The violent popular uprising in Argentina and abrupt collapse of its government should be understood as a warning bell, reminding the governing elites how unstable--and unjust--their system of globalization remains. Unfortunately, the Washington establishment prefers instead to dwell on its global war against terrorism. The Bush Administration's battlefield successes in that war, its diplomatic victories in the new trade round launched at Qatar and the House's narrow approval of fast-track negotiating authority for the President seemed to confirm America's self-image as benevolent steward of the world.
When Argentina exploded, it should have blown away the smugness, but instead we witness once again the supple forgetfulness that allows the globalist architects of the IMF and their cheerleaders to skip past obvious contradictions in their ideology. Argentina, one has to recall, was toasted not very long ago as the best case for "responsible leadership" in the developing world. Its regime included the requisite "Harvard-trained economist" as finance minister, who advanced the same austere measures that Washington demanded from the sinking Argentine economy: Squeeze the populace as harshly as necessary until capital accounts are balanced so foreign creditors may feel protected from devaluation or default (they are now likely to experience both).
The Argentines endured quite a lot--four years of recession, unemployment approaching 20 percent, shrinking incomes and public spending--until they swarmed screaming into the streets, looting supermarkets and battling police, with many casualties. Now, Eduardo Duhalde, Argentina's fifth president in two weeks, has lashed out, blaming US-backed free-market policies adopted in the 1990s for the country's collapse. "Argentina is bankrupt. Argentina is destroyed. This model destroyed everything," Duhalde said in his inaugural speech.
The central fallacy exposed by the ruination of Argentina-- and the many previous cases like Russia and Mexico--is the presumption that poor nations should accept the global system's commanding dictates, occasionally including massive suffering in the name of financial order, and in return the system will make them rich (or at least less poor). In Argentina's case, the straitjacket was sincerely accepted in the most extreme terms: Its currency was rigidly bound to the value of the American dollar. This commitment was widely praised by US economic thinkers, and it did stimulate US banks and investors to lend more generously. But it encouraged foreign lending to swell to impossible dimensions--$132 billion in Argentina's case--followed by the inevitable economic deterioration as the dollar soared and Argentine exports ceased to be competitive. The IMF prescribed its usual austerity remedy while lending billions more to cover the debt obligations--thus giving more time for the foreign debtors to be repaid before the inevitable default.
The story of Argentina is baffling, and deeply infuriating, because it is so familiar. Yet sensible reforms, like capital controls on the creditors and alternative economic strategies for developing nations, remain topics for learned papers and polite conferences, not for real action. There is an obvious explanation: IMF policy may ruin many borrowers, but it serves the creditors, who are able to evade the full consequences of their folly. Perhaps if many more nations follow Argentina down the road of debt default, the creditors will also see something wrong with the system and demand change.
One country that has escaped the current scrutiny of US backing for Arab dictatorships is Morocco, in part because its human rights situation has improved over the past decade. But for most of the late King Hassan II's thirty-eight-year rule, the United States and France provided financial and diplomatic support to this moderate on Arab-Israeli issues, while his henchmen tortured and secretly jailed thousands of domestic critics. Hundreds were disappeared. Now, the revelations of a retired secret policeman living in Casablanca have raised new questions about Washington's role in the repression.
Since the death of Hassan in 1999 and the ascent of his son, Mohammed VI, to the throne, Morocco has enjoyed a somewhat freer atmosphere. Human rights activists, victims' groups and the media are exposing the grim past and debating what mix of truth-telling, reparations and punishment will both deliver justice to the victims and help consolidate the democratization process. Mohammed apparently does not want trials of torturers or the sort of truth-telling that could delegitimize the monarchy and roil the security forces. But he has distanced himself from his father's worst excesses by acknowledging the state's role in past abuses and compensating some victims. His gestures, unprecedented in the Arab world, have helped to brighten the government's image at a time when it has made little headway in combating poverty and unemployment.
The state's script for turning the page on the past has nevertheless been disrupted by Ahmed Boukhari, the first police agent to talk about the dirty war against dissidents during the 1960s and '70s.
Among Boukhari's revelations was the presence of three men he describes as CIA operatives who worked daily in the Rabat headquarters of the secret police from 1960 until 1967. Boukhari says these men helped to build the young agency. "They went through the résumés and picked the men to hire," he told me in a recent interview. "Then they taught them how to conduct surveillance of dissidents."
Boukhari's most sensational disclosure, if confirmed, would solve a nagging political mystery: the fate of the socialist opposition leader Mehdi Ben Barka after he was picked up by French police in Paris in 1965 and never seen again. Exiled at the time, Ben Barka was a charismatic and rising star in the progressive Third World alliance known as the Tricontinental Conference. He is still revered by the Moroccan left.
While no one ever doubted Ben Barka's abduction to have been engineered by senior Moroccan officials with the collusion of French and Israeli agents, details of what followed remained murky. According to Boukhari, who maintained the daily logs for the police's formidable countersubversion unit, Ben Barka died the night he was kidnapped while being tortured under interrogation in a villa near Paris. His corpse was then flown secretly to Morocco, where police dissolved it in a vat of acid--a technique of disposal that Boukhari says was introduced by a CIA agent he knew as "Colonel Martin."
Martin allegedly had unfettered access to the countersubversion unit's logs and attended the agency's meetings at which the Ben Barka operation was planned. Reporting to work on the morning after the kidnapping, he would have learned that Ben Barka's body was to be spirited off to Rabat.
Although the Ben Barka affair triggered a diplomatic crisis between Morocco and France, the United States remained circumspect. Washington viewed King Hassan as a key ally in a region where Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser's pan-Arab socialism enjoyed broad appeal and newly independent Algeria seemed to be drawing closer to the Soviet camp.
Two retired US diplomats stationed in Rabat at the time, political section chief William Crawford and economic officer Frederick Vreeland, denied in a recent interview any knowledge of the three agents Boukhari describes, or of any CIA role in helping the King police his opponents. Both Crawford and Vreeland mentioned Morocco's well-known collaboration with Israel's intelligence agency, the Mossad, including in the surveillance of dissidents. Vreeland said the men Boukhari describes might have been Mossad agents posing as CIA agents, since Israelis working for Moroccan intelligence couldn't disclose their nationality.
In the wake of Boukhari's testimony, Moroccan, French and US human rights organizations have urged Washington to declassify the more than 1,800 documents it has admitted having on the Ben Barka affair. The government has responded neither to this plea nor to my requests for comment on Boukhari's allegations about the CIA.
Boukhari's plight since he blew the whistle reveals the fear of Moroccan authorities that the current reckoning with the past will escape their control. In August he was arrested and sentenced to three months in prison for writing bad checks. A month after his release he was given another three-month sentence and a fine for libeling three of the Moroccan agents he implicated in Ben Barka's abduction. What authorities have not done is approach Boukhari as a valuable new witness in unsolved cases of political murder and disappearance, or issue him the passport he needs to comply with subpoenas to testify before a judge in France who is investigating Ben Barka's disappearance.
Although fitting the past into the future is primarily a task for Moroccans, Washington can play a crucial role. Ahmed Hirzeni, a Rabat sociologist who served twelve years in prison on political charges, observed, "We don't want to dwell forever on the dossier of the past. The Americans can help us turn the page by clarifying their role in the Ben Barka affair." Whatever it yields, US disclosure will pressure the Moroccan state to acknowledge more fully the torture, political arrests and disappearances it carried out in the past. And that, say activists like Hirzeni, will help to prevent their recurrence.
Why in 1973 did Chile's democracy, long considered the crown jewel of Latin America, turn into Augusto Pinochet's murderous regime? Why did the United States, which helped Pinochet seize power from Salvador Allende, support the violent dictator for nearly two decades? Scholars answering these questions have usually focused on the threat posed by Allende, the first elected Marxist head of state, to Chilean and US business interests and to the cold war foreign policy of the United States. But recently declassified documents, along with the reissue of Patricia Politzer's Fear in Chile: Lives Under Pinochet, suggest that the Chilean counterrevolution, however much shaped by immediate economic and political causes, was infused with a much older, more revanchist political spirit, one stretching as far back as the French Revolution.
Edward Korry, who served as US ambassador to Chile between 1967 and 1971, greeted Allende's election in 1970 as if the sans-culottes were at the gate. Before all the votes were in, he smelled the "stink of defeat" and could hear "the mounting roar of Allendistas acclaiming their victory" arising "from the street below." Although no guillotine blade had yet dropped, material declassified by the United States over the past couple of years shows that Korry fired cable after cable back to Washington, warning of "the terror" to come and citing Baudelaire to brand Allende a "devil."
It may seem bizarre that an LBJ-appointed Democrat would pepper his diplomatic missives with the overheated prose of French romanticism. After all, critics have charged cold war liberals, such as Robert McNamara and McGeorge Bundy, with employing a dry calculus in deciding the number of casualties needed to defeat Communism. But Korry was no bloodless bureaucrat. In fact, in both tone and content, his writings were remarkably similar to those of the illiberal Joseph de Maistre, the arch-Catholic reactionary who launched violent, intoxicated attacks on the French Revolution. By injecting medieval Catholic orgiastic mysticism with the revolutionary zealotry of his contemporaries, Maistre offered a compelling alternative to earthly promises of secular justice and political participation. He was the first who understood that if a counterrevolution was to be won, it would be necessary to win the "hearts and minds" of what would come to be known as the masses.
As fervidly as Maistre hated la secte of Jacobins and eighteenth-century rationalists, Korry disdained Allende and his Popular Unity followers, and largely for the same reason: Where Maistre rejected the idea that people could be governed by enlightened principles, Korry dismissed as "dogmatic and eschatological" those who believed that "society can be structured to create paradise on earth." And both men reserved their strongest scorn for the pillars of the old regime--church, army and state--because, either for reasons of ineptitude or corruption, they had failed to see and to confront the evil before them. Lost in a "myopia of arrogant stupidity," the elites and officials who had allowed Allende to come to power were a "troupe of fools and knaves" leading Chile to the "marxist slaughter-house." It is as if Korry saw the revolution as divine retribution against a decaying polity. "They should be given neither sympathy nor salvation," he said of the weak-willed ruling party.
Echoing Maistre's observation that republican rule is ill suited to protect society against revolutionary fanaticism, Korry complains in his cables about a gracious political culture that places no brake on Allende's determination: "Civility is the dominant characteristic of Chilean life. Civility is what controls aggressiveness, and civility is what makes almost certain the triumph of the very uncivil Allende." Neither the military nor the outgoing president, Eduardo Frei, "have the stomach for the violence they fear would be the consequence of intervention," Korry wrote to Washington. The Communist Party, in contrast, Korry warned, was "that most clear-minded and cohesive force in Chile.... Allende is their masterwork in Latin America and they do not lack for purpose or will."
Korry worked to strengthen domestic opposition to Allende's Popular Unity coalition, yet he also opposed Henry Kissinger's plot to provoke a military coup (which led to the murder of Chilean Gen. René Schneider). Instead, he advocated patience, confident that, with encouragement, internal dissent would eventually oust Allende. Again, remarkably akin to Maistre, Korry felt that restoration had to come from within rather than be imposed from without. He had faith that time favored his position; that the revolutionaries, in their effort to build a society that ran against human nature, would soon exhaust themselves; that rumor and chaos, unavoidable spawns of popular rule, would fuel an irresistible counterwave that would sweep them from power.
In fact, CIA destabilization strategies, both in Chile and in other Latin American nations, seem to draw directly from Maistre's restoration scenario, which relied on counterrevolutionary determination to generate dissension. Rumor acts as the cat's-paw for fear, poisoning commitment, corroding solidarity and forcing an acceptance of inevitable reaction. In Chile the CIA, in a cable dated September 17, 1970, set out a plan to
create the conviction that Allende must be stopped.... discredit parliamentary solution as unworkable...surface ineluctable conclusion that military coup is the only answer. This is to be carried forward until it takes place. However, we must hold firmly to the outlines or our production will be diffuse, denatured, and ineffective, not leaving the indelible residue in the mind that an accumulation of arsenic does. The key is psych war within Chile. We cannot endeavor to ignite the world if Chile itself is a placid lake. The fuel for the fire must come within Chile. Therefore, the station should employ every stratagem, every ploy, however bizarre, to create this internal resistance.
After the end of World War II, when demands for social democratic reform swept the continent, a series of coups and political betrayals successively radicalized and polarized social movements. The Old Left gave way to the New, and calls for reform climaxed into cries for revolution. By the late 1960s, Latin American military elites and their US allies knew, as Maistre knew two centuries earlier, that a simple changing of the guard would no longer be enough to contain this rising tide: "We are talking about mass public feeling as opposed to the private feeling of the elite," wrote the CIA about the intended audience of its "psych war" in Chile. The Latin American military regimes that came into power starting in the late 1960s combined terror and anti-Communist Catholic nationalism to silence this revolutionary roar. As Gen. Oscar Bonilla, who helped Pinochet install his seventeen-year dictatorship, put it, "What this country needs is political silence. We'll return to the barracks when we have changed the mentality of the people."
Patricia Politzer's Fear in Chile: Lives Under Pinochet recounts, through fifteen first-person testimonies gathered in the mid-1980s, while Pinochet was still in power, how his dictatorship did just that. By 1973, the United States had succeeded in its stated goal of extinguishing Chilean civility and igniting political passions. It seemed to many that their country had become ungovernable. Chronic shortages of basic goods, violent conflicts, political impasses and swirling rumors of coups and invasions wore Chileans down.
Nearly all of Fear in Chile's witnesses begin their accounts with the coup, and they all convey the exhaustion and confusion of the moment. Andrés Chadwick Piñera recounts his lonely sadness at hearing of Allende's death while his middle-class family, wife and neighbors celebrated. Sympathetic to the revolution, he burned his books and eventually made peace with the regime. Even the most committed became disoriented. Raquel, a student member of the Communist Party, recalls the uncertainty of revolutionary leadership, which told members to first do one thing, then another. Blanca Ibarra Abarca, a shantytown community leader, became "furious" after listening to Allende's radio message broadcasting news of the coup. She wanted "to do something, to fight," but was paralyzed by "pain and impotence." Manuel Bustos Huerta, president of his union, called a meeting but "no one knew anything...some people said we should go home, and others said we should take over the factory. Finally, after much discussion, we decided that people should go home." (Maistre wrote, nearly 200 years earlier, of how confusion would replace revolutionary resolve with resignation: "Everywhere prudence inhibits audacity.... On the one side there are terrible risks, on the other certain amnesty and probable favors. In addition, where are the means to resist? And where are the leaders to be trusted? There is no danger in repose.")
At times the polarization described by Politzer's witnesses seems absolute. While many wept upon hearing news of Allende's death, others bonded in anti-Communist solidarity: "Everyone from the block got together in a neighbor's house to celebrate.... Everyone brought something and it was a very joyous occasion."
But it is where the testimonies intersect, often at unexpected junctures, that Fear in Chile reveals just how deep and popular both the revolution and counterrevolution were. Blanca Ester Valderas and Elena Tesser de Villaseca recount radically different experiences and backgrounds. Valderas is a poorly educated rural woman whose husband was murdered in Pinochet's coup. Under Allende, after growing weary of following her husband through a series of dead-end jobs, Valderas joined the Socialist Party and was appointed mayor of her town. Even after the coup, when she was forced to change her name and go into hiding, she continued in politics, working with Chile's nascent human rights organizations. Tesser de Villaseca is a well-to-do "Pinochet diehard" who untiringly organized women to bring Allende down, even though she denies that either she or her husband is "political." Nor did she return home after Pinochet took power; instead Tesser de Villaseca and her friends threw themselves into myriad social welfare organizations aimed at making Chileans "a sound race again, to make the country healthy." Despite the different historical consequences of their actions, both women used politics as an avenue of upward human mobility, to escape the restraints of family and to influence civic life.
In Costa-Gavras's movie Missing, which, while not mentioning Chile specifically, depicts Pinochet's coup, the first repressive act shown is of soldiers pulling a woman off a bus queue and cutting off her slacks, warning her that in the new nation, women do not wear pants. Many of the voices in Fear in Chile recall similar acts of violence: men who had their long hair shorn; women who were ordered to wear skirts; a worker who was arrested and tortured for being "an asshole" and not acting sufficiently submissive to authority. Notwithstanding Allende's supposed alignment with the Soviet Union and his threat to economic interests, acts like these illustrate that the real danger of the Chilean left was not that it undermined secular liberal democracy but that it promised to fulfill it, to sweep away the privilege and deference of patriarchy and class. "It was as if we had suddenly returned to a past era," recalls the wife of an Allende functionary in recounting her dealings with male military officers who, prior to the coup, she'd treated as friends and equals.
For many, Pinochet realigned a world that had spun out of control, and the power of Politzer's book is that it takes seriously the concerns of his supporters. Pinochet remained popular because he satiated the desire of many Chileans for both order and freedom. He haunts the pages of Fear in Chile like Maistre's powerful but distant sovereign, who "restrains without enslaving." As one of Pinochet's supporters put it, "I believe in a democracy in which certain general objectives are submitted to a vote; after that, each matter should be handed over to experts capable of realizing those objectives. In a family, for instance, where there is a health problem, you don't have a democratic vote about what steps to take."
It is this image of a family that is constantly invoked by followers of the regime to symbolize a just society, a family with Pinochet as the wise and strong father ("I adore Pinochet," says Tesser de Villaseca. "I adore him because he is a superhuman person who is also sensible and worthy") and his wife, Lucía, as the empathetic mother ("an extraordinary woman," says a Pinochet colonel, "who has created a volunteer corps in Chile that should be an example to the world. She's like a diligent little ant who works in different areas and also collaborates well with her husband").
Pinochet's success in generating a degree of popular legitimacy ultimately rested on violence and terror. By the time he left office, in 1990, his regime had arrested 130,000 people, tortured 20,000 others and, if the killing that took place during the coup is included, murdered between 5,000 and 10,000 Chileans. Fear not only led people to burn their books, drop out of politics, go into hiding and exile and switch allegiances, but allowed those who supported the government and dreaded a return to anarchy and conflict to justify murder: "I don't have any special knowledge about DINA [Pinochet's intelligence agency, responsible for a good deal of the terror], but if they were really out to find people working against democracy, people who didn't hesitate to kill to achieve their goals, I think what they were doing was good. I'm not one of those who don't believe that there were disappeared persons," says Carlos Paut Ugarte, an economist who returned to Chile following Allende's overthrow to work in Pinochet's government.
From Edmund Burke to Jeane Kirkpatrick, it has been the lie of modern counterrevolutionary thinkers that, against totalitarian abstractions, they defended historical actuality. The status quo is what should be, they say, and any effort otherwise leads straight to the guillotine or the gulag. But Pinochet's god, father and homeland were no less utopian and intangible than the just nation that Allende and Popular Unity hoped to build--the difference being that Pinochet had guns and the United States.
In his day Maistre was optimistic that restoration could be brought about with little violence. "Would it be argued," he asked, "that the return from sickness to health must be as painful as the passage from health to sickness?" Writing before the great counterinsurgency terrors of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, he can be excused his sanguinity. But Korry, too, liked to draw on historical analogies to make his case, and he has no such excuse. "There is a graveyard smell to Chile," he wrote immediately after Allende's election, "the fumes of a democracy in decomposition. They stank in my nostrils in Czechoslovakia in 1948 and they are no less sickening today."
It is too bad Korry couldn't escape the prison of his own abstractions and draw a lesson from a more relevant historical referent: Indonesia in 1965, where anti-Communist government agents slaughtered, as the United States watched, hundreds of thousands of its citizens. After all, the analogy was not lost on the CIA, which dubbed Pinochet's coup "Operation Jakarta."
Desperate to be rid of a repressive regime, many turn to militant Islam.
The regulations proposed to implement George W. Bush's order establishing military commissions for the trial of "international terrorists" are mere window dressing and will not cure the fatal defects of the order. They provide the accused with so little protection as to raise a suspicion that they are made primarily to disarm the critics.
The fundamental problem is that the proposed system, including all its "judicial" elements, still lies entirely within the military chain of command and subordinate to the President, who is the ultimate authority over every aspect of the proceedings. But independent impartial judges who are not beholden to any side are the indispensable bedrock of any credible system of justice. They must be the ones to make the basic decisions or at least to review them. Without such a tribunal to monitor them, the various "protections" provided by the proposed regulations--the presumption of innocence, guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, even outside counsel--mean little or nothing.
This is not a novel insight. Congress and the military have recognized how indispensable an independent judiciary is to a meaningful system of justice: Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, verdicts are not final until they have been reviewed by a civilian Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces. The provision of an appeal mechanism, especially in cases as politically and internationally sensitive as these, thus adds nothing to the fairness of the process--it merely insures that the final decision will be made by higher-ranking military officers who are still subject to military and presidential control.
White House counsel Alberto Gonzales, aware of these shortcomings, has sought to reassure doubters by noting that habeas corpus review will be available. But the order itself, which the regulations are only supposed to implement, expressly prohibits recourse to any court, as he well knows. For this reason, he was careful to describe the review as just a check on the jurisdiction of the tribunal, that is, whether the commission has the legal authority to try the particular accused. But review of a tribunal's jurisdiction does not touch on any substantive or procedural aspect of a proceeding, such as apprehension, detention, pretrial procedure, trial, evidentiary rulings, verdict or the sentence.
Moreover, as noted, the order specifically mandates that the ultimate authority is the President. Since the initial decision to apprehend someone is also the President's, and since everyone in the decision-making process, including the prosecutor, is subordinate to the President as the Commander in Chief, the police, prosecutor, some defense counsel, judge and jury are all rolled into one entity subject to one man--the antithesis of a just system. And given the rigidity of the military hierarchy and the natural desire of military personnel for promotion, who would challenge a judgment of their Commander in Chief that there is reason to believe someone is guilty of international terrorism and must be taken into custody--even if, as in so many instances, the action is as much for political reasons as for national security?
Compounding the difficulty is the absence of any real limit on what evidence may be admitted. The tribunal still may admit single, double and triple hearsay, affidavits, opinion and other dubious evidence. None of this can be effectively tested by cross-examination, especially since some of this evidence can be kept secret from the accused and his lawyers.
The decision to open up the proceedings to public view looks good, but it is only conditional--they may be closed if evidence that the tribunal considers worthy of secrecy is to be admitted. We have learned to our dismay how quick government officials are to classify information, even when it is already in the public domain. This Administration is particularly secretive, as shown by Bush's order holding back presidential papers from public release, as well as the refusal to reveal any information about the 1,000-plus detainees held since September 11. Moreover, the usual reason for secrecy is that disclosure will reveal methods and sources. But reliance on sources often involves very subjective judgments based on inaccurate or untrustworthy information. Yet it is just this kind of evidence that is most likely to be kept secret.
These are not tribunals worthy of a nation governed by law. And we don't need them. In the past eight years we have convicted twenty-six terrorists for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing and other cases in ordinary criminal trials and without revealing any secrets. The Administration realizes this, for it has decided to try the alleged "twentieth hijacker," Zacarias Moussaoui, in the criminal justice system.
The problem with these proposals is not that some people will never be satisfied--it is that the demands of justice have not been satisfied.
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