How Britain wages war: John Pilger interrogates military tradition

The military has created a wall of silence around its frequent resort to barbaric practices.

Five photographs together break a silence. The first is of a former Gurkha regimental sergeant major, Tul Bahadur Pun, aged 87. He sits in a wheelchair outside 10 Downing Street. He holds a board full of medals, including the Victoria Cross, the highest award for bravery, which he won serving in the British army.

He has been refused entry to Britain and treatment for a serious heart ailment by the National Health Service: outrages rescinded only after a public campaign. On 25 June, he came to Down ing Street to hand his Victoria Cross back to the Prime Minister, but Gordon Brown refused to see him.

The second photograph is of a 12-year-old boy, one of three children. They are Kuchis, nomads of Afghanistan. They have been hit by Nato bombs, American or British, and nurses are trying to peel away their roasted skin with tweezers. On the night of 10 June, Nato planes struck again, killing at least 30 civilians in a single village: children, women, schoolteachers, students. On 4 July, another 22 civilians died like this. All, including the roasted children, are described as "militants" or "suspected Taliban". The Defence Secretary, Des Browne, says the invasion of Afghan istan is "the noble cause of the 21st century".

The third photograph is of a computer-generated aircraft carrier not yet built, one of two of the biggest ships ever ordered for the Royal Navy. The £4bn contract is shared by BAE Systems, whose sale of 72 fighter jets to the corrupt tyranny in Saudi Arabia has made Britain the biggest arms merchant on earth, selling mostly to oppressive regimes in poor countries. At a time of economic crisis, Browne describes the carriers as "an affordable expenditure".

The fourth photograph is of a young British soldier, Gavin Williams, who was "beasted" to death by three non-commissioned officers. This "informal summary punishment", which sent his body temperature to more than 41 degrees, was intended to "humiliate, push to the limit and hurt". The torture was described in court as a fact of army life.

The final photograph is of an Iraqi man, Baha Mousa, who was tortured to death by British soldiers. Taken during his post-mortem, it shows some of the 93 horrific injuries he suffered at the hands of men of the Queen's Lancashire Regiment who beat and abused him for 36 hours, including double-hooding him with hessian sacks in stifling heat. He was a hotel receptionist. Although his murder took place almost five years ago, it was only in May this year that the Ministry of Defence responded to the courts and agreed to an independent inquiry. A judge has described this as a "wall of silence".

A court martial convicted just one soldier of Mousa's "inhumane treatment", and he has since been quietly released. Phil Shiner of Public Interest Lawyers, representing the families of Iraqis who have died in British custody, says the evidence is clear - abuse and torture by the British army is systemic.

Shiner and his colleagues have witness statements and corroborations of prima facie crimes of an especially atrocious kind usually associated with the Americans. "The more cases I am dealing with, the worse it gets," he says. These include an "incident" near the town of Majar al-Kabir in 2004, when British soldiers executed as many as 20 Iraqi prisoners after mutilating them. The latest is that of a 14-year-old boy who was forced to simulate anal and oral sex over a prolonged period.

"At the heart of the US and UK project," says Shiner, "is a desire to avoid accountability for what they want to do. Guantanamo Bay and extraordinary renditions are part of the same struggle to avoid accountability through jurisdiction." British soldiers, he says, use the same torture techniques as the Americans and deny that the European Convention on Human Rights, the Human Rights Act and the UN Convention on Torture apply to them. And British torture is "commonplace": so much so, that "the routine nature of this ill-treatment helps to explain why, despite the abuse of the soldiers and cries of the detainees being clearly audible, nobody, particularly in authority, took any notice".

 

 

Arcane rituals

 

Unbelievably, says Shiner, the Ministry of Defence under Tony Blair decided that the 1972 Heath government's ban on certain torture techniques applied only in the UK and Northern Ireland. Consequently, "many Iraqis were killed and tortured in UK detention facilities". Shiner is working on 46 horrific cases.

A wall of silence has always surrounded the British military, its arcane rituals, rites and practices and, above all, its contempt for the law and natural justice in its various imperial pursuits. For 80 years, the Ministry of Defence and compliant ministers refused to countenance posthumous pardons for terrified boys shot at dawn during the slaughter of the First World War. British soldiers used as guinea pigs during the testing of nuclear weapons in the Indian Ocean were abandoned, as were many others who suffered the toxic effects of the 1991 Gulf War. The treatment of Gurkha Tul Bahadur Pun is typical. Having been sent back to Nepal, many of these "soldiers of the Queen" have no pension, are deeply impoverished and are refused residence or medical help in the country for which they fought and for which 43,000 of them have died or been injured. The Gurkhas have won no fewer than 26 Victoria Crosses, yet Browne's "affordable expenditure" excludes them.

An even more imposing wall of silence ensures that the British public remains largely unaware of the industrial killing of civilians in Britain's modern colonial wars. In his landmark work Unpeople: Britain's Secret Human Rights Abuses, the historian Mark Curtis uses three main categories: direct responsibility, indirect responsibility and active inaction.

"The overall figure [since 1945] is between 8.6 and 13.5 million," Curtis writes. "Of these, Britain bears direct responsibility for between four million and six million deaths. This figure is, if anything, likely to be an underestimate. Not all British interventions have been included, because of lack of data." Since his study was published, the Iraq death toll has reached, by reliable measure, a million men, women and children.

The spiralling rise of militarism within Britain is rarely acknowledged, even by those alerting the public to legislation attacking basic civil liberties, such as the recently drafted Data Com muni cations Bill, which will give the government powers to keep records of all electronic communication. Like the plans for identity cards, this is in keeping what the Americans call "the national security state", which seeks the control of domestic dissent while pursuing military aggression abroad. The £4bn aircraft carriers are to have a "global role". For global read colonial. The Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office follow Washington's line almost to the letter, as in Browne's preposterous description of Afghanistan as a noble cause. In reality, the US-inspired Nato invasion has had two effects: the killing and dispossession of large numbers of Afghans, and the return of the opium trade, which the Taliban had banned. According to Hamid Karzai, the west's puppet leader, Britain's role in Helmand Province has led directly to the return of the Taliban.

 

 

Loans for arms

 

The militarising of how the British state perceives and treats other societies is vividly demonstrated in Africa, where ten out of 14 of the most impoverished and conflict-ridden countries are seduced into buying British arms and military equipment with "soft loans". Like the British royal family, the British Prime Minister simply follows the money. Having ritually condemned a despot in Zimbabwe for "human rights abuses" - in truth, for no longer serving as the west's business agent - and having obeyed the latest US dictum on Iran and Iraq, Brown set off recently for Saudi Arabia, exporter of Wahhabi fundamentalism and wheeler of fabulous arms deals.

To complement this, the Brown government is spending £11bn of taxpayers' money on a huge, pri vatised military academy in Wales, which will train foreign soldiers and mercenaries recruited to the bogus "war on terror". With arms companies such as Raytheon profiting, this will become Britain's "School of the Americas", a centre for counter-insurgency (terrorist) training and the design of future colonial adventures.

It has had almost no publicity.

Of course, the image of militarist Britain clashes with a benign national regard formed, wrote Tolstoy, "from infancy, by every possible means - class books, church services, sermons, speeches, books, papers, songs, poetry, monuments [leading to] people stupefied in the one direction". Much has changed since he wrote that. Or has it? The shabby, destructive colonial war in Afghanistan is now reported almost entirely through the British army, with squaddies always doing their Kipling best, and with the Afghan resistance routinely dismissed as "outsiders" and "invaders". Pictures of nomadic boys with Nato-roasted skin almost never appear in the press or on television, nor the after-effects of British thermobaric weapons, or "vacuum bombs", designed to suck the air out of human lungs. Instead, whole pages mourn a British military intelligence agent in Afghanis tan, because she happens to have been a 26-year-old woman, the first to die in active service since the 2001 invasion.

Baha Mousa, tortured to death by British soldiers, was also 26 years old. But he was different. His father, Daoud, says that the way the Ministry of Defence has behaved over his son's death convinces him that the British government regards the lives of others as "cheap". And he is right.

www.johnpilger.com

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 14 July 2008 issue of the New Statesman, ‘I’ll leave when I finish the job’

Martin O’Neill
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How nostalgic literature became an agent in American racism

From To Kill a Mockingbird to Gone With The Wind, literary mythmaking has long veiled the ugly truth of the American South.

Alongside this summer’s debate over the meanings of the Confederate flag, sparked by the Charleston shootings, another story about the history of American racism flared up. Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman, an early draft of To Kill a Mockingbird, revealed further discomfiting truths, this time about the background to one of the nation’s most beloved fictional standard-bearers for racial equality.

In Watchman, Atticus Finch is discovered, twenty years after the action of Mockingbird, fighting against desegregation during the civil rights era. The shock readers have felt is akin to finding an early draft of Nineteen Eighty-Four in which Orwell defends surveillance in the name of national security – but stumbling upon a segregationist Atticus Finch should not surprise readers who know their history. In the end, he proves just as problematic a symbol as the Confederate flag, and for exactly the same reasons: both flew in the face of civil rights to defend white prerogative in the South. And both were gradually romanticised through the process of revision, wrapping America in comforting white lies.

Like our euphemistic habit of calling Jim Crow laws “segregation” rather than apartheid, all of this partakes in a time-honoured communal practice of deracination through whitewashing, through popular fictions of innocence such as Mockingbird and ­popular histories such as folk tales about the innocence of the Confederate flag. America keeps willing its own innocence back into being, even as racist ghosts continue to haunt our nation’s dreams of the pastoral South, a society whose fantasy of gentility was purchased at the cost of brutal chattel slavery and its malignant repercussions.

An essential aspect of the history of American racism is also the history of its deliberate mystification. Many Americans continue to accept an idealised view of the antebellum and Jim Crow South, which emerged as part of a national romance known as the Lost Cause, a legend that turned terrorism into a lullaby. In the aftermath of the South’s crushing defeat in the civil war, southerners began trying to reclaim what they had lost – namely, an old social order of unquestioned racial and economic hierarchies. They told stories idealising the nobility of their cause against the so-called War of Northern Aggression, in which northerners had invaded the peaceful South out of a combination of greed, arrogance, ignorance and spite. Gentle southerners heroically rallied to protect their way of life, with loyal slaves cheering them all the way. This Edenic dream of a lost agrarian paradise, in which virtuous aristocrats and hard-working farmers coexisted peacefully with devoted slaves, pre-dated the war: merging with Jeffersonian ideals of the yeoman farmer, it formed the earliest propagandistic defences of slavery. One of the most powerful broadsides against this spurious fantasy was launched in 1852 by Harriet Beecher Stowe, a north-eastern preacher’s daughter who had lived in border states and seen what really happened to ­fugitive slaves. The South responded to Uncle Tom’s Cabin with a furious denunciation of Stowe’s knowledge and motives, insisting on the benevolence of their “peculiar institution” – an especially sordid ­euphemism that recast plantation slavery as an endearing regional quirk.

Once institutional slavery was irrevocably destroyed, nostalgia prevailed, and southerners began producing novels, ­poems and songs romanticising the lost, halcyon days of the antebellum era. Reaching their apotheosis in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind in 1936, and its film version in 1939, they have become known as the “moonlight and magnolia” school of plantation fiction, exemplified by the novels of Thomas Nelson Page, whose books, such as In Ole Virginia (1887) and Red Rock (1898), helped establish the formula: devoted former slaves recount (in dialect) their memories of an idyllic plantation culture wantonly destroyed by militant northern abolitionists and power-crazed federalists. A small band of honourable soldiers fought bravely on the battlefield and lost; the vindictive North installed incompetent or corrupt black people to subjugate the innocent whites; southern scalawags and northern carpetbaggers descended to exploit battle-ravaged towns. Pushed to the limits of forbearance, the Confederate army rose again to defend honour and decency – in the noble form of the Ku Klux Klan.

This thoroughly specious story is familiar to anyone who knows Gone with the Wind, but Mitchell learned it from Page and other novelists, including Mary Johnston and Thomas Dixon, Jr. Dixon wrote a series of books celebrating the rise of the Ku Klux Klan, of which the most notorious remains The Clansman (1905), for the simple reason that ten years later a director named D W Griffith decided to adapt it into a film he called The Birth of a Nation. Released exactly a century ago, it faithfully follows the same narrative blueprint. This was neither an accident nor a coincidence: Griffith was himself the son of a Confederate colonel (memorably known as “Roaring Jake”) and had listened to legends of the Lost Cause at his father’s knee. Reading The Clansman, Griffith said, brought back “all that my father had told me . . . [the film] had all the deep incisive emotionalism of the highest patriotic sentiment . . . I felt driven to tell the story – the truth about the South, touched by its eternal romance which I had learned to know so well.” That “truth” was a story in which the cavalry that rode to the rescue of an imperilled maiden was the KKK, saving her from a fate worse than death at the hands of a white actor in blackface. Griffith had considered hiring black actors for the film, he told an interviewer in 1916, but after “careful weighing of every detail concerned”, none of which he imparted, “the decision was to have no black blood among the principals”, a phrase that says it all by using the so-called one-drop rule to justify racist hiring practices in a film glorifying racism.

The Birth of a Nation was a national phenomenon, becoming the first film ever screened at the White House, in March 1915, for President Woodrow Wilson. Born in Virginia, raised in Georgia and South Carolina, Wilson was the first southern president since before the civil war. He attended Johns Hopkins University with Thomas Dixon, who became a political supporter of his; Wilson also appointed Thomas Nelson Page his US ambassador to Italy. Many members of his administration were equally avowed segregationists; their influence reverberated for generations. Wilson’s history books were quoted verbatim by Griffith in some of The Birth of a Nation’s titles, including: “‘The white men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation . . . until at last there had sprung into existence a great Ku Klux Klan, a veritable empire of the South, to protect the Southern country.’ – Woodrow Wilson”.

Wilson does not, however, actually seem to have said the quotation most frequently attributed to him, that The Birth of a Nation was “like writing history with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so terribly true”. The source for this appears to be Griffith, who told a 1916 movie magazine: “The motion picture can impress upon a people as much of the truth of history in an evening as many months of study will accomplish. As one eminent divine said of [moving] pictures, ‘they teach history by lightning!’” They can teach myths the same way, as Griffith’s film regrettably proved. Northern white audiences cheered it; black audiences wept at the malevolence it celebrated; it prompted riots and racist vigilante mobs in cities across America, and at least one racially motivated murder. Together, Griffith and Dixon worked to elevate a regional legend, designed to save face after a catastrophic loss, into a symbolic myth accepted by much of the nation.

 

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The Birth of a Nation helped to invent the feature film. It also helped to reinvent the Ku Klux Klan, which enjoyed a huge resurgence following the film’s release, spreading up through the north-east and Midwest. The Klan had a strong presence on Long Island in the 1920s, for example, which is why F Scott Fitzgerald made Tom Buchanan a believer in “scientific racism” in The Great Gatsby, a story set there in 1922, the same year in which Thomas Nelson Page died while working on a novel about the Klan called The Red Riders.

Four years later, a young writer named Margaret Mitchell began her own tale of the Lost Cause, a story that follows the same pattern, to the extent of describing Scarlett O’Hara on its first page in coded terms as a woman with “magnolia-white skin”. Gone with the Wind became a global sensation when it was published in 1936. Mitchell’s ideas of southern history were deeply influenced by Dixon’s racist ideology, although she was considerably more knowledgeable about the workings of plantation slavery than is often recognised. In fact, the great majority of antebellum southern planters (some 75 per cent) were what historians class as yeoman farmers (growing primarily for domestic use, selling only a small portion of their crop), not aristocratic owners of vast plantations. Such farmers often did not even own a slave, but rented or borrowed one or two during harvest time. But although the Hollywood version dispensed entirely with Mitchell’s sense of history (and her considerably more interesting take on historical sexism), it retained her racism, despite the stated intentions of its producers. The film of Gone with the Wind contributed greatly to the gradual displacement and dislocation of the historically specific time and place that had given rise to the antebellum plantation myth. Ben Hecht’s famed floating preface to the 1939 big-screen version labours at making the story timeless, a legend dissipating in the mists of history:

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 Civilisation gone with the wind . . .

as history recedes into ellipses.

Yet even this feudalist imagery has a specific history of its own, forming another crucial part of the popular culture of the Lost Cause. It was Mark Twain, whose works remain one of our most powerful literary antidotes to the toxin of moonlight and magnolia, who most famously named its source: the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Scott “did measureless harm”, Twain insisted in his 1883 Life on the Mississippi, “more real and lasting harm, perhaps, than any other individual that ever wrote”. Scott’s bestselling romances filled southerners’ heads with enchanted “dreams and phantoms . . . with the sillinesses and emptinesses, sham grandeurs, sham gauds and sham chivalries of a brainless and worthless long-vanished society”. In fact, Twain concluded acidly, “Sir Walter had so large a hand in making Southern character, as it existed before the war, that he is in great measure responsible for the war.” This is only slightly exaggerated: Scott’s novels were as popular in early-19th-century America as were the films of The Birth of a Nation and Gone with the Wind a century later. It is certainly thanks to the popularity of novels such as Ivanhoe and Waverley that the cult of the “clan” was distorted into the Ku Klux Klan, with its bogus orders and knights. Scott’s novels may even have given rise to antebellum America’s use of the medieval word “minstrel” to describe itinerant blackface musicians; the OED offers no logic for the coinage, but its earliest citation is from 1833, when the mania for Scott’s work in the American South was at its highest. The feudal fantasy of “gallantry”, “cavalier knights” and “ladies fair” is a powerful one, not least, doubtless, because it gives America a sense of a much older past than it has, merging our history with a faux-feudalism in which slaves are rewritten as serfs, bound by devotion to the land and the family they serve.

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But even as Gone with the Wind was in its ascendancy, another national narrative was slowly gaining traction. Black writers including W E B DuBois, Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes and Richard Wright were vigorously challenging the dominant racist narrative, while white southern writers such as Ellen Glasgow and, especially, William Faulkner, also began debunking and complicating this facile tradition. Faulkner took from the Lost Cause legends that he, too, had heard as a child in Mississippi, some much darker truths about memory, history, distortion, perspective. Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! is probably his greatest meditation on the processes of myth-making and how they intersect with national history, writing a Homeric epic of America. Absalom came out in 1936, the same year as Gone with the Wind, and in many ways can be read as a corrective to it, shaking off the dreams of moonlight and magnolia to show the Gothic nightmare underneath.

Just twenty years later, a young woman who had been born in the year Margaret Mitchell began to write Gone with the Wind, named Nelle Harper Lee, produced her own version of the story of America’s struggles with its racist past. To Kill a Mockingbird takes place between 1933 and 1935 (just before Gone with the Wind was published), during which time Atticus Finch tells his young daughter, Scout, that the Ku Klux Klan was “a political organisation” that existed “way back about 1920” but “couldn’t find anybody to scare”, relegating the Klan to ancient history, instead of a mere dozen years before Lee’s story.

Nor is it any coincidence that Mrs Dubose, the racist old lady addicted to morphine, forces Jem Finch to read Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe to her as a punishment: there are more encoded traces of Lost Cause history in Mockingbird than many readers have recognised. Mockingbird resists this history on balance, but it also participates in collective myth-making, most significantly in its depiction of lynching as a furtive, isolated practice in the dead of night. It would be pretty to think so. In Lee’s version, a lynch mob is dispersed by the innocent prattle of the child Scout, who unwittingly reminds its members of their basic “decency”. In fact, by the 1920s, lynching in the South was often publicly marketed as a tourist attraction, in a practice historians now refer to as “spectacle lynching”, which took place in the cold light of day, with plenty of advance warning so people could travel from outlying areas for the fun. There were billboards and advertisements letting tourists know when and where the lynching would take place; families brought children and had picnics; postcards were sold and sent (horrific images of which are easy to find online). Burning at the stake was common; victims were often tortured or castrated, or had limbs amputated, or were otherwise mutilated first; pregnant women were burned to death in front of popcorn-crunching crowds. This was so well established that in 1922 the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People took out a full-page advertisement in the New York Times with the headline “The shame of America”, demanding, in underscored outrage: “Do you know that the United States is the Only Land on Earth where human beings are BURNED AT THE STAKE?” It went on to outline a few salient facts: between 1889 and 1922, 3,436 people had been lynched in America. Of these, “only 571, or less than 17 per cent, were even accused of rape”. Eighty-three of the victims were women, which further undermined the myth that rape led to lynching.

Lee’s picture of lynching in To Kill a Mockingbird is not merely sentimental, but an active falsification: it participates in a wider American story seeking to minimise, even exonerate, the reactions of white southerners to African Americans’ claims to equal rights under the law. It functions as a covert apology, suggesting that lynching was anomalous, perpetrated by well-meaning men who could be reminded of common humanity – when, in fact, members of lynch mobs in the 1920s posed for photographs in front of their victims. But Atticus Finch stands up to racism, and Scout persuades Cunningham and the rest of the lynch mob to go home. This is why it matters that an earlier version of Atticus advocated segregation: it shows that the process of revising Mockingbird was a process of idealisation, promising readers that systemic racism could be solved by the compassionate actions of noble individuals.

This is the consolatory promise of individualism, that the nation can be redeemed collectively by isolated instances of benign action. The romance of individualism has always been how America manages injustice and unrest, how it pastes over irre­concilable differences and squares imaginary circles: the heroic figure who temporarily, occasionally, overcomes all structural and social impediments is taken as communal evidence that these obstructions don’t exist, or aren’t very obstructive. It is, of course, a deeply Christian idea: the redemptive individual who expiates collective sin, the original lost cause, sacrificed for the good of all.

The doctrine of individualism is further tangled up in yet another exculpatory logic: that of states’ rights. The remnants of this rationale also surface at the end of Go Set a Watchman: Atticus Finch argues that segregation is really a matter of states’ rights, and Jean Louise, his now adult daughter, though nauseated at his racism, accepts the legitimacy of that argument. What right has the federal government to insist that the people within its borders adhere to its laws, or even to the principles (truth, justice, equality, democracy) they purport to uphold? Some might conclude from reading this passage that, like paradise, causes are invented to be lost. The idea of the Lost Cause redeems a squalid past; it is an act of purely revisionist history, disavowing the notion that slavery or racism had anything to do with the civil war and its vicious, lingering aftermath. Glorifying that history as “gallantry” is not merely dishonest: it is ruinous.

Dismissing all of this as ancient history, or mere fiction, is not the solution, it is part of the problem. As Faulkner famously observed and this brief account shows, the past isn’t dead; it isn’t even past. The word “legend” comes from the Latin legere, to read. Many insist that the stories we consume endlessly are harmless entertainment, but that, too, is part of the mystification, pretending that these legends did not arise precisely to veil an ugly truth with moonlight, to smother with the scent of magnolia the stink of old, decomposing lies.

Now listen to Sarah Churchwell discussing the fiction of the American South with the NS's Tom Gatti:

An American in London, Sarah Churchwell is an author and professor of American literature. Her latest book, “Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and the Invention of the Great Gatsby”, is published by Virago.

This article first appeared in the 20 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn wars