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John Pilger: Britain, America and the war on democracy

From the Chagos Islands to Pakistan, innocent civilians are pawns to America, backed by Britain. In our compliant political culture, this deadly game seldom speaks its name.

Lisette Talate died the other day. I remember a wiry, fiercely intelligent woman who masked her grief with a determination that was a presence. She was the embodiment of people's resistance to the war on democracy. I first glimpsed her in a 1950s Colonial Office film about the Chagos Islanders, a tiny creole nation living midway between Africa and Asia in the Indian Ocean. The camera panned across thriving villages, a church, a school, a hospital, set in phenomenal natural beauty and peace. Lisette remembers the producer saying to her and her teenage friends, "Keep smiling, girls!"

Sitting in her kitchen in Mauritius many years later, she said: "I didn't have to be told to smile. I was a happy child, because my roots were deep in the islands, my paradise. My great-grandmother was born there; I made six children there. That's why they couldn't legally throw us out of our own homes; they had to terrify us into leaving or force us out. At first, they tried to starve us. The food ships stopped arriving, [then] they spread rumours we would be bombed, then they turned on our dogs."

In the early 1960s, the Labour government of Harold Wilson secretly agreed to a demand from Washington that the Chagos archipelago, a British colony, be "swept" and "sanitised" of its 2,500 inhabitants so that a military base could be built on the principal island, Diego Garcia. "They knew we were inseparable from our pets," said Lisette. "When the American soldiers arrived to build the base, they backed their big trucks against the brick shed where we prepared the coconuts; hundreds of our dogs had been rounded up and imprisoned there. Then they gassed them through tubes from the trucks' exhausts. You could hear them crying."

Lisette, her family and hundreds of the other islanders were forced on to a rusting steamer bound for Mauritius, a journey of a thousand miles. They were made to sleep in the hold on a cargo of fertiliser - bird shit. The weather was rough; everyone was ill; two of the women on board miscarried.

Dumped on the docks at Port Louis, Lisette's youngest children, Jollice and Regis, died within a week of each other. "They died of sadness," she said. "They had heard all the talk and seen the horror of what had happened to the dogs. They knew they were leaving their home for ever. The doctor in Mauritius said he could not treat sadness."

This act of mass kidnapping was carried out in high secrecy. In one official file, under the heading "Maintaining the Fiction", the Foreign Office legal adviser exhorts his colleagues to cover their actions by "reclassifying" the population as "floating" and to "make up the rules as we go along". Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court says the "deportation or forcible transfer of population" is a crime against humanity. That Britain had committed such a crime - in exchange for a $14m discount off a US Polaris nuclear submarine - was not on the agenda of a group of British "defence" correspondents flown to the Chagos by the Ministry of Defence when the US base was completed. "There is nothing in our files," said the MoD, "about inhabitants or an evacuation."

Today, Diego Garcia is crucial to America's and Britain's war on democracy. The heaviest bombing of Iraq and Afghanistan was launched from its vast airstrips, beyond which the islanders' abandoned cemetery and church stand like archaeological ruins. The terraced garden where Lisette laughed for the camera is now a fortress housing the "bunker-busting" bombs carried by bat-shaped B-2 aircraft to targets on two continents; an attack on Iran will start here. As if to complete the emblem of rampant, criminal power, the CIA added a Guantanamo-style prison for its "rendition" victims and called it Camp Justice.

Wipe-out

What was done to Lisette's paradise has an urgent and universal meaning, for it represents the violent, ruthless nature of a whole political culture behind its democratic façade, and the scale of our own indoctrination in its messianic assumptions, described by Harold Pinter as a "brilliant, even witty, highly successful act of hypnosis". Longer and bloodier than any other war since 1945, waged with demonic weapons and a gangsterism dressed as economic policy and sometimes known as globalisation, the war on democracy is unmentionable in western elite circles. As Pinter wrote, "It never happened . . . Even while it was happening it wasn't happening." Last July, the American historian William Blum published his updated "summary of the charming record of US foreign policy". Since the Second World War, the United States has:

1) Attempted to overthrow more than 50 governments, most of them democratically elected.
2) Attempted to suppress a populist or national movement in 20 countries.
3) Grossly interfered in democratic elections in at least 30 countries.
4) Dropped bombs on the people of more than 30 countries.
5) Attempted to assassinate more than 50 foreign leaders.

In total, the United States has carried out one or more of these actions in 69 countries. In almost all cases, Britain has been a collaborator. The "enemy" changes in name - from communism to Islamism - but mostly it is the rise of democracy independent of western power, or a society occupying strategically useful territory and deemed expendable, like the Chagos Islands.

The sheer scale of suffering, let alone criminality, is little known in the west, despite the presence of the world's most advanced communications, nominally freest journalism and most admired academy. That the most numerous victims of terrorism - western terrorism - are Muslims is unsayable, if it is known. That half a million Iraqi infants died in the 1990s as a result of the embargo imposed by Britain and America is of no interest. That extreme jihadism, which led to the 11 September 2001 attacks, was nurtured as a weapon of western policy (in "Operation Cyclone") is known to specialists, but otherwise suppressed.

While popular culture in Britain and America immerses the Second World War in an ethical bath for the victors, the holocausts arising from Anglo-American dominance of resource-rich regions are consigned to oblivion. Under the Indonesian tyrant Suharto, anointed "our man" by Margaret Thatcher, more than a million people were slaughtered in what the CIA described as "the worst mass murder of the second half of the 20th century". This estimate does not include the third of the population of East Timor who were starved or murdered with western connivance, British fighter-bombers and machine-guns.

These true stories are told in declassified files in the Public Record Office, yet represent an entire dimension of politics and the exercise of power excluded from public consideration. This has been achieved by a regime of uncoercive information control, from the evangelical mantra of advertising to soundbites on BBC news and now the ephemera of social media.

It is as if writers as watchdogs are extinct, or in thrall to a sociopathic zeitgeist, convinced they are too clever to be duped. Witness the stampede of sycophants eager to deify Christopher Hitchens, a war lover who longed to be allowed to justify the crimes of rapacious power. "For almost the first time in two centuries," wrote Terry Eagleton, "there is no eminent British poet, playwright or novelist prepared to question the foundations of the western way of life." No Orwell warns that we do not need to live in a totalitarian society to be corrupted by totalitarianism. No Shelley speaks for the poor, no Blake proffers a vision, no Wilde reminds us that "disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue". And grievously no Pinter rages at the war machine, as in "American Football":

Hallelujah.
Praise the Lord for all good things . . .
We blew their balls into shards of dust,
Into shards of fucking dust . . .

Into shards of fucking dust go all the lives blown there by Barack Obama, the Hopey Changey of western violence. Whenever one of Obama's drones wipes out an entire family in a faraway tribal region of Pakistan, or Somalia, or Yemen, the American controllers sitting in front of their computer-game screens type in "Bugsplat". Obama likes drones and has joked about them with journalists. One of his first actions as president was to order a wave of Pre­dator drone attacks on Pakistan that killed 74 people. He has since killed thousands, mostly civilians; drones fire Hellfire missiles that suck the air out of the lungs of children and leave body parts festooned across scrubland.

Remember the tear-stained headlines as Brand Obama was elected: "Momentous, spine-tingling" (the Guardian). "The American future," Simon Schama wrote, "is all vision, numinous, unformed, light-headed with anticipation." The San Francisco Chronicle saw a spiritual "Lightworker . . . who can . . . usher in a new way of being on the planet". Beyond the drivel, as the great whistleblower Daniel Ellsberg had predicted, a military coup was taking place in Washington, and Obama was their man. Having seduced the anti-war movement into virtual silence, he has given America's corrupt military officer class unprecedented powers of state and engagement. These include the prospect of wars in Africa and opportunities for provocations against China, America's largest creditor and the new "enemy" in Asia. Under Obama, the old source of official paranoia, Russia, has been encircled with ballistic missiles and the Russian opposition infiltrated. Military and CIA assassination teams have been assigned to 120 countries; long-planned attacks on Syria and Iran beckon a world war. Israel, the exemplar of US violence and lawlessness by proxy, has just received its annual pocket money of $3bn together with Obama's permission to steal more Palestinian land.

Surveillance state

Obama's most "historic" achievement is to bring the war on democracy home to America. On New Year's Eve, he signed the National Defence Authorisation Act, a law that grants the Pentagon the legal right to kidnap both foreigners and US citizens secretly and indefinitely detain, interrogate and torture, or even kill them. They need only "associate" with those "belligerent" to the US. There will be no protection of law, no trial, no legal representation. This is the first explicit legislation to abolish habeas corpus (the right to due process of law) and, in effect, repeal the Bill of Rights of 1789.

On 5 January, in an extraordinary speech at the Pentagon, Obama said the military would not only be ready to "secure territory and populations" overseas but to fight in the "homeland" and "support [the] civil authorities". In other words, US troops are to be deployed on the streets of American cities when the inev­itable civil unrest takes hold.

America is now a land of epidemic poverty and barbaric prisons - the consequence of a "market" extremism that, under Obama, has prompted the transfer of $14trn in public money to criminal enterprises in Wall Street. The victims are mostly young, jobless, homeless, incarcerated African Americans, betrayed by the first black president. The historic corollary of a perpetual war state, this is not fascism, not yet, but neither is it democracy in any recognisable form, regardless of the placebo politics that will consume the news until November. The presidential campaign, says the Washington Post, will feature "a clash of phil­osophies rooted in distinctly different views of the economy". This is patently false. The circumscribed task of journalism on both sides of the Atlantic is to create the pretence of political choice where there is none.

The same shadow is across Britain and much of Europe, where social democracy, an article of faith two generations ago, has fallen to the central bank dictators. In David Cameron's "big society", the theft of £84bn in jobs and services exceeds even the amount of tax "legally" avoided by piratical corporations. Blame rests not with the far right, but with a cowardly liberal political culture that has allowed this to happen and which, as Hywel Williams wrote following the 9/11 attacks, "can itself be a form of self-righteous fanaticism". Tony Blair is one such fanatic. In its managerial indifference to the freedoms that it claimed to hold dear, bourgeois Blairite Britain created a surveillance state with 3,000 new criminal offences and laws: more than for the whole of the previous century. The police clearly believe they have an impunity to kill. At the demand of the CIA, cases like that of Binyam Mohamed, an innocent British resident tortured and then held for five years in Guantanamo Bay, will be dealt with in secret courts in Britain in order to "protect the intelligence agencies" - the torturers.

This invisible state allowed the Blair government to fight the Chagos Islanders as they rose from their despair in exile and demanded justice in the streets of Port Louis and London. "Only when you take direct action, face to face, even break laws, are you ever noticed," Lisette said. "And the smaller you are, the greater your example to others." Such is the eloquent answer to those who still ask, "What can I do?"

I last saw Lisette's tiny figure standing in driving rain next to her comrades outside the Houses of Parliament. What struck me was the enduring courage of their resistance. It is this refusal to give up that rotten power fears, above all, knowing it is the seed beneath the snow.

John Pilger, renowned investigative journalist and documentary film-maker, is one of only two to have twice won British journalism's top award; his documentaries have won academy awards in both the UK and the US. In a New Statesman survey of the 50 heroes of our time, Pilger came fourth behind Aung San Suu Kyi and Nelson Mandela. "John Pilger," wrote Harold Pinter, "unearths, with steely attention facts, the filthy truth. I salute him."

This article first appeared in the 23 January 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Has the Arab Spring been hijacked?

Photo: Copyright Natural History Museum
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One man and his whale: how an iconic Natural History Museum exhibit fought class divides and transformed science

As a blue whale skeleton replaces the entrance hall’s historic dinosaur cast, curator Richard Sabin reveals the secrets of the giant mammal’s much-loved replica.

On 25 March 1891, a female blue whale was harpooned by a whaling vessel and fatally injured. She was in the Irish sea, and ended up beached on a sandbank at the entrance of Wexford Harbour, on the south-east Irish coast.

Local fishermen discovered her floundering and thrashing around, four-and-a-half times the size of their boat, significantly taller, and more than 25 metres long. They had never seen a creature this size. A fisherman called Ned Wickham eventually put her out of her misery with a blade, and, according to contemporary reports, “succeeded in dispatching the big fish”.


The blue whale skeleton, c.1950-74. Photo: © Trustees of the NHM, London​

Over 126 years later, and that same creature that caught a handful of fishermen’s attention will be seen by millions. Her 4.5 tonne skeleton is going on display in London’s Natural History Museum entrance hall, replacing the traditional Diplodocus cast in the grand Hintze Hall. It’s a controversial move. Dippy ­– who received his nickname from an adoring public – is an iconic part of the Natural History Museum’s history, wowing visitors since 1905.

A special panel of collection managers, curators and scientists was put together to choose Dippy’s replacement. Specialists across the museum were invited to make a case for their preferred exhibits.

“Will our blue whale skeleton become iconic like Dippy?”

Richard Sabin, the resident whale expert, won them over. “What makes a specimen iconic? Will our blue whale skeleton become iconic?” he frets, when I meet him before the skeleton is unveiled. “I think so. It can’t fail to be, because of its very nature, but also because of where it is in the museum’s history and what we’re actively doing, in the field, with our researching.”

“It’s an interesting one because Dippy is of course part of people’s memories, childhood, and bringing their own children and so on,” he adds. He admits that his specimen of choice doesn’t even have a name – it’s been “lost over the years” – but says it’s “inevitable that she’ll get a nickname” now.


What the skeleton will look like in Hintze Hall. Photo: ® 2015 Casson Mann 

Sabin, 51, is a marine mammal curator, and has been working at the Natural History Museum for 25 years, where he’s the collections manager for the vertebrates division. But wandering among the Victorian grandeur in his camouflage hoodie, blue jeans and battered trainers, you wouldn’t tell that he is one of the museum’s senior figures.

We enter a dimly lit hall closed off to the public, where the exhibition for the Natural History Museum’s special whale season – which opens this week, along with Hintze Hall’s new resident – is being prepared. With its high brick arched ceiling and stained glass windows, it has the hushed atmosphere of a church. It is here that exhibitions are prepared before going on show.

Specimens, lit up and attended to by blue lab-coated conservators, loom out of the gloom like stalagmites. The corkscrew-shaped jaw of a deformed sperm whale; the rib cage of a bottle-nosed dolphin; giant toothed whale skulls gazing up at the ceiling – some with bandages, others being cleaned with cotton buds.


A whale conservator working on a flipper. Photo: © Trustees of the NHM, London​

“When they [visitors] leave the exhibition, we want them to have connected with whales and dolphins in an emotional way, but a way that hopefully makes them want to take some kind of an action,” Sabin says, referring to marine exploitation and mankind’s gruesome whale-hunting past.

The Wexford whale was discovered just before the rise of commercial whaling, and a decade ahead of the industry dominating the Irish coast. She was on one of the last migrations of blue whales unthreatened by an industry that would come to endanger the species by turning them into oil, soap, perfume, candles, margarine, corsets and even umbrellas.

 “Welcome to the blue whale, the biggest mammal in the world!”

Although Sabin has been working on this exhibition for years, he looks wide-eyed at the assorted bones and skulls with boyish delight. Aside from his white hair and grey speckled stubble, he probably had the same expression when he first visited the Natural History Museum on a school trip at ten years old.

It was then that he first saw the Wexford whale skeleton. Until last year, it was suspended above the museum’s world famous blue whale replica.

“My first and overwhelming memory of the museum was the whale hall,” Sabin grins, as we walk towards it through the echoing corridors. The blue whale replica is especially sign-posted. “You walk in at ground level as a tiny child and you’re just presented with a wall of blue. And then you look up above the blue whale model and you see all the other skeletons. That was really the memory that I took away from the museum back then.”



The blue whale replica with the skeleton above. Photo: © Trustees of the NHM, London​

Sabin remembers asking a gallery attendant if the blue whale, suspended like a big blue zeppelin from the ceiling, was real. She said no. And so he asked about the Wexford skeleton above it, where it had been until last year. She told him it was genuine, and that these animals were still out there in the ocean. “My imagination just went off on one,” he recalls.

As a child, Sabin was fascinated by bones. He used to collect roadkill from a main road near where he grew up in north Birmingham, and bring it home. His “very understanding parents” let him have a little patch of ground at the bottom of the garden to bury the carcasses, “so I could rot away the flesh and look at the bones”, he explains.

“I wanted to know what was inside these animals. I wanted to know how they moved and how they supported themselves.”

“It's not always the case that people are able to afford visiting London”

When he returned to the museum in 1981, having just finished school, he says he was “absolutely sold”. He applied for an archaeology degree, specialising in osteology, at Sheffield University, and then ended up working with marine mammals.

We gaze at the blue whale replica from a viewing gallery. Its ridged jaw slopes up at such an angle that it appears to be half smiling, its tiny eyes creased. It has been here since 1938. It is the first lifesize scale model of a blue whale ever built, at 29 metres long (later, the Smithsonian in Washington DC would build theirs a few inches longer to make it the biggest in the world). We now know that it’s inaccurately rotund, but that doesn’t stop it stunning first-time visitors.



The whale hall. Photo: © Trustees of the NHM, London​

Most children who see it for the first time share the schoolboy Sabin’s reaction – we can hear them gasping and shrieking below as we speak. I remember being flabbergasted by its size when I visited on a school trip; I’d never realised – and can still hardly comprehend – that such large creatures exist. A model like this brings it to life more than any documentary I’ve seen.

“It was borderline whether I went on that school trip in 1976, because money was tight”

Although our ancestors’ thirst for replication has fallen out of fashion, we have them to thank for these reactions. Models such as this one make scientific research part of our cultural memory, as well as a key part of the museum’s body of research. This makes the study of science more accessible, Sabin believes. From the meticulous collecting and cataloguing of the Victorian era to the modern push for digitising the museum’s vast data records, it’s about bringing information to everyone, whatever their background. “I am a great proponent of that, because as a child, visiting London for the first time on a school trip from Birmingham, we didn’t really have a lot of resources at my school.”

Sabin was brought up in a working-class household; his father was a lorry driver and his mother worked in a factory. “It was a good life, but not a family with a huge amount of cash; we had holidays to Wales every other year in a caravan,” he says. “It was borderline for me whether I went on that school trip in 1976, because money was a bit tight.”

But it was his last year of primary school, and “it was the big trip,” he recalls. “So my parents were like he’s got to go to London to see these things, but it's not always the case that people are able to do that.” For this reason, Dippy will be taken on a tour around the country, hoping to attract five million new viewers.

Hundreds of people affected by their first impressions of the blue whale replica have told Sabin their stories. A woman whose mother ran a nearby coffee shop in the 1950s used to visit it every morning as a child. She told him about a security guard walking in at 10am on the dot each day and shouting, “Welcome to the blue whale, the biggest mammal in the world!” and then turning around and walking out. “It’s a pity we don’t do that anymore,” smiles Sabin.



The blue whale replica being built in the Thirties. Photo: © Trustees of the NHM, London​

He shows me a big leather-bound volume of photos of the model being built in the Thirties, by a father-and-son team of the zoology department, Percy and Stuart Stammwitz. Men in aprons and flatcaps climb all over its wooden skeleton, like the hull of a ship. Some, like regular painter-decorators, apply individual plaster strips to its throat, to make a pleat effect. A man on a step ladder cleans the whale’s back with a long broom.

As they built it, some of the workers suffered motion sickness, as the suspended model used to sway. Nevertheless, they would occasionally take cigarette and lunch breaks inside the whale.

“It’s about making people realise that science really is for everyone”

Myths swirl around the museum about the whale’s hollow belly, which is said to have housed everything from a secret gambling den to romantic liaisons to a makeshift distiller. These aren’t true, but the team did put a 1937 telephone directory and change from their pockets inside before sealing it. “Like a time capsule,” Sabin says.

Although the blue whale model is so adored, it was important to Sabin for a real-life specimen to replace Dippy. “Moving away from using casts, putting the actual specimens into the space, puts it into a context,” he tells me, as we walk back through the museum’s halls. “It breaks down the barriers between the behind-the-scenes work of the scientists and what goes on in the gallery . . . . It’s about making people realise that science really is for everyone.”

Hintze Hall reopens with the blue whale skeleton, along with the exhibition “Whales: Beneath the Surface”, on Friday 14 July 2017.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 January 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Has the Arab Spring been hijacked?