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Fort Hood....

Discussion in 'General political debates' started by Cocytus, Nov 9, 2009.

  1. Cocytus

    CocytusExperienced Member Experienced member Forum Member


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    Oct 14, 2009
     
    As long as people allow people to make such ignorant decisions as joining the military, and then being so passive aggressive as to allow thier family/friendship to take control of thier views, shits just gonna keep getting worse.

    Punk was meant to be seclusionary, not all inclusionary, some P.C. fucktard started that peace punk bullshit and it got out of hand due to everyones fear and cowardice.

    We need to keep this for real, and run the weak links right the fuck out of the ranks.
     
  2. Hex

    HexExperienced Member Experienced member Forum Member


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    Sep 22, 2009
     

    agreed punkmarr77! this is total shit. not like it counts for much here on the interwebz, but i personally have known Cocytus for MANY MANY years and he is the FARTHEST thing from any sort of LE or informant...he is really THAT fucking aggro and outspoken in real life. lol. maybe it's not the best way to go about discussing ideas, but that's Cocytus for you. love him or hate him, the man is honest with his feelings. he pulls no punches. ever.
    so ROT, while i sympathize with your friends' recent troubles with LE, please don't fling that 'informant! informant!' shit around at Cocytus (or anyone else that whom you know very little of)... it's bad forum form. ;)
     
  3. Cocytus

    CocytusExperienced Member Experienced member Forum Member


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    Oct 14, 2009
     
    The only punch I pull is my hand right before it shatters someones face.
     
  4. ASA

    ASAExperienced Member Experienced member Forum Member


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    Nov 2, 2009
     
    na it was that shit that sold us out in the first place, anyone with brains hates the 'military', the rest are just zombies which punx against or wats it yelling about again ummm, and we run to the mall and shootem

    yes peace punk is boxed in but so is the blues, wake up, ya sound like a pig
     
  5. Saering

    SaeringExperienced Member Experienced member


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    Dec 18, 2009
     
    The whole thing seems open ended to me, im just looking for a conclusion that i can take something from, i don't care if everyone gets along or not, i know it won't happen but i do look to take some sort of knowledge from an argument, honestly though im not sure its the argument thats keeping me from learning anything in this case, i think its actually me, so i guess i was just looking to perpetuate an argument for my own sake :/
    I suppose your right about that, i guess this is the sorta thing i was looking for since i felt i hadn't really taken anything from the disscusion so far, ive had moments like that and sometimes its actually been benefical, human nature is such an odd thing.
     
  6. stuartbramhall

    stuartbramhallNew Member New Member


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    Jun 8, 2010
     
    This is my first time on this site and I find it really impressive. I think the question of government informants is a hard one. I think I am an older generation than most of the commenters (62?). Our standard policy for dealing with informants was "If they walk the walk, talk the talk and sell the newspaper," leave them alone but never, ever give them a position of trust or responsibility. For informants who didn't meet the above standard, we simply held all the really important meetings without inviting them (they are very skilled at disrupting meetings). It was felt that calling them out and trying to discipline them usually backfired - in terms of the damage it did to group trust. I am an American refugee currently living in New Zealand and describe my upfront personal experience (between 1987 and 2002) with some really colorful government types in my memoir: THE MOST REVOLUTIONARY ACT: MEMOIR OF AN AMERICAN REFUGEE. More info at http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com ... ryAct.html
     
  7. Anxiety69

    Anxiety69Experienced Member Experienced member Forum Member


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    Oct 18, 2009
    Male, 41 years old
    Long Beach CA United States
    i would like to retract most of what i said early on in this thread. its strange how much ones opinion can change in such a short time. fuck the military.
     
  8. punkmar77

    punkmar77Administrator Staff Member Admin Team Experienced member


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    Nov 13, 2009
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    Hello Dr. Bramhall and welcome to anarcho-punk.net, we appreciate you being here however as we state in our "who we are" thread this is an anti-capitalist forum so please don't add links for sales for profit items. That said, your book sounds very interesting and maybe you could enlighten this forum sometime with excerpts from it. Thank you for your understanding...
     
  9. stuartbramhall

    stuartbramhallNew Member New Member


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    Jun 8, 2010
     
    I certainly understand and respect your anti-capitalist policy and I'm very sorry for violating it. It was inadvertent. I'm very flattered to be asked to post an excerpt of my book (see below) and would be very interested in getting feedback.


    “The most revolutionary act is a clear view of the world as it really is.”

    —Rosa Luxemburg (1871-1919)

    Part I – My Long Harrowing Journey to Ward 6

    What can they do
    to you? Whatever they want.
    They can set you up, they can
    bust you, they can break
    your fingers, they can
    burn your brain with electricity,
    blur you with drugs till you
    can’t walk, can’t remember, they can
    take your child, wall up
    your lover.

    from The Low Road by Marge Piercy


    CHAPTER 1

    “Excuse me, madam. Could you come this way, please? We must ask you to undergo a full body search. You have the right to refuse, but you will not be allowed to board the aircraft unless you consent to a search.”

    The Air New Zealand security guard who detained me at the boarding gate was a tall, pretty woman in her early twenties. She wore tiny pearl earrings with pale blue uniform trousers, a plain white short-sleeved blouse, and a matching blue ribbon attached under her collar. Her accent sounded English to my untrained ear, but this was unlikely. The New Zealand dialect is closer to Australian than to British English.

    I listened to a number of alternative news broadcasts and was aware the FBI had a no-fly list. Its alleged purpose was to prevent potential terrorists from boarding commercial aircraft. Yet to the best of my knowledge, as of October 2002, only anti-war and environmental activists had been barred from flights they had reserved and paid for. In any case, I assumed the airlines informed passengers they were potential terrorists when they checked in at the ticket counter. After months of nerve-wracking preparations—the legal and financial complications of closing my practice and selling my home—the last thing I expected was to be pulled out of line once boarding started.

    Thanks to the Patriot Act enacted shortly after 9-11, I had no legal recourse if the government banned me from flying. For a split second I identified with the helplessness and shame young Palestinians must feel when they exhaust all other alternatives and strap explosives to their chest.

    Too frightened to object, I followed the security guard to a dimly lit alcove at the back of the waiting area. It was furnished with an office desk and two plain wooden chairs. “You need to take your coat off, love.” The woman’s tone was apologetic as she helped me out of my gray velveteen jacket. I have white hair now, and my boarding pass designated clearly the fact that I was a doctor. She folded the jacket in half over the back of one of the chairs. “And your belt and shoes.”

    She placed my belt and black oxfords on the desk while she passed an electronic wand over my entire body and patted down my breasts, buttocks, and groin. When she finished, she helped me into my jacket and sat me down on one of the chairs. She put my shoes on for me and would have tied them if I let her. Then she handed back my boarding pass and hurried me down the ramp to the waiting plane.

    As a fifty four-year-old board-certified psychiatrist, I was fortunate to have options other than blowing myself up. In October 2002 I made the agonizing decision to leave my home, family, and twenty-five-year psychiatric practice to begin a new life in a small Pacific nation at the bottom of the world. Despite being named on the FBI’s no-fly list, I am not and have never been a terrorist. I am not a criminal, either, and have broken no laws. Yet in 1986, for some unknown reason, some faceless higher-up in one of the eleven federal agencies that spy on American citizens decided I posed a threat to national security. Prior to the enactment of the Patriot Act, it was illegal to target US citizens for their political beliefs or activities. Nevertheless, any leftist over fifty can tell you it was a common occurrence as far back as the 1920s for the FBI to target political dissidents for phone harassment and wire-taps, mail intercepts, break-ins, malicious rumor campaigns, false arrest and imprisonment, summary deportation and even extrajudicial murder.

    After twenty-three years I am still at a total loss why the government selected me as a target. Although I consider myself a leftist, I am at best a lukewarm radical. I am a physical coward and will go to any extreme to avoid conflict or confrontation. I prefer following to leading. Likewise, wherever possible, I go with the flow and take the path of least resistance.

    ***

    This was my second attempt to emigrate. When I first graduated from medical school in June 1973, I joined the mass migration to Europe by artists and activists disillusioned with the Vietnam War and the Watergate scandal—which ultimately forced Nixon to resign the presidency. At the time I was reacting less to large-scale political corruption than to a deep sense of loneliness and alienation. Already at twenty-four, I knew my future life, at least in the US, would be vastly different from that of my parents and grandparents. I saw a rampant consumerism taking over a culture that previously placed great store in human values, such as community and emotional intimacy. The young people around me were totally taken in by the mass marketing of sex and sex appeal in TV programming and advertising. For young men this meant acquiring all the latest status symbols—via bank loans or time payments, as only the department stores offered “charge” cards—that were supposed to make them irresistible to women. This included the latest-model, fastest car on the market, as well as the latest eight track car stereo and other car accessories to go with it, and the latest color TV and stereo hi-fi. While young women felt compelled to diet compulsively, to spend thousands of dollars a year on the newest fashions and hair-dos and hundreds more on make-up, hair, skin, and nail products—or be doomed to spinsterhood.

    After eighteen months in England, I decided I was incapable of working the thirty six-hour shifts the National Health Service required of first year house officers. In November 1974, with a profound sense of failure, I returned to the U.S. At twenty-seven, my highest priority was to complete the specialty training I needed to start a practice while I was still young enough to have children. Finding my native country no less alien or devoid of humanistic values than when I left, I fully intended to either return to the U.K. or emigrate to Canada, Australia, or New Zealand once I completed my psychiatric residency. I never dreamed I would wait twenty-eight years.

    ***

    I was a very late bloomer politically. Despite my early disenchantment with the “establishment,” as we called it in the sixties and seventies, it never occurred to me to blame political factors for my chronic sense of loneliness, alienation, and unmet emotional and social needs. At thirty-five, I fell into Marxism almost by accident when Marti, a fellow doctor and feminist in Chico, California, invited me to join the Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador. CISPES was a national grassroots organization formed in 1981 to protest Ronald Reagan’s covert war against El Salvador. Marti, who also turned thirty-five that year, was drawn to Marx for exactly the same reason I was—he helped us make sense for the first time of a political system riddled with contradictions. We had just lived through one of the most turbulent decades in U.S. history. Despite living in a so-called democracy, we had watched powerful defense contractors strong-arm Congress into an unpopular, undeclared war in Vietnam. The result was a massive political and military disaster that cost taxpayers billions of dollars and resulted in massive loss of human life.

    Despite embracing most Marxist values and principles, I have never accepted the need for violent revolution to overthrow capitalism. In 1983, after moving to Seattle with my two-year-old daughter Naomi, I joined International Socialists Organization. But only after other members assured me workers would bring down capitalism by uniting and refusing to work—that it was only the counter-revolution that was violent. In fact the only virtues I can claim as an activist are single mindedness (my mother called it stubbornness) and my inability to push my knowledge of government crimes and atrocities to the back of my mind.

    Although most Americans saw the 2004 photos of U.S. soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib, for the most part the images of naked Iraqi prisoners receiving electric shocks, being attacked by dogs, and having water poured down their throats have slipped from conscious awareness. The American public is worn down by the pressures of putting food on the table, keeping up with mortgage and credit-card debt, and finding some way to pay for medical care for themselves and their children. It’s much easier not to think about a horrific act for which they share responsibility, as U.S. citizens and taxpayers, but over which they have no control. In other words to move on.

    I can’t move on. The images linger and fester in my head until there is no room for anything else.



    “The low road”, from THE MOON IS ALWAYS FEMALE by

    Marge Piercy, copyright ©1980 by Marge Piercy. Used by permission

    of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
     
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