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As Trump’s excesses mount, it’s time to reckon with the darker side of Obama’s legacy

The former president deported more than 2.5 million undocumented migrants from the US.

So, what’s been going on while I’ve been gone?” joked the 44th president of the United States on 24 April at the University of Chicago, in his first public speech since leaving office.

Obama is (officially) back in the public eye, doing more events, accepting more awards, dipping his toe into anti-Trump waters. It is difficult not to miss the sane, sober, eloquent former law professor in an age of insane and incoherent rants, and “alternative facts”. Nevertheless, the horrors of the Donald Trump era should not blind us to the myriad ways in which his Democratic predecessor helped lay the groundwork for it. The truth is that 44 was an enabler for 45.

Take deportations. “The detention and deportation of non-criminal immigrants – including kids – might be one of the most underrported [sic] stories of the Trump era,” tweeted Jon Favreau, who was a speechwriter for Obama, in late April.

Yet his former boss deported more than 2.5 million undocumented immigrants. In fact, Obama removed more people from the US in his two terms in office than all of the presidents of the 20th century combined. An analysis by the New York Times in 2014 found “two-thirds of… [deportation] cases involve people who had committed minor infractions, including traffic violations, or had no criminal record at all.”

And Trump has never shied away from cynically invoking Obama’s record to defend himself. “Nobody talks about it,” Trump said during the presidential campaign. “But under Obama, millions of people have been moved out of this country.”

Take the “Muslim ban”. “[Obama] fundamentally disagrees with the notion of discriminating against individuals because of their faith or religion,” a spokesman for Obama wrote on 30 January, responding to President Trump’s executive order banning entry into the US for nationals from seven Muslim-majority countries – Iran, Iraq, Sudan, Syria, Somalia, Libya and Yemen. Yet the then White House spokesman, Sean Spicer, claimed a day earlier that it was Obama, and not Trump, who originally listed those seven as “countries of particular concern”.

Spicer was for once telling the truth. It was President Obama who, in the wake of the San Bernardino terror attack, signed a bill into law in December 2015 restricting travel to the US for people who lived in or visited those seven countries, even though neither of the two attackers had ties to any of them.

Take Trump’s bombing of Syria. Plenty of liberals applauded Trump’s air strikes against the Assad government on 6 April but many of them also slammed the president for doing so unilaterally. “His failure to seek Congressional approval is unlawful,” declared Senator Tim Kaine, Hillary Clinton’s running mate. Yet Kaine, in July 2011, when Obama’s Libya war was in full swing, was “noncommittal” on whether the president was legally obliged to seek Congressional approval, and defended Obama’s “good rationale” for air strikes.

Is it any surprise, then, that a Trump administration official told CBS News the day after the air strikes that this president’s rationale for launching them without Congressional approval was “similar to what President Obama used in 2011 to use force in Libya”? Oh dear. Again and again, Trump and his acolytes hide behind decisions Obama made; again and again, Democrats stick their heads in the sand and pretend they never happened. Yet the double standards are glaring. How can you criticise Trump for filling his administration with Goldman Sachs alumni, for example, without also acknowledging that Obama raised more money from Wall Street in 2008 than any previous presidential candidate, and then praised the bosses of Goldman Sachs and JP Chase Morgan as “very savvy businessmen”?

How can you criticise Trump for issuing 30 executive orders in his first 100 days in office without admitting Obama issued more orders in his first 100 days – 19 – than any president since LBJ? How can you criticise Trump for sucking up to dictators without recalling how Obama literally bowed to the king of Saudi Arabia and hailed him, when he died, for his “vision” and “bold steps”?

Don’t get me wrong: not a day goes by in which I do not pine for the presidency of Barack Obama, warts (or should that be drone strikes?) and all. Nor does a day go by when I don’t feel scorn towards some on the left, such as the actress Susan Sarandon and Jill Stein, the Green Party presidential candidate, who inanely suggested that Trump, Obama and Hillary Clinton were all as bad as each other. That was nonsense on stilts. From climate change to healthcare to race relations, they were always worlds apart.  And Trump has already gone above and beyond anything Obama ever did on any of these issues: from ramping up deportations against those charged – and not just convicted – of criminal offences, to introducing an actual ban – and not just travel restrictions – on immigrants from six (originally, seven) Muslim-majority countries.

I am also well aware that “Obama did it, so why can’t I?” is an easy excuse for the sitting president, who would undoubtedly have done all the things he has done so far whether his Democratic predecessor had set a precedent or not. Trump, after all, is Trump.

Yet it is nevertheless disingenuous for supporters – and former employees – of Obama to attack Trump for doing things that the 44th president either did himself or opened the door for his successor to do. It also undermines their very legitimate critique of Trump’s egregious excesses. It would be great if liberals could reflect on the eight years that came before Trump. There has to be a reckoning with the darker side of the Obama legacy. To borrow a line oft-quoted by the former president himself: “If not now, when?” 

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

This article first appeared in the 27 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Summer double issue

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The stand against Nazis at Charlottesville has echoes of Cable Street

Opposing Nazis on the streets has a long and noble history.

Edward Woolf – my grandpa Eddie – was a second-generation Jewish immigrant, whose parents arrived in London in the early 20th century after fleeing pogroms in Russia. They settled, like many Jews did, in the warren of streets around Whitechapel in London's East End. He was an athlete – he would later become a champion high-diver, and box for the army – and was soon to become a soldier.

The second time he fought the Nazis, it was as an officer for the Royal Artillery. He blew up his guns on the beach at Dunkirk to prevent them falling into enemy hands; later in the war he fought the forces of Imperial Japan in the jungles of Burma.

But the first time he fought the Nazis was at the Battle of Cable Street.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandfather as the events in Charlottesville, Virginia played out over the weekend. On Friday night, a neo-Nazi demonstration through the campus of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville exploded into chaos as they encountered a counter-march by protesters and anti-fascists. A 32-year-old woman, Heather Heyer, was killed and 19 others injured when a car driven by a Nazi ploughed into a group of counter-protesters.

Police, outnumbered by both parties and outgunned by the Nazi marchers, many of whom held semi-automatic weapons, were unable to prevent the violence. A state of emergency was called; the national guard was brought in. In a jaw-dropping statement on Saturday, president Trump blamed the violence on "many sides".

Ever since a video of white nationalist leader Richard Spencer being punched in the face on the streets of Washington, DC went viral in the early days of the Trump administration, America has been engaged in a bout of soul-searching. Is it OK to punch Nazis? Is it OK to be gleeful about the punching of Nazis? After having spent all of 2016 slamming Obama and Clinton for refusing to say “radical Islamic terrorism”, why is Trump – who eventually, begrudgingly condemned the neo-Nazi groups involved in the violence on Monday, a full two days after Heyer's death – so incapable of saying “radical Nazi terrorism”?

It's all given me a strange sense of deja vu. In fact, that's not the right term. We really have seen all of this before.

In 1936, just three years before Hitler's Germany invaded Poland, triggering war with Britain and – eventually – America, it was not uncommon to see Nazis on the march. The Great Depression was at its height, and many working-class whites on both sides of the Atlantic, feeling that their jobs were threatened by immigration, turned to far-right ideologies as a panacea for their economic fears. (Let me know if any of this sounds familiar...)

In the UK, Oswald Mosley's British Union of Fascists (BUF), known widely as the Blackshirts for their distinctive uniforms, had also been swiftly growing. Mosley was a veteran of the First World War and a rising star politician, albeit something of a maverick. He had served as a Conservative, Labour and independent MP before he founded the Blackshirts in 1932. He was not a proletarian demagogue like Hitler or Mussolini; he was a wax-moustached aristocrat, a fencing champion and the son of a baronet, educated (until his expulsion) at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst.

Mosley was drawn to the far-right after touring continental Europe following a 1931 electoral defeat, and became enamoured with the ideas, and the pageantry, of fascism. His second marriage, to the socialite Diana Mitford, was held at the Berlin home of Joseph Goebbels. Hitler was an honoured guest.

Of course, these groups weren't just a British phenomenon. Hitler's newly-appointed deputy, Rudolf Hess, had called on a man named Heinz Spanknobel to found US-based Nazi groups; Spanknobel formed an organization called the Friends of New Germany, and later another, called the German-American Bund, in Buffalo, NY in March 1936. They ran a summer-camp on Long Island called Camp Siegfried, and as late as 1939 American Nazis held a rally in Madison Square Garden attended by 20,000 people.

Back in the UK, Mosley planned an audacious and inflammatory march through London's East End, a route which would take his blackshirts through the middle of Stepney, Whitechapel, and Bow – areas almost entirely populated by poor Jewish immigrants. For Mosley, who had drawn a crowd of more than 20,000 to an earlier rally in 1934 at Olympia, the East End march was clearly meant as an intimidation play - a gleeful and glorious celebration of the fourth anniversary of his founding of the BUF. But he had made a wild miscalculation.

The morning of 4 October 1936 dawned with a sense of anticipation. Newsreels from the time show an intimidating crowd of 5,000 fascists, with their sinister black low-rent-SS uniforms, turned out to join Mosley on his march. 

But Mosley had severely underestimated the organising capacity of the burgeoning anti-fascist movement that was growing up in opposition to his ideas. A coordinated leafletting campaign had taken place, which, combined with newspaper and newsreel attention, meant that there were few in East London who were unaware of, or unprepared for, the day of the march.

By the time Mosley's men assembled in Shoreditch, a truly vast crowd had assembled across the East End to stop them. Estimates of its size vary wildly from the tens to the hundreds of thousands; according to some sources as many as quarter of a million Jews, Communists, anti-fascists, union members, Catholic dock-workers, local residents, and many more who just came to see what would happen, flocked to the route of the march. Among them, somewhere in the crowd, was my grandfather, linked arm-in-arm with his friends. He was 20 years old. 

The Communist Party was key in organizing the counter-protest, and the rallying-cry for the counter-protesters was borrowed from the Spanish civil war: no parasan, meaning: they shall not pass.

More than 6,000 police officers, many on horseback, were deployed to prevent violence, but, vastly outnumbered, they were unable to clear the makeshift barricades and the people standing arm-in-arm from the street. The march ground to a halt and swiftly dissolved into a riot.

The embattled police tried to redirect Mosley down nearby Cable Street, but the crowd overturned a goods lorry to block their path, and a pitched battle ensued. From the upper windows of the tenement houses along the street, people threw rotten fruit and vegetables, and even emptied the foul contents of their chamber-pots, over the now-trapped blackshirts. As shit rained down, the fascists fought back with sticks, stones, and anything else they could find.

After a series of pitched battles, Mosley was forced to call off the march. At least 150 people had been injured in the brawl.

“I was moved to see bearded Jews and Irish Catholic dockers standing up to stop Mosley,” historian Bill Fishman, who witnessed the battle, said at a 2006 event commemorating its 70th anniversary. “I shall never forget that as long as I live, how working-class people could get together to oppose the evil of fascism.”

Cable Street didn't stop fascism in Britain - the outbreak of war, and the accompanying internment of Mosley and his lieutenants as possible enemy collaborators, did that. But it stopped their momentum, their confidence that power was almost within their grasp. The defeat showed them - showed everyone - that there was an opposition, and more, that the Nazis didn't hold the monopoly on intimidation. They too could be made to feel fear.

The echoes of Cable Street are crystal clear in the events this weekend in Charlottesville. Terms like “alt-right” and “white nationalist” are often chosen by journalists to cover these groups, but let's not mince words: Nazis again marched through the streets this weekend. The police were powerless to stop them. They were powerless to prevent the death of Heather Heyer. And the situation in America seems likely only to get worse. Spencer, who was one of the leaders of the Nazis in Charlottesville, announced that he is planning another march, this time in Texas, next month.

Enough has been written already about the need to stay above the baser instincts of mob violence and revenge. Let the Nazis call for lynching; we're better than that, but if I'm honest I can't summon much bile for the Antifascists who decide that Nazi violence should be met in kind.

Perhaps, in the wake of Charlottesville, the story of Cable Street teaches us that, in troubled times like these, it may be good to fill a chamber-pot or two for when the Nazis march again; or that the time will come when we, like my grandfather did, must stand together with arms linked and tell them: they shall not pass.

Nicky Woolf is a freelance writer based in the US who has formerly worked for the Guardian and the New Statesman. He tweets @NickyWoolf.