a “pettifogging” legalism that suffocated the radicals.

Equally, landless gold-diggers demanded the squatters’ leases be ripped up, and stormed Victoria’s parliament in the 1850s. The Land Selection Acts in the subsequent decades established a regional population of often struggling farmers whose 20th-century political incarnation took the form of country parties.

Those parties not only secured “protection all round” in the 1920s, along with significant direct subsidies; they also ensured the establishment of marketing boards to which party worthies were invariably appointed. And much the same could be said of the Tariff Board, which shaped manufacturing protection for decades.

The corollary of that solution was a particular type of conservatism. Yes, in the early years of settlement there had been “real” conservatives of the Tory variety. But when self-government began, they were rudely jostled aside. Australian conservatism would not draw its strength from them.

It was instead the middle class that provided the dominating motifs of enduring Australian conservative strength. It isn’t difficult to understand why. The “workingman’s paradise” was a place where ordinary settlers and working men could get ahead, not rags-to-riches style, as the American dream pitched it, but enough to acquire comfort, leisure and independence.

Australian wages had been essentially the highest in the world since first settlement and the political victory of liberalism, which occurred during the 1850s gold rushes, ensured free markets and social mobility. To become an independent small business owner, to own your own home, to provide for your family, your children – this was the dream, and in Australia they by and large found it.

The conservatism that resulted from that success story incorporated the liberal beliefs and practices that proved so decisively triumphant in the colonial context. Historian Zachary Gorman observes that liberalism’s 19th-century victory in Australia was so comprehensive it became “less of a clear agenda and more of a pervasive political culture”. No longer conservatism’s upstart challenger as in Britain, liberalism here almost instantaneously became the established mainstream – it became what needed to be protected, as well as what conservatives sought to conserve.

Australian conservatism, then, sprang not out of reverence for the past or social hierarchy but from attachment to the enjoyments and freedoms of ordinary life that the most liberal polity in the world encouraged to flourish. It kept faith with ordinary experience and the socially durable values of an open society.

It soon came to shape the whole of the centre-right, underpinning both the twin liberal traditions of early 20th-century Australian life – the neo-Gladstonian free trade liberalism typified by NSW’s Henry Parkes, George Reid and Joseph Carruthers and the Deakenite liberalism protectionist Victoria championed.

More pragmatic and willing to innovate than, say, Britain’s Home Counties conservatism, Australian conservatism was dispositional rather than traditionalist – as a byproduct of urban, aspirational, middle-class Australia, generally inspired by the hope of improvement, it had no difficulty accommodating an uninterest in the past. The attachment to steady improvement was the important thing.

Robert Menzies’ pitch in his justly famous “Forgotten People” broadcast in 1942 captures this spirit perhaps better than any other significant Australian political testament. In it Menzies speaks directly to the attachment to the home and the family as the cornerstone of the “real life of the nation … in the homes of people who are nameless and unadvertised, and who … see in their children their greatest contribution to the immortality of their race”.

Accompanying that emphasis on home and family is a classically conservative sense of continuity.

“It’s only when we realise that we are a part of a great procession,” Menzies declared in laying the foundation stone of the National Library of Australia two months after he retired in March 1966, “that we’re not just here today and gone tomorrow, that we draw strength from the past and we may transmit some strength to the future.”

Across several decades of political leadership Menzies’ speeches pulsed with phrases that exemplified this disposition. His governments have been “sensible and honest”. He speaks “in realistic terms”, sustained “by an unshake­able belief in the good sense and honesty of our people”.

It was the constant undercurrent of hope and aspiration that gave Robert Menzies’ conservatism its distinctive flavour. Former PM Robert Menzies is pictured in 1941. Picture: Herald Sun

 Former PM Robert Menzies is pictured in 1941. Picture: Herald Sun

Yet this stress on continuity in Menzies’ rhetoric complemented rather than contradicted a commitment to what he referred to as “solid progress”. This country was a settler society built by successive waves of migrants; since its earliest days, its life had been saturated with optimism: Australia, said Menzies, was “our young and vigorous land”, still embarking on its glad, confident morning.

It was the constant undercurrent of hope and aspiration that gave Menzies’ conservatism its distinctive flavour, making it more explicitly geared to the confident expectation of future possibility than its European or American counterparts.

And it was precisely because it was so oriented to progress that the term conservative was generally avoided by the movement he forged, even as a conservative disposition bubbled along beneath its immediate surface, and was mirrored in electoral preferences of voters – not simply by voting right of centre but by giving governments a second term even if their first had been somewhat disappointing, and by regularly knocking back proposed constitutional changes.

However, those two elements – continuity and change – were uneasy bedfellows: continuity could, and eventually did, act as an obstacle to indispensable change.

The institutionalisation of conflict through entities such as the arbitration tribunals and the Tariff Board had, for decades, moderated conflict – but only at the price of inefficiencies that became ever more unsustainable as the world economy globalised in the 1970s and 80s. At that point, Australian conservatism entered into a prolonged crisis, torn between the deeply embedded value of caution and the equally strong value of adaptation.

It was easy to repeat Edmund Burke’s axiom that “A state without the means of some change, is without the means of its own conservation”; but effecting sweeping change without destroying the party’s unity was of an entirely different order of difficulty.

Nothing more clearly highlighted the dilemma than Liberal leader John Hewson’s Fightback – a call to arms that was as close as the movement ever came to a truly Thatcherite policy revolution. Its failure had many causes but one was the complete absence of the sense of continuity and stability that has always been dear to the Australian middle class.

It lacked, too, the high Gladstonian moral clarity that Margaret Thatcher articulated in her heroic campaign to reverse Britain’s slide to socialised mediocrity. In fact, Thatcher’s argument for the moral basis of capitalism had far more in common with Menzies’ creed of “lifters not leaners” than with Hewson’s “economic rationalism”.

Former British PM Margaret Thatcher addresses an election rally for Conservative Party leader William Hague in 2001. Picture: AP

Former British PM Margaret Thatcher2001. Picture: AP

What was needed was a new synthesis. As Menzies had, John Howard, the first Liberal leader to actively identify himself as a conservative, provided it.

Nigel Lawson, who served as the Thatcher government’s most consequential chancellor of the exchequer, once commented that whereas “Harold Macmillan had a contempt for the (Conservative) party, Alec Home tolerated it, and Ted Heath loathed it, Margaret (Thatcher) genuinely liked it. She felt a communion with it.” Exactly the same could be said about Howard: his scrupulous respect for his party’s traditional ethos helped him succeed for as long as he did.

That is not to deny that Howard at times pursued dramatic change – a GST, industrial relations reform, gun ownership – but the approach was rarely radical in style, much less revolutionary in tone. It is telling that the one reform that failed was Work Choices, which went furthest in dismantling existing institutions. And it is telling, too, that subsequent Coalition governments tinkered with the arrangements Labor put in its place rather than seeking their wholesale removal.

Now the synthesis Howard forged between conservation and change is yet again under extreme stress. So, too, are its electoral foundations, as the bases of politics undergo a profound transformation.

Because of Australian conservatism’s pragmatic nature, marshalling broad alliances against those forces and movements that endanger the foundations of the polity has always been its signature approach. Finding some common ground among its constituents, each of those alliances combined the shared opposition to an adversary with a positive program based on overlapping, if not entirely shared, values. The way Liberals, free-traders and protectionists alike rallied alongside Conservatives when threatened by a new common enemy, the ALP in the early 20th century, is a classic example.

John Howard pictured in 1996 after claiming victory for the Coalition. His scrupulous respect for his party’s traditional ethos helped him succeed for as long as he did. Picture: Michael Jones

John Howard pictured in 1996 after claiming victory for the Coalition. Picture: Michael Jones

However, the dominant force in contemporary politics is fragmentation: the centrifugal pressures that make coalitions hard to assemble but easy to destroy have become ever stronger as social media and identity politics shatter politics’ traditional alignments.

The centre-right is far from being immune from those tendencies, as the emergence of the teals shows. And they are compounded by the pressures of Trumpian populism, which is as hostile to the compromises coalition-building entails as it is to inherited institutions. The only coalitions Trumpism can forge are those that aggregate resentments: against the arrogance of the “progressives”, the abuses of power that occurred during the pandemic, the perception that common values are denigrated and despised.

To use a phrase American constitutional lawyer Greg Lukianoff and social psychologist Jonathan Haidt coined for the left, Trumpism’s dominant mode of action is “common-enemy politics”, with the adversary being the principal factor unifying its disparate parts. There are no shared values, nor any shared aspirations; the glue comes from shared hatreds.

But intransigent oppositionalism is no basis for a viable politics. Regardless of what Trump’s Australian acolytes believe, its transposition to this country would make for a future of repeated failure.

Rather, for a broader alliance to be possible again, a new synthesis is needed. Australia’s two greatest prime ministers, Menzies and Howard, suggest the way. Both exemplified a social conservatism that drew from the distinctively Australian emphasis on the conservative temperament over and above distinctive philosophical creed. Both forged a synthesis that combined an attachment to liberal principles with a commitment to large-scale changes needed to underwrite prolonged prosperity and progress.

Now, after the rout of last weekend’s election, that synthesis desperately needs to be redefined.

In the end, politics is about argument and arguments are about ideas. When politics seems so entirely bereft of them, Australian conservatives have no choice but to think again.

Henry Ergas is a columnist with The Australian. Alex McDermott is an independent historian.

Putin’s war … an ageing autocrat seeks his place in history

In That Howling Infinite’ has written often about Russian and Ukrainian history, not only because personally it has been of long-term academic interest, but also, because of the ongoing Russia-Ukraine war.

In In That Howling Infinite’s post, Borderlands – Ukraine and the curse of mystical nationalism, we wrote:

“Like many countries on the borders of powerful neighbours, Ukraine has long endured the slings and arrows of outrageous history. Its story, like that its neighbours, is long and complex. In competing national narratives, Russians and Ukrainians both claim credit for the creation of the Russian state, though others attribute this, with some credence, to the Vikings. The historical reality of Ukraine is complicated, a thousand-year history of changing religions, borders and peoples. The capital, Kyiv, was established hundreds of years before Moscow, although both Russians and Ukrainians claim Kyiv as a birthplace of their modern cultures, religion and language.

I highly recommend Serhii Plokhy’s The Gates of Europe, a well told and fascinating story of the origins of Ukraine and Belarus, and how their histories were intertwined, and entwined with those of of Poland, Lithuania (which was a large and powerful state once) and Russia. Ukraine has historically been the border between the catholic west and the orthodox east, the division running virtually down the middle. The name Ukraine is Slav for border land. Its geopolitical location and natural resources have led to the land being inflicted by invaders, civil wars, man-made famine and repression.

Eastern European countries, Ukraine included, have with good reason no love for Russia, be it Czarist, Soviet or Putin’s. Hungarians, Czechs, Poles and East Germans have seen Russian “peacekeeping” troops and tanks on their city streets, as have the Baltic countries, Afghans and Chechens. Millions of Ukrainians died under Stalin’s rule (and many, many millions of fellow-Soviet citizens). The 20th Century was not kind to the countries of Central and Eastern Europe. Historian Timothy Snyder called them “the blood lands”.

We republish below a recent article in The Australian by Melbourne historian and academic Mark Edele. It gives the uninformed but interested reader a short but comprehensive history of the relationship between Russia and Ukraine from the ninth century to the present day.

Here are posts in In That Howling Infinite, about Russia, Ukraine and Eastern Europe:

Putin’s puppet sells out Ukraine

Donald Trump’s bullying ‘peace plans’ to end the Ukraine war will only embolden Vladimir Putin, who fancies himself a leading a great power with historical rights beyond his borders.

Mark Edele, The Australian, 8 March 2025

Last weekend, the United States vacated the post of leader of the free world. Supporters of democracy the world over watching in disbelief as the US President and Vice-President berated, belittled, and bullied the leader of a democracy at war. On Monday, then, followed what this “great television”, as Donald Trump called it, was all about: a pretext to halt military aid to Ukraine, followed soon by the end of intelligence-sharing. The end goal: force Ukraine to the negotiation table with no security guarantees included in a “deal” with Vladimir Putin.

Four things will come out of an emboldened Russia now: more air raids on Ukraine’s civilians; a renewed push at the frontline; praise for the US administration and its visionary leader; and a disinformation campaign to convince the democratic world that black is white, up is down, left is right, Ukraine the aggressor and Russia the victim in this war. Astonishingly, we can also expect the White House to parrot such propaganda. Welcome to the era of strategic chaos.

Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov noted the obvious: The US’s shift from supporting its allies to courting Moscow “largely coincides with our vision”. Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova ladled on now familiar Russian propaganda. Volodymyr Zelensky, she claimed, was the head of a “neo-Nazi regime”, a “corrupt individual who lost his grip on reality”, whose “outrageously rude behaviour during his stay in Washington … reaffirmed his status of the most dangerous threat to the international community”. Zelensky was an “irresponsible figure”, a “terrorist leader” who had “built a totalitarian state” and is “ruthlessly sending millions of his fellow citizens to their deaths”.

Sigmund Freud would have classified these statements as “projection”: they are true, but apply to Zakharova’s boss, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. Born in 1952, Putin grew up in St Petersburg, then called Leningrad. Surrounded with stories of World War II, in which his father served and his brother perished, he came of age on the rough streets of Leningrad during the heydays of Soviet superpower. In 1975 he joined the KGB, an organisation that deeply formed his world view and behaviour. His sport is judo, a deeply tactical martial art focused on exploiting the opponent’s weaknesses and redirecting the adversary’s momentum.

Putin came of age on the rough streets of Leningrad during the heydays of Soviet superpower. Picture: AFP

After the breakdown of the Soviet empire in 1991, he served in the city administration of St Petersburg. Later he moved to Moscow to make a career in the administration of the first president of post-Soviet Russia. When Boris Yeltsin looked for a successor who would guarantee his own and his family’s safety, Putin’s name came up. He was seen as competent but unthreatening to the oligarchs running Russia at the time. In 1999, Putin became premier. Later the same year, he was appointed acting president. His tenure was defined by the brutal second Chechen War, which he prosecuted with utter ruthlessness. In 2000, he was elected President. He remained in this post until today, with a stint stepping back to the prime ministership in 2008-12, to get around term limitations in the constitution (subsequently changed).

In the quarter-century he ruled Russia, Putin broke the power of the oligarchs, rebuilt the state as a security organisation run by former KGB officers, suffocated free speech, pluralism and the opposition, and built one of the most unpleasant electoral dictatorships of the post-Soviet space. Despite an economy still only a quarter of that of the EU or the US (to say nothing of China’s), Putin fancies himself as leading a great power with a right to a sphere of influence and a major say in shaping the international order.

By the end of the second decade of his rule, however, the ageing dictator in the Kremlin began to worry about his legacy. His track record was mixed. The Russian population had been declining steadily until the 2010s. The following uptick was mostly undone again during and after the Covid pandemic, fuelling longstanding apocalyptic fears that the Russians would be dying out. The economy had grown significantly, but social inequality had exploded alongside, while political liberties continually atrophied. The Covid crisis was handled extremely poorly. Great-power status remained an aspiration. Putin worried what the history books would say about him. The answers respectable historians gave him when asked were evasive. And he was turning 70 in 2022.

History, and his place in it, obsessed Vladimir Vladimirovich. During his, quite extreme, Covid isolation, he read history books, immersing himself in the Russian imperialist tradition. Such historians had long denied that Ukraine was anything but a part of Russia. He summarised this traditional Russian view “on the historical unity of Russians and Ukrainians” in an essay of that title, published on July 12, 2021. It read like the musings of an ageing Russian imperialist. A bit over seven months later, it revealed itself as the ideological justification of a full-scale invasion of Ukraine.

Ukraine and Russia: histories entangled but separate

At the heart of Putin’s worldview is that Russia continues to be a great power with historical rights on Ukraine. It thus bears repeating that Russia and Ukraine are separate nations, which trace their heritage back to a common origin: a collection of principalities centred on Kyiv, known as the Rus of the ninth to 13th centuries. After the Mongol invasions of the 1220s and 1230s, however, the southwestern and the northeastern parts of this civilisation developed in different and quite separate ways, eventually leading to Russia and Ukraine as we know them today. As a result of such divergence, Russian and Ukrainian have developed as separate, if related, languages.

Vladimir Putin attends the Victory Day military parade in central Moscow on May 9, 2024. Picture: AFP

Putin attends the Victory Day military parade in Moscow on May 9, 2024. AFP

Overlapping histories and linguistic similarities are not unique among nations. Both Germany and France claim the Frankish empire under Charlemagne (French) or Karl (German) as part of their deeper history. Yet nobody would suggest (any more) that therefore France should be part of Germany or vice-versa. Likewise, French and Portuguese have related grammatical structures and some overlap in vocabulary. And yet nobody would argue that Portuguese is a French dialect.

Ukrainians formed a state twice: once in 1649, the Cossack-led “Hetmanate” fighting for its independence from Poland; the second time in 1917-21, after both the Russian and Austro-Hungarian empires had collapsed in World War I. Both were defeated militarily, but both were important inspirations for a democratically minded national movement.

Ukraine’s lands and peoples came into the Russian orbit in stages. First was the disastrous Treaty of Periaslav of 1654, when the Hetmanate joined a temporary military alliance with Muscovy against Poland, which the Muscovites read as a subjugation under the autocrat instead. After much fighting and diplomatic manoeuvring, Poland and Russia agreed in 1667 that Moscow could control the lands east of the Dnipro (“left bank Ukraine”) as well as Kyiv on the “right bank”. When Poland was partitioned at the end of the 18th century, what was left of Ukraine came partially under Habsburg and partially under Romanov rule. At the end of World War I, Ukraine emerged as one of the successor states of the Romanov empire, alongside Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Finland, Poland and Bolshevik Russia. In contrast to these states, however, it did not survive the wars and civil wars that followed the disintegration of the empire in 1917.

In 1921, it was divided between the newly resurrected state of Poland and the emergent successor of the vast majority of the lands of the Romanov empire: Bolshevik Russia. Within the latter, Ukraine was granted a pseudo independence as one of the Union republics making up the newly formed “Union of Soviet Socialist Republics”, or USSR.

The Ukrainian SSR was a Bolshevik ploy to disarm national sentiment while reasserting imperial, and increasingly totalitarian, control by Moscow. In the long run, however, it allowed not just the maintenance but even the growth of national culture and national self-awareness. Ukraine also grew geographically. During World War II, the Soviets gobbled up the rest of Ukraine from Poland and Romania. In 1954, the government transferred Crimea to Ukraine, to ease the economic development of a region with no geographic connection to Russia. Thus Ukraine acquired its current, internationally recognised borders. Eventually, they provided a ready-made demarcation of post-imperial Ukraine, once the Soviet empire collapsed in 1989-91.

After the Soviet Union

Of the 15 successor states of the Soviet Union, Russia is the largest in terms of territory (17.1 million square kilometres). Ukraine, with 0.6 million square kilometres, comes third after Kazakhstan (2.7 million square kilometres). In a comparison of population sizes, Ukraine occupies the second position, with 37.7 million in 2023, according to the World Bank, quite a way behind Russia with 143.8 million. By comparison, the most populous country of the EU, Germany, has 83.3 million, while the EU as a whole counts 448.8 million.

Of the 15 successor states of the Soviet Union, Russia is the largest in terms of territory. Picture: istock

As the largest country in the post-Soviet region, in 2023 Russia had the largest GDP adjusted for purchasing power ($US6.5 trillion), followed by Kazakhstan ($US0.8 trillion) and Ukraine ($US0.6 trillion). Again, compare this to Germany ($US5.7 trillion) or Australia ($US1.9 trillion), to say nothing of the EU ($US26.4 trillion), the US ($US27.7 trillion) or China ($US34.7 trillion).

As far as the political system is concerned, between the breakdown of the Soviet empire and today Russia has been on a steady downwards slope, from some early democratic promises to ever darker authoritarianism. Ukraine, meanwhile, evolved in three waves of democratic surges followed by counter movements: the 1990s, the second half of the 2000s, and from the middle of the 2010s. While not the freest country in the post-Soviet space (that privilege belongs to the three Baltic republics of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, all members of EU and NATO), it is in no way comparable to Russia. Zelensky was elected President in 2019 with 73 per cent of the vote. As of late February 2025, he had an approval rating of 52 per cent.

Zelensky was elected Ukraine President in 2019 with 73 per cent of the vote. Picture: AFP

Zelensky was elected president in 2019 with 73 per cent of the vote. AFP

The latest report on Ukraine from a Washington-based independent watchdog, Freedom House, notes that both the President and the current legislative were elected in free, competitive, and fair elections. Since 2022, there was some deterioration of political freedoms because of the war, including the suspension of elections due to martial law, new restrictions against parties that support Russia’s aggression, and greater control of the reporting in the main news channels. However, opposition parties continue to sit in parliament and their political activities “are generally not impeded by administrative restrictions or legal harassment”. Communication channels outside the official network, such as social media platforms, remain available and used freely.

All of this contrasts sharply to the repressive nature of Russian rule, not just in the occupied territories of Ukraine, but also in Russia itself. For 2025, Freedom House categorised Ukraine as a “transitional or hybrid regime”, while Russia was a “consolidated authoritarian regime”.

The war

Russia invaded Ukraine in 2014 after a popular revolution in Kyiv had ousted pro-Russian president Viktor Yanukovych. Russia illegally annexed Crimea and fostered a proxy war in Ukraine’s east, the Donbas, at times fought with regular Russian troops; at others by Russia-sponsored rebels. Most observers at the time assumed that this was the endgame: taking over Crimea was popular among Russians who saw it as their own Riviera; the frozen conflict in Ukraine’s east served as a festering wound keeping the recalcitrant democracy down.

Ukrainian firefighters push out a fire after a strike in Zaporizhzhia in 2022, amid the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Picture: AFP

Ukrainian firefighters putout a fire after a strike in Zaporizhzhia in 2022. AFP

Two ceasefire agreements, Minsk I (September 5, 2014) and Minsk II (February 12, 2015), failed. After the first, Russia sent troops across the border to defeat Ukraine’s armed forces in the Second Battle of Donetsk Airport (September 2014 to January 2015) and the Battle of Debaltseve (January to February 2015). After the second, the frontlines remained frozen, but shelling and sporadic fighting continued. No part of the agreement was ever fully implemented and soldiers kept dying. The world, however, moved on.

Who had not moved on was Putin, dreaming of great power and empire. While convincing himself of the righteousness of his position by reading Russian imperial historiography, he observed “the West” move from crisis to crisis. In Europe, the liberal consensus was challenged by new-right populist movements. The UK was in political chaos. The US could not even execute an orderly withdrawal from Afghanistan, unlike the Soviet army in 1988. And that army, now Russia’s, had been modernised significantly under Putin’s watch. It was time to strike.

Preparations for the invasion started shortly after the fall of Kabul in August 2021. By October, the US had conclusive evidence that Russia planned an assault with the goal of controlling all of Ukraine and eliminating its President. Between then and the start of the war, the US tried repeatedly to create diplomatic off-ramps for the Kremlin. Putin was not interested.

On February 24, 2022, Putin unleashed his war of conquest. Within 10 days, Ukraine’s military was supposed to be disabled, the country’s leaders arrested or executed, pro-Russian popular support mobilised, and resisters detained. By mid-August, all of Ukraine would be occupied, the plan went. Then, it could be either annexed or given over to a puppet regime.

The plan failed. There were few collaborators and much resistance. The battle for Hostomel airport was lost by the Russian airborne forces sent in at short notice; two groups of assassins sent to kill Zelensky were hunted down and eliminated; the columns advancing towards Kyiv were stopped by the fire of artillery and main battle tanks, both of Ukrainian origin. While social media was obsessed by the David-versus-Goliath spectacle of US-made shoulder-launched missiles taking out Russian tanks, the real damage was done using Ukraine’s own resources. Victory in the battle of Kyiv was achieved by late March 2022.

Over the next three years, the war changed from a battle of movement to position warfare and a war of attrition. Russia began to rely on massed use of artillery and the liberal sacrifice of manpower. This looked like WWII: the frontal assaults, the artillery barrages, the utter disregard for human resources. But there was a new element as well: terror attacks on civilians and their infrastructure. This was not a Soviet tradition: during WWII, it was British and US air forces that had flattened German and Japanese cities. Such bombing was not part of the Red Army’s military repertoire. Its air forces were geared towards support of ground troops, not “strategic” bombing of civilians.

In its changed focus on hurting civilians from the air, Putin’s army drew on the neo-imperial wars he had overseen: Chechnya and Syria. It was here that the Russian air force first flattened cities (Grozny in 1999-2000 and Aleppo in 2015-16) and it was this experience that now came to bear on the war in Ukraine. Except that here they did not control the airspace and did not face defenceless civilians they could simply “de-house” at will. Instead, they had to deal with an enemy capable of shooting down not just bombers, which as a result were not sent into Ukraine’s airspace, but also many of the missiles and drones sent from a safe distance.

While air assaults on civilian targets became part of the normalcy of Russia’s changing way of war, tactics on the ground also evolved: rather than mass assaults after preliminary artillery preparation, increasingly Russia used surprise attacks by small groups of storm troopers to conduct reconnaissance by force. If they encountered major resistance, they would then call in airstrikes or artillery barrages. They also stopped frontal assaults on fortified positions, bypassing and encircling them instead.

But none of this led to major breakthroughs. The war bogged down.

Russia was better prepared than Ukraine for a war of attrition. It had long built a food system that could withstand international isolation, demonstrating that a major war had been on the minds of the planners in the Kremlin for a very long time. The discrepancy in the size of both the economy and the population also meant Russia had the edge in the long run. And while the militarisation of the economy came with increasingly serious economic imbalances, they were not serious enough to force Putin’s dictatorship to back down. Instead, military salaries and the growing investments in military industries led to economic mini-booms in several of the regions that supplied the volunteers and the weapons to fight in Ukraine. To many Russians, this continues to be a profitable war.

Putin’s overall strategy thus shifted from a lightning war of conquest to outlasting the democratic world. Having the Soviet experience of extreme suffering and endurance in mind, and construing “the West” as weak, effeminate and degenerate, he had every confidence that Russia would be successful in the long run. With Trump’s election victory, this confidence grew. With his behaviour in the first six weeks in office, it must have soared. Putin has less reason than ever to compromise. And he can achieve much by playing Trump diplomatically.

What now?

After the spectacular dust-up in the Oval Office a week ago, doom and gloom have descended over Ukraine and its supporters. A pouting US President seems to assume that if he pulls the plug on Ukraine, the war will simply end: “Zelensky better move fast or is not going to have a Country left,” he wrote a week before he ambushed him in front of the cameras.

The withdrawal of US support is a serious setback for Ukraine. The US and Europe have provided about equal amounts of money to Ukraine. If Europe were to try to replace US contributions, it thus would have to double its financial commitments at a time when the economy is not exactly booming and will soon be further hit by Trump’s trade wars.

The withdrawal of US support is a serious setback for Ukraine. Picture: AFP

The withdrawal of US support is a serious setback for Ukraine. AFP

The major victims of Trump’s retreat will be Ukraine’s civilians. The US air defence systems currently protecting cities cannot be replaced easily. An increase in civilian deaths is the inevitable result. The withdrawal of intelligence is also a serious blow and difficult to substitute.

However, the EU’s economy is big enough to replace US contributions. An increase equal to 0.12 per cent of Europe’s GDP would suffice. Germany’s taxpayers spend three times more on domestic subsidies for diesel fuel than they devote to military aid to Ukraine. And production capacity is growing. At the start of the war, most military aid came from quickly depleting stockpiles. By 2024, the vast majority of materiel fuelling Ukraine’s war effort are newly produced weapons and equipment.

More than half of Ukraine’s weaponry is produced in Ukraine, a further 25 per cent comes from Europe. The 20 per cent the United States contributes is particularly valuable and high-quality, but it is not the backbone of Ukraine’s capacity. In a war of attrition heavily dependent on artillery, Europe will produce some two million artillery shells for Ukraine this year. The US, before Trump pulled the plug, was expected to deliver less than one million. Elon Musk’s Starlink, providing communications at the frontline, can be replaced with alternatives.

Thus, Ukraine’s defences are unlikely to collapse. Russia has been advancing recently, but progress was slow. By the third anniversary of the invasion, Russia controlled about 20 per cent of Ukraine’s territory, including some 4000 square kilometres gained in 2024. However, Ukraine is a big country. Russia’s 2024 gains represent a mere 0.6 per cent of Ukraine’s territory. Russia has not taken major cities in 2024 and urban life continues everywhere.

Meanwhile, Russia lost parts of the Kursk region to a counteroffensive the Russian military was unable to reverse. Russia has likely enough materiel for at least another year of fighting, but not enough for a major breakthrough.

In an assessment of the war written at the end of 2024, one of the most perceptive analysts of the military side of the war in Ukraine, exiled Russian historian and former civil rights activist Nikolai Mitrokhin, developed four possible scenarios for what could happen in 2025. None of them included a complete breakdown. His “catastrophic” scenario was a “partial collapse of the front due to the reduction of Ukrainian forward units”, leading to a “rapid advance of Russian units to the left bank of the Dnipro”. He predicted that this might lead to a leadership change, but also a further rallying around the flag and a continuation of the fight.

Less catastrophic would be a return to a grinding Russian offensive, as in 2024. “At the current rate of advance,” wrote the Institute for the Study of War in its Ukraine Fact Sheet of February 21, 2025, “it would take Russian forces over 83 years to capture the remaining 80 per cent of Ukraine, assuming that they can sustain massive personnel losses indefinitely”.

This outlook explains why Putin is so enthusiastic about Trump’s “peace plans”. They might achieve diplomatically what he cannot achieve on the battlefield: the subjugation of Russia’s democratic neighbour to neo-imperial domination.

Mark Edele is a historian of the Soviet Union and its successor states, in particular Russia. He is Hansen Professor in History at the University of Melbourne. His latest book is Russia’s War Against Ukraine: The Whole Story (Melbourne University Press, 2023

Trump and Vance ambush Zelensky at the White House

Calling Australia! Reading the Trump revolution

Countless left-wing memes about American stupidity illustrate how out of touch, self righteous, arrogant and morally “superior” many of the so-called “left” have become – unlike the Democrats whom New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd said were “finally waking up and realizing that woke is broke” after having embraced a self-defeating world view of “hyper-political correctness, condescension and cancellation”.

The Democrats. – and indeed, our Labor party – would ignore the outcome of the presidential election at their peril. The people, for better or worse, have spoken, and it’s a pointless exercise for the Democrats to live in a fantasy world of denial, not accepting their own responsibility in the loss. The Sydney Morning Herald’s Peter Hartcher wrote on 12 November:“ It’s also extremely condescending and arrogant to assume you know better and anyone who didn’t agree must be an idiot. In that light, I’d suggest Trump didn’t win this. The Democrats lost it in a spectacular fashion, and if you can lose it to the likes of Trump, something is majorly wrong on the left side of politics”.

There are lessons aplenty for Australian politics. The Coalition wants to spend the months leading up to next year’s election talking about migration driving up household bills. It has no actual plan for decreasing immigration or reducing inflation, but voters don’t care. They don’t do nuance. They’re disatisfied with the status quo and disappointed in the government. They’ll just want to punish the mob in charge. Sure, they’ll be burning down the house, and they’ll be in the house when it burns down (two song references there!) but they won’t care. The question will be “are you better off today than you were four years ago?” And, like in America, for a great many, the answer will be a big “no!”

Waleed Ali’s recent article on why Trump won concurs with the above: “Last week, a historically unpopular government, presiding over a period of high inflation that saw food prices especially explode, got thrown out of office. There is quite simply nothing extraordinary about that”. Former Liberal attorney general and high commissioner to the UK George Brandis wrote similar in the Herald on 18 November:“… the sheer weirdness of Donald Trump himself: narcissistic, vulgar, bombastic, mendacious, idiosyncratic, outrageous; while at the same time flamboyant, mesmerizing and on occasions very funny. He broke every rule, told every lie, did the unthinkable, said the unsayable and still came up … (you complete the pun). The epic unconventionality of Trump’s campaign dramatised a result that would probably have been the same had the Republican candidate been less unorthodox. For that reason, the outcome is fertile ground for over-interpretation and exaggeration”.

On a different but not dissimilar tack, John Carroll, Professor Emeritus of Sociology at La Trobe University wrote in The Australian:

“The resounding Trump victory confirms the cardinal law: politics is about power. In times of peace and prosperity, such as we in Australia have enjoyed for almost 80 years, it is easy to forget, and continue along in the hopeful illusion that life is good, people are intrinsically nice, and problems can be solved amicably …

… One of the appeals of Donald Trump to the United States electorate – I suspect his main appeal – has been that, in his bluster and braggadocio, he flexes power muscles and seems to show he is unafraid to mobilise power for his own ends. There is an intuitive understanding across middle and lower-middle America that progressive posturing and feel-good speeches will not steer the ship of state safely through turbulent waters. In contrast, Trump policy appears clear, direct, and down-to-earth – booming economy, secure borders, and resolved international conflict. When 70 per cent of Americans feel worse off than they were four years ago, they want strength in leadership and focus on their everyday interests.

…The Trump persona – aggressive, confrontational, and petulant, not to mention pathologically narcissistic – also seems to have appealed to marginalised social strata. Those living in poorer states, young black and Latino males, recent immigrants, and the old city working classes resenting their decline, all seem to have been drawn to his maverick contempt for the trendy issues of the time. His character may be suspect – indeed he is widely disliked – but he appears powerful, practical, and not of the coterie elite. In politics, power eclipses niceness”.

I republish below an opinion piece by The Australian’s editor at large Paul Kelly. It is to my mind one if the best articles I have read to date regarding the outcome of the  American elections and how this may impact Australian politics. It is particularly interesting insofar as Kelly pushes back against the conservative narrative prevalent in the Murdoch media and among more extreme right wing commentators, politicians and culture warriors. Regarding Australian politics, he writes:

“If Trump succeeds he will further undermine the shaky policy framework of the Labor Party. The optics will be: Trump’s strength versus Albanese’s weakness. In this situation, the pro-Trump media and conservative drum-beaters in this country – in effect the Trump Appeasement Syndrome lobby – will demand the Peter Dutton-led Coalition follow their messiah while they will use Trump’s success to undermine Albanese. Destroying former prime minister Kevin Rudd as ambassador to the US is just the first step”.

“So what’s driving the campaign to target Rudd”, asked Hartcher on 16 November. “The Murdoch media, in short. Some other commentators have been drawn into it, too, useful idiots for the Murdoch effort. Ostensibly they demand that Rudd go because he was critical of Trump, but in reality, “this is revenge”, as Malcolm Turnbull explained this week. “This is a campaign that News Corp kicked off, and they are running a vendetta,” he told my colleague Matthew Knott. Revenge for what? Rudd founded a movement called Australians for a Murdoch Royal Commission. Murdoch’s empire was “a cancer on our democracy”, he said. A royal commission would examine the level of concentration in Australian media ownership and the conduct of the Murdoch group in particular”.
“But the Murdoch media is not monolithic”, Hartcher continues.”Its éminence grise is Paul Kelly. Kelly has the stature to make his own judgment. The campaign to remove Rudd as “a ritual sacrifice before Trump has even said anything” is “part of Trump Appeasement Syndrome”. “This shows a contempt for Australian sovereignty and a craven weakness before Trump,” Kelly wrote this week. “For any Americans wasting their time following this saga, we must look a sad, pathetic little country.”

Trump and his cabinet picks Robert F Kennedy Jr and Elon Musk

Donald Trump’s revolution leaves Albanese exposed

America’s leap to the right will have political repercussions for Australia.

The Trump Revolution is coming and, like all revolutions, its outcome will fluctuate between a glorious remaking of the existing order or a spectacular overreach and fall – maybe even a contradictory mix of both – with Anthony Albanese and Australia in front-row seats for the drama.

[In the same issue as this article, national affairs editor Joe Kelly summed up this revolution: “Trump’s sweeping “day one agenda” includes dismantling the deep state, pursuing mass deportations, imposing across-the-board tariffs, scrapping the “Green New Scam”, withdrawing from the Paris Agreement, rolling back environmental regulations, ending the Ukraine conflict, unpicking pro-transgender policies, pardoning January 6 offenders, and rolling back the Biden health and education agendas. This is a blueprint to overhaul the country. Leading thinkers are already focused on which items are set in stone and which could merely be attempts to enhance Trump’s negotiating position. While Trump is a familiar political figure, this exercise reveals his policy agenda has still generated widespread uncertainty. Paradoxically, no one knows how the experiment will turn out or even exactly what it is – a recipe for a populist catastrophe, or a profound new American reinvention”.]

 

From the Trump appointments so far, the big “America First” play is on. The sharemarket has been excited, the bond market is wary, Big Tech is king, Beijing should be worried. President Trump Mark II is more resolute and revolutionary than Trump Mark I.

His hunger for change seems ferocious; his willingness to take risks is more pronounced. He is assembling a tribe of Trump loyalists to punch through the disintegrating Democratic scaffold. Trump demands loyalty and prioritises vindication.

Two lights are flashing – danger and opportunity. Some people will make a stack of money and others will be cast into painful obscurity.

Trump is going to remind everyone of the extent of power vested in the office of US president when pushed to the limit.

Consider the Elon Musk appointment. Surely this can’t be true. The world’s richest man, heading social-media platform X, hanging out at Mar-a-Lago, almost part of the Trump family, will now co-lead a Department of Government Efficiency – sitting outside the federal government – and while keeping all his existing corporate positions, he will pursue his pledge to cut US agency budgets by $US2 trillion ($3 trillion), or about one-third.

Tesla CEO Elon Musk will now co-lead a Department of Government Efficiency. Picture: AFP

Tesla CEO Elon Musk will now co-lead a Department of Government Efficiency. Picture: AFP

Of course, it is true – only in America. Think about this marriage: Trump’s America meets the Big Tech oligarchs. This is a serious moment for US capitalism, great for innovation, bad for integrity. Trump likens Musk’s brief to “the Manhattan Project of our time”. How many struggling Americans are going to be punished in the process? Australian officials, long familiar with our experience of external budget audits (think Tony Shepherd in 2013), know Musk’s promise is impossible in delivery terms. It can’t be done, short of a massive anti-Trump electoral revolt from the public.

At this time, however, such quibbles don’t matter. Nothing seems impossible in the exaggerated hype of Trump’s vindication. A tariff of 60 per cent on China’s imports? Sure. Cutting a third off federal agency budgets? No problem. Licensing the king of Big Tech, loaded with conflict-of-interest federal contracts, to stage a shooting gallery across the entire federal bureaucracy? Great idea. It’s called purging the deep state.

Change on the scale Trump wants generates both high excitement and high risk. Nobody can be sure of the consequences because these things have never been tried before and we don’t know where the line will be drawn between impression and reality. How long before Trump and Musk fall out?

Trump’s appointments show his priority to purge the “deep state” institutions of justice and intelligence. Given his history, these seem non-negotiable personal passions for Trump. He appointed former Democrat, now Trump loyalist, Tulsi Gabbard as director of national security despite, or perhaps because of, her sustained support for Russian leader Vladimir Putin.

He appointed a professional provocateur, Republican congressman Matt Gaetz, as attorney-general with Gaetz, already at political war with the Justice Department he is supposed to run, praised by Trump, who said Gaetz will end “the partisan weaponisation of our justice system”. That means a purge.

Trump has appointed Republican congressman Matt Gaetz as attorney-general. Picture: AFP

Trump has appointed Republican congressman Matt Gaetz as attorney-general. AFP

The wilful naivety of Trump’s apologists in this country looks embarrassing given Trump’s resolve to impose his will on the ­intelligence community, justice and the FBI. Gabbard’s appointment is highly dubious and Gaetz’s should be overruled, with The Wall Street Journal saying it would “undermine confidence in the law” and would be used for “political revenge”.

Trump’s mind seems a cross between powerful insights into the flaws of the Obama-Biden-Harris age and the vindictive fantasies of all rebels pulling down the established order.

But Trump’s experiment will resonate far beyond America. Markets seem alert to the inflationary consequences of his fiscal policy. The combination of Trump and our tight labour market will further weaken Anthony Albanese’s hope of an interest-rate cut before the election.

But the big picture consequences are far larger. At a time when most Western democracies are burdened by disillusion, poor economic and social outcomes and leadership that lacks either conviction or courage, Trump arrives as a giant on the stage of history.

He mocks the orthodox governing model. Much of Trump’s appeal is because he presents as a change agent against leaders running a failed status quo, witness the dismissed Biden-Harris team. More than 70 per cent of Americans felt their country was going in the wrong ­direction.

Trump’s win is the antithesis of Albanese’s victory in 2022 when Albanese ran on reassurance, incrementalism and “safe change”. Trump consigns “safe change” to the dustbin of history. He will steamroll Albanese’s “safe change” into the gutter. Trump’s American political strategy is the complete opposite of Albanese’s Australian strategy.

Of course, America is not Australia; we are different countries and in different moods. Yet the stakes for Australia cannot be denied – the more Trump succeeds, the more Labor’s policies will look feeble, ineffective and missing the big picture.

At almost every point in his agenda, Trump is diametrically opposed to Labor’s framework.

Consider the list: Trump wants savage public-sector cuts, a reduction in federal bureaucratic numbers, a purging of regulation, cutting the corporate tax rate to 15 per cent (half that of Australia), extending income tax cuts, imposing punitive tariffs on China where Australia is just restoring trade normality, repudiating free trade by resurrecting across-the-board tariffs, more support for oil and gas, walking out of the Paris Agreement on climate, dismantling ­environmental obstacles to development, cracking down on immigration, launching a domestic war on all forms of identity politics, boosting US defence spending and disdaining global institutions.

It is folly to think Trump won’t be influenced by the chasm between himself and Albanese. It’s good he told Albanese on the phone that Australia was the “perfect friendship”. Let’s cut to reality – if Trump has initial success in fuelling the animal spirits of the US economy, the governance model for Western democracy will be shaken to its foundations. Parties of the radical right will gain fresh traction everywhere.

It is folly to think Trump won’t be influenced by the chasm between himself and Anthony Albanese. Picture: AFP

It is folly to think Trump won’t be influenced by the chasm between himself and Albanese. AFP

If Trump succeeds he will further undermine the shaky policy framework of the Labor Party. The optics will be: Trump’s strength versus Albanese’s weakness. In this situation, the pro-Trump media and conservative drum-beaters in this country – in effect the Trump Appeasement Syndrome lobby – will demand the Peter Dutton-led Coalition follow their messiah while they will use Trump’s success to undermine Albanese. Destroying Kevin Rudd as ambassador is just the first step.

Of course, it might not evolve this way. It might be the precise ­opposite. You never know with Trump. He may overreach from the start, prioritising vengeance, smash too many institutional norms and, drunk on hubris, alienate even his own voters.

But last week Trump sent another message of profound significance for Australia – he is riding with the China hawks. This means Trump will expect Albanese to muscle up and toughen up against China. Forget the idea of Trump going cool on Australia – he likes us, he’ll go hot on Australia and ­expect more action from us to ­reinforce his China hawks.

This is surely the coming message from the appointment of Senator Marco Rubio as Secretary of State and Congressman Mike Waltz as his National Security ­Adviser.

Waltz, in a jointly written essay for The Economist, said the US must wind up the Ukraine conflict and direct its assets towards confronting and deterrence of China. Rubio warns China is “far more dangerous” than the old Soviet Union and poses the central threat of the 21st century. They will drive deeper US rivalry with China.

Rubio supports AUKUS. That’s the good news – but under Trump the US support for AUKUS means more action and commitment from Australia against China. That’s the transactional deal, got it?

China's President Xi Jinping. Picture: AFP

China’s President Xi Jinping. AFP

How does this fit with Albanese’s “stabilisation” agenda with China? Answer: not comfortably. History tells us that Australian domestic support for the US alliance falls when there’s a US president we don’t like, witness the fall in popular backing for the alliance under George W. Bush. Now we will likely have in Trump a US president who expects us to get more hawkish on China while domestic support for that Trump-induced option will plummet.

It’s better for Australia that Trump rides with the China hawks, not the China doves. But you cannot miss the problem. Paul Keating sees it and fell upon the remarkable political monitor poll in The Sydney Morning Herald showing that 57 per cent said Australia should avoid taking sides in any war between the US and China, with only 16 per cent disagreeing. Extraordinary stuff.

Keating said this repudiated ­Albanese’s “lock-in” military ­arrangement with the US, the AUKUS agreement and the ­assumption Australia is tied to the US in any conflict.

Trump’s China policy looks ominous for Labor – his tariff strategy will weaken our trade with China while his overall “get tough” strategy will intensify anti-Trump sentiments within the public in Australia and ignite a debate within Labor, with protests the party is too accommodating of Trump’s anti-China stand. It will be dangerous and unpredictable.

The broader political takeout from Trump’s victory is the failure of Democratic Party progressivism – economic and cultural. This is a mammoth event. Of course, direct political lessons cannot be simply transposed from America to Australia. These are very different countries. Yet it would be unwise to assume there is no connection point for Australia from this epic US election.

Here are three propositions – that US progressives are no longer the party of the working class or the non-college educated; that US progressivism contains the seeds of its own destruction, witness the Trump counter-revolution; and that the deepest faith of the progressives – that Trump is a threat to democracy – didn’t work because the progressives constitute their own threat to democracy.

Let’s consider the first proposition – in effect, the voter realignment. Australian pollster Kos Samaras wrote post-election that low-income, working-class voters were heading right-wing. This realignment would reshape politics including in Australia and was tied to the changing nature of left-wing politics with its new priorities around climate change, social justice, urban fashions and housing.

Analysis by the Financial Times shows that in the US poorer and less-educated voters think Republicans best represent them, with the Democrats now the party of high-income and college-educated voters.

Trump won a majority of households with incomes of less than $100,000 while the Democrats won more support from the top third of the income bracket. Education is a sharp line of division – nearly two-thirds of voters without a college degree supported Trump.

Samaras warns the realignment in Australia deepens the divide between urban and rural voters and between professional and low-income voters, “creating fertile ground for conservative and populist leaders”. Is the urban professional class slowly suffocating Labor? Obviously, Dutton will be exploiting this divide at the coming poll.

On the second proposition, most progressives and elites in Australia are in denial, unable to admit what is happening, despite the defeat of the voice referendum at home and the evidence in the American election – many people voted for Trump on cultural grounds, pointing to a counter-­revolution.

There are numerous pro-Trump commentators hailing the moment. Many exaggerate, yet the trend is manifest. Writing in the Financial Times, respected analyst John B Judis said Democrats must dissociate themselves from support for “gender-affirming care”, their opposition to strong borders, their backing of equal outcomes rather than equal opportunity on racial issues, their indifference to the plight of working-class men, just dismissing Trump supporters as racists and sexists, and their focus on imminent planetary apocalypse to justify draconian ­climate action.

He said the priorities of many voters who deserted the Democrats are decent jobs, safe streets and a proper safety net. But Judis warns even action on these fronts will fail politically “if Democrats don’t sever their identification with cultural radicalism”.

Labor hasn’t gone as far as the Democrats – but it is largely and proudly a progressive party now, and this risk is potent. Most progressive leadership elites in Australia don’t understand the consequences of the cultural positions they champion. Their cultural ignorance is astonishing and dangerous. They need to read the long masterclass provided in July this year by David Brooks in The New York Times.

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese. Labor hasn’t gone as far as the Democrats – but it is largely and proudly a progressive party. Picture: NewsWire / Nikki Davis Jones.

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Brooks said that with the demise of religion, US public life became secular in recent decades with “science and reason” becoming the methods by which the nation could be held together. It is now obvious that this answer, championed by the elites, has failed. “By the 21st century, it became clear that Americans were no longer just disagreeing with one another,” Brooks said. “They didn’t even perceive the same reality.”

Was there anything to fill this moral void? As usual, the left produced an answer – identity politics. Brooks said: “This story provides a moral landscape – there are those bad guys over there and us good guys over here. The story provides a sense of belonging. It provides social recognition.” It is orientated around proper esteem for and inclusion of different identity groups.

The problem, however, is the incompatibility of identity politics with the liberal principle of equality – that regardless of identity we are bonded by a common humanity. This is the foundation stone of our liberal democracy. Undermine this principle and our society is undermined. As Brooks says, “the problem with this form of all-explaining identity politics is that it undermines democracy”.

Trump’s voters don’t offer such sophisticated reasoning for their vote. But their visceral distrust of how they are being treated says this is what they feel in their bones. It is reinforced by numerous examples across their lives, telling them they don’t really count.

The more progressives in Australia push this ideology, the more they guarantee a backlash. Dutton knows this – he just needs to judge how far it has gone in Australia and how much to advance the counter-revolution.

This leads directly to the third proposition. The Democrats were consumed by the idea of Trump as a threat to democracy. Ultimately, this was the Harris campaign – and the argument was correct. Watching Trump’s backers in this country trying to pretend black was white was pitiful intellectual dishonesty. Trump refused to concede he lost in 2020 – of course he was a threat to democracy.

But what the Democrats didn’t get was the point brilliantly made by political scientist Yascha Mounk – some exit polls suggested that people felt Harris was a greater threat to democracy than Trump. “This hints at the fundamental fact of the past decade,” Mounk said. “A fact that elite discourse still has not fully confronted: citizens’ trust in mainstream institutions has been absolutely shattered. Corporations and the military, universities and the courts, all used to enjoy a certain modicum of residual trust. That trust is now gone. It is unlikely to return any time soon.”

It is gone because of the left’s march through the institutions, the story in both America and Australia. Progressive activists took charge, while established leaders were weak and ignorant. When people look across the landscape – universities, bureaucracies, cultural bodies, corporates, government departments – they see progressive values, great and small, shoved in their faces. It’s not the democracy they voted for

The Wrath to Come. Gone With the Wind and America’s Big Lie

You offspring of serpents who warned you of the wrath to come. Matthew 3:7

There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South. Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind.  Prelude to the film of Gone with The Wind (1939)

… by the time you can no longer avoid thinking about your history, it has become so complex and confusing that you can no longer think about it clearly, and your morality is what is gone with the wind.
Sarah Churchwell, The Wrath to Come (2023)

American cultural historian Sarah Churchwell’s book The Wrath to Come – Gone With the Wind and the Myth of the Lost Cause or its alternative title, the Lies America Tells (tells itself” is more accurate) is a harrowing read about slavery, America’s original sin; about the civil war fought to end it; the brief Reconstruction years that followed; the lingering stain of white supremacism and racial violence; and of how discriminatory and oppressive Jim Crow laws of the late nineteenth century survived well into the twentieth with lynch law, segregation, vote suppression and the civil rights struggles of the sixties.

The Wrath to Come is also about how historiography – how historians analyze and interpret history, and how “we, the people” recall and retell history.

She quotes author and civil rights advocate James Baldwin’s essay The White Man’s Guilt:

“White man, Hear me! History, as nearly no one seems to know, is not merely something to be read. And it does not refer merely, or even principally, to the past. On the contrary, the great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all we do”.

Churchwell notes how in 1935, Black writer WEB Du Bois warned “against writing history for our pleasure and amusement, for inflating our national ego”, or “using a version of historic fact, in order to influence and educate the new generation along the way we wish”. Such propaganda history is merely “lies agreed upon”, and had enabled a toxic mixture of libel, innuendo and silence to poison the well of American historiography”.

The Wrath to Come is also very much about today. Running right through the narrative are the currents and crises that culminated in the great American unraveling that led to the storming of the Capitol on January 6, 2021 – and as we know well, are yet to be fully played out in November 2024, and, as is most likely, beyond it. January 6th was, in her opinion the actualization of what Baldwin called “the wrath to come”, the moral derangement – spinning the nation off its axis. “Beyond the bars of our foolish little cages”, she writes, “a reckoning looms, at a scale we can’t assimilate”.

As an article in the New Yorker wrote recently, the pertinent issue now is not what caused the Civil War but what we should have learned from it. “January 6, 2021, is not an equivalent date in our history to April 12, 1861, but the radical Republican leaders who lived through the Civil War understood a principle that has been lost on their successors: that, if entrusted with power, leaders who commit assaults on the national government once may well attempt to do so again”. Many commentators remind Americans of the time when Benjamin Franklin, one of the original framers of the US Constitution, was walking out of Independence Hall after the Constitutional Convention in 1787, when someone shouted out, “Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?” To which Franklin supposedly responded, with a rejoinder at once witty and ominous: “A republic, if you can keep it.”

“The past is not a prediction” Churchwell writes, “but it is a precedent, creating the possibilities for what the future will tolerate. The American future would, it turns out, tolerate a great deal”.

Gone with the myth 

Gone with the Wind shows what white America has believed – and wanted to believe – about its own history; it’ curates and cultivates America’s great white myths about itself.

Churchwell anchors her history around one of the most well known and loved stories of the twentieth centuries – the novel and the film of Atlanta author Margaret Mitchell’s epical Gone With the Wind. But while she may be deconstructing the iconic motion picture, it is very evident that the real target of her thesis is number forty-seven, whom she sees as America’s chaos personified. Whilst describing the brief and ineffective Reconstruction years that followed the American Civil War, with its “scallywags and carpetbaggers”, she gaslights “the greatest grifter the Republic has ever seen”. Like slavers, abortion and Vietnam, Trump is an issue that divides Americans, splitting families, straining the mystic chords of memory.

Within six months of its release in June 1936, Mitchell’s tale of tangled love set against the northern invasion and fall of the Old South, sold one million copies, making it the biggest-selling American novel to that date. It won a Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award, and has sold more than 30 million copies internationally.

The 1939 film adaptation starring Vivien Leigh as willful anti-heroine Scarlett O’Hara and Clark Gable as her rakish third husband Rhett Butler, won eight Academy Awards, including best picture, best actress for Leigh and best supporting actress for African-American actress Hattie McDaniel. McDaniel portrayed Scarlett’s outspoken chief house slave, Mammy, and made film history as the first black woman to take home an Oscar (although she was colour-barred from attending the Atlanta world premier).

Churchwell mounts an excoriating critique of the novel-turned-film for its denialism of the horrors of slavery and “shameless” historical distortions about the civil war and its aftermath. Such denialism, she contends, continues to divide America today.

Churchwell’s book adds a contemporary, political twist to such criticism: she argues America’s “most famous epic romance … provides a kind of skeleton key, unlocking America’s illusions about itself” and she links its sanitized treatment of slavery and promotion of white nationalism to Trumpism and the January 6, 2021, attack on Washington’s Capitol.

“When we understand the dark truths of American experience that have been veiled by one of the nation’s favourite fantasies, we can see how the country travelled from the start of the Civil War in 1861 to parading the flag of the side that lost that war (the Confederate flag) through the US Capitol in 2021.’’

Gone with the Wind advances a misleading version of American history known as the Lost Cause. This is the notion that “the Confederacy fought the Civil War (1861–65) as a principled defense of a noble civilization (the Old South) and its democratic rights, rather than as an unprincipled defense of the white supremacist system of chattel slavery … The specific rights in question were individual states’ rights to keep and trade enslaved people, but the Lost Cause skipped that part.’’

Extending this mythology, the film’s opening title cards briefly mention slavery but also refer to the Old South – which was home to four million slaves – as “a land of Cavaliers and Cotton fields,” and a “pretty world where Gallantry took its last bow.”

Similarly, she writes that Gone with the Wind “marks a cultural breakdown, the point where mythology triumphed over history’’. Therefore, “urging the erasure of Gone with the Wind would simply reinforce that … “

“… when a nation’s myths, no longer make sense of its reality, violence erupts. That is one of the many things that has happened to America. Mythmaking and misinformation have been spinning wildly through American political discourse, so they can be hard to catcher as they float, disembodied across our conversations … Like a carnival magician, myth-making points at something with its right hand while picking our pockets, with its left stop. If we stop looking where it’s pointing, we might just manage to protect our valuables – in this case a republic, if we can keep it … It turns out that the heart of the myth, as well as its mind, and its nervous system, most of its arguments and beliefs, it’s loves and hates, it’s lies and confusions and defense mechanisms, and wish fulfilments, are all captured) for the most part in inadvertently) in America’s most famous epic romance: Gone with the Wind.

… and when a country, become so lost in dreams, that it can no longer see reality, it loses its moral sanity … This book follows American history back down into the myth, to excavate what’s been buried – not just the fact that historians have carefully been long, bringing to light … but also suppressed psycho political realities. The lies, the distortions, justifications, the half-truths, the rampant projections, the cognitive dissonances, the negations, the flat denials all the stinging truths Americans don’t want to admit about ourselves that Gone with the Wind caught like flypaper …

It has often been said that America had to imagine itself to existence. Less often remarked is the corollary, that America is, in a very real sense, mainly a story the nation tells itself. That makes the US singularly subject to the meanings of stories and myths – all nations tell stories about themselves, but America has little to hold it together beyond those stories (which is one of the reasons it fetishes its founding documents). If Gone with the Wind is one of the most popular stories America has ever told about itself, then it matters that it is a profoundly antidemocratic, and a moral horror Show … judgment has been remarkably absent from the stories we tell about ourselves.

While Churchwell hopes that Donald Trump loses the November election, she is hardly optimistic about the republic’s future.  She sees the events of the last eight years, and indeed those preceding as “portents of a much deeper dislocation in American society. For over two decades now, Americans have been battered by non-stop crises at home and abroad – from the long War on Terror to Covid and the George Floyd protests – leading to what feels like national exhaustion and a deep pessimism about the future of democracy”.

 The old revolution and The Lost Cause

Gone with the Wind took a series of historical forces, and made them seem only natural

Maybe we were on the losing side. Not quite sure it was the wrong one. 
Captain Mal Reynolds, Firefly (episode 3)

From the beginning of Donald Trump‘s campaign to the turbulent end of his presidency, debates raged about whether his supporters were motivated by economic anxiety or racial animus. But in America the two are intertwined in a system of racial capitalism.

Gone with the Wind doesn’t just romanticize that system – it eroticizes it. The Lost Cause provided a genesis for modern America’s racialized economics and paramilitary white nationalism, in which racial segregation was the supposedly logical outcome of a fight over states’ rights. But the most vicious fights over these supposedly principled stances on states’ rights have always consistently been over racial power. In fact, states’ rights are almost never invoked in a context that is distinct from race. States’ rights created a fig leaf, an alibi from which white America benefits so deeply that the denials continue to this day.

Slavery was America’s Original Sin, a stain running through its technicolor grain. Over the period of the Atlantic Slave Trade, from approximately 1526 to 1867, some 12.5 million men, women, and children were taken in captivity from Africa; 10.7 million were taken aboard ship to the New World and placed in bondage in the Americas – possibly the costliest in human life of all long-distance global migrations. Four hundred years of slavery ended in civil war and a wasteland.

America’s road to the Civil War took decades. It is beyond the scope of this article. but within a month of Lincoln’s victory in the presidential election of 1861, South Carolina took the fatal step, followed over the next few months by the secession of most of the Lower South. A month after his inauguration, the Civil War erupted with the bombardment of Fort Sumter in Charleston harbour. As Churchwell recounts it, “…. once a people decides that it cannot live together or when a citizenry divides into clearly opposed blocs, it is impossible to predict just how conflict may erupt. But to say that it cannot happen is to ignore history. Even Lincoln downplayed the threat of southern secession during the 1860 campaign, not believing until it was too late that the South ever would take such a final step”.

The American Civil War claimed more than seven hundred thousand American lives, tore a young nation apart, and its echoes reverberate still one hundred and sixty years later, reflecting unresolved political fault lines that go back two centuries. years. Though the war ended slavery, there was still another hundred years of toiling towards true freedom. As Martin Luther King said, “Lord, we ain’t what we want to be; we ain’t what we ought to be; we ain’t what were gonna be, but thank God, we ain’t where we was”.

“The white South grabbed the moral high ground and clung on for dear life – while the white North met it more than halfway. By the turn of the century the south was winning the war of ideas, its big lie accepted across the United States”.

It used to be said that the South would rise again. It did, and indeed, some reckon, the South finally won the war.

Dixie rising 

Predictably, the ghosts of the American civil war have been haunting the ongoing presidential campaign and have forced their way back into popular consciousness.

Statues depicting figures from the war – and even of founding fathers or older presidents – and even the names of the schools, military bases and streets, have increasingly become a flashpoints for a real political and cultural struggle. A low-intensity war on the past is now being waged across many states, with the effect of hardening hearts and solidifying the battle lines being drawn in the sand.

In May 2024, it was reported that the Shenandoah County School Board in Virginia would restore the names of Confederate generals Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Turner Ashby to two local schools. The controversial reversal comes nearly four years after the names were changed.

“Residents speaking in favour of reverting to the Confederate names included Stuart Didawick, who noted that his family’s roots run deep in the community, where his ancestors received land grants in the decades before the American Revolution. “When you vote on the name restorations”, he asked board members, “will you listen to the opinions of woke outsiders who have for the most part no ties to the land, the history, or the culture of this county? Or will you listen to the voices of the people who elected you to represent them, the people whose families built and have sustained this county for generations?” To which a student and athlete responded: “I would have to represent a man that fought for my ancestors to be slaves,” adding that she would feel as if she’s being disrespectful both to her ancestors and her family’s values.

Another pervasive ghost of the Civil War, the battle flag of Dixie, has never gone away. It was long a favoured accessory above government buildings and at right wing rallies in The South, those former secessionists states that lay south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It played a cameo role in popular culture, flying in The Dukes of Hazzard, True Blood, and even The Walking Dead. The right to flaunt “the Stars and Bars”, an enduring symbol of the lost Confederate cause, and a rallying point for those who still believe the rebel cause to be just, those who take solace from an heroic defeat, and those who believed that “the South will rise again”, and indeed those who KNOW that the South has indeed risen again. For have not the white, right wing, God fearing, Clinton-baiting, and Obama-hating ‘Red’ states of the South conquered and colonized the American political system?

Failed Republican presidential hopeful Nikki Haley was governor of South Carolina, the first state to secede in 1861, in 2015, when in 2015, Dylann Roof, a young white supremacist who had draped himself in the Confederate flag, massacred nine African American parishioners at a Black church in Charleston, the state capital. Haley called for the removal of the Confederate flag from the grounds of the State House, where it had been hoisted in the early 1960s as a rebuke to the civil rights movement. When the flag came down, a ceremony that felt like the final surrender of the Civil War, little did we know that what we were actually witnessing that summer was the beginning of the white nationalist counter-offensive headed by Trump. In a strange quirk of history, he launched his presidential bid the very day before the Charleston massacre.

During the run up to the Republican primaries, POTUS aspirant and Florida Governor Ron DeSantis defended part of his state’s African American history curriculum standards that claimed some enslaved people developed skills that “could be applied for their personal benefit.” Flag-remover Nikki Haley omitted any mention of slavery when she was asked to explain the cause of the Civil War at a town hall event. It wasn’t until the next day that Haley acknowledged the war was “about slavery”. Both now failed candidates reflected unresolved political fault lines that go back nearly 200 years.

© Paul Hemphill 2024.  All rights reserved

In !955, Ella Fitzgerald was jailed for singing to an integrated audience in Texas

Author’s note

Last year, my favorite podcast The Rest is History broadcast a long but informative interview with Churchwell herself. The link is below. I also republish a review of the book and its content that first appeared in The Australian in April 2023, and the unique story an escaped slave who found his way to Australia and lived to tell his tale in print – an 18,000-word essay about slavery, titled The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots. 

Such was my enthusiasm for Churchwell’s book, I transcribed many of what I considered to be memorable and cogent quotes.  They are categorized and listed immediately after the following videos.

For other posts in In That Howling Infinite about the American Civil War, see Blind Willie McTell – Bob Dylan’s Americana, Cross the Green Mountain – Bob Dylan’s Americana, Rebel Yell, Land of the fearful – home of the heavily armed, and regarding American Fascism prior to World War II, see The Shoah and America’s Shame – Ken Burns’ sorrowful masterpiece 

Like my father before me
I will work the land
And like my brother above me
Who took a rebel stand
He was just 18, proud and brave
But a Yankee laid him in his grave
I swear by the mud below my feet
You can’t raise a Kane back up
When he’s in defeat
Robbie Robertson, The Band

Churchwell quotes …

The Dixie Dreamtime

The story is cloaked in self-delusion far worse than Scarlet’s, and the film – which recognizes the novel’s flaws more clearly perpetuated these solutions out of commercial interests. This modern myth affirmed all the nation’s favorite illusions about itself, up to and including its faith in its own innocence – and then sold that bill of goods to all and sundry, making a fortune in the process. Scarlett’s blinkers are typical too – the willful ignorance in which American popular memory likes to trade. What she couldn’t or wouldn’t see is the subject of the rest of this book …

… the savage viciousness of Jim Crow produced the consoling legend of a noble land of Cavaliers, and ladies, who presided over loyal servants, with gentle benevolence, which would become America’s favourite story for decades to come. Listen closely to what a culture keeps telling itself, and you’ll know not only what’s on its mind, but what it needs to hear. Gone with the Wind told Americans that they could survive anything, especially if ignored it … the denialism of American culture (is) its refusal to face facts, to recognize that what it tells itself simply isn’t true …

Even as white Americans were sharply censoring the rise of Fascism in Europe, traveling to Spain to volunteer against Franco’s army, they were also longing for the good old days when the United States have enslaved millions of non-white Americans …

Good stock

Slavery was abolished by the war, but white supremacism was not. The problem was that white Americans could abhor slavery, and fight a war to end it, and also abhor Black people. They could believe that slavery was a moral abomination, and also believe in eugenicist racial science that claimed non-white people were biologically inferior to white people, and that racism was the natural order of things, even if slavery was not …

Gone with the Wind appeared a mere decade after the Scopes Monkey Trial took Darwinism to court to try to deny that humans will be related to apes. The immense anxiety sparked by this idea was bound up in older racist tropes which held the Black people were apes and white people were human. Proof that white people were also descended from apes challenged the racial hierarchy …

Once white people were forced to concede that they might’ve come out of jungles two, scientific gracious, and sort through that they had emerged much earlier, and how much farther and Black people

Playing along with lesser folks, taking from them what you can, and then, kicking them to the curb, is also the secret of social Darwinism, which is inextricable from the novels racism. Both preach survival of the fittest, defining fitness through biological determinism, as heritable traits that mean survivalism is a question of innate character rather than environmental good fortune These ideas are fundamentally eugenicist, claiming not only that some humans “stock” is biologically superior to others, but that such groups come racially and ethnically presorted. Presumptions of lesser and greater beings, the right of merit to rule, was at the heart of the argument: an aristocratic entitlement to title that claimed privilege was founded on inherited superiority, rather than brute force or the dumb luck of circumstance … the notion of “good stock” and “breeding” that underpinned scientific racism …

In the wake of first first world war and the Russian revolution, the “red scare” enabled the second Klan to maintained its white supremacism but expanded its list of enemies to include most foreigners, especially Catholics, Jews, eastern and southern Europeans, as well as communist, socialist and labor organizations, all of whom it generally equated. This broad, stroke nativism was strongly eugenicist, promising to protect the “pure stock” of white American Protestantism from the racial “pollution” of mixing with inferior breeds …

Heirs to the white supremacist cause, the replacement theorists, Tucker Carlson, Kyle Rittenhouse. Fox host Tucker Carlson professed to be “shocked” that “seventeen year olds with rifles decided they had to maintain order when no one else would”. This is precisely the alibi that was always offered for white supremacist violence, straight out of Gone with the Wind and the newspaper lynching reports that that accompanied it. Scapegoating makes violence redemptive, as savagery is projected onto its victims, who deserve what they’re getting. The Klan was a group shaped around projection and scapegoating. Apologists of white supremacist from Thomas Dixon and Margaret Mitchell to Tucker, Carlson and Ann Coulter to the hyper partisan mob that stormed the Capitol all insisted that they were defending “extralegal justice”, as if extralegal were not just another word for illegal …

History is endlessly revised, even when it’s been chiseled in stone. Newly discovered facts can improve our understanding of the past, and sometimes people even ask new questions about the same old facts.

… Black Americans are left arguing that they are the ones owed by a nation which is yet to redeem the promises it made to the makes to them. That is the entire import of Dr. King’s 1963 “I have a dream” speech, a metaphor of redemption that he makes explicit, and explicitly economic: “we’ve come to our national capital to cash a check”, King said, on the “promissory note” signed by the architects of our republic, a promise of “unalienable rights” to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. But America has “defaulted on this promissory note” King charged. “America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds” .

… the seed of white grievance, a nostalgic, resentment that perceives only loss of individual power, refusing to consider the question of collective equality. Grievance is the politics of narcissism, the refusal to shift your ground, nursing your grudges, building spite into politics, while telling your enemies to move on in the interest of unity, a unity in which you do not believe, and which you have no intention of compromising.

Women’s rights and suffrage

Mitchell was outraged that Blacks could vote and women could not … Real estate was also entangled with women’s rights, as women gradually bou property and paid tax, but still could not vote. Her mother argued the women’s suffrage, and is very terms woman paid taxes, but we’re not allowed to vote drunken bums on the sidewalk because they were men that they haven’t paid a dime when titled to vote, and we are not …

White wealth through property ownership is what Gone with the Wind wants to exult – while trying, less than successfully, to ignore the role of slavery and it’s aftermath in the creation of that wealth.

Gone with the Wind Shows how the mythology of American success stories, including those of immigrants, were also inculpated in the bloody history of institutionalized slavery. The triumphalism of the end of the immigrant success story has worked to school the question of complicity, the suppose and dog in this town, making good does so at the expense, And More, senses of one, of an entire Other, racially marked, underclass.

Fascism and the kloning of the Klan

My summary: Fascism as represented by the KKK and the plethora of “clothes line” political groups distinguished by a colourful array of shirts was characterized by an American nativism, xenophobic, and white supremacist, conspiratorially anti-Semitic and anti-communist paramilitary groups, leveraging existing bigotries on behalf of state violence, consolidating power for one small group, while dehumanizing, persecuting, and annihilating – the eugenicist exultation of certain “bloodlines” of over others, white grievance displaced onto racialized enemies within.

Fascism as represented by the KKK and the plethora of “clothes line” political groups distinguished by a colourful array of shirts was characterized by an American nativism, xenophobic, and white supremacist, conspiratorially anti-Semitic and anti-communist paramilitary groups, leveraging existing bigotries on behalf of state violence, consolidating power for one small group, while dehumanizing, persecuting, and annihilating – the eugenicist exultation of certain “bloodlines” of over others, white grievance displaced onto racialized enemies within.

The affinities between the second Klan and European fascism had only grown clearer since they are simultaneous start in the early 20s, with their shared cults of paramilitary violence, legal apartheids, eugenicist, ideologies, and paranoid cultures … a mast native about the sacredness of the course, the purity of the nation, and the exultation of violence to defend against the enemy within.

… there is a strong case for the fascism of the Klan with its paramilitary violence, it’s extra-legal assertions of power, it’s uniforms and rituals, it’s love of esoterica, its nostalgic racial fantasies, its conspiracy theories, and its existential rejection of the legitimacy of any government that opposes it, as historians of fascism pointed out … It was ennobled by myths of national purity, performed by masculinist cults of the leader, and sold as the will of the people.

Robert O Paxton, in the five stages of fascism, characterized it as a politics, “marked by obsessive preoccupation with community decline, humiliation, or victimhood, and by compensatory cults of unity, energy, and purity, in which a mass based party of committed nationalist militants, working in un easy, but effective collaboration with traditional elites, abandons democratic liberties and pursues, with redemptive violence, and without ethical or legal restraints, goals of internal cleansing and external expansion“.

The Black and brown shirts of European fascism were met by America’s own clothesline politics, all declaring sympathy with European fascism and espousing the rights of the white Christian American herrenvolk to dominate their nation too. The American right wing “haberdashery brigade” includes silver shirts, white shirts, dress shirts, and gray shirts. They were joined by the black Legion, the order of ‘76 and as well as Cristo-fascist groups, including defenders of the Christian faith and the Christian Front, whose members called themselves the brown shirts. The Friends of the Hitler movement, the official Nazi Association in America, was established in 1933, eventually becoming the German American Bund.

Denialism it had nothing to do with European Fascism ….

Racial bigotry in America, the times insisted, was just unthinking in the good, old, thickheaded, prejudiced, irrational human fashion. Whether unthinking racism is preferable to thinking racism is probably immaterial to its victims, as if lynching would be less objectionable if it weren’t defended on the grounds of rationality … i.e. white supremacism was just good old thickheaded American prejudice.

If Gone with the Wind is broadly fascistic in its outlook, the lost cause is even more so, in its glorification of the confederate causus belli, the cults of its leaders of its dead, its propaganda, it’s wars for territorial expansion, and the insistence on the sacred rebirth of the nation in the ashes reconstruction, the new order founded on the ongoing defiance of the federalist government of the United States, and a fundamental rejection of pluralist democracy.

A collection of material at Ferris State’s Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 2004. Jim Prichard/AP

The Grapes of Wrath

Eight months before the film premiered in Atlanta, John Steinbeck published the grapes of broth, which would become the most popular novel of 1939. Widely hailed as a testament to human endurance, the novel took its title from the battle hymn of the Republic, Julia Ward Howe’s mighty Civil War anthem …Howe’s Bible steeped language comes from the book of revelation, in invoking divine Justice, when God’s truth will force the wine of freedom from the grapes of wrath. It is an image of anger, accumulated, even cultivated, long march of times.

What defined fascist propaganda was never its lies, wrote Hannah Arendt in 1945, for all propaganda is based on lies. What distinguishes fascist lies is that they are intended to negate reality, making “that true, which, until then could only be stated as a lie”. Fascists don’t lie to deceive; they lie to change reality. Lies about the Lost Cause did just that, using fiction to displace reality until the fiction has become a reality. Soon that fiction spread beyond the cult of true believers, normalizing itself in the body, politic for the best part of the century, a cancer legitimating unreason that metastasized long ago Mythology replaced history as the arbiter of American truth.

Line is not only the Hitlerian big lie of propaganda, but a culture of perversive, lying, what a Arendt called “lying as a way of life” and “lying on principle”. It is a systematic dishonesty that destroys the collective space of historical-factual reality.

The Birth of a Nation

In February 1915, upon viewing The Birth of a Nation at a special White House screening, President Woodrow Wilson reportedly remarked, “It’s like writing history with lightning. My only regret is that it is all so terribly true. This line has appeared in numerous books and articles over the past seventy years. But it was appended twenty years after the event to add a spurious authority- from a former president no less – to the mythical account of reconstruction told in the birth of a nation that gone with the wind recycled, creating a very efficient closed circle of mythmaking.

The Birth of a Nation, by all accounts the first American blockbuster, the first historical epic, the first Hollywood film to resemble what movies are like today, premiered in Los Angeles exactly 100 years ago on Sunday. But the centennial won’t be celebratory. It will likely be awkward, sobering even — because in director D.W. Griffith’s 12-reel Civil War saga, the Ku Klux Klan members are the glorious heroes.

Since its premiere on Feb. 8, 1915, the film has been at once wildly popular and widely condemned. It inspired the revival of the KKK but also galvanized what was then a nascent NAACP into action. It helped define what cinema means for American audiences. It was the first film ever shown inside the White House.

After 100 years, it has left a complicated, powerful legacy, but a legacy of what, exactly?

“Excuses are sometimes made by scholars of film for the content, but I don’t think that for the last ten to 15 years there has been any doubt that this is an unequivocally, viciously racist film,” says Paul McEwan, Associate Professor of Media and Communications at Muhlenberg College. McEwan has been studying and writing about the history of Birth of a Nation for 12 years. “I mean, this film makes Gone With the Wind look very progressive.”

Griffith claimed to be filming history, but Birth of a Nation, based on the novel The Clansman by Thomas Dixon, features a stunning revision of Reconstruction. White actors in blackface portray members of a barbaric, sex-crazed militia of freedmen that terrorizes and disenfranchises cowering whites. Black men overtake South Carolina’s judicial system and legislature, swigging whiskey and eating fried chicken on the floor of the State House. After the blackface character Gus attempts to rape a white woman, the protagonists don their hoods and apprehend him, lynching him after their version of a fair trial. The film is ostensibly about white national reconciliation at the expense of emancipated black Americans. A title card punctuates the action toward the end of the silent film to declare, “The former enemies of North and South are united again in defense of their Aryan birthright.” Despite its objectionable content, the film remains an essential part of the discussion about American cinema because of Griffith’s pioneering technical innovations. Things that today are completely taken for granted — like close-ups, fade-outs and even varying camera angles — originated with The Birth of a Nation‘s director and crew.

From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks
And the hoofbeats pound in his brain
And he’s taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide ‘neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain’t got no name
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game
Bob Dylan

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ’em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Bob Dylan, The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll

In !955, Ella Fitzgerald was jailed for singing to an integrated audience in  Houston, Texas

Goosestepping back to political relevance

Artist Barry Blitt’s “Back to the Future.” In another year of political chaos, he “looks forward to depicting the pageantry, solemnity, and awe of the upcoming Presidential election”.

A slave writes to a Sydney paper

I’m trying to imagine what it might have been like to be the editor of a little Sydney newspaper called The Empire in the 1850s when a “fugitive slave” – owned from birth by the invalid daughter of an innkeeper in North Carolina – walked through the door, asking for a copy of the US Constitution.

He wanted to write about the slavery endured by whole branches of his family, and he needed the Constitution for reference.

It seems that this actually happened in Sydney in 1855. The New York Times had a story about it on the weekend. And you’re not going to believe how that story ends.

The slave in question was John Swanson Jacobs, described by the editors of The Empire (they are sadly not named) as “a man of colour, with bright intelligent eyes, a gentle firm voice, and a style of speech decidedly American.”

Jacobs had escaped bondage and made his way to Australia where he was desperate to find somebody willing to tell the story of slavery. By chance, the editors had “the last edition of the United States’ Constitution authorised by Congress” in their offices, and they agreed to lend it to Jacobs, who returned it after a fortnight, with an 18,000 word essay about slavery, titled The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots.

The editors of The Empire agreed to publish it, and “scarcely altered a word”.

A first-hand account of slavery by an escaped slave has been found in an Australian newspaper archive.

A first-hand account of slavery by an escaped slave has been found in an Australian newspaper archive.

“The writer is in Sydney; we understand he has been among the successful gold-diggers,” they said. “We shall be much mistaken if his narrative is not read with a lively interest.”

More than 160 years later, you are being offered the opportunity to read that essay, because it has rather amazingly been re-discovered, and published in book form, and oh, it’s so harrowing.

It begins: “I was born in Edenton, North Carolina, one of the oldest States in the Union, and had five different owners in 18 years.

“My first owner was Miss Penelope Hannablue, the invalid daughter of an innkeeper. After her death I became the property of her mother.”

He describes the slavery endured by his father: “To be a man, and not to be. A father without authority – a husband and no protector … Such is the condition of every slave throughout the United States; he owns nothing – he can claim nothing. His wife is not his – his children are not his; they can be taken from him, and sold at any minute, as far as the fleshmonger may see fit to carry them.

“Slaves are recognised as property by the law and can own nothing except at the consent of their masters.

“A slave’s wife or daughter may be insulted before his eyes with impunity; he himself may be called on to torture them, and dare not refuse. To raise his hand in their defence, is death by the law. He must bear all things and resist nothing. If he leaves his master’s premises at any time without a written permit, he is liable to be flogged; yet they say we are happy and contented.”

He describes the death of Mrs Hannablue, and the sale of her slaves: “Here they are, old and young, male and female, married and single, to be sold to the highest bidder … They began to sell off the old slaves first, as rubbish; one very old man sold for one dollar; the old cook sold for 17 dollars; from that to 1,600 dollars, which was the price of a young man who was a carpenter.

“Dr Norcom, whose daughter owned my sister, bought me for a shop boy. It would be in vain for me to attempt to give a description of my feelings while standing under the auctioneer’s hammer.”

Jacobs escaped, and spent years on a whaling ship before landing in Australia. His essay was discovered just a few years ago, by an American literary scholar, Jonathan D.S. Schroeder, who came across it while digging through the Australian online newspaper database, Trove.

It is being published by the University of Chicago Press, who says accounts of slavery by the slaves themselves are exceedingly rare, and precious. They believe that Jacob was the brother of Harriet Jacobs, whose 1861 autobiography, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl is revered in the US as one of the first, first-hand published accounts of slavery, and therefore a treasure, as this essay also so very clearly is. You may read the whole thing on Trove or buy the book here.

Gone with the Lost Cause: O’Hara, Butler recast as ‘homicidal white supremacists’

The 20th century’s most famous fictional lovers had ‘profoundly fascistic worldviews’, according to an author who has mounted an excoriating critique of the novel-turned-film for its denialism of the horrors of slavery.

Actors Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in 1939 film Gone with the Wind. Picture: Supplied

Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind

American author Margaret Mitchell expected her first and only novel, Gone With The Wind, to sell about 5000 copies. Yet from the day it was published on June 30 1936, Mitchell’s 1037-page fable about the American Civil War and the pampered, manipulative daughter of a Georgia plantation owner, was not merely a bestseller: it evolved into an enduring – and polarising – cultural phenomenon.

Within six months of its release, Mitchell’s tale of tangled love set against the northern invasion and fall of the Old South, sold one million copies, making it the biggest-selling American novel to that date. It won a Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award and has sold more than 30 million copies internationally.

The 1939 film adaptation starring Vivien Leigh as willful anti-heroine Scarlett O’Hara and Clark Gable as her rakish third husband Rhett Butler, won eight Academy Awards, including best picture, best actress for Leigh and best supporting actress for African American actress Hattie McDaniel. McDaniel portrayed Scarlett’s outspoken chief house slave, Mammy, and made film history as the first black woman to take home an Oscar.

The film’s melodramatic love story — Scarlett spends years pining for a man she cannot have — along with its elegant balls, burnt orange skies, hooped gowns and epic scenes of dead and injured Confederate troops, proved a hit with moviegoers around the world. When adjusted for inflation, Gone with the Wind, which tracks Scarlett’s journey through civil war, near-starvation, three marriages and the loss of her only child, remains the highest-grossing film of all time, ahead of Avatar and Titanic.

American author Sarah Churchwell recounts these milestones in her provocative book, The Wrath to Come: Gone with the Wind and the Lies America Tells — and goes on to mount an excoriating critique of the novel-turned-film for its denialism of the horrors of slavery and “shameless” historical distortions about the civil war and its aftermath. Such denialism, she contends, continues to divide America today.

In fact, Churchwell — one of the headline speakers at next month’s Melbourne Writers Festival — argues that society belle-turned-wily survivor, Scarlett O’Hara, and gambler turned doting father, Rhett Butler, are “homicidal white supremacists with profoundly fascistic worldviews’’. Not the kind of academic who pulls her punches, she adds that Mitchell’s novel is “about enslavers busily pretending that slavery doesn’t matter — which is pretty much the story of American history’’.

The novel and film’s depiction of loyal, happy enslaved people — neither Scarlett’s family nor their wealthy plantation neighbours mistreat their slaves — has long been criticised. “Gone with the Wind does such violence to American history that it practically lynches it,’’ black journalist Ben Davis Jr wrote in 1940.

Scarlett (Vivien Leigh) being laced into a corset by Mammy (Hattie McDaniel) in Gone With the Wind.

Scarlett (Vivien Leigh) being laced into a corset by Mammy (Hattie McDaniel)

Churchwell’s book adds a contemporary, political twist to such criticism: she argues America’s “most famous epic romance … provides a kind of skeleton key, unlocking America’s illusions about itself” and she links its sanitised treatment of slavery and promotion of white nationalism to Trumpism and the January 6, 2021 attack on Washington’s Capitol. Significantly, just months before this attack, Donald Trump invoked Gone with the Wind at a rally while complaining about the South Korean film, Parasite, winning the Best Picture Oscar. Trump said he wished America would “bring back” films like the 1939 classic: “Can we get, like, Gone with the Wind back please?’’

As an American who lives in London and writes about US culture and history, Churchwell is often asked, “What has happened to America?”, since the 2016 election of Trump as US president “dumbfounded most of the watching world’’. She writes: “When we understand the dark truths of American experience that have been veiled by one of the nation’s favourite fantasies (Gone With The Wind), we can see how the country travelled from the start of the Civil War in 1861 to parading the flag of the side that lost that war (the Confederate flag) through the US Capitol in 2021.’’

In a Zoom interview, Review asks Churchwell whether she has faced pushback over her claims Scarlett and Rhett are homicidal white supremacists. A professor of American Literature at the University of London, she grins and says: “People have noticed it.’’

She says the book hasn’t come out in the US yet – it will be published there in June – “so we’ll see what they think’’ of her revisionist history of this popular American classic.

With her curtain of long blonde hair, Churchwell cuts a glamorous figure as she delivers her rapid-fire answers, which, like her writing, are mercifully free of academic jargon. She says of her denunciation of Scarlett and Rhett: “It is a statement of fact because they both espouse white supremacism over and over and over again. So it’s not an interpretation. It is a simple description of the things that they do and the things that they say.’’

The Wrath to Come – which British critics have described as “extraordinary” and as prising opening “often jaw-dropping history’’ – documents how, when under pressure, Scarlett uses the n-word in the novel. This racial slur appears in Mitchell’s book more than 100 times but was removed from the film’s script after black cast members and activists lobbied the blockbuster’s powerful producer, David O. Selznick.

Gone With the Wind author Margaret Mitchell

In Mitchell’s novel, during one wartime crisis, Scarlett threatens to sell a young, flighty slave, Prissy, “down the river’’ and also threatens her with: “You’ll never see your mother again or anybody you know’’. Later, when Scarlett and her Tara household are facing starvation following the siege of Atlanta, she again loses her temper with Prissy, uses the n-word against her for the first time and threatens to “wear this whip out on you’’.

During Reconstruction, Scarlett refers in disparaging terms to “damned n—-r lovers” and when she starts a timber mill business, she is troubled by “free nxxxxrs’” who won’t work for her (because ex-slaves now have the right to resign). All of these racial insults are omitted or softened in the film.

As for those homicidal claims, Scarlett shoots a white Yankee deserter who invades her family’s plantation house, in self-defence, takes his money and hides the body. In the novel, she is initially shocked at her violence, but Churchwell notes how she later mused she “could have … taken sweet pleasure in the feel of his warm blood on her bare feet’’. Rhett Butler, a self-interested gambler who eventually joins the Confederacy, admits in the book he killed a Yankee soldier in a bar-room argument, and murdered a black man because “he was uppity to a lady, and what else could a Southern gentleman do?’’

Then there is the racist language of Mitchell’s novel, which is “far more extreme”, says Churchwell, “than those who haven’t read it probably imagine’’. She argues: “Gone with the Wind never once refers to Black people as people or human beings – not a single time. They are only dehumanised and generic racial categories. Black people are either (various) animals, especially all sorts of apes; or they are savages, just out of the jungle; or they are ‘slaves’, ‘blacks’, ‘darkies’, ‘pickaninnies’, ‘negroes’, ‘mulattos’, or ‘nxxxxrs’.

“ … Tara’s field hands have ‘huge black paws’ and ‘caper with delight’ at encountering Scarlett, while freed slaves run wild ‘like monkeys or small children’ after emancipation, ‘as creatures of small intelligence might naturally be expected to do’.’’

The film uses the now-objectionable term “darkies” and as mentioned above, dropped the n-word. This toning down of the book’s racism “had the perverse outcome of reinforcing the Lost Cause myth that white Southerners treated Black people courteously,’’ Churchwell argues.

For the academic and author, the novel’s racial prejudice goes beyond its extensive use of offensive words: “It’s unreflective in its racism. It thinks there’s such a thing as a willing slave without stopping to think about the fact that those two words literally mean the opposite.’’ Although slavery ended because of the Civil War, she also contends that Gone with the Wind presents America’s post-war reconstruction and new era of rights for freed slaves as a tragedy – for Scarlett, and her slave-owning plantation class.

Churchwell, who has also written cultural histories of other American icons Marilyn Monroe and The Great Gatsby, says Gone with the Wind advances a misleading version of American history known as the Lost Cause. This is the notion that “the Confederacy fought the Civil War (1861–65) as a principled defence of a noble civilisation (the Old South) and its democratic rights, rather than as an unprincipled defence of the white supremacist system of chattel slavery … The specific rights in question were individual states’ rights to keep and trade enslaved people, but the Lost Cause skipped that part.’’

Extending this mythology, the film’s opening title cards briefly mention slavery but also refer to the Old South – which was home to four million slaves – as “a land of Cavaliers and Cotton fields,” and a “pretty world where Gallantry took its last bow.”

Churchwell, who has a PhD in English and American literature from Princeton University, is not the only cultural expert to question Gone with the Wind’s use of racist terms and extreme euphemism. This month, British journalists revealed that Pan Macmillan, publisher of Mitchell’s epic, had added a detailed trigger warning to the 2022 edition, pointing out the novel “includes problematic elements including the romanticisation of a shocking era in our history and the horrors of slavery’’.

In 2020, HBO Max temporarily pulled the film in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. It has since been restored to the streaming service with accompanying videos that denounce its racial representations and examine the film’s historical context.

The African-American rapper Queen Latifah has said the film should have been permanently banned by HBO Max. “Let Gone with the Wind be gone with the wind,’’ she said. Actress and TV host Whoopi Goldberg – the second black woman to win an acting Oscar after McDaniel – disagreed. She favoured educating viewers on the film’s context, adding: “If you start pulling every film, you’re going to have to pull … a very long list of films.’’

Churchwell’s inspiration for her book, which took her five years to write, were the American and UK statue wars. “I initially envisioned it as a much shorter, faster book,’’ she says. “ … At the same time, history kept galloping forward and Gone With the Wind kept coming into the news and Donald Trump kept pushing things forward. And so it was like it had more and more to say to our moment.’’

Sarah Churchwell.

Sarah Churchwell

She does not advocate cancelling Gone with the Wind or destroying statues. She argues it is better to place key statues of controversial historical figures in museums, with accurate contextual information. Similarly, she writes that Gone with the Wind “marks a cultural breakdown, the point where mythology triumphed over history’’. Therefore, “urging the erasure of Gone with the Wind would simply reinforce that failure’’.

Mitchell disliked nostalgic characterisations of the Old South as a land of “magnolias and moonlight’’. She describes Rhett – the embodiment of masculine virility – as “dark of face, swarthy as a pirate”, and conceived of Scarlett as a not especially beautiful anti-heroine: she was perplexed when her self-centred protagonist became a national heroine. An ex-journalist from Atlanta, Mitchell saw the adoration of Scarlett as “bad for the mental and moral attitude of a nation” and once complained: “The mythical Old South has too strong a hold on their (the public’s) imaginations to be altered by the mere reading of a 1037-page book.’’

The Wrath to Come acknowledges all this but notes that while Mitchell condemns Scarlett’s failings such as her greed and lack of self-awareness, she doesn’t challenge her racism. “Her white supremacism isn’t part of what makes her not admirable for Mitchell,’’ Churchwell tells Review.

Mitchell maintained that her black characters, including Tara’s slaves Mammy, Pork and Big Sam – the latter saves Scarlett’s life when she is attacked – behaved in a more noble manner than their white mistress. “It’s true most of the black characters in the novel are admirable in the sense they’re not evil,’’ responds Churchwell. However, she says that after the Civil War, as slaves were freed, Mitchell’s text often falsely characterised them as “a danger to civilised society’’.

Published in 27 languages, the novel has often been praised as a powerful account of the effects of war on innocent civilians, especially women, and Scarlett has been seen as a proto-feminist — a selfish but determined young woman who endures the chaos of war and flouts the stifling gender conventions of her time by going into business for herself. Former Democrat first lady Eleanor Roosevelt was a fan of the book, writing that it made the lingering enmity of the south “easy to understand … even to those who haven’t understood it before”. As a result, she sympathised, she said, with southern women whose “bitterness persisted so long” against the “northern invaders”.

Churchwell writes scornfully of this: “Even a white liberal like Eleanor Roosevelt sympathised after reading the novel not with enslaved people but with the women fighting to keep them in chains. This is what it means to naturalise a value system.’’ In our interview, Churchwell says Roosevelt’s sympathetic take “was obviously very representative of the ways that Americans read the book at that time’’.

The university professor concedes Scarlett has some winning qualities: “Vivien Leigh’s portrayal of Scarlett is one of the things that makes the film quite indelible. I think it’s an incredible performance. And she takes this character who is unlikable in all kinds of ways — is kind of stupid — and makes her a lot more interesting, charming and sympathetic.’’

McDaniel’s parents had been enslaved and she famously retorted to critics of her devoted house-slave role that she had chosen between $7 a week to be a maid, or $700 a week to play a maid. Even so, on the night she made Oscars history, McDaniel was forced to sit apart from white cast members during the awards ceremony in Los Angeles. Says Churchwell: “A lot of people now have the idea of a Jim Crow segregation in the US as being something that only happened in the south, but …. a kind of an apartheid line ran all the way across the US.’’

What about the notion Mitchell was a product of the early 20th century era, and that adult readers of her saga would understand this? “It’s true up to a point,” replies Churchwell. She says Mitchell’s contemporaries, Hemingway and Fitzgerald, also reflected the casual racism of their era, but “considerably less viciously” than she did. Unlike Mitchell, who defended her right to use the n-word, “they both evolved”.

Although Leigh’s Scarlett and Gable’s Rhett were arguably 20th century film’s most recognisable lovers, Churchwell maintains that Gone with the Wind’s historical distortions are still “vastly underestimated.’’.

“The book has always been recognised as racist,’’ she says. “I certainly didn’t write the book to be like, ‘Hey, I’ve got a revelation, ‘Gone With the Wind is racist – we never knew’.

“But the more that you go into it, the more you realise that there are ways in which we still haven’t reckoned with some of the truths about their (Scarlett and Rhett’s) positions. And (this is) despite the fact that they are both homicidal white supremacists — they just are.’’

Land of the fearful – home of the heavily armed

Vladimir Lenin once remarked that “there are decades where nothing happens and there are weeks when decades happen”. As the leader of the Russian revolution, he was a bit of an expert on sudden upheavals following long stasis. We are living through such weeks now.  The worldwide reaction to the death of George Floyd under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer has all the hallmarks of one of those momentous weeks.

Predicatively, such outbursts of outage, where peaceful protests are often accompanied by mayhem and wanton destruction, are a magnet for opportunists of all persuasions. It’s a revolutionist’s dream. Lenin called moments like this a “revolutionary situation”. Most self-respecting Bolsheviks and Nazis never let such volatile circumstances go to waste. One mob’s crisis was always some other mob’s opportunity – I’m talking in the Aussie vernacular here, by the way, a ‘mob’ is a bunch of folks, or livestock, sheep or roos, mainly – and not necessarily a Pythonesque “wabble of wowdy webels ”  – although the featured photograph would suggest this this might indeed be so. The smiling chappie with the brolly looks like he was doing a Hong Kong “umbrella revolution”. Maybe He was just an accidental tourist caught in the camera’s gaze. But his nonchalance belies the seriousness of America’s turmoil.

David Kilcullen, Australian author, strategist and counterinsurgency expert refers to these agents provocateurs as ‘accelerationists’. In the following article, He writes of how the rise of militias and armed protesters across the US is sometimes seen as a fringe right-wing issue, but argues that it is much broader. Armed groups have formed across the political spectrum, reflecting divisions in American society that the coronavirus and it’s social and economic impacts have exacerbated. There are, he says, “already hundreds militias of varying political complexions across the country. Donald Trump is as much a symptom as a cause of America’s toxic polarization. Thus, far from being a purely right-wing phenomenon, rifts within US society that are most stressed by the coronavirus — urban versus rural interests, racial and class tensions, state overreach versus anti-government militancy, far left against alt-right, “collectivist” coastal elites versus rugged individualists in “flyover country” – align with pre-existing grievances. And heavily armed ­actors across the spectrum are poised to exploit them’.

Kilcullen writes: “One reason for the overemphasis on right-wing extremism  is that analysts often characterized armed actors as “hate groups”. It is absolutely true that the intense hatred from right-wing extremists dwarfs most other groups. But the focus on hate is a misunderstanding of what drives violence in internal conflicts … the worst atrocities are driven not by hate but by fear. Fear of other groups, encroachment of those groups into one’s territory and collapse of confidence in government’s ability to impartially keep the peace are the key factors that provoke communal violence. Hate follows and rationalizes fear, not the other way around. And fear of the coronavirus, alongside the demonstrable inability of government to keep people safe, is driving today’s growth in armed militancy”.

Commentators on the left and right have for a long time now been discussing the the prospects of a second American civil war; and its has been particularly talked up during the reign of the incendiarist in chief. in the White House. but Kilcullen begs to differs, suggesting a less dystopian but nonetheless disturbing outcome:

“In ‘contested areas’ – where the territories of left and right-wing militants overlap – we can expect violence irrespective of the outcome. Whether it spreads will depend on level-headed political leadership – and today’s hyper-partisan coronavirus debate offers little hope of that. If violence does spread, it will not be a re-run of the American Civil War. Rather, given the multiplicity of groups involved, their geographical overlap and loose structure, we can expect something much more diffuse”.

In the land of the fearful, the home of the heavily armed, matters can very easily spiral out of control get out of hand. Conflict resolution expert and mediator Lawrence Susskind encapsulated it thus: when two sides are locked into an apparently intractable conflict, “you must engage the constructive middle. When you lose the constructive middle, extremists on all sides are empowered” (from 51 Days at Waco, Paul Hemphill September 2003 – see below ). When the going gets tough, the mild get going. As the indestructible but fictitious Agent Jack Bauer, said between 11 and 11.14 am in the turn of the millennium series 24:

If you bring in the CTU (Counter terrorism Unit), they could screw up and there’d be another Waco”.

See also, Salon’s piece on the subject of America’s militias,  Soldiers of the Boogaloo -the far rights plans for a new civil war and the Washington Post’s  What is antifa and Why does Donald Trump want to blame if for the violence in the US?

For other posts on world politics in In That Howling Infinite, including several articles by David Kilcullen, see: Political World – thoughts and themes. 

Home of the hateful, fearful and heavily armed

David Kilcullen, The Australian, 30th May 2020

The rise of militias and armed protesters across the US is sometimes seen as a fringe right-wing issue, but it is much broader. Armed groups have formed across the political spectrum, worsening divisions the coronavirus has exposed in American society.

Protesters, some heavily armed, are out in force to demand reopening of the economy. The husband of one leader posted a Facebook video this week expressing his readiness to take up arms against the government to prevent a “new world order” being imposed through lockdowns.

Protesters in Lansing, Michigan, during a rally earlier this month organised by Michigan United for Liberty to condemn coronavirus pandemic stay-at-home orders. Picture: AFP
Protesters in Lansing  during a rally earlier this month organised by
Michigan United for Liberty to condemn coronavirus pandemic stay-at-home orders. AFP

As I write, there are 1.7 million coronavirus cases in the US and more than 100,000 deaths. The little county where I live — only a half-million people, in a part-urban, part-wilderness area of the Rocky Mountains — has a death toll higher than Australia and New Zealand combined. And this is one of the safe places, positively benign compared with hot spots such as New York or New Jersey with deaths in the tens of thousands.

Second to its health impact, the economic crisis wrought by ­government-imposed lockdowns has grabbed the most attention: 40 million Americans were forced on to the dole in the past 10 weeks. The job market, strong until mid-March, has fallen off a cliff. A flood of bankruptcies is sweeping US business; analysts expect a wave of municipal bankruptcies as tax ­revenue collapses. Congress has committed $US2 trillion ($3 trillion) in crisis spending, even as public debt nears $US30 trillion, or roughly 120 per cent of gross domestic product. If the first wave of the coronavirus tsunami was its health effect, the second — economic devastation — may be worse. But there is a third wave coming: the possibility of armed conflict towards the end of this year, when the combined health and economic impacts of the crisis will peak amid the most violently contested presidential election in memory.

READ MORE :President vows to send in army|Trump faces a dangerous test|Race riots spread after death of unarmed black man|Why the US is in serious trouble

There were already many militias of varying political complexions across America — one pro-militia website lists 361 groups across all 50 states. Membership surged after the 2008 financial crisis, then accelerated as thugs from both political extremes fought each other with baseball bats, ­bicycle chains and pepper spray in the streets of Washington, DC, Seattle, Portland and Detroit. The deadly “Unite the Right” rally in the normally sleepy university town of Charlottesville, Virginia, in August 2017 brought the danger home to many Americans, but the trend was longstanding.

Rioting among groups such as Antifa (on the anarchist left), Patriot Prayer and the Proud Boys (on the alt-right) and mass demonstrations by issue-motivated groups such as Black Lives Matter, ­Extinction Rebellion and the Women’s March kicked into high gear after Donald Trump’s election.

Far-left militias such as Redneck Revolt and the John Brown Gun Club emerged, copying the methods and military-style weapons of right-wing militias while opposing their politics. Both far-right and far-left armed groups were at Charlottesville, with ­cadres of gun-carrying militants guarding protesters on both sides and a third-party “constitutionalist” militia, the Oath Keepers — composed mainly of military and law-enforcement veterans — standing by as self-appointed umpires.

In the west, a separate rural militia movement had already coalesced around “sovereign citizen” groups that rejected federal authority. Despite media portrayals of its leaders as racially motivated, in fact the sovereign citizen ideology is neither left nor right in a traditional sense — it might better be described as a form of militant libertarianism with roots in the self-reliant cowboy culture of the old west. In April 2014, a dispute over grazing rights in Nevada triggered an armed stand-off between militia and federal agencies including the Bureau of Land Management and the FBI. This dispute — over federal attempts to impound the cattle of a rancher named Cliven Bundy — brought hundreds of militia members from across the country to Nevada where they surrounded federal agents, trained weapons on them and forced them to back down.

The 2014 stand-off ended in a bloodless militia victory, but almost two years later Bundy’s son Ammon led an armed occupation of the headquarters of a federal wildlife refuge in southeastern Oregon. This time, things went the other way. The occupation prompted a six-week siege by federal and state agencies in January-February 2016. It resulted in the death of LaVoy Finicum, a charismatic Arizona rancher whose killing, captured on government aerial-camera footage that appears to show him with hands raised in surrender before being shot, made him a martyr.

Though Trump is as much a symptom as a cause of America’s toxic polarisation, the passions he inspires among friend and foe alike have exacerbated it: during the 2016 election campaign, ­Arizona militias mounted armed patrols to support his border wall. In response, Redneck Revolt held a heavily armed show of force in Phoenix, Arizona, later posting a YouTube video showing members shooting semiautomatic rifles at targets displaying alt-right symbols. A few months later, Antifa convened an “anti-colonial anti-fascist community defence gathering” near Flagstaff, Arizona, that included weapons training and coaching in anti-police tactics. Today, far-left and far-right groups operate within close striking distance of each other in several border states and in “contested zones” including the Pacific Northwest, parts of Michigan, Pennsylvania, Virginia and the Carolinas.

A Youtube still of Neo-Nazi group Atomwaffen Division training outside Seattle.

A Youtube still of Neo-Nazi group Atomwaffen Division training outside Seattle.

The pandemic — and the grievances inspired by heavy-handed responses to it — have brought these tensions to a head. Camouflage-clad militia sporting semiautomatic rifles and body ­armour and riding in military-­surplus trucks joined an armed protest against the governor of Pennsylvania in April. Similar protests took place in Ohio and North Dakota. A week later demonstrators, some carrying AK-47 rifles, swarmed into the state ­capital in Lansing, Michigan, to confront politicians.

A racial edge also emerged: a week after the Lansing incident a group of African-Americans, armed with AR-15 rifles and automatic pistols, mounted a show of force outside the Michigan State Capitol building to support a black member of the legislature. Class inequities, which track closely with racial disparities here, have prompted socialist groups — notably Antifa but also traditionally nonviolent Trotskyist and anarchist networks — to arm themselves for an incipient revolutionary moment.

In Minneapolis, the killing by white police officers of an unarmed black man, George Floyd, brought thousands of protesters on to the streets for several nights of rioting, with multiple buildings and cars burned and shopping malls and restaurants looted. By Thursday, militarised police were on the streets firing tear gas and rubber bullets against vociferous opposition. At least one person has been killed in the riots and the Minnesota National Guard is expected to join the police in attempting to restore order.

Thus, far from being a purely right-wing phenomenon, rifts within US society that are most stressed by the coronavirus — urban versus rural interests, racial and class tensions, state overreach versus anti-government militancy, far left against alt-right, “collectivist” coastal elites versus rugged individualists in “flyover country” — align with pre-existing grievances. And heavily armed ­actors across the spectrum are poised to exploit them.

One reason for the overemphasis on right-wing extremism, I believe, is that analysts often mis­characterise armed actors as “hate groups”. It is absolutely true that the intense hatred from right-wing extremists dwarfs most other groups. But the focus on hate is a misunderstanding of what drives violence in internal conflicts.

As Stathis Kalyvas demonstrated a decade ago in The Logic of Violence in Civil War, the worst atrocities are driven not by hate but by fear. Fear of other groups, encroachment of those groups into one’s territory and collapse of confidence in government’s ability to impartially keep the peace are the key factors that provoke communal violence. Hate follows and rationalises fear, not the other way around. And fear of the coronavirus, alongside the demonstrable inability of government to keep people safe, is driving today’s growth in armed militancy.

Like Iraq, like Somalia

To me, current conditions feel disturbingly similar to things I have seen in Iraq, Lebanon, Libya, Somalia and Colombia. Indeed, the theory of guerrilla and unconventional warfare fits today’s situation all too well.

If we visualise an armed movement as a pyramid, then the thousands of protesters on the street (and the tens of thousands who support and sympathise with them but stay home) represent the mass base. A smaller group of organisers and support networks (physical and virtual) plays an auxiliary role further up the pyramid. The armed, gun-toting element is smaller still, but higher in skill, weaponry, organisation and motivation. It’s worth remembering that almost three million Americans served in Iraq and Afghanistan, coming home familiar with urban and rural guerrilla warfare to a country where 41 per cent of people own a gun or live with someone who does.

A militia group with no political affiliation from Michigan stands in front of the Governor’s office after protesters occupied the state capitol building on April 30.
A militia group with no political affiliation from Michigan stands in front of the
Governor’s office after protesters occupied the state capitol building on April 30.

The US has no national firearms register, so only estimates are possible, but analysts believe around 100 million firearms are in private hands in the US, and hundreds of billions of rounds of ammunition. Given widespread com­bat experience from the war on terror, this reservoir of military potential sets the US apart from any other Western democracy.

The pandemic has seen a surge in gun purchases, with background checks spiking to their highest number. Many of these are first-time buyers from the ­pro­gressive end of politics, who traditionally shun firearms and have little knowledge of weapon safety.

Racial war, class war

More worrying, on left and right, are underground groups including so-called “accelerationists”. These tend to be small, secretive and far more violent than the militias or mass movements. They follow a decentralised command-and-­control philosophy known as “leaderless resistance” that was pioneered by far-right groups in the 1980s but has since been taken up by terrorists across the political spectrum, including jihadists. Their goal is to accelerate the collapse of a social order they see as doomed, by bringing on a racial war, a class war or both.

Underground networks operate using a clandestine cell structure, and communicate via the deep web and tools such as Telegram or RocketChat, secure-messaging apps that have become havens for extremists as more open channels, including chat rooms such as the neo-Nazi forum Iron March, have been shut down.

Language policing on social media has not only pushed accelerationist groups underground; it has created a whole new language.

The term “Boogaloo” is widely used for the coming civil war. Variants — coined to avoid Twitter censors — include “The Big Igloo” or “The Big Luau”, the last explaining why Hawaiian shirts are popular among militias. Memes from television (“Winter is Coming”, “Cowabunga”) are popular, as are meme-based references such as “Spicy Time” or acronyms such as BAMN (“by any means necessary”) and BFYTW (“because f..k you, that’s why”). Some call the urban guerrilla aspect of the Boogaloo “Minecrafting”: Twitter threads seeming to discuss the game may actually refer to the coming conflict — context is everything. Some discussion hides in plain sight on social media: more open, practical and gruesome conversations are left to the deep web, Telegram or neo-Nazi sites such as Daily Stormer, which ­resides on the orphaned former Soviet “.su” internet domain as a way to avoid censorship. Doctoral dissertations could be written on the kaleidoscope of visual symbols used by groups, left and right, to signal allegiances.

Accelerationism has a long history on the Marxist left and among environmental activists such as Earth Liberation Front or Earth First! It has since been embraced by right-wing extremists including 2019 Christchurch killer Brenton Tarrant, whose manifesto included environmentalist ideology and was celebrated by neo-Nazi ecoterrorist group Green Brigade.

Other right-wing accelerationist groups include Atomwaffen ­Division (which has a presence in Australia) and The Base, a white-supremacist group founded in mid-2018 whose name is a play on al-Qa’ida (“the base” in Arabic). FBI agents targeted The Base after its members allegedly sought to ­attack a massive pro-gun rally outside the Virginia State Capitol building in Richmond in January. In a classic accelerationist move, they planned to infiltrate the rally, start shooting both protesters and law enforcement officers, provoke a massacre and thereby convert a peaceful ­(albeit armed) demonstration into a militant uprising.

A heavily-armed young man poses for a photo with his assault rifle during the protest at the State Capitol in Salem, Oregon on May 2.
A heavily-armed young man poses for a photo with his assault rifle
during the protest at the State Capitol in Salem, Oregon on May 2.

The group’s leader, until recently known by his nom de guerre “Norman Spear”, was unmasked in January as Rinaldo Nazzaro, a New Jersey native based in St Peters­burg, Russia, from where he directed cells in Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey. There is no public evidence of any relationship between Nazzaro and Russian intelligence, though his presence in Russia triggered speculation in the media and within The Base itself. But this highlights another risk factor for 2020: the possibility of foreign interference astride the upcoming presidential election.

A new cold war

The US and China are fast descending into a new cold war, as recriminations over the pandemic heighten conflicts that were already acute. Each is seeking to improve its military position against the other: the Chinese navy has ramped up activity in the South China Sea, for example, while US forces mounted more incursions into the area in the past three months than in all of last year. China’s history of sponsoring agents of influence in the US and other Western countries (including Australia) and its track record of cyber-espionage and technology theft make it a reasonable assumption that some (with or without official backing) may be considering ways to exploit America’s internal tensions. Indeed, it would be intelligence malpractice if they were not.

Likewise, Iran — which lost Qassem Soleimani, head of its Revolutionary Guards covert action arm, the Quds Force, to a US drone strike in January — has been on a path of military confrontation with the US for years. A ­series of incidents in the Middle East and the increasing pain of US economic sanctions motivate Tehran to create internal distractions for the US, relieving pressure on itself. The regime has a history of sponsoring lethal covert action inside the US — most recently in 2011, when Quds Force members recruited a criminal gang in an ­attempt to assassinate the Saudi ambassador by bombing an upscale Washington, DC, restaurant.

Again, there is no public evidence of such activity at present, but ­Iranian operatives watching the US today would be remiss not to consider it.

If interference does occur, US armed groups probably would not know it. Just as members of The Base were dismayed to discover their leader living in Russia, militant groups in the US — many of which are patriotic, albeit opposed to the current character of government — would likely spurn any overt foreign approach. But anonymous funding, amplification of online messaging, offers of training or equipment through “cut-outs” such as tactical training companies or non-government organisations, or “false flag” operations (where agents of one organisation pretend to belong to another) would allow ­hostile foreign actors to inflame tensions.

It is, of course, impossible to say with certainty whether significant violence will occur this year. All we can conclude from the available evidence is that the risk is real and growing. We can also make some judgments about where and when violence might break out and what form it might take.

Given the pandemic health crisis, widespread economic disruption over the northern summer, then a predicted second wave of infection in October-November, peak compound impact — when the combined health, economic and security effects of the coronavirus will be at their worst — will likely run from late October until March-April next year, astride the next election and transition to the next presidential term.

Even without the virus, the election was already set to be a flashpoint; the combined health, economic and security effects of the pandemic could make it far worse. If Trump is re-elected, mass protests are a given, while factions within the militant left might undertake what they term “direct action”. As The Base’s targeting of January’s Richmond rally showed, street protests are fertile ground for provocations. If Trump is defeated, elements of the militia movement or street protesters might also engage in violence.

In “contested areas” — where the territories of left and right-wing militants overlap — we can expect violence irrespective of the outcome. Whether it spreads will depend on level-headed political leadership — and today’s hyper-partisan coronavirus debate offers little hope of that. If violence does spread, it will not be a re-run of the American Civil War. Rather, given the multiplicity of groups involved, their geographical overlap and loose structure, we can expect something much more diffuse.

Remember Colombia

Perhaps the best analogy is ­Colombia, which saw 10 years of amorphous conflict from 1948 to 1958, a decade known as La Violencia. Starting as rioting in Bogota — driven by pre-existing urban-rural, left-right, class and racial divisions — violence spread to the countryside as the two main political parties, the Colombian Liberal Party and the Conservative Party, mobilised rural supporters to attack each other’s communities. Local governments weaponised police to kill or expel political opponents. Extremists joined in and “conflict entrepreneurs” emerged to prolong and profit from the violence. In the end 200,000 people were killed, two million were displaced and the Colombian Army — after initially staying out of the conflict — eventually stepped in to end the violence, seizing control in a coup in 1953. External actors, including the Cold War superpowers, also interfered.

Colombia is not the only precedent. Last month marked the 25th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing, the deadliest domestic terrorist attack in US history. The bomber, Gulf War veteran Timothy McVeigh, claimed to be enraged by government over­reactions at Ruby Ridge (1992) and Waco, Texas (1993), which between them saw law ­enforcement kill 78 civilians including 26 children. He bombed a building that housed the federal agencies he blamed, along with a childcare centre. His comment after his trial — that the 19 children killed, of 168 dead and 680 injured, were “collateral damage” — highlighted his military mindset and intent to trigger an anti-­government uprising. There was indeed a huge rise in militia ­activity. But the callousness of McVeigh’s attack made most militias condemn him, and — by ­tarnishing the self-perceived righteousness of their anti-­government cause — undermined the movement he hoped to inspire. He was executed a few months ­before 9/11.

Protestors try to enter the Michigan House of Representative chamber.
Protestors try to enter the Michigan House of Representative chamber.

In retrospect, the risk that Ruby Ridge and Waco would trigger a terrorist backlash seems obvious. Analysts warned this year that extremism poses as much risk today as it did in 1995. Ahead of time, McVeigh’s attack was far harder to foresee and its specifics impossible to predict. But far from a fringe issue of neo-Nazi nut cases, the pandemic has made the risk of ­violence in 2020 far more widespread, larger in scale and more militarily serious than we might imagine. America may well be in a “pre-McVeigh moment”.

https://howlinginfinite.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/51-days-at-waco.pdf