The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Party

The best party ever is back for its tenth year.

Freedom is not about allowing people to do things that you approve of. Freedom is about protecting peoples’ rights to do things you find distasteful.

So said Jon Caldara, president of the Independence Institute at its 10th Annual Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Party last Saturday.

The ATF party – "the most fun, most politically incorrect event of the year" – invites members of the public to "celebrate the perks of adulthood" by partaking in a "PETA-friendly clay pigeon shoot followed by a clubhouse luncheon complete with whiskey and cigars in one of the last places available to smokers – the outside".

As reported by C-Span:

"This year the forum focuses on personal liberties and gun rights. Participants discuss government regulation of tobacco, food and drink, and are critical of what some speakers call the "Nanny State". Other topics include the New York City ban on trans fats, Mayor Bloomberg’s proposed ban on certain soft drink sizes, global warming and this year’s presidential campaign.

It would be easy to dismiss an event where one of the speakers, David Matosko, considers global warming "an aggressive hoax" as yet another case-in-point to the sheer lunacy of the American 'right'. But much more lucid speakers, such as David Kopel, the Institute’s Research Director, point to some unpalatable truths about the hypocrisy and intolerance that plague both sides of the partisan fence.

Kopel begins by criticising Mayor Bloomberg’s Mayors Against Illegal Guns as a powerful lobby for the prohibition of guns in general, rather than simply the prohibition of illegal guns. He goes on to state that the there are 19 members of the group "who have left office for felony convictions, or are under indictment (...). Mayor Bloomberg's organisation has a much higher crime rate than people who have permits to carry guns for lawful protection. I think in the interest of truth in advertising that the proper way to refer to this group is Illegal Mayors Against Guns.".

The tongue-in-cheek tone of the party is later sobered by Kopel's call to divert Colorado tax money from unconstitutional "corporate welfare" to more grassroots community projects. In particular reference to the Aurora shooting this summer, the speaker calls for more investment in mental health services.

He later highlights the glaring hypocrisy of a country that has banned smoking in films, but emphatically glorifies violent gun misuse. Kopel argues that violence is indisputably condoned, but the key is to encourage a responsible gun sports culture:

We are not only on the pro-choice side, we are on the pro-life side as well. What we do every day is to fight for those lifesaving values of safety responsibly.

The underlying ethos of the ATP is best summarised by Caldara himself – in many places, a liberal accepting gun culture is as socially unacceptable as being against same-sex marriage. In this sense, the ATP stands as an attack to the tribal, divisive, and outright illogical divide that keeps the USA in gridlock.

As Rob Dreher notes:

As with so much in contemporary American politics, the gun control issue is not about reason and dispassionate analysis of the facts. It's about emotional assertion and rhetorical bullying amid an atmosphere of mutual incomprehension.

The ATF logo. Photograph: Getty Images
ROBERTO SCHMIDT/AFP/Getty Images
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Unlikely sisters in the Gaza Strip

A former Jewish settler in Gaza recalls her childhood friendship with a young Palestinian.

It was well after midnight, one summer night in 1995, when Inbar Rozy, a 13-year-old living in the former Israeli settlement of Alei Sinai in the northern Gaza Strip, heard her parents answer the phone. Sitting up in bed, surrounded by potted plants, candles and fairy dolls lit by shafts of light from a nearby security outpost, Inbar listened closely.

“I could hear everyone talking around me, making calls,” Inbar said when we met recently in Nitzan, southern Israel. When she got up to find out what was happening, her parents told her to make up a second mattress. As dawn broke, they led into the room a young woman carrying a small bag and wearing a black shirt and jeans. “She had shoulder-length dark hair dyed with red henna and beautiful eyes – big, black with thick eyelashes,” Inbar told me, smiling. “[She was] quiet. She looked scared.”

The woman was Rina (her surname cannot be given for security reasons), a talented artist in her early twenties studying at a local art college, where she had fallen in love with a Christian boy. For Rina, coming from a traditional family, marrying a non-Muslim would be strictly forbidden.

When her parents found out, they were furious and forbade her from seeing her boyfriend. But her male cousins felt this wasn’t enough. Earlier on the day the girls first met, Rina’s cousins had attempted to kill her in retribution for her perceived “honour crime”. Seeing that another attempt on her life was likely, Rina’s father called a relative, who in turn called Inbar’s father, Yossef, a friend of many years. There was no doubt she had to leave. Ironically, a Jewish settlement protected by the Israel Defence Forces was the safest place in Gaza for her to be.

In 1967, Israel seized the Gaza Strip from Egypt during the Six Day War. In time, it settled 21 communities on a third of the land, with a population of 8,000 by 2005. Soldiers guarded the settlements from 1.5 million displaced Palestinians, tens of thousands of whom were displaced in 1967 and moved to live in nearby refugee camps. In Gaza, before Israel’s ultimate withdrawal from the Strip in 2005, relationships between Israeli settlers and Palestinians were fraught. True, many Palestinians worked in Israeli settlements, earning wages higher than elsewhere in the Strip, but the two communities lived largely separate lives.

In the mid-1990s, even after the Oslo Accords, violence was simmering. Israeli military incursions increased with the outbreak of the Second Intifada in 2000. Thousands of home-made Qassam rockets were launched by Palestinian militants at settlers and those living in southern Israel. Security measures hardened. The veteran Israeli journalist Amira Hass, who spent several years living in Gaza, describes neighbourhoods that were “turned into jails behind barbed-wire fences, closed gates, IDF surveillance, tanks and entry-permit red tape”.

And yet, in spite of the forced segregation, Inbar’s family enjoyed close links with their Palestinian neighbours. Inbar’s father worked as an ambulance driver, and on several occasions he helped transport those who lived nearby for emergency medical treatment in Israel. “Every Tuesday, my father’s Jewish and Arab friends would come to our house and we’d eat lunch together,” Inbar remembered.

Given the gravity of Rina’s situation, she couldn’t leave the house. Secrecy was paramount. The girls spent weeks together indoors, Inbar said, chatting, watching TV and drawing. “I’m not sure that as a child I actually understood it for real,” she said. “She taught me how to paint and sketch a face from sight.”

Almost as soon as Rina arrived, Inbar’s family began receiving anonymous phone calls asking about her. “My dad told me, ‘Don’t mention anything about Rina. Say you don’t know what they’re talking about – because otherwise they’ll come and kill us,’” Inbar said.

While the girls got to know each other, Inbar’s mother, Brigitte, found a women’s shelter in East Jerusalem for Rina. Whereas today Gaza is closed off by a military border under heavy surveillance, at that time it was porous. Brigitte drove Rina in to the capital, where she was given a new name and identity that would enable her to begin a new life, on condition that she contact no one in Gaza.

Today Inbar, who is 33, works at the Gush Katif centre in Nitzan – a museum dedicated to the memory of the Israeli settlements in Gaza. Despite her parents’ objections, the family was evacuated in 2005. Unlike most settlers in Gaza, some residents of Alei Sinai were determined to stay on, even if that meant forfeiting their Israeli citizenship. “I have no problem with living as a minority in a Palestinian state,” one of Alei Sinai’s inhabitants, Avi Farhan, told the Israeli daily Haaretz at the time.

Inbar now lives in Ashkelon, a city of 140,000 in southern Israel, and finds the big city alienating, especially when she recalls the warm relationships that once existed in Gaza. “I’ve never felt less secure,” she told me.

Years later, she learned that Rina had developed cancer and died. “The day before Rina left . . . she drew a portrait of me,” she said, describing how her friend had outlined, in charcoal strokes, the features of the teenager. Her parents packed the portrait with all their belongings in a shipping container the day they left Gaza. Soon after, the container was destroyed in a fire.

“I think if people had given it a chance . . . they would have had these kinds of friendships,” Inbar said, looking back. “We’d get along fairly well if we didn’t look at others as the monsters over the wall.” 

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism