Fred Branfman, June 26, 2013
World’s Most Evil and Lawless Institution? The Executive Branch of the U.S. Government, by Fred Branfman
27 JunA Carol Denney Drawing
22 JunThe Front Porch Where Everybody’s Head Explodes, 2013. Colored ink and colored pencil on paper, 12 x 14 in.
Besides being an excellent composer and musician (see the earlier post, “An Evening of Music at ILWU Local 34,” dated January 16, 2012, for a sampling of her lyrics), Carol is an incredibly gifted artist with an unique vision and sense of humor.
Voices from the Plain of Jars, Republished
7 Jun
Pages (above and below) from Lao language primer, 1965, assumed to be produced by Pathet Lao (in translation). Collection of the author.
When I read Voices from the Plain of Jars (1972), edited by Fred Branfman — see my earlier review, “An American Love for Automated War,” dated February 22, 2012 — I was not aware of the powerful sentiment of the Lao people against the incursion of American firepower over their land. This, in itself, is not a criticism of the collection of writings contributing to nor the editorial process involved in the production of the book. Branfman makes clear that much of this testimony was gathered from survivors of our massive years-long bombing who were herded into relocation centers. One must assume that informants were circumspect about the revolutionary movement that the Lao People’s Revolutionary Party, or Pathet Lao, represented. While the book’s testimony does provide devastating description of the unfathomable destruction the United States rained upon Laos, these revolutionary images show a quite different projection of American military power. In the above image, “U.S.” appears inscribed on a bomb dropping from the hand of an individual who is kicked by a Lao revolutionary soldier. Perhaps this officer in white, short-sleeved shirt with insignia represents the U.S. client government in Laos. The picture below, from the same language primer, exhorts the people to fight this phantom-like aggressor. Here, the United States is symbolized by Uncle Sam, in black suit and stovepipe hat, running from the revolutionary Lao vanguard. Significantly, his white skin symbolizes death, all that the United States, and by extension, we, can be known to produce. Information about the reissue of this important book follows below with text provided by Fred.
“Arguably the most important single book to emerge from the Vietnam War” – Historian Alfred McCoy
For Immediate Release: Official publication date: May 31, 2013 (Now available from Amazon and bookstores.) Contact: Fred Branfman (fredbranfman@aol.com Tel: 805-284-9391); Review copies available from Elena Spagnolie, Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 608-236-0734, email: publicity@uwpress.wisc.ed
“Every night the planes came to drop bombs on us. We lived in holes to protect our lives. I saw my cousin die in the field of death. My heart was most disturbed and my voice called out loudly as I ran to the houses. Thus, I saw life and death for the people on account of the war of many airplanes. Until there were no houses at all. And the cows and buffalo were dead. Until everything was leveled and you could see only the red, red ground. I think of this time and still I am afraid.”
— 33 year-old woman, a Plain of Jars refugee from U.S. bombing
Voices From the Plain of Jars: Life Under An Air War is the only book to emerge from the Indochina War written by the villagers — who comprised most of the population, suffered most, and were heard from least. U.S. leaders dropped 2 million tons of bombs on Laos, part of 6.7 million tons for all Indochina — more than triple what was dropped on all of Europe and the Pacific theater in World War II. Yet Voices From The Plain of Jars is the only first-person record of the unspeakable suffering of the unseen millions subjected to this aerial onslaught.
No one who reads this book and tries to imagine what its kind, gentle people went through — e.g. how you would feel to see your own precious child burned alive before your eyes or beloved mate slowly suffocate to death — can emerge unchanged from the experience. No one who reads these pages will ever again see U.S. Executive Branch leaders — who destroyed the lives of these innocents not out of malice but indifference to their very existence as human beings — the same way, then or now. And anyone wishing to understand the true nature of U.S. Executive warfare now and in the future will learn much from this book. It has a twofold relevance today:
(1) Understanding the Human Costs of U.S. War-Making — These voices from Laos are also the voices of countless unseen villagers today in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen and other locales as U.S. drone and aerial warfare escalates and slowly spreads to ever-greater regions of the globe. These voices also remind us that the U.S. has failed to clean up the 80 million unexploded cluster bombs it left behind in Laos, which have killed and wounded over 20,000 innocent Lao villagers since the war ended, and continue to do so until today.
(2) Understanding Today’s New Form of U.S. Executive Secret Warfare — Today’s U.S. war-making is based on the template of the “U.S. Executive Secret War” that was waged in Laos. Historian Al McCoy writes in his foreword that “today the significance of its message has, if anything, increased. For even as Branfman immersed himself in the suffering of the Lao peasants, he understood that he was not only witnessing the present but seeing the future. In articles, lectures, and congressional testimony, he predicted, with uncommon prescience, that Laos served as a testing ground for forging (a) new global strategy, today and in the future.”
This new strategy sees a handful of U.S. leaders unilaterally waging secret war without even informing, let alone obtaining the informed consent required by the U.S. Constitution, from Congress and the American people. Because this lawless form of warfare is secret and far cheaper than deploying ground troops, it has an inward dynamic of escalation and inevitably murders, maims and makes homeless ever-greater numbers of civilians – even as, in the long-run, it is militarily ineffective.
On July 9, 1973, N.Y. Times columnist Anthony Lewis wrote, “The most appalling episode of lawless cruelty in American history [is] the bombing of Laos … The human results … are described without rancor—almost unbearably so—in a small book that will go down as a classic. It is “Voices From the Plain of Jars” … in which the villagers of Laos themselves describe what the bombers did to their civilization. No American should be able to read that book without weeping at his country’s arrogance.” (Emphasis added)
On April 27, 2013, MIT Professor Noam Chomsky brought the book’s message up to date, stating that “Fred Branfman [is] the person who worked for years, with enormous courage and effort, to try to expose what were called the secret wars. The secret wars were perfectly public wars, which the media was keeping secret. But Fred didn’t give up, he finally did succeed and gave tremendous exposure to the huge wars that were going on, the war in northern Laos, one of the most malevolent acts of modern history. He then proceeded to help expose air wars in general. They’re self-generating, that’s the nature of these (secret war) systems. It’s already happening, more and more of it. I think that’s the story that needs to be kept in mind.” (Democracy Now Forum, Harvard, 4-27-13) (Emphasis added.)
Fred Branfman
http://www.trulyalive.org
805-284-9391 (Skype)
0620-347-1856
Waterboarding: Last Gasp for Habeas Corpus and the Geneva Conventions
24 May
Timothy Feresten. Untitled photograph. Martha and Stas wheatpasting during performance of Waterboarding: Last Gasp for Habeas Corpus and the Geneva Conventions.
At the time Julia Sher’s video of this performance was created I was hoping to upload to YouTube. The site did not host film this long, but they do now. Since the video has “sat on a shelf” for such a long time, in retrospect, it would seem to be irrelevant to today’s political landscape. Yet, at least with the ongoing incarceration of Bradley Manning, the power and authority of the state over the individual is still extremely important. The video can be viewed at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9L5PcUHkTg
The event took place at the Jonathan Shorr Gallery September 30, 2006, following the passage of the Congressional Military Commissions Act of 2006 earlier in the week. Role playing the parts of a State now authorized with absolute power over the citizen or non-citizen individual, John Landino, the interrogator, assisted by gallery visitors, coordinated the apprehension and interrogation of David Duckworth as detainee. After being suited, hooded and strapped to a canvas gurney, Duckworth was paraded along a section of a New York city street while under continuing interrogation. Returned to the gallery for “torture,” Duckworth was then stripped and covered with wet plaster cloth. Visitors then applied torn texts from the Military Commissions Act, the Taguba report, a U.S. Army document on Iraqi prisoner abuse, and news accounts covering habeas corpus, torture, the rights of detainees, the United States and its obligation as signatory to international treaties governing these issues, and the moral path of this country in its war on terrorism. Live spontaneously-composed music was provided by musicians; digital collage created by Beverly Richey follows video. The work was collaboratively devised by Duckworth, Landino, and Richey; texts and materials were collected by Duckworth. Video edited by Duckworth.
Other still photographs from event can be seen at an earlier post here, dated May 16, 2012.
This film is carried forward in loving memory of Ezra Talmatch.
Brothers in the Rain
22 MayI am honored to host a short story by William Torphy. William and I first meet as I was organizing an exhibition for LaborFest at SOMArts Cultural Center, San Francisco, in 2009.
William Torphy’s poems, articles and critical reviews have appeared in publications such as Sebastian Quill, ArtWeek, Exposee, and High Performance. Ithuriel’s Spear Press of San Francisco has published Love Never Always (poetry collection), Snakebite (young adult fiction), and A Brush With History: Eda Kavin & The San Francisco Century (biography): www.ithuriel.com/ and www.edakavin.com/ek_book.php. He is a seasoned gallery dealer, exhibition curator and art consultant: www.torphyart.com/. William organized “Prophecy”, an exhibiton and series of events at SOMArts in 2007: prophecyhealing.org. This story is copyright 2013 by William Torphy. Illustrations are by David Duckworth.
Let’s get one thing straight before we go any farther, okay? I’m homeless. I have no place, no room, no cave, no hovel, no aerie, no hut, and no tent. Nothing but a dirty sleeping bag I traded for a knife, and this waterlogged backpack with every lousy thing I own in it.
It’s been raining, coming down strong for many days now and there’s practically no escape from it for me. At first I hid under the trees in the park which helps in a light situation or when the rain’s just getting started. But it’s been pouring pretty steady off and on for weeks here. Some of the others gave in and line up for the shelters at night. I’ve stuck it out. I don’t like the shelters.
Right now, things are pretty good. Last night I broke into a shed on a construction site South of Market just half a block from my “office” at the freeway off ramp. Everything inside here smells like wet wood and oil but it’s pretty dry and safe. If I leave real soon no one will catch me. Maybe I can make the place look like I wasn’t here and come back tonight when things quiet down. Chances are somebody will see me coming or going, they’ll chase my ass out of here or call the cops, and it’ll be the end of a dry one-night stand for me. I might be taken into custody and hauled to a shelter where I might even be glad to sleep for a night or two with a warm bed and hot food. When I get sprung, showered and shaved, I won’t look so bad for my constituency.
My territory is 5th and Harrison. This is where commuters or out-oftowners come off the freeway and first land in town. It sometimes takes me most of the day but I usually raise enough money for a couple meals. Nearby there’s a convenience store run by Lebanese, a McDs and a Burger King and a KFC and even a bad-assed fish & chips. No surprise: just like at every other freeway exit in California. When I walk in I try to look halfway presentable which isn’t so easy when you’ve spent most of the day in the elements. The employees don’t exactly appreciate my business, but what can they do? I’ve got the money and they can’t legally hassle me even when I hang out hours with my paid-for coffee refill.
Man, I’ll tell you, the dudes who patronize those places eat a lot of bad-for-you food! People just don’t know what’s good for them. If I had real money, I wouldn’t be eating there, that’s for sure. I’d go to Chinese Buffet or even get myself a good steak somewhere. I knew a homeless guy once who claimed he was strictly vegetarian. He carried a sign in rainbow colors, except he didn’t use yellow which doesn’t show up on white too good: $$ FOR VEGGIES. We’re talking about the San Francisco Bay Area, so he had a sympathetic captive audience. Thing is, he never ate vegetables. He hated them. He always ordered a hamburger, nuggets or a fish sandwich. Sometimes he’d get vegetarian donations which he actually threw out. I told him he’d have bad karma for lying.
Me, I don’t fool the public. Sure, I can tell you plenty of personal hardluck stories but I know I’m mostly responsible for my situation. Nothing ever really ticked for me here. By “here,” I mean planet earth, this terra infirma. That’s a little joke. A woman once corrected me about my Latin. She said I was misquoting. I told her I meant what I said: “terra infirma,” because there’s nothing certain here except uncertainty.
She got my meaning and laughed. But I don’t get it. By this I mean, life in general. I used to think I understood something but not anymore. My brother Matt got it though. He saw the handwriting on the wall, finished high school and went off to college. He collected a couple degrees along the way. I didn’t follow his example, needless to say. I took off early from life, believing I was so smart racing down to Mexico where I could experience a foreign country and try some interesting drugs. But when I returned home, it seemed like the real foreign country to me. Matt told me to get smart fast and go back to school but it was too late. English looked like Spanish and everything moved too quick. The folks treated me like I was crazy. They kicked me out of the house after six months. I don’t blame them. I was a total freeloader, what’s called a slacker nowadays or at least it was last I checked.
I’m far behind the times. You’re not in on the game and you know you never will be. Most people now live on TV and smart phones and GPS. Hell, except for every once in a while in the shelter, which is too often for my taste, I don’t even watch television. Put my face up on a Facebook page anywhere and I guarantee you I wouldn’t gain a single friend. People would look the other way. It’s a funny concept people have about friendship these days, but I don’t have friends anyway. I keep to myself so what difference does friendship make?
My brother Matt never kept to himself. He was very popular. He collected friends like I collected insults. He invited kids over to the house. I had enemies mostly who didn’t give a shit where I lived. Matt was smart and even an athlete. I only ran fast when someone was going to beat me up. At Mom’s memorial, Matt’s speech choked up everyone. I was speechless but I cried with the rest of them. I didn’t go to Dad’s funeral because I learned about it a year too late.
Billy T, who’s the closest thing I have to a buddy, tells me I should get with the program. He calls my begging “demeaning.” He steals cell phones and shit like that, reselling them to other crooks on the streets. He’s the most high-end stocked homeless human being in the city. Bill breaks into cars and lifts backpacks and briefcases. People who leave them out in plain sight like that are really stupid and probably deserve what they get. Bill takes whatever he lifts to this guy with a garage in the Mission and gets enough cash to lay off his stealing for a couple days. Bill says it’s a good business. I tell him that I have no business sense and he’s wasting his breath.
I don’t believe in taking what people don’t give me of their own free will though I can’t say that’s always been 100% exactly true. But I have no grudges against the holdouts (who are definitely in the biggest majority) who sit in their warm cars listening to their stereos. I realize some of them are going to resent me or are afraid of me or don’t want to be reminded of my existence there just three or so feet away. They’re playing a game at my expense but in this I’m the one asking for some expense. They have their rights to ignore me. But what hurts though is when I’m completely invisible to them or they pretend I’m invisible which is worse. Like in that old movie, I’m “The Invisible Man.” If they don’t see me, then I don’t really exist in society, right? Or if they do notice me, my motley old presence makes them think of something frightening or disgusting like road kill under their tires.
I met up with my brother two weeks ago. At least I think it was him. He looked a lot older and his hair was grey, but let’s say for argument’s sake he definitely was Matt. It was no another rainy morning in paradise. His car, a beautiful green hybrid Highlander (I’m the world’s expert in automotive I.D.) was stopped at the red light right next to where I stood. So imagine my surprise when I bent down, waving a little like I always do so I don’t seem so threatening and holding out my sign: WILL WORK FOR FOOD. In this case, the sign is actually what does the work. Not that I’m lying about it because if someone rolled down his window and yelled: “Hop in! I’ve got a job for you to do,” I’d be willing to work for them. But that happenstance has never happened. I realize no one wants a man like me who stinks bad sometimes sitting in his car, even if I would work hard for peanuts.
Matt, or whoever he was because I have to give this the benefit of a doubt, was looking straight ahead waiting for the signal to change. He kept his eyes on that red light, staring straight ahead and preoccupied like most everyone else. I could tell he really didn’t see me. He wasn’t pretending. It’s strange how much effort people put into pretending. Sometimes they try so hard to look oblivious I believe they must put more emotional effort into that moment than yours truly, cold and wet and begging change for a hot cup of coffee. I’m not making this judgment to be superior or anything but just following experience.
Well, anyway, I’m standing there right next to my brother (or his twin or double or whatever) sitting high and dry in his green Highlander. My first reaction is panic and my second reaction is I feel ashamed. I want to avoid this particular embarrassing confrontation for sure. It’ll definitely give him a shock if he recognizes something of his long lost brother in this mangy homeless guy who’s asking for a handout, right? But the worst thing would be if he recognized me and drove off without comment.
I’m caught in this Catch-22 situation. So I reacted real quick and hustled in a hurry, making a beeline toward the next car behind his. But I figured if I keep on asking for change down the line Matt might spot me in the rear view mirror. I decided to sacrifice one red light to posterity and kept on moving. At a certain point in my trajectory, curiosity got the best of me. I glanced back and caught his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes flickered in my direction. There was some kind of a question happening but it lasted only a second. He stared forward again like maybe he’d been distracted by a piece of litter blowing around in the wind or something.
Then his eyes gravitated toward me again and held. Next thing I know, his door opens and I see long legs in expensive-looking pants touch the ground. He gets out of the car and turns to face me.
“Jimmy?” he yells.
I glance back at him, caught in my tracks.
“Jimmy? Is that you?”
I’m not generally in the habit of answering to my name. It sounds unfamiliar to me like I couldn’t be the person he’s calling to. I shake my head and take off. The ground is wet and muddy. I drop my sign which I trip over and fall down. I get up slowly. My knees are hurting bad but I gain a little traction and keep on running. I really feel ashamed now.
By this time a whole backup of drivers are honking their horns. I turn around again to see if Matt is following me. He’s standing there and just shrugs getting back into his Highlander. He takes off through the intersection. A couple cars manage to follow him before the light changes to red again.
I pick up my sign and try to clean it off with the sleeve of my coat but I only make it worse. Now it looks like smeared shit. I know I should wait until the next light before I start up again. These drivers are pissed by the delay and won’t pay me any mind. A few of them are probably blaming me for their extra two-minute wait. But I hate to waste a whole light’s worth of customers so I hold up my shitty sign anyway. I have plenty of time to think about what just happened, all the time in the world.
When my brother sped off, I watched him leave my corner of the world, moving right along with all the other success stories in their fast-moving world. You gain a different perspective on things when you have no place to call home. You regard society from outside looking in when you make your living from handouts and cold sleep at night in a wet sleeping bag.
Meanwhile around you there’s all this movement. Go, go, go. The whole world’s going somewhere important and you’re just there standing still.
Later that day, over my fries and dollar burger, I wondered if my brother would’ve asked me into his nice car if I’d nodded and headed back toward him. Would he invite me to his home to meet his wife and kids or whatever he has? He didn’t look gay to me but you never know. That wouldn’t bother me. I’ve seen all kinds in my line of begging (ha-ha). Gay people help me out sometimes even though they make a really big deal about not touching me. Well, I wouldn’t touch me either, gay or not gay.
But I didn’t go for that brotherly embrace and Matt passed me by like everyone else. I’ll probably be holding out this sign forever hustling for rolled-down windows to get whatever comes my way. Begging is like waiting for the rain: unpredictable exactly when it’s going to happen and uncertain how much there’s going to be. But one thing is guaranteed for sure: it will happen eventually if I stand in the open long enough. I hope it holds off for a while. The rain, I mean. People aren’t willing to bother themselves so much with a handout when it’s pouring.
I need to leave this shed now before the hardhats come. I’ll squeeze through that hole in the fence. Maybe I can sleep here again tonight. I’ll think some more about my brother and his nice wife and good kids. I’ll dream about his guest room that smells like expensive soap and scented candles. Maybe I’ll meet Matt again. Maybe I won’t run next time.
A Surfer’s View
14 MayJeff Razura. Starfish, 2013. Digital photograph.
Jeff and I volunteer in the kitchens at Project Open Hand (http://www.openhand.org/). Jeff is an avid surfer, his first love and decided passion. This is the world he sees.
The Urban Backyard
13 AprLori Eanes. Untitled photograph.
When I saw this photograph I just had to ask for its inclusion here at the blog. The photograph was taken in a San Francisco backyard where the owner raises goats and chickens and grows vegetables. She is featured in Eanes’s book Backyard Roots and she’ll be at the first Backyard Roots presentation at The Green Arcade bookstore, 1680 Market Street at Gough, on Sunday, April 21st, 1-3 p.m. There will be a slideshow of urban farms and lemonade will be served! Eanes maintains a blog of her own at: http://www.backyardrootsbook.com/
The Humanist
1 MarWilfredo Raguro. Untitled photograph, n.d.
It is refreshing to meet a young artist with such a high regard for the human subject. Wilfredo Raguro, currently based in San Francisco, looks at the human condition in interesting and unexpected ways. His themes range from children chasing birds to construction workers on break playing cards. And he works with film photography, developing his own prints in a lab.
You can find out more about him at: www.PhotoStudious.com or www.WilfredoRaguro.com.










