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"I have concluded that we should attempt to achieve normalization of our
relations with Cuba," Jimmy Carter proclaimed in a secret Presidential
Directive shortly after taking office in 1977. With that signed order
Carter became the first and only US President to make a rapprochement
with Fidel Castro's revolutionary government an explicit goal of US
foreign policy. Although his Administration succeeded in negotiating the
creation of "interest sections" in Havana and Washington, Carter's
objective "to set in motion a process which will lead to the
reestablishment of [full] diplomatic relations" eventually fell victim
to the cold warriorism of his national security advisers.

Twenty-five years later, when Carter became the first US President to
travel to Cuba, meet Castro and address the Cuban people, he again
called for normalization of relations. His historic five-day visit, May
12-17, has dramatically renewed the national debate on US policy toward
Cuba.

What the former President described as "an opportunity to explore issues
of mutual interest" has mobilized almost every conceivable interest
group--commercial, political, humanitarian--across the ideological span
on a gamut of contentious issues relating to Washington's approach to
Havana. As the Pope did during his visit to Cuba in 1998, Carter has
astutely managed to simultaneously draw attention to the archaic nature
of the forty-year US embargo on trade and travel, to the merits of civil
dialogue, and to human rights and democracy.

Carter's trip was carefully scripted to balance competing political
interests as well as his own multifaceted personal agenda. Before he
announced his travel plans, Carter dispatched emissaries to Washington
to discuss with numerous NGO and lobbyist organizations the merits of
such a visit; he then received a comprehensive intelligence briefing
from the Bush Administration and a steady flow of delegations and
specialists at the Carter Center in Atlanta, who shared their expertise
on Cuban issues. Pro-dialogue coalitions like the Cuban American
Alliance Education Fund issued statements signed by numerous grassroots
organizations in "full support [of Carter's] initiative for dialogue."
The rabidly anti-Castro Cuban American National Foundation criticized
him for entering into "discussions with the Cuban regime, thereby giving
[it] a measure of legitimacy."

In Cuba, Carter's schedule included three meetings with Castro, two
state dinners, a baseball game and visits to Havana's most prestigious
schools, laboratories and hospitals, as well as meetings with Cuba's
leading dissident, Elizardo Sánchez, and Oswaldo Paya, the
organizer of the Varela Project--a petition drive to reform political
and economic structures. Most significant, in a live nationally
televised address to Cuban citizens from the University of Havana,
Carter carefully underscored the themes of changing both US policy and
Cuba's socialist political system. US-Cuban relations, he said, had been
"trapped in a destructive state of belligerence for forty-two years,"
and he called on Washington to "take the first step" by lifting the
embargo on trade and travel. At the same time, he called for the
"fundamental right" of free speech and association in Cuba, and for
Cubans to be allowed to "exercise this freedom to change laws peacefully
by a direct vote."

For the Cuban government, what Carter said was far less important than
the spirit of recognition and mutual respect in which he said it. As the
only one of the ten US Presidents Castro has faced over the past
forty-three years who has come to the island, Carter got the red carpet
treatment--symbolic and real. A Cuban band played "The Star-Spangled
Banner" when he arrived, and Castro made it clear that there were no
conditions on his visit. "You can express yourself freely whether or not
we agree with part of what you say or with everything you say," Castro
stated in the reception ceremony at the airport.

When Castro first issued his invitation to Carter to visit Cuba, in
October 2000, George Bush had not yet been elected. Now, with a White
House that, as the Wall Street Journal recently described it,
"sees a President whose bacon was saved in Florida in 2000 by the
Cuban-American vote," Carter's trip has taken on a whole new political
cast. Since the Administration could not find any grounds to block his
visit, it tried to undercut Carter by sending Under Secretary of State
John Bolton to the Heritage Foundation to proclaim, "Cuba's threat to
our security has been underplayed" and to allege that Castro had "a
limited offensive biological warfare research and development effort"
that Cuba was sharing with "rogue states." Carter exposed this canard,
and infuriated the Administration, by using his visit to Cuba's leading
biotech facility, on May 13, to share the results of his pre-travel US
intelligence briefing with Cuban scientists and the US press corps: He
had asked the CIA if there was any evidence that Cuba was sharing any
information that could be used for terrorism, "and the answer from our
experts on intelligence was no."

The Bush Administration clearly fears the impact of Carter's trip. In an
effort at damage control, the White House promptly scheduled a speech in
Miami on May 20, at a fundraiser for brother Jeb's re-election campaign,
in which President Bush will express his presidency's hostile policy
toward the Cuban government and, lest US citizens get ideas from the
Carter visit, outline plans to further restrict travel to Cuba.

In tact and in substance, the Carter trip stands in stark contrast to
Bush's political diatribe. His visit cannot help but contribute to the
momentum on Capitol Hill, and throughout the country, to rethink
Washington's retrograde approach to Havana. This past fall Cuba made its
first cash purchase of US foodstuffs in forty years. As trade barriers
are slipping, a bipartisan coalition in Congress--the Cuba Working
Group, led by Arizona Congressman Jeff Flake--has organized a task force
to begin breaking up the embargo piece by piece. Its first focus is on
an amendment to the Treasury appropriations bill to free travel to the
island--legislation that is likely to get a significant boost from
front-page New York Times photos of Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter
walking through charming Old Havana.

"The point is that engagement is more likely to encourage Cuba in the
direction of reforms than unrelenting confrontation," says Wayne Smith,
who served as the Carter Administration's first chief of the new US
interest section in Havana from 1977 to 1981. That point is obviously
lost on Bush. But it isn't lost on his predecessor in the Oval
Office--or on the majority of Americans, who believe that diplomatic
dialogue is far more likely to advance US interests than pandering to a
constituency in Florida to get the President's brother re-elected as
governor.

I arrived here in Chile May 8 as a material witness in a criminal
complaint against former dictator Gen. Augusto Pinochet for the murder
of an American friend just days after the 1973 coup. But by the time the
week was over, I found myself giving face-to-face testimony against one
of the former top officials of the US Embassy in Chile and--in
effect--against former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger.

The last time I had seen former US Consul General Fred Purdy was on the
morning of September 17, 1973, when I and a handful of other young
Americans living here at the time stood nervously outside his office and
pleaded with him for some sort of US protection. Six days earlier
General Pinochet's military had seized power, declared a state of
internal war and unleashed a ferocious and bloody spasm of terror and
murder. But a gruff, impatient and profane Purdy snubbed our plea and
literally pushed us back into the chaotic streets, telling us we had
nothing to fear from the new military regime--and that the US embassy
could and would do nothing for us.

We would soon learn that at about the same hour we were begging Purdy
for help, a truckload of Chilean troops had kidnapped our fellow
American Charlie Horman from his home a few miles away. Within
forty-eight hours Horman was summarily and secretly executed. As
memorialized in the 1982 Costa-Gavras film Missing, his body
wasn't found for another month, and his killers were never identified.
Within days of Horman's execution, another young American friend, Frank
Teruggi, was also seized and murdered by Chilean forces. And Chile was
plunged into the seventeen-year nightmare of Pinochet's military
dictatorship that stamped out at least 3,000 other lives and sent nearly
a million into exile.

Purdy has never admitted he was wrong, and it's likely he still believes
he never made a mistake. US policy-makers from Henry Kissinger in the
1970s to Otto Reich, George W. Bush's top man on Latin America, have
always been quicker to praise Pinochet for his fealty to American-style
free-market economics than to condemn him for his butchery.

Now, however, Judge Juan Guzmán Tapia--the courageous Chilean
magistrate who last year indicted Pinochet on kidnapping and murder
charges--is helping set the historical record straight. At the behest of
Charlie Horman's widow, Joyce, Judge Guzmán opened a formal
criminal probe into the circumstances of Horman's death, including any
US role. As a witness in Judge Guzmán's chambers for three days,
I was asked to confirm under oath that in the wake of the military
takeover, Purdy and the embassy turned their back on Americans in
need--especially Americans thought to have been sympathetic to Socialist
President Salvador Allende, deposed in the coup.

Under Chile's arcane Napoleonic legal system, Purdy, who now lives in
Santiago, was subpoenaed for a careo--forced to be personally
confronted by me in the presence of the judge. Purdy, now 73, may be
visibly aged but he is the same truculent functionary I remember from
that morning twenty-nine years ago. His objections to my testimony were
loud enough to be heard by others in the waiting room outside the
judge's chambers. He vociferously argued that he had done everything
possible to save American lives in the aftermath of the coup and that
Horman could not be rescued, primarily because he had never sought the
help of the embassy. In recent declarations to the Chilean press, Purdy
had claimed--with no substantiation--that Horman might have been picked
up because he was friendly with an armed ultraleft group. So here we
were, back to 1973. According to Purdy, honest people had nothing to
fear from the Chilean military.

But Judge Guzmán was clear. "I have to tell you, Mr. Purdy," he
said calmly, "there are indications you were involved in a cover-up and
that you have not been fully forthcoming with the investigation." Judge
Guzmán then officially declared Purdy inculpado--a
"suspect"--in his investigation.

Thus Purdy becomes the first former US official to face possible
criminal penalties in a case arising from the 1973 Chilean coup.

Infuriated by the judge's ruling, Purdy stomped from the chambers and
angrily confronted a waiting claque of courthouse reporters. With TV
cameras rolling, Purdy--pressed to explain his behavior in 1973--grabbed
a reporter by the arm and shouted in an odd Spanish-English mix,
"Momen-fucking-tito!" Purdy's indignation, featured
prominently in Chilean newscasts, takes us to the moral center of this
story. Purdy was shocked that a US official might actually be held
responsible in a foreign court for crimes perpetrated by US policy. The
obscure Purdy is now an important symbol in the quest for international
justice. If the "Pinochet principle" established that former heads of
state lack immunity from human rights violations, then so do ex-consuls
general.

Purdy was caught in Guzmán's net only because he retired here and
could not escape a Chilean subpoena. But Guzmán's bigger targets
are sixteen other former US officials, including US Ambassador to Chile
Nathaniel Davis and Kissinger. More than a year ago, Guzmán
requested that Washington make these officials available. Only by
questioning them can anyone begin to answer key questions like what the
US government did or did not know about the murder of its own citizens
and to what degree functionaries like Purdy were following a State
Department line of cover-up for the Pinochet junta. So far Washington
hasn't responded to Guzmán's request. Kissinger told a British
audience in late April that while "it is quite possible mistakes were
made," a certain number of errors are inevitable and "the issue is
whether, thirty years after the event, the courts are the appropriate
means by which determination is made."

Some pieces of the Horman puzzle that have emerged from thousands of
pages of recently declassified documents indeed point to some level of
US involvement. "There is some circumstantial evidence to suggest US
intelligence may have played an unfortunate part in Horman's death,"
reads one State Department memo, obtained by the National Security
Archive. "At best it was limited to providing or confirming information
that helped motivate his murder by the GOC [government of Chile]. At
worst, US intelligence was aware that GOC saw Horman in a rather serious
light and US officials did nothing to discourage the logical outcome of
GOC paranoia."

The Chileans might have been paranoid, but Washington was coldly
calculating. The Nixon Administration found it more compelling to
support Pinochet's regime than to fully investigate and solve the murder
of its own citizens. In early 1974, shortly after Horman and Teruggi's
bodies had been found and Pinochet's blood orgy was rising to fever
pitch, the State Department official in charge of Latin America, Jack
Kubisch, had a private meeting with then-Chilean Foreign Minister Adm.
Ismael Huerta. A confidential US Embassy cable to the State Department
reports that in that meeting "Kubisch raised this subject [of Horman's
murder] in the context of the need to be careful to keep relatively
small issues in our relationship from making our cooperation more
difficult."

The multilingual Judge Guzmán exudes erudite refinement. The son
of a well-known poet, bearded and partial to blazers and regimental
ties, Guzmán seems more the country squire than crusading
magistrate. But his patience and polish, his deliberate
even-temperedness, have led not only to indictments of the
once-untouchable Pinochet but also of fifty-five other Chilean officers.
As he ushered me into his chambers, he stopped first to shake the hands
of several suspect former and active police officials he had cited who
were waiting in an adjacent room. "Sometimes it is very difficult to
have to treat these men you know are criminals and murderers as
gentlemen," he said. "But that's why we have laws to punish them."

In accord with those laws, Guzmán says that if the United States
doesn't act soon on his request to gather testimony from Kissinger and
other US officials, he'll have no choice but to file for their
extradition to Chile. Kissinger could satisfy Guzmán's request by
testifying before a US judge, who would ask the questions Guzmán
wants answered. Guzmán doesn't want to indict Kissinger; he only
wants to hear his testimony on these supposedly "relatively small
issues." But there's a better way: Kissinger should get on a plane to
Santiago and spend a few hours with the judge to help clear up these
crimes. And he can be sure that Judge Guzmán will, at all times,
treat him strictly as a gentleman.

A camera system in the nation's capital is making civil libertarians
nervous.

State officials rush to declare their own versions of the "war on
terror."

As if to move a flexible sphere from here
to there with unassisted head and foot
were natural and obvious. As if
a dance could always bow to resolute
constraint and never be danced the same way twice.
As if whistles and cheers, the hullabaloo
of fervent gazers were all the music needed
to keep its players' goals in tune. So that
as they weave, dodge, collide, collapse in breathless
haystacks--and rise and fall and rise again--
we're made, if not one, then at least whole.

When I first saw The Last Waltz in 1978, I almost walked out,
although I was a fan of both director Martin Scorsese and The Band. I
admit I was one of the folks whose tickets for the original 1976 show at
San Francisco's Winterland were refunded by impresario Bill Graham in
light of the scheduled movie shoot, when he decided to have a Thanksgiving sit-down dinner precede the concert, which translated into a then-hefty $25 price tag.

Twenty-four years and a new DVD version have changed, or at least made
subtler, some of my reactions. But I still think two of Scorsese's
typical dynamics are in play: seeking out America's underbellies, and
monumentalizing or sacramentalizing them. And so The Last Waltz
teeters between grit and awe--perhaps unintentionally but tellingly,
like rock itself at the time and rock history ever since.

When it premiered, Pauline Kael famously dubbed The Last Waltz
"the most beautiful rock movie ever." As a formalist she had a point.
With seven cameramen, including Vilmos Zsigmond (later famous as a cinematographer) and Miklos Rozsa (who came to be known as a composer), Scorsese professionalized the deliberately
nonprofessional documentary sensibility of D.A. Pennebaker and the
Maysles. Now that seems a fitting sign of the times: Mainstream rock had
been professionalized, from the boring arena-ready music itself to the
new national distribution systems, while pop sputtered with the
industry's search for commercially viable trends, like disco. Almost in
answer, new forms of folk art appeared. Breakdancers hit urban streets
and Bruce Springsteen prowled stages toward apotheosis with shows that
exploded somewhere between Elvis, an r&b revue and West Side
Story
. It was another return to the do-it-yourself folk aesthetic
underlying evolutionary developments in American popular culture.

So now The Last Waltz gives me a kind of double vision: It's an
elegy to The Band that is also, perhaps unwittingly, an elegy to an era.
The sense of reverence toward the motley parade of music stars trooping
across its lenses is intercut with open-eyed realism during the best of
the connecting interview segments--though those too are frequently
tinged with Scorsese's romanticism.

When Music From Big Pink (Capitol) came out in 1968, its album
cover was a painting by Bob Dylan. Dylan had hired the quintet, then The
Hawks, renamed The Band, for his revolutionary 1965-66 tour, which they
spent making garage grunge of his songs while being booed by folk
purists who wanted acoustic Dylan rather than the post-"Like a Rolling
Stone" model. (Bob Dylan Live 1966 [Sony] is the official version
of long-available bootlegs.)

After his 1966 motorcycle accident, Dylan had pretty much disappeared
from view, and there were regular rumors of his death or disfigurement.
But the smartest word was he'd been hanging out at Big Pink, a
nondescript house at the foot of Woodstock's Overlook Mountain, jamming
and writing songs with The Band. (These would soon surface as bootlegs;
selections have been remixed and officially reissued on The Basement
Tapes
[Sony] intercut with material by The Band alone.) Dylan
encouraged them to find their artistic vision. No surprise, then, that
Music From Big Pink opened with one Dylan track, "Tears of Rage,"
and closed with another, "I Shall Be Released."

Dylan's near-invisibility only augmented his cultural aura, a marketing
lesson his widely disliked, thuggish, Svengali-esque manager, Albert
Grossman, absorbed and soon applied to his latest clients, The Band.
Inside their double-sleeved first album were pictures of the members:
Five guys dressed like extras in an early Hollywood western, visual kin
to the road-warrior hoboes and evicted tenant farmers who peopled The
Grapes of Wrath
and Guthrie tunes. Their mothers and fathers and
kids. Their house, Big Pink, every band's dream--a clubhouse to jam and
practice and record in, surrounded by a hundred acres of mountain
meadows and woods. The Band, though, like millions of post-Beatles and
post-Dylan American kids picking and singing in their cellars and
backyards, still had to keep the volume down for fear of riling the
neighbors.

Nestled in Big Pink, playing cards and getting stoned and writing and
working out new stuff, as well as tweaking old bar-band tunes and hymns
and pieces of Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music,
Dylan and The Band forged a remarkable creative symbiosis. Thanks to
their Dylan-paid salaries and a rent that, depending on whom you
believe, was somewhere between $125 and $275 a month, The Band played
musical chairs with instruments as they groped for fresh ideas. As
Robbie Robertson, The Band's chief songwriter and guitarist, has
shrewdly observed, "Sometimes the limitation of the instrument can
provide originality."

Improvising was key to their artistic process, as their shortcomings or
imaginations prodded them from instrument to instrument, lineup to
lineup, to find what worked with the tune at hand. The result was
contemporary folk music, new-minted yet old-sounding, with strains of
Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta, rockabilly and soul. It wobbled
foggily somewhere between jug bands and Stax-Volt, surreal wet dreams
and revival meetings.

Robertson's guitar stayed mostly low profile, rearing for occasional
stabbing outbursts; he rarely sang. The three vocalists were startlingly
different, but found offbeat ways to blend. As Robertson has observed,
"A lot of the time with The Band they were somewhere between real
harmonies and, because of our lack of education in music, they would be
things that just sounded interesting--or they would be the only thing
the person could hit."

Levon Helm's singing was gritty and soulful and at times sardonic; he
doubled on drums and mandolin. Rick Danko had a clear, yearning tenor,
played bass that burbled like a McCartney-esque tuba, sawed a backwoods
fiddle and strummed guitar. Richard Manuel doubled on engagingly
ramshackle drums and pounded what has been described as "rhythm piano";
as for his voice, Robertson has said, "There's a certain element of pain
in there that you didn't know whether it was because he was trying to
reach for a note or because he was a guy with a heart that'd been hurt."
Garth Hudson was classically trained, said he learned to improvise from
playing at his uncle's funeral parlor and invented one after another
"blackbox," the kinds of soundshapers so integral to the era's musical
sensibility. Hudson didn't sing, but the sounds he made became The
Band's sonic glue, as they fitted parts together that breathed, leaving
spaces float, stepping into others, with the sort of interlocking
discipline found in, say, the jammed-out music of Count Basie, Muddy
Waters or Booker T. & the MGs. Not surprisingly, they cut their
first two albums mostly live in the studio. (See The Band [Rhino]
for an informative, if talking-head-heavy, video history of the making
of the group's first two records.)

"Tears of Rage," written by Dylan and Manuel, kicked Music at Big
Pink
off-kilter from the start. Manuel's eccentric r&b cry and
falsetto staggered dangerously, seductively around the confessional
lyrics; Robertson's treated guitar approximated organ tones; Hudson's
winding, churchy organ swelled and subsided; and a drunken Salvation
Army-ish horn section (courtesy Hudson and producer John Simon)
punctuated the flow over the spare, Booker T. & the MGs-style bass
and drums. Simon has observed of the distinctively moaning horn blend,
"That's the only sound we could make." The rest of the album was a bit
uneven but ear-opening, challenging, even wonderful. "To Kingdom Come"
bounced airily, blearily beneath Manuel's vocals; "The Weight" mixed
Curtis Mayfield guitar licks into a surreal gospel setting; "Long Black
Veil" tipped its classicist hat at Lefty Frizell; and "Chest Fever" was
an instant radio hit, with its swelling, skirling, gnashing organ and
nightmare-incoherent lyrics.

With Grossman behind them, The Band--or at least Robertson, who was
rapidly becoming primus inter pares--learned to use reticence and
image to enhance their music. Like Wynton Marsalis a decade later in
jazz, they self-consciously looked back to tradition. "We were rebelling
against the rebellion," Robertson has said. "It was an instinct to
separate ourselves from the pack." That instinct drew the attention of
the nascent rock press, which became their champions: Outlets like
Rolling Stone, co-founded by jazz historian Ralph J. Gleason,
fused the old fanzines and more critical and historical perspectives.
These new media helped make The Band counterculture heroes.

As did the lyrics, which were increasingly written by Robertson.
Enigmatic and vaguely religious and poetic, full of questions and
retorts that didn't necessarily mesh, painting realistic scenes and
Dadaist laments, they clearly owed a great deal to Dylan. Robertson had
also been reading Cocteau, thinking in terms of movies, wanting to
replicate what he's called Dylan's disruption of song forms.

The look and sound, the entire presentation of The Band, evoked a notion
of authenticity that has underscored writing about them ever since,
usually to contrast them with the countercultural rebellion. As
Grossman, who knew show business, surely understood, this was both an
iconic extension and an ironic inversion of the folk revival's would-be
purity. For the counterculture, and show business, were The Band's home.
They were outriders on Dylan's panoramic influence, mountainside avatars
of the Jeffersonian "back to the land" ideal that recurred in the
Woodstock generation's ideology. As Greil Marcus rather romantically
noted of their early music, "It felt like a passport back to America for
people who'd become so estranged from their country that they felt like
foreigners even when they were in it."

When The Band (Capitol) followed Music From Big Pink in
1969, it cemented the group's reputation and enhanced their Dylanesque
mystique of invisibility: Refusing to tour, partly because of Band
members' car crashes and flipouts, they watched promoters' offers climb
from $2,000 a show to $50,000.

The Band were in the midst of recording their second album far from the
Catskills, in Hollywood at Sammy Davis Jr.'s pool house, which they'd
converted into a studio, when they decided to resist no longer. But
before they debuted onstage at Winterland in April 1969, Robertson got
such a bad case of nerves (he has always claimed he had the flu) he
stayed in bed for three days of rehearsal, and had to be hypnotized to
go onstage.

Since they'd been musically weaned in roadhouses and spent such care on
recording live, it's always been one of the odder ironies of The Band's
career that they were erratic, often uncomfortable performers.
Unconsciously extending the folk revival's ideology, reviewers tended to
explain their unevenness as an emblem of honest authenticity, which, in
the ways of do-it-yourself, folk-culture amateurism, it sometimes was,
though this was somehow also the culture The Band was posited to be
different from. "A lot of mysticism was built up around The Band,"
Robertson has said. "These guys up in the mountains...." At any rate,
the quality of their concerts was as fully unpredictable as that of
their putative opposite numbers, the Grateful Dead.

From Winterland they hit the Fillmore East, where I can testify they did
at least one good show; then they finished recording at the Hit Factory
in New York City. The Band still stands as their masterpiece.
Loosely built around a harvest-is-in, carnival-is-in-town feel, it's
incredibly consistent and divergent at the same time, the strength of
their studies and abilities ramifying its depth and breadth. Their brand
of self-consciousness of sources and sounds marked one key difference
between rock and earlier roll and rock.

From "Across the Great Divide," with its bouncy rhythms, yearning Manuel
vocal, bleary horns and slippery guitar fills, to "King Harvest (Has
Surely Come)," the surprisingly downbeat rural closer that cuts in
snapshots of union struggles, it has a rare scope and power. "Up on
Cripple Creek," with its bump-grind rhythms and allusion to an old folk
tune, was all over FM radio, as were the hoedowns-in-your-basement "Rag
Mamma Rag" and "Jemima Surrender." "The Unfaithful Servant" gave Danko's
aching tenor a Dylanesque vehicle, while "The Night They Drove Old Dixie
Down" told a moving tale of one Southern family's Civil War hardships.

After this album, the madness and musical unevenness accelerated. In
early 1970, The Band made the cover of Time--a rarity then. The
group's substance abuse, especially Manuel's and Danko's, deepened,
particularly when they were off the road, as they were for months at a
time. Robertson had become the dominant figure--embarking on
self-education, dealing with Grossman, writing first most, then all the
songs, disciplining the others into rehearsing and recording. The
relatively equal distribution of ability at the heart of The Band's
music was coming unbalanced.

Perhaps they'd just hit the natural limits of their talent. Or maybe
they were trapped by the ghosts of folkie authenticity they and Grossman
had conjured. Whatever the cause, most of their later albums sound more
airless, stale, fussy, strained. It was as if they were confined
conceptually to an inelastic, increasingly romanticized and nostalgic
space and mode. (To Kingdom Come [Capitol] offers two CDs that
cull much good and some indifferent material from all their recordings.)

But they didn't go straight downhill. The music they made when they
rejoined Dylan onstage in 1974 was fierce, as if he once again sparked
their creative fires. Their several tours with the Grateful Dead, though
the pairing confused many reviewers, was a study in similarity and
contrast that sometimes sparked great things. (In 1970, Danko told Jerry
Garcia, "We thought you were just California freaks, but you're just
like us.") And on the albums, individual songs--"The Shape I'm In,"
"Stage Fright," Dylan's "When I Paint My Masterpiece"--displayed the old
dexterous touches. Overall, though, creatively everyone but Robertson,
whose muse was drying up anyway, seemed content to coast--after all,
women, booze and money were plentiful. The ambitious songwriter, who'd
begun producing other artists' records and thinking about movies,
finally decided to pull the plug in high style. Hence The Last
Waltz
.

There are beautiful sequences in The Last Waltz, and the best are
those of The Band itself. Scorsese's desire to work tight means fewer
establishing shots than some (including me) might want, but the
aesthetic does reflect The Band's subtle, intimate music. At its best,
the film can be stunning. "Stage Fright," for example, shoots Danko from
almost 360 degrees, lit only by an overhead spot, creating gorgeous
interplays of shadow and light, heightening the song's lyrics. "Mystery
Train," to which Paul Butterfield adds harp and vocals, has a similar
self-conscious beauty, which jars with the raggedy unison singing. The
Staples Singers joining on "The Weight," in a sequence filmed after the
show itself, aurally demonstrates The Band's vocal debts to them. For
Emmylou Harris's turn on "Evangeline," another postshow scene, Scorsese
fills the soundstage with blue-lit smoke, which feels hokey but redeems
it a bit visually with arresting camera angles that frame the stark,
lovely geometries of Hudson's accordion, Danko's fiddle and Helm's
mandolin.

A concert film is ultimately about the music, however. The Last
Waltz
translates The Band's broad tastes into a narrative punctuated
by interviews and special guests onstage. But the frame is only as
strong as its content. Eric Clapton? Ron Wood and Ringo Starr? Dr. John?
Neil Diamond? Joni Mitchell? Even Muddy Waters? Broad-based roots,
far-reaching sounds, all spokes in the wheel of the 1960s rock
resurgence that Scorsese's narrative contextualizes and justifies via
the interviews. But there's little about the performances of these
artists that is special. No particular chemistry emerges to make this a
moment--except that it's The Band's Last Waltz. I found myself wondering
if part of The Band's artistry consisted of its ability to disappear
musically. (The companion four-CD set, The Last Waltz [Rhino],
has state-of-the-art sound and a bunch of added music--most of it,
unless you're a completist, better left unheard.)

Certainly The Last Waltz makes clear why The Band ended. Though
Scorsese tries to balance his time with the five members, Robertson's
hooded eyes enthrall him. It's palpable that Robertson is surrounded by
good-timey, undisciplined mates who have trouble articulating or
finishing their stories, and often steps into the breach. (Helm is
incisive talking about music and cultural roots; the others work in a
haze of fractured sentences, bits of cynicism and mysticism, and defer
to Robertson.)

Robertson had become the group's de facto manager, its public face, more
and more the businessman, the guy who had the vast bulk of the
publishing income and royalties from all that collaborative imaginative
work that made the songs timeless. He was also the sole producer of
The Last Waltz. He wanted out; if the movie is unclear what the
others wanted, the fact is that the rest, minus Robertson, re-formed in
various configurations over the years.

Aside from The Band's own sequences, the best moments in The Last
Waltz
belong, fittingly, to Ronnie Hawkins and Bob Dylan, the two
front men who helped catalyze their chemistry. Hawkins is wonderfully
unselfconscious during his rave-up version of "Who Do You Love," cueing
and teasing The Band as if a dozen years hadn't passed between them.
Dylan, at the film's end, leads The Band through "Forever Young," making
it their gentle envoi. Watching him goose them through his abrupt
transition to the snarling reworking of the Rev. Gary Davis's "Baby, Let
Me Follow You Down," one of the electric tunes they'd rattled audiences
with in that now-legendary 1965-66 tour, offers us a glimpse into the
chemistry of their fruitful relationship, and the perfect closing
bookend to The Band's career.

In anticipation of the Second Coming, evangelicals leap to Israel's
defense.

Likud says it does not anticipate
That Palestinians will have a state.
So they, in turn, are meant to stop this shrying,
And try to make their peace with occupying.

A recent front-page story in the Boston Globe proclaimed that New
England leads the nation in Ritalin prescription levels. Somewhat to my
surprise, the prevalence of Ritalin ingestion was generally hailed as a
good thing--as indeed it may be in cases of children with ADHD. But to
me the most startling aspect of the Globe's analysis was the
seeming embrace in many places of Ritalin as a "performance enhancer."
Prescription rates are highest in wealthy suburbs.

While the reasons for such a statistical skewing need more exploration
than this article revealed, what I found particularly interesting was
the speculation that New Englanders have a greater investment in
academic achievement: "'Our income is higher than in other states, and
we value education,' said Gene E. Harkless, director of the family
nurse-practitioner program at the University of New Hampshire. 'We have
families that are seeking above-average children.'"

Aren't we all. (And by "all," I mean all--wouldn't it be nice if
everyone understood that those decades of lawsuits over affirmative
action and school integration meant that poor and inner-city families
also "value education" and are "seeking above- average children"?) But
Ritalin, after all, works on the body as the pharmacological equivalent
of cocaine or amphetamines. It does seem a little ironic that poor
inner-city African-Americans, who from time to time do tend to get a
little down about the mouth despite the joys of welfare reform, are so
much more likely than richer suburban whites to be incarcerated for
self-medicating with home-brewed, nonprescription cocaine derivatives.
If in white neighborhoods Ritalin is being prescribed as a psychological
"fix" no different from reading glasses or hearing aids, it's no wonder
the property values are higher. Clearly the way up for ghettos is to
sweep those drugs off the street and into the hands of drug companies
that can scientifically ladle the stuff into underprivileged young black
children. I'll bet that within a single generation, the number of
African-Americans taking Ritalin--to say nothing of Prozac and
Viagra--will equal rates among whites. Income and property values will
rise accordingly. Dopamine for the masses!

Another potential reason for the disparity is, of course, the matter of
access to medical care. Prescriptions for just about anything are likely
to be higher where people can afford to see doctors on a regular
basis--or where access to doctors is relatively greater: New England has
one of the highest concentrations of doctors in the country. But access
isn't everything. Dr. Sally Satel, a fellow at the American Enterprise
Institute, says that when she prescribes Prozac to her lucky
African-American patients, "I start at a lower dose, 5 or 10 milligrams
instead of the usual 10-to-20-milligram dose" because "blacks metabolize
antidepressants more slowly than Caucasians and Asians." Her bottom line
is that the practice of medicine should not be "colorblind" and that
race is a rough guide to "the reality" of biological differences.
Indeed, her book, PC, M.D.: How Political Correctness Is Corrupting
Medicine
, is filled with broad assertions like "Asians tend to have
a greater sensitivity to narcotics" and "Caucasians are far more likely
to carry the gene mutations that cause multiple sclerosis and cystic
fibrosis." Unfortunately for her patients, Dr. Satel confuses a shifting
political designation with a biological one. Take, for example, her
statement that "many human genetic variations tend to cluster by racial
groups--that is, by people whose ancestors came from a particular
geographic region." But what we call race does not reflect geographic
ancestry with any kind of medical accuracy. While "black" or "white" may
have sociological, economic and political consequence as reflected in
how someone "looks" in the job market or "appears" while driving or
"seems" when trying to rent an apartment, race is not a biological
category. Color may have very real social significance, in other words,
but it is not the same as demographic epidemiology.

It is one thing to acknowledge that people from certain regions of
Central Europe may have a predisposition to Tay-Sachs, particularly
Ashkenazi (but not Sephardic or Middle Eastern) Jews. This is a reality
that reflects extended kinship resulting from geographic or social
isolation, not racial difference. It reflects a difference at the
mitochondrial level, yes, but certainly not a difference that can be
detected by looking at someone when they come into the examining room.
For that matter, the very term "Caucasian"--at least as Americans use
it, i.e., to mean "white"--is ridiculously unscientific. Any given one
of Dr. Satel's "Asian" patients could probably more reliably claim
affinity with the peoples of the Caucasus mountains than the English-,
Irish- and Scandinavian-descended population of which the gene pool of
"white" Americans is largely composed. In any event, a group's
predisposition to a given disease or lack of it can mislead in making
individual diagnoses--as a black friend of mine found out to his
detriment when his doctor put off doing a biopsy on a mole because
"blacks aren't prone to skin cancer."

To be fair, Dr. Satel admits that "a black American may have dark
skin--but her genes may well be a complex mix of ancestors from West
Africa, Europe and Asia." Still, she insists that racial profiling is of
use because "an imprecise clue is better than no clue at all." But let
us consider a parallel truth: A white American may have light skin, but
her genes may well be a complex mix of ancestors from West Africa,
Europe and Asia. Given the complexly libidinous history of the United
States of America, I worry that unless doctors take the time to talk to
their patients, to ask, to develop nuanced family histories or, if
circumstances warrant, to perform detailed genomic analyses, it would be
safer if they assumed that, as a matter of fact, they haven't a clue.

We live in a world where race is so buried in our language and habits of
thought that unconscious prejudgments too easily channel us into
empirical inconsistency; it is time we ceased allowing anyone, even
scientists, to rationalize that consistent inconsistency as
"difference."


DENNIS KUCINICH--BOY WONDER

Longwood, Fla.

I just finished Studs Terkel's valentine to Dennis Kucinich ["Kucinich
Is the One," May 6]. In the '60s I was on the copy desk of the
Cleveland Plain Dealer, back when you edited with a thick black
pencil and would cut and paste copy, literally, using big shears to cut
and goo in a white coffee mug to paste. Dennis was a copy boy back then.
He was a smartass--my emphasis is on "smart." Anyone with an ounce of
brains could see that he was destined to be much more than a factory
worker or, worse, a Midwestern newspaperman. Studs, I'm with you. I'd
love to see Dennis debate Dubya. Go, Dennis, go.

ROBERT J. HAVEL


Minneapolis

In his admirable eloquence espousing Dennis Kucinich for national
office, Studs Terkel says that three Ohioans became President after
Rutherford B. Hayes (1877-81): William McKinley (elected in 1896),
William Howard Taft (1908) and Warren G. Harding (1920). There's one
more: James Garfield, elected in 1880 but assassinated only months after
taking office.

I have long admired Kucinich. If there's a bandwagon for his national
ambitions, I'd like to know where to sign up. Here in Minnesota, where
Paul Wellstone has his hands full this year against a slippery
Republican, I'm looking for a national progressive leader, and Kucinich
just might be that person.

JAMES NAIDEN


Sunset Beach, Calif.

Kucinich for President? Sounds better than condemning Congress to
pruning the Shrub for four more years. But why not go all out? Put Jim
Hightower on the ticket with him. Then Dubya just might not be able to
take Texas for granted. And if you think a Kucinich-Bush debate would be
a first round knockout, how would you classify Hightower-Cheney?

GEORGE McCALIP



$OCIAL $ECURITY FIX: HR 3315

Washington, DC

I agree with many points made by former Senator Paul Simon ["Social
Security Fixes," April 29]. While Social Security is projected to face
modest financial challenges in several decades, it is emphatically
not in crisis. And I agree that privatization will make Social
Security's shortfall much worse.

However, I strongly dissent from Senator Simon's support for reducing
cost-of-living adjustments (COLAs). I also want to build on the point
Simon raised about the cap on wages subject to the Social Security
payroll tax.

I have introduced legislation, HR 3315, the Social Security
Stabilization and Enhancement Act, that has been certified by the Social
Security actuaries as restoring seventy-five-year solvency to the
program (for more information, see www.house.gov/defazio). HR 3315
includes a provision to eliminate the cap on wages (currently $84,900)
subject to the Social Security payroll tax, as Simon suggests. All wages
are already subject to the Medicare payroll tax. It only makes sense to
do the same for Social Security. However, my legislation does retain the
cap for determining benefit calculations, which makes it much more
progressive and still entitles all contributors to a benefit. These
changes equal 2.13 percent of payroll, more than enough to solve the
projected Social Security financing deficit of 1.87 percent of payroll.

My legislation also exempts the first $4,000 in wages from the Social
Security payroll tax, but not from calculation of benefits, so there's
no benefit cut. The bottom line is that 95 percent of Americans would
get a payroll tax cut.

HR 3315 also includes a provision allowing aggregate investment of a
portion of the Social Security Trust Fund in equities other than
government debt, to increase the rate of return received by the Trust
Fund without the individual risk and administrative complexity of
privatization. Unfortunately, while the response from Oregonians about
HR 3315 has been overwhelmingly positive, it has been tough to interest
progressives inside the Beltway.

I encourage Senator Simon to reconsider his support for lowering the CPI
and thus reducing the COLAs of Social Security beneficiaries. The
current CPI does a poor job of measuring inflation faced by seniors.
Because seniors spend much of their money on healthcare, they are
especially vulnerable to the annual increases in the medical costs,
which run far above the rate of inflation. Rather than lowering COLAs
for seniors because some economists argue the CPI overstates inflation
for the general population, it makes more sense for the Bureau of Labor
Statistics to calculate a separate CPI for seniors. In fact, the BLS
has calculated an experimental index based on seniors'
consumption habits since 1984. It shows that seniors face an average
inflation rate 0.4 percent higher than the general population. That
argues for increasing seniors' COLAs, not lowering them.

PETER DeFAZIO
Member of Congress, 4th District, Oregon


SIMON REPLIES

Carbondale, Ill.

Peter DeFazio is an excellent Congressman, and his proposal is an
improvement over where we are now. The actuaries disagree with his
conclusion that we face "modest financial challenges in several
decades." DeFazio may be correct, but when it comes to the basic income
of so many millions of Americans I would err on the side of caution. His
proposal to eliminate the cap but retain the ceiling on benefits is
good. Exempting the first $4,000 of income makes our tax system more
progressive, which I like, but reduces the long-term benefits of
buttressing the system, which I do not like. The CPI should be accurate,
and recent increases in healthcare costs for seniors may offset the
failures to consider substitution, generic drugs and other factors that
also must be calculated. But accuracy should be the goal, and that may
involve a slight slowing of growth of benefits.

PAUL SIMON
Director, Public Policy Institute



STATES LEAD US TO CLEAN ELECTIONS

Conway, Mass.

Is John Nichols ["Campaign Finance: The Sequel," April 29] unaware
that, in addition to Maine, Arizona and Massachusetts, Vermont has an
effective Clean Elections law? The 2000 gubernatorial campaign of
Progressive Party candidate Anthony Pollina under that law came within
one percentage point of forcing the election to be decided by the
Vermont legislature. Nichols's reference to clean money election
roadblocks erected by Massachusetts House speaker Tom Finneran begs
amplification. Finneran's demagoguery, like that of Tom DeLay in
Washington, defines the clean money struggle. The problem is not the
buying of favors but politicians extracting money to maintain their
abusive and undemocratic power.

Nichols correctly concludes that McCain-Feingold falls far short of
reform, as will any such window-dressing initiative in Congress. Change,
as Pollina said during his campaign, will have to come from the states,
and it's time other states join these four, which have set this country
on a historic course of true reform.

CARL DOERNER


Oakland, Calif.; Boston

John Nichols is correct to highlight a new "sense of possibility"
since the passage of McCain-Feingold. Campaign finance reform finally
does have the public's attention, and full public funding is on the
horizon. Equally important, the Fannie Lou Hamer Project, the
Greenlining Institute and others have done the critical work of
redefining campaign reform as a civil rights issue. Still, the movement
has been missing an important element, present in most other successful
US movements for justice: the creative grassroots action of college
students. Democracy Matters is a new campus-based organization that is
mobilizing popular pressure from college students to get private money
out of politics (www.democracymatters.org).

ADONAL FOYLE, CHRIS VAETH



PACIFICA LICKS ITS WOUNDS

Altadena, Calif.

Susan Douglas's "Is There a Future for Pacifica?" [April 15] posits
two polarized factions at war over the Pacifica Foundation radio
network, then reasonably urges us to bring a unified Pacifica to bear
upon common foes. In fact, people from all sides of the recent disputes
are now working together to advance its mission for antiwar,
cross-cultural, community-based free-speech programming. Why the unity?
Magnanimity and openness. This is the first transition of power in
Pacifica's fifty-three years that has not resulted in a purge. Some have
left, but nobody's been fired, and the few who left got agreeable
severance packages. Those remaining enjoy the rejuvenated community
involvement.

But there are lessons. Many who haughtily "avoided the fray" carefully
protected their own personal privilege and airtime, even while the
foundation's coffers were being openly looted. Conversely, others
sacrificed jobs, money and personal privilege to gain broader community
control over Pacifica. Equating these two cheapens the sacrifices of
some and unfairly assuages the guilt of others. But that's history to
learn from, not to relive.

The issue now is not who did more but who is doing anything now and what
still needs to be done. So instead of staying above the fray, those
interested in Pacifica should jump in with both feet and help realize
its potential. Unlike our predecessors, we welcome all who support
Pacifica's mission, even those who once barred us from entering the
stations.

DAVE FERTIG
Interim Pacifica Advisory Board;
KPFK local advisory board


Tarentum, Pa.

Your magazine is thin enough. Please don't waste any more space on
Pacifica.

ROBERT JEDRZEJEWSKI



NATION 'SLAMS' FEMINISTS

Seattle

In her review of my book Fast Girls: Teenage Tribes and the Myth of
the Slut
["The Fishnet Fallacy," April 15], Elaine Blair accuses me
of neglecting to talk about "what the rest of the school is thinking"
when spreading rumors about these girls. In her reading (skimming?)
Blair seems to have missed entire sections dedicated to the stories of
kids who spread rumors. In fact, the whole book is built around my own
memory of spreading rumors. While Blair wants to know what the kids were
"thinking," the point of Fast Girls is that they weren't
thinking--which is why I use words like "irrational" and "unconscious"
throughout the book. Blair ends her slam by launching into her own
memory of a girl who fit the "slut story." While this memory was clearly
triggered by my book, and while Blair even borrows my language to fill
it out ("the site of the slut's continuous re-creation, the high school
hallways"), she still insists I haven't done my job.

It's interesting to consider Blair's review alongside other slams of
feminist writing in The Nation (Katha Pollitt on Carol Gilligan,
Susan J. Douglas and Meredith Michaels on Naomi Wolf). Maybe it's a vast
left-wing conspiracy: It seems whenever a feminist writes a book, The
Nation
runs a review that says she shouldn't have.

EMILY WHITE

Since Sept. 11, George W. Bush?s political team and their Republican allies have used every trick to exploit the tragedy for political advantage. Just this week, they were trying to raise campaign money by hawking photos of Bush taking instructions from Vice President Dick Cheney on that fateful day.

The crass politicization of a national tragedy may have offended Bush?s critics. But the image of Bush as the serious-minded battler against threats to homeland security was too good a political tool to surrender. And they planned to keep hammering the Democrats with it through November.

Then the hammerhead flew off.

By the way, we, uh, forgot to mention, that in August of 2001, while the President was taking a long vacation at his ranch in Crawford, the CIA told him tha...

After the U.S. House of Representatives voted by one vote last December to grant President Bush Fast Track authority to negotiate a sweeping Free Trade Area of the Americas, the White House was convinced that the issue was settled. So too were many of activists who had poured their time and energy into opposing Fast Track.

Because they are much more likely to feel the brunt of grassroots lobbying at the district level, House members have since the early 1990s been more dubious about trade deals than members of the Senate. So when the House buckled under intense rally-round-the-flag pressure from the White House in December, it appeared to many Washington observers that Bush would have what Bill Clinton did not: free reign to negotiate away workers rights, family-farm protections, environmental regulations and basic democratic principles in order to create a corporation-friendly free trade zone encompassing most of the entire western Hemisphere.

But appearances were deceiving. Fast Track ended up on the slow track in a Senate controlled by Democrats who were in no rush to do Bush any major favors. Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle, D-South Dakota, and Senate Finance Committee chair Max Baucus, D-Montana, generally side with Wall Street against Main Street on trade issues. But they resisted White House pressure for quick action on the issue just long enough to allow critics of corporate-dictated free trade schemes to raise serious objections to letting Bush negotiate a voluminous FTAA arrangement and then force the Congress to accept or reject the deal in a simple up-or-down vote.

A few days ago, I was on a television show arguing there was nothing wrong with ex-President Jimmy Carter visiting Cuba, and the host kept exclaiming, "But ...

Although former Vice President Quayle's legacy may not be one for the
history books, he will certainly be remembered for the day he took on
television's Murphy Brown.

Now that the Enron culprits have been caught red-handed, might not the media inquire of the President whether he takes any responsibility for nearly bankrupting California by refusing to come to

U.S. Rep. Tom Sawyer, who broke with other industrial-state Democrats to back free trade measures such as NAFTA, suffered a stunning defeat in an Ohio's May 7 Democratic primary. And, despite the best efforts of Sawyer's old friends in the business-funded Democratic Leadership Council to try and explain away the eight-term incumbent's rejection at the hands of home-state voters, the message from Ohio was a blunt signal for Democrats who side with Wall Street against Main Street.

Trade issues have long been views by labor and environmental activists as the canary-in-the-coal mine measures of corporate dominance over Congress. Most, though not all, Republicans back the free-trade agenda pushed by major multinational corporations and Republican and Democratic presidents. Most Democrats oppose that agenda. Since the early 1990s, trade votes in the House of Representatives have tended to be close, however. That has meant that the margins of victory for the corporate trade agenda has often been delivered by a floating pool of Democrats -- including Sawyer -- who have been willing to vote with free-trade Republicans on key issues such as NAFTA, the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade and normalization of trade relations with China. Most of the free-trade Democrats are associated with the New Democrat Coalition, a DLC-tied House group that was formed in 1997 with Sawyer as a charter member.

Patrick Woodall, research director for Public Citizen's Global Trade Watch, says Sawyer's defeat must be read as very bad news for those free-trade Democrats.

Three decades later, Joyce Horman still hasn't discovered the truth
about what happened to her husband in Chile. But she has her theories.

Army Secretary Thomas White appears to be inching closer to becoming the
first Bush Administration casualty of the Enron scandal.

It is probably safe to say that the war crimes trial in The Hague of the
former Serbian dictator Slobodan Milosevic is not going well. At least
so far. No credible witnesses have come forward to testify against the
man who is credited with starting four Balkan wars. No documentary
evidence has been advanced to prove his "command responsibility" for
murderous ethnic conflicts. The prosecution's bungling has turned what
was once touted as a "water-tight case" into a battle of wits, allowing
Milosevic to mount a fifth war--legal and psychological--against the
court itself.

It is, of course, an uneven battle. The court is supported by the might
of the United States and its vast eavesdropping and
intelligence-gathering facilities. Behind the scenes, Americans have
tried to induce some of Milosevic's former henchmen to testify against
him. (That includes the notorious paramilitary leader known as Arkan,
who was gunned down inside the Belgrade Intercontinental two weeks after
he lunched there with an American intermediary for the CIA.) Publicly,
the United States has linked all financial assistance to Serbia to the
extradition of suspected war criminals; the hope is that some of them
may provide the needed information about Milosevic's "command
responsibility."

The former dictator, on the other hand, has to rely mainly on himself,
his wife and a few supporters. The image of a solitary individual
standing up against the world not only appeals to his vanity but also
seems to energize him. His defense strategy is brilliantly cunning,
designed to play on Serbia's psychological vulnerabilities and continued
Serb resentment of the 1999 NATO bombing. From the outset he has said
that the court is illegal, that it is NATO's victors' justice and that
he would not accept its judgment. Yet, acting as his own defense
attorney, he has used the tribunal as a stage for his antics, playing
the role of a defiant David to NATO's Goliath, the victim of powerful
foreign enemies, and in the process doing all he can to make his a trial
of the whole Serbian nation.

Opinion polls suggest that his strategy is working in Serbia. Even
though four out of five Serbs want to see Milosevic tried
in a Serbian court for crimes committed against his people, a majority
applaud his stand at The Hague.

This is unfortunate. This public perception is likely to discourage
potential witnesses from coming forward. In the absence of compelling
evidence against him in court, Milosevic's political rehabilitation becomes a distinct
possibility. More significant will be the impact on the world's first
permanent court--which is to be established also in The Hague--to
replace ad hoc courts like the one sitting in judgment of Milosevic. But
it is up to the ad hoc tribunal to come up with the precedent-setting
legal standard of "command responsibility" (the conditions under which a
tyrant, even if not directly involved, can be held responsible for
crimes committed by his subordinates).

This raises several broader questions: What sort of justice, exactly, is
being served in The Hague? Why is it that the prosecution, having
claimed to have a water-tight case, appears to be flailing in the dark?
Was the court manipulated by the Clinton Administration? What exactly
was the secret intelligence that the United States and British
governments supplied during the 1999 Kosovo war to prompt the court to
indict Milosevic?

Louis Sell is one of those rare anonymous State Department officials who
venture to write books in their retirement. He was highly regarded by
his superiors and held the rank of political counselor in two major
embassies: Belgrade and Moscow. His tour in Belgrade, from 1987 to 1991,
coincided with Milosevic's rise to power and the outbreak of war in
Yugoslavia. This has placed him in the middle of things. Scores of
secret cables, sensitive intelligence reports, raw National Security
Agency telephone intercepts and even satellite photos landed on his desk
each day. He not only had access to everything the analysts and spooks
produced on the Yugoslav crisis but was one of the few people capable of
placing such material
in the proper context. (He had served in
Yugoslavia in the 1970s and is fluent in Serbo-Croatian.) He returned to
the region in 1995 as political deputy to former Swedish Prime Minister
Carl Bildt, then the European Union's chief negotiator for the former
Yugoslavia. After the Kosovo war, Sell served as director of the
International Crisis Group in Kosovo.

By background and experience, Sell is a bureaucratic insider. Unlike the
more senior officials--Richard Holbrooke or Gen. Wesley Clark--he has no
need to defend his reputation. Nor is he a man prone to
self-glorification. His twenty-eight years in the State Department
conditioned him to shun the limelight. This may be why he could
apparently not bring himself to give the reader his own take on events.
Instead he has chosen a journalistic format, relying mainly on published
sources--news dispatches, opinion columns and books. This was a poor
choice. He knows far more than most authors he quotes in his Slobodan
Milosevic and the Destruction of Yugoslavia
.

Indiscriminate reliance on Western press reports is risky. For example,
Sell reproduces a German tabloid story about Milosevic's alleged
involvement in drug trafficking. Far too often he resorts to "Western
journalists" as the only source of this or that information; far too
often the phrase "everybody knew that..." crops up in the narrative as
the sole source for a given Serbian crime. Although he tries to write
dispassionately, his anti-Serb bias gets in the way from time to time.
In one instance, he writes that the high command in Belgrade sanctioned
the July 1995 attack on Srebrenica; the source for the assertion is a
book published in 1994. Is this sloppy writing? Careless editing?

Sell does offer a shrewd assessment of the former dictator. He sees him
as someone "without any core beliefs or values other than his own
political survival." Milosevic, he writes, "was not very good at using
power for anything other than keeping it." He was an enormously
destructive figure. Obsessed with power, he deliberately impoverished
not only Serbia's economy but also its intellectual and social fabric
"in order to eliminate the very capacity for independent alternatives to
emerge."

The book follows familiar lines; I doubt whether it contains anything
that has not been said before. One does come across interesting tidbits:
Washington took an almost instant dislike to Carl Bildt, because he "had
not developed the habit of deference to Washington" and was unwilling
"to take direction." Needless to say, Bildt did not last long in the
job.

There is, of course, nothing surprising nowadays in high-level American
officials expecting deference from little nations or their
representatives. But this is only a part of America's post-cold war
attitude toward the rest of the world. It also permeates US policy in
the Balkans. Despite the rhetoric about justice and eagerness to help
the people of Serbia, the book suggests that the United States was
interested in the Hague court as a political tool rather than a
mechanism that would add another dimension to international law by
holding individual leaders responsible for war crimes and crimes against
humanity. Everything that would detract from Washington's
policy--whatever that policy is at any given moment--must be dismissed
out of hand or ignored. With a sleight of hand, Sell dismisses British
and French experts who found conclusive proof that Muslim snipers had
fired on their own people in order to stimulate sympathetic media
coverage for their plight. He ignored Canadian Gen. Lewis MacKenzie, who
said he had personally seen a similar incident. Sell also ignores the
fact that Secretary of State Lawrence Eagleburger accused Milosevic of
war crimes in Bosnia and Croatia in December 1992; Eagleburger's speech
in Geneva no longer fits the official narrative.

Within a year, Milosevic had reinvented himself as a born-again
peacemaker. By 1995 he was the "guarantor" of peace in Bosnia. (He was,
indeed, most responsible for the successful outcome of the peace talks
at Dayton, Ohio.) He shared the stage with Bill Clinton during the
signing ceremonies in Paris. Clinton flattered him. "It's nice to hear
your voice," Clinton told the dictator. The American President, aboard
Air Force One to visit US troops in Bosnia, chitchatted with the Serbian
dictator about the Dayton agreement. "I know it cannot go ahead without
you," Clinton said, according to a recently published transcript of the
conversations monitored by Croatian intelligence.

So, even though "it had long been clear that Milosevic was responsible
for ethnic cleansing and other crimes...in Croatia and Bosnia," Sell
tells us, he was not indicted, because the Clinton Administration was
unable to find a "smoking gun" that would directly link him to the
misdeeds. We are led to conclude that the Administration did not assign
high priority to the task.

On the eve of the Kosovo war, however, the US government became active
in seeking to tie Milosevic to war crimes in Kosovo in early 1999. The
State Department's war crimes intelligence review unit was given a
boost: The number of its analysts and the urgency of its task were
increased. Having no diplomats or spies in Serbia, Sell reports,
analysts used satellite photos to study troop movements inside Kosovo.
The outcome was "precisely the kind of evidence needed to indict
Milosevic on the basis of 'imputed command responsibility'" for ordering
ethnic cleansing or failing to stop it. Canadian jurist Louise Arbour,
the chief prosecutor at the time, must have known that the intelligence
she was given did not meet the standards of proof required in a court of
law. She traveled to Washington, London and Bonn apparently seeking a
policy context for the tribunal's action against Milosevic; but she got
"totally ambiguous" responses. As NATO planes continued to bomb
Yugoslavia, the flow of intelligence material reaching the tribunal
increased, but most of it was part of NATO's massive propaganda campaign
against Milosevic. This must have preyed on the minds of the
prosecutors, leading them to believe that they had a substantial case
that would hold up in court. Indeed, the initial indictment was confined
to war crimes committed in Kosovo in 1999.

The tribunal may indeed have been manipulated by outside forces, as some
of its officers feared. As is frequently the case in the Balkans, a
story always seems clear at a distance, but the closer you get to the
scene of events the murkier it becomes. The drafters of the
indictment--somewhat to their surprise later--had not taken into account
the fact that Kosovo was a secessionist province that had declared
independence in 1991, as a result of which it was placed under Serbian
police rule. The province remained quiet as long as the Albanian
struggle was confined to peaceful means. However horrific the Serbian
repression, it did not include ethnic cleansing. But by 1997, the
Albanians had taken up arms. Milosevic had an armed insurrection on his
hands. Moreover, when the Kosovo war ended, the liberated Albanians had
lost their moral high ground; they embarked on a killing spree of the
defeated Serbs under the noses of NATO peacekeepers.

Once Milosevic was deposed, the legal weaknesses of the Kosovo
indictment became painfully obvious, and the prosecutors moved to
include Croatia and Bosnia, the latter being the prime stage for the
charges of genocide and crimes against humanity. Like Sell, I too have
no doubt that Milosevic is guilty as charged, at least with respect to
most counts dealing with Bosnia. I witnessed a good deal while covering
his wars from 1990 to 1996. But it is crucial that this be established
in a court of law. Although the pool of Milosevic's partners in crime
has been shrinking (most recently with the suicide of his former police
minister), a number of them are still at large. The tribunal needs these
former Serbian officials; some should be offered immunity from
prosecution in exchange for their testimony. The prosecutors should work
with local Serbian authorities and hire local private investigators
rather than depend on the might of the United States to force the
extradition of suspected criminals. Without such witnesses and in the
absence of spectacular documentary evidence, the tribunal is heading for
disaster.

On late-night television the other day I watched Spencer Tracy and
Marlene Dietrich in the 1961 movie Judgment at Nuremberg, about
the trials of Nazi war criminals. It was a riveting courtroom drama. The
evidence against the accused was overwhelming. By comparison, the Hague
tribunal is more like the trial of Al Capone, the Chicago mobster who
was responsible for a series of gangland murders. Although everybody
knew Capone was guilty, police could not prove it. Eventually he was
sent to jail for tax evasion. One way or another, I suspect, Milosevic
will end up spending many years in jail. Let's hope this will be done
for the right reasons.

The recently announced plans for an international conference on the
Middle East confront the Bush Administration with a major test of its
capacity for international leadership. The question is whether it will
establish an agenda for the conference that will bring peace and justice
to the region or whether it will allow American and world policy again
to be dictated by Ariel Sharon's government. The atrocious suicide
bombing near Tel Aviv, which coincided with the Bush-Sharon meeting,
must not be allowed to derail international efforts to achieve a
political settlement--one that guarantees a viable Palestinian state,
which will give Palestinians a stake in peace and in the renunciation of
violence.

Given this Administration's track record, the prospects of its standing
up to Sharon are not encouraging. Recall the shameful way it allowed him
to ignore UN resolutions calling for withdrawal from the West Bank and
to stop a fact-finding mission to investigate the destruction of Jenin,
despite a Human Rights Watch report adducing evidence that the Israeli
forces had committed war crimes--using Palestinians as human shields and
wreaking disproportionate destruction on civilian habitations.

Adding to the congenital White House tilt were the one-sided House and
Senate resolutions of support for Israel adopted on the eve of Sharon's
arrival in Washington. The one in the House, steered through by whip Tom
DeLay, echoed the Sharon line that Yasir Arafat isn't a "viable partner
for peace." An idea of where DeLay is coming from was provided by his
soulmate, GOP majority leader Dick Armey, who told Hardball host
Chris Matthews that the Palestinians should be expelled from the West
Bank and Gaza. The endorsement of ethnic cleansing by leading
conservatives went almost unnoticed by the mainstream media. As Peter
DeFazio, one of fifty House members who opposed the resolution, said,
DeLay put Congress on record "somewhere to the right of the Likud."

In fact, all of Washington is caught in the iron grip of pro-Likud
sentiment, which prevents the United States from acting in the world's
interest, let alone its own. As Anatol Lieven of the Carnegie Endowment
recently put it, "To call this a case of the tail wagging the dog would
be inadequate--it is more a case of the tail dragging the dog around the
room and banging its head on the wall."

That is why an international conference is so crucial. The concept
recognizes the importance of inserting other critical players in the
international community into Middle East diplomacy. The purpose of the
conference should not be to restart Israeli-Palestinian negotiations. It
should be to win adherence to a US-European-Russian-UN plan for the
implementation of a settlement as provided for in UN Security Council
resolutions and by the recent Arab League resolution calling for the
recognition of Israel in exchange for its withdrawal from the occupied
territories.

This plan is one that nearly all sane people have come to recognize as
the basis for peace in the Middle East: two states living side by side;
dismantlement of the Israeli settlements; Palestinian sovereignty over
East Jerusalem; and recognition of the right of return of Palestinian
refugees while limiting their numbers. But it is one the parties
themselves have not been able to agree to, and in the current
circumstances cannot be expected to negotiate seriously.

A reasonable interim stage could involve placing the occupied
territories, including Israeli settlements, under international control
pending the establishment of a Palestinian state and stationing
international forces drawn largely from NATO countries to maintain order
and security during the transition. The purpose of this agenda would be
to take the peace process out of the hands of an Israeli government that
may not want peace and to internationalize responsibility for security
in the West Bank and Gaza. It is not Israel's prerogative to determine
whether a Palestinian state should exist; that is a matter for the
international community to decide. Only the international community--in
particular, the US in cooperation with the EU, Russia and the UN--can
forge a settlement that will bring peace at last to both Palestinians
and Israelis.

After years of collecting evidence against Slobodan Milosevic, the
prosecutors at The Hague expected a decisive victory. But as the former
Yugoslav president, who insisted on defending himself, began his opening
statement at his war crimes trial last February, his accusers realized
they'd got more than they
had bargained for. Ever the wily politician, Milosevic railed that the
trial was a political farce staged by an illegal court determined to
rewrite history and condemn not only him but the entire Serbian nation.

But if Milosevic's assault was an irritant, it should have come as no
surprise. After all, his arguments hark back to those of one of our most
renowned modern philosophers. Indeed, behind every contemporary war
crimes tribunal, it seems, looms the shadow of Hannah Arendt. Reflecting
on the 1961 trial of Adolph Eichmann, Arendt raised some of the same
sorts of objections. In Eichmann in Jerusalem, Arendt took to
task the prosecution, which she claimed transformed the trial of one
Nazi functionary into a stage for manipulating history and
indoctrinating future generations. For prosecutors to use the trial of
an individual to expose and judge the atrocities of an entire war,
Arendt wrote, "can only detract from the law's main business: to weigh
the charges brought against the accused, to render judgment and to mete
out due punishment." To Arendt, a criminal trial could never truly
respond to the scale of Nazi atrocities: "It is quite conceivable that
certain political responsibilities among nations might some day be
adjudicated in an international court; what is inconceivable is that
such a court would be a criminal tribunal which pronounced on the guilt
or innocence of individuals."

Yet modern war crimes tribunals are attempting to do just that, and
Arendt's arguments stand as a persistent challenge--one that is sure to
take on more urgency as the first permanent international criminal court
begins its work, over vehement US opposition (the Bush Administration
has just announced it is renouncing President Clinton's signature of the
treaty creating the court). In The Key to My Neighbor's House,
Elizabeth Neuffer, a reporter for the Boston Globe, implicitly
takes it on. Although Neuffer doesn't discuss Arendt's views directly,
her portrayal of the international criminal tribunals for the former
Yugoslavia and Rwanda ultimately serve as a persuasive reply.

Neuffer devotes the first half of her book to the 1990s conflicts in the
Balkans and Rwanda, interspersing stories of survivors with historical
and political analysis and intermittent on-the-scenes reporting. She
recounts how in each region, power-hungry nationalists exploited old
ethnic tensions to spark a genocide with political aims. Although not
always artfully told, the narrative effectively conveys the tragedy of
each war, highlighting horrors such as the shelling and siege of
Sarajevo, the fall of Srebrenica and the subsequent mass execution of
Muslim men and boys. Concerning Rwanda, she describes how escalating
tensions between Hutus and Tutsis grew increasingly violent until they
culminated in the slaughter of 800,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus in less
than 100 days. Although detailed and heartfelt, such stories have been
told before (Philip Gourevitch's We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow
We Will Be Killed With Our Families
has become a classic on the
genocide in Rwanda). What Neuffer adds is a revealing portrait of the
two international tribunals where survivors eventually sought justice.
Her portrayal serves as convincing evidence that, contrary to Arendt's
contention, these courts can and should play more than a traditional
legalistic role.

Consider the story of Hamdo Kahrimanovic. A Muslim elementary school
principal from the Bosnian town of Kozarac, Hamdo was imprisoned in the
Omarska concentration camp in June 1992 after Serb nationalists took
over his hometown. At Omarska, Hamdo encountered his former student,
Dusan Tadic, now a gangster brutalizing camp inmates. When, four years
later, the Yugoslavia tribunal declared its first trial in session,
Tadic was in the dock. Hamdo, who had known Tadic all his life, was
called to testify.

At the trial, Neuffer recounts, the earnest American judge struggled to
understand how Bosnia could have so quickly degenerated from a
harmonious multi-ethnic state into a scene of genocide. "Perhaps you can
help me to understand since I am not from that area," she said. "How did
that happen?" Hamdo was at a loss. "I had the key to my next-door
neighbor's [house] who was a Serb and he had my key," he said, giving
Neuffer the title for her book. "That is how we looked after each
other." After the war broke out, "one did not know who to trust anymore
and I do not have a word of explanation for that."

As a legal matter, Hamdo's testimony was probably irrelevant to Tadic's
case. Yet it captured an important element of the tragedy of the Bosnian
war and haunted the judge long afterward. In contrast to Arendt's
formalistic view of a trial, Neuffer suggests here that the court's
attempt to record and understand the crimes that occurred is as
important as its judgment of any individual who caused the events.

In the end, Tadic was convicted of crimes against humanity but acquitted
of murder. Unfortunately, the press had lost interest by the time the
verdict was announced; few Bosnians even heard about it. Still, Neuffer
believes the trial was important, for "there is an innate human need for
some kind of reckoning, an accounting," she writes. Over time, such
accountings begin to have a palpable effect on survivors' lives. By
1999, the tribunal had indicted and arrested most of Kozarac's local
warlords, and Hamdo, his wife and about 240 other Muslim families were
able to return home, beginning the process of reconciliation.

The Rwanda tribunal's consequences similarly reach beyond isolated
convictions. We see this through the harrowing story of Witness JJ, as
she's called by the tribunal to protect her identity. A young Tutsi
woman, JJ managed to escape when Hutu extremists attacked her small
farming village of Taba. She sought refuge at the offices of the popular
local mayor, Jean-Paul Akayesu, whom she'd known since she was a girl.
But Akayesu soon turned on JJ and the other Tutsi women, joining in the
genocide and, as the tribunal's investigators eventually learned,
plotting a mass rape. JJ became one of those gang-rape victims, barely
escaping death. When Akayesu went on trial in 1997, JJ was called to
testify.

JJ provided critical testimony at Akayesu's trial--the first in which
rape was deemed an act of genocide and a crime against humanity. But the
experience contributed more than a legal precedent. Neuffer describes
how JJ, initially intimidated by the imposing courtroom, lawyers and
judges, began her testimony hesitantly. But she gained confidence as she
told her story, even under harsh cross-examination. "When I saw Akayesu
with my eyes in court, I was afraid," JJ said later. "But at the same
time, I had something heavy on my heart. After I testified, it went
away."

Unfortunately, the tribunal offered JJ little beyond that therapeutic
effect: It neither provided restitution nor helped survivors discover
what happened to lost family members. And to many Rwandans, tribunal
justice seems patently unfair: While more than 100,000 lower-level
accused genocidaires pack local prisons awaiting trials where
they face the death penalty, their ringleaders sat in a UN-run jail--with
its "state-of-the-art exercise room and wide-screen TV," as Neuffer
describes it. At most, they will receive life in prison.

The tribunals' problems, moreover, have been compounded by the West's
reluctance to provide necessary support. Created by the UN Security
Council, largely out of shame at the UN failure to intervene effectively
in either conflict, both courts have been stymied by lack of funds,
poorly trained staff, mismanagement and the inherent challenge of
creating a court that functions outside any established legal system.
The Yugoslavia tribunal, based in The Hague, faced in addition a
political snare: Peace negotiations were ongoing, so NATO members were
loath to have their troops arrest indicted war criminals still in
positions of power. The Rwanda tribunal, meanwhile, located in Arusha,
Tanzania, was marred by allegations of corruption.

Over time, both tribunals have improved. Neuffer's final assessment,
although qualified, is positive: "Tribunals, truth commissions, local
trials, government inquiries--are all part of the answer," she writes.

Neuffer's book is similarly a qualified success. While well researched
and comprehensive, it tries to do too much. Neuffer is so eager to
humanize the survivors, for example, that she frequently tries to
re-create their sentiments in a manner that seems forced and
unnecessary. And Neuffer's personal commentary is sometimes strained. In
an apparent nod to Arendt's famous observation about the banality of
evil, Neuffer ponders her meeting with a man who participated in the
Srebrenica massacre: "The evil I glimpsed in him was the potential for
evil we all share.... What's most chilling when you meet a murderer is
that you meet yourself." Such extrapolations are neither convincing nor
necessary. As Arendt herself recognized, we don't all have the potential
to become thoughtless murderers. Moreover, Neuffer would surely agree
that those who commit the crime ought to be held responsible. Indeed,
she takes the point further: Even if Tadic, like Adolf Eichmann, was
only a cog in a murderous machine, the goal of such a prosecution is
greater than the conviction of the individual.

Lawrence Douglas makes that argument forcefully in The Memory of
Judgment
. An associate professor of law, jurisprudence and social
thought at Amherst College, Douglas writes about the trials of the
Holocaust. Though he takes a more analytic approach than Neuffer's,
examining in often painstaking detail the legal charges and evidence
introduced to support them, Douglas arrives at a similar judgment:
Despite their problems, these legal proceedings provide a form of
justice that's more comprehensive than any individual verdict.

Beginning with the 1945-46 Nuremberg trial of Nazi leaders, Douglas goes
on to discuss Israel's prosecution of Eichmann, followed by several more
recent trials: the 1987 Israeli trial of John (Ivan) Demjanjuk; the
French trial of Klaus Barbie that same year; and Canada's two trials of
a Holocaust denier, Ernst Zundel, in 1985 and 1988. Although a critic of
the trial strategies, Douglas comes down a champion of law's potential.

Unlike Neuffer, Douglas takes on Arendt directly, challenging her view
that the law should judge only the guilt or innocence of the accused.
Although he recognizes the tension between strictly applying law to the
facts of one case and creating a broader historical record, he believes
a war crimes tribunal can do both. Unlike Arendt, he's not bothered by
the idea of a show trial--indeed, the spectacle is precisely one of the
aims. Although he concludes that the Nuremberg and Eichmann trials were
more successful in their didactic aims than were the trials of
Demjanjuk, Barbie and Zundel, all were, in a sense, show trials,
"designed to show the world the facts of astonishing crimes and to
demonstrate the power of law to reintroduce order into a space evacuated
of legal and moral sense."

Nuremberg, of course, was the touchstone. But Douglas believes that
trial was hampered by the prosecutor's insistence on fitting the Nazis'
unprecedented crimes into conventional legal standards--precisely the
legalistic approach Arendt might have advocated. Eager to use the most
reliable proof, they based their case on documents, flooding the court
with paper and numbing the audience to its contents. The result was an
eleven-month trial that produced, as Rebecca West wrote in The New
Yorker
, "boredom on a huge historic scale."

The more dramatic moments of the trial, meanwhile, were the most legally
problematic. Take, for example, the screening of the innocuously titled
film Nazi Concentration Camps, which Douglas analyzes in detail.
Made by Allied army officers at the time of liberation, the hourlong
black-and-white documentary reveals camp prisoners with "the twisted
facial geometries and afflicted eyes of the demented," writes Douglas.
The horrors increase as the camera moves from one camp to the next,
lingering on emaciated, naked bodies piled upon one another, unclear if
they are dead or alive. German citizens, meanwhile, are presented as
complicit: "smiling Weimar women, dressed in their Sunday best,
strolling along a tree-lined road, on their way to view the camps by
'invitation' of the Americans."

The response in the courtroom, Douglas recounts, was a stunned silence.
The images, it seemed, spoke for themselves. But what exactly did they
say? The film, whose introduction violated basic rules of evidence,
never indicated who was responsible for the horrors portrayed. Nor did
it name or even accurately convey the crimes committed. Instead of
defining them as crimes against humanity, it presented them as crimes of
war. For political and procedural reasons, crimes against humanity were
defined in such a cramped manner that the term barely surfaced during
the trial. Likewise, genocide, although mentioned in the indictment and
in closing arguments, was otherwise never raised. So eager were the
prosecutors to fit the square peg of the Holocaust atrocities into the
round hole of conventional legal forms that they ultimately distorted
the truth. Although the defendants were appropriately convicted, Douglas
maintains that the historic and didactic impact of the trial was
severely limited by the prosecution's adherence to the most conventional
construction of the law.

In the Eichmann trial, the Israeli prosecutors were determined to do
better. Here, survivor testimony, rather than documents, was central to
the case, providing "the dramatic focus of the trial" and building "a
bridge from the accused to the world of ashes," writes Douglas. But the
Eichmann prosecution made miscalculations of its own. In the Israeli
attorney general's effort to reach beyond proving Eichmann's guilt to
portraying the vast crimes of the entire Holocaust, he opened himself up
to Arendt's criticism that the trial had lost its legitimacy. More than
100 survivors testified about their experiences--a form of "national
group therapy." But while their stories reminded the world of the Nazi
atrocities, they were mostly not about Eichmann.

Eichmann, meanwhile, eerily encased in a glass booth, was presented as a
vicious animal. As the Gestapo's expert on Jewish affairs, though,
Eichmann was not a Nazi leader; he was a bureaucrat, the epitome of what
Arendt describes as "the terrifyingly normal" person who commits
horrendous crimes. Yet the portrayal of him as a monster served the
prosecution's aim of reminding the public of the Third Reich's evil, as
well as the laws demanding that Eichmann's crimes be intentional ones.

To Arendt, the trial also failed as a legal matter because rather than
charging Eichmann with crimes against humanity, the prosecutors, eager
to bolster the political identity of the state of Israel and its new
citizens, framed the charges more narrowly, as crimes against the Jews.
By rejecting the broader legal category, argues Arendt, the prosecutors
failed to create what should have been an important precedent for future
cases.

Douglas acknowledges these problems but insists that Arendt's criteria
for success are too narrow. Such trials should do more than apply the
law and reach a judgment; they should create an accurate historical
record and shape collective memory, he maintains. The Eichmann trial was
a legal success, then, "insofar as it transformed understanding of what
the law can and should do in the wake of traumatic history."

Douglas is far less sanguine about the later Holocaust trials, which he
claims obfuscated the very history they were intended to enlighten. The
Zundel trial, in particular, applied legal procedural rules so strictly
that much of the evidence of Nazi crimes was excluded, allowing
Holocaust deniers to turn the trial into a forum for revisionist
history.

Although for the most part he is thorough and convincing, Douglas
occasionally stumbles. For example, he doesn't adequately respond to
Arendt's charge that a domestic trial of an individual accused of
committing an international atrocity can fall prey to political agendas
that distort the historical record. His point about truth commissions
also misses the mark. Douglas maintains that truth commissions are
inadequate because "a trial without judgment is like a race without a
finish--it lacks the sine qua non of dramatic closure that frames and
adds meaning to the shared narratives." But the real shortcoming of
truth commissions is that they don't fulfill two important aims of
criminal law: retribution and deterrence. Douglas is dismissive of the
notion that war crimes trials can have a deterrent effect, but he
shouldn't be. Domestic courts or ad hoc tribunals may be less likely to
deter would-be international law violators, but a permanent
international criminal court that systematically and effectively
prosecutes perpetrators could certainly, over time, do just that.

In coining the phrase "the banality of evil," Arendt observed that an
unthinking person might discard his own moral compass when a new one is
imposed. Ironically, that notion cries out for a far broader role for
criminal tribunals than Arendt would have countenanced. An established
international court that both judges individuals accused of widespread
atrocities and records the experiences of survivors could act as a moral
counterweight to domestic totalitarian leaders. Such a court holds out
the promise not only of deterring the potential architects of organized
brutality but of humanizing their victims in a way that even the most
thoughtless functionary might find difficult to ignore.

The idea of empire, once so effectively used by Ronald Reagan to
discredit the Soviet Union, has recently undergone a strange
rehabilitation in the United States. This process, which started some
years ago, has accelerated markedly since September 11. References to
empire are no longer deployed ironically or in a tone of warning; the
idea has become respectable enough that the New York Times ran an
article describing the enthusiasm it now evokes in certain circles. It
is of some significance that these circles are not easily identified as
being located either on the right or the left. If there are some on the
right who celebrate the projection of US power, there are others on the
left who believe that the world can only benefit from an ever-increasing
US engagement and intervention abroad; for example, in ethnic and
religious conflicts (such as those in Rwanda and Bosnia), or in states
run by despotic regimes or "rogue" leaders (e.g., Iraq). It is on
grounds like these that the idea of a new imperialism has recently been
embraced by Britain's Labour Party.

That elements of the left and the right should discover common ground on
the matter of empire should come as no surprise. Contrary to popular
belief, empire is by no means a strictly conservative project:
Historically it has always held just as much appeal for liberals.
Conversely, the single greatest critic of the British Empire, Edmund
Burke, was an archconservative who saw imperialism as an essentially
radical project, not unlike that of the French Revolution.

The idea of empire may seem too antiquated to be worth combating. But it
is always the ideas that appeal to both ends of the spectrum that stand
the best chance of precipitating an unspoken consensus, especially when
they bear the imprimatur of such figures as the British prime minister.
That is why this may be a good time to remind ourselves of some of the
reasons imperialism fell into discredit in the first place.

To begin with, empire cannot be the object of universal human
aspirations. In a world run by empires, some people are rulers and some
are the ruled: It is impossible to think of a situation where all
peoples possess an empire. On the other hand, the idea of the
nation-state, for all its failings, holds the great advantage that it
can indeed be generalized to all peoples everywhere. The proposition
that every human being should belong to a nation and that all nations
should be equal is not a contradiction in terms, although it may well be
utterly unfounded as a description of the real world.

It is precisely the exclusivism of empire that makes it a program for
ever-increasing conflict. If the mark of success for a nation consists
of the possession of an empire, then it follows that every nation that
wants to achieve success must aspire to an empire. That is why the
twentieth century was a period of such cataclysmic conflict: emergent
powers like Germany and Japan wanted empires as proof of their success.
Those who embrace the idea of empire frequently cite the advantages of
an imperial peace over the disorder of the current world situation. This
disregards the fact that the peace of the British, French and
Austro-Hungarian empires was purchased at the cost of a destabiliza-tion
so radical as to generate the two greatest conflicts in human history:
the world wars. Because of the proliferation of weapons of mass
destruction, there can be no doubt that a twenty-first-century empire
would have consequences graver still.

An imperium also generates an unstoppable push toward overreach, which
is one of the reasons it is a charter for destabilization. This is not
only because of an empire's inherent tendency to expand; there is
another reason, so simple as often to go unnoticed. The knowledge that
an imperial center can be induced to intervene in local disputes, at a
certain price, is itself an incentive for lesser players to provoke
intervention. I remember an occasion a few years ago when one of the
leaders of a minor and utterly hopeless insurgency asked me: What kind
of death toll do you think we need to get the United States to intervene
here?

There can be no doubt that political catastrophes can often be prevented
by multilateral intervention, and clearly such actions are sometimes
necessary. But it is also true that in certain circumstances the very
prospect of intervention can, as it were, become an incentive for the
escalation of violence. The reason the idea of empire appeals to many
liberals is that it appears to offer a means of bettering the world's
predicament. History shows us, unfortunately, that the road to empire is
all too often paved with good intentions.

An odd thing has happened in the obscure but spirited fight activists
are waging against NAFTA's notorious Chapter 11 and the exclusive legal
privileges it gives to multinational investors. The Chapter 11
opposition is going mainstream and respectable. Not so long ago, the
only folks raising the alarm were globalization critics like Public
Citizen's Global Trade Watch or the Sierra Club--people the Wall
Street Journal
likes to describe as "Luddite wackos." But what will
the Journal's editorial writers say about the National
Association of Attorneys General? Or the National League of Cities, the
US Conference of Mayors and the National Conference of State
Legislatures? These organizations and some others have studied what the
critics say about Chapter 11's true meaning and concluded, Good grief,
they're right! This so-called "investor protection" poses a fundamental
threat to state and local governments' ability to enact laws that
protect the public's health and general welfare.

The issue is currently in play again because the Bush Administration
(and all right-thinking free-trade cheerleaders) is pushing to expand
the same doctrine in the proposed Free Trade Area of the Americas and
asking Congress for blank-check authority to negotiate (better known as
"fast track"). But this time Congressional skepticism is alive and
growing, stoked partly by the prestigious, bipartisan expressions of
concern. Chapter 11 was a sleeper provision in NAFTA that essentially
established a private court for capital--secretive arbitration tribunals
where corporations can bring suits for huge damage claims against the
United States, Canada or Mexico over new regulatory laws or other
actions that may crimp their profit-making. Chapter 11 borrows
property-rights language from the US right wing's domestic "takings"
movement and goes far beyond settled US legal doctrine [see Greider,
"How the Right Is Using Trade Law to Overturn American Democracy,"
October 15, 2001]. That is what alarms the state and local officials.
The Conference of Chief Justices from state Supreme Courts is also
expected to weigh in on the sovereignty issue.

Senator John Kerry is leading the fight for a corrective fast-track
amendment that would instruct the Administration not to negotiate any
new agreement that gives foreign investors greater rights than US
citizens. As a possible presidential candidate, Kerry has a big
problem--he has been an unblinking supporter of trade agreements, so he
has to show environmentalists and labor that he's not totally owned by
the multinationals. If his measure prevails, fast track must go back to
the House, where it was passed by only one vote in December. The
legislative action in any case educates and builds momentum for the
longer fight against these investor-dictated rules stealthily imposed by
so-called free-trade agreements.

The trouble with Kerry's amendment--and with fast-track authority in
general--is that these legislative instructions are really no more than
limp-wristed guidance. The negotiators can ignore Congress, as they have
in the past, and probably get away with it. A pending amendment with
much more bite, first proposed by Charles Rangel and Sander Levin in the
House, would create a mechanism for genuine Congressional leverage over
trade negotiations: the right of either chamber to force a vote on
withdrawing fast-track approval if the negotiators are straying from
their instructions. That would begin to bring daylight and
accountability to the murky politics of globalization. It would also
restore responsibility to where the Constitution says it belongs--in
Congress, not the White House.