Report From Iquitos

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I am writing from Iquitos, a town in Peru, encircled by the jungle of the Amazon. The only connection to the external world is by air. Boats — loaded with cattle, exotic animals, human beings, and forest-produce that in the US would put you in prison for several lives — go downstream and upstream, providing access to smaller villages and tribes, but not to anything beyond. Iquitos is very spacious and well-planned. The mighty Amazon and its tributaries surround the town, and most people have come here from its tribal areas.

For less than $40 a day, I can have a very good style of life. It costs me $22 for a good, clean, air-conditioned hotel, with full breakfast included. A tip of 30 cents a day gets me all the attention I want. A very good meal at an “expensive” restaurant costs me $8. The cost is much less — about $3 — if I go to a good, busy place for locals. Most taxi rides cost 60 cents. Yet because most things are flown in, Iquitos tends to be about 25% more “expensive,” in my estimation, than similar places I have visited in Peru.

During 30 minutes of my sitting in a boat one evening, several fish jumped in, without a need for bait.

I tend to eat at local places. I buy fruit from roadside vendors; a handful costs me 30 cents. This helps the local economy the most, for the money that I spend in touristic areas mostly accrues to the well-connected, entrenched interests. Moreover, spending money directly with locals ensures that their emotions get aligned with my interests and safety — eventually they will go out of their way to win my favors. People are very friendly.

The Amazon offers cheap and good food. During 30 minutes of my sitting in a boat one evening, several fish jumped in, without a need for bait. Fruit trees are easy to find. It is hard to go hungry.

Not too far away is dense jungle and animals of all sorts, all of which are hunted down, irrespective of the diktats of the federal government, the World Wildlife Fund, and so forth. If something “protected” is not killed, it is because its meat is not tasty. In the local market every endangered or protected species can be bought. Locals might show revulsion if you asked them directly whether they hunt monkeys and dolphins. But ask them subtly — without evoking any implanted defences — what dolphin and monkey meat tastes like, and they will describe it.

I feel very free in Iquitos. But for locals it is not a libertarian paradise, not even close. Outside the core, touristic area, Iquitos is very dirty, because people utterly lack the concept of hygiene.

The receptionist at my hotel works every single day, from 3 PM to 11 PM. She works 365 days a year, with no vacation or weekends. This is how they all exist. In the morning she looks after her younger siblings while her own parents go to work. She has nine siblings, all younger, six of them are girls. When asked, she had to count to remind herself how many there are. All of them share a couple of small, dark rooms. Every woman is loaded with children, mostly girls.

The rule is babies first, with whomever, with no thought whatsoever about the future.

There is something about this area that results in a high female-to-male ratio. Some say there might be twice as many — or more — female births than male births in this area; anecdotal evidence shows this. One possible reason is a local fruit called aguaje, which apparently encourages certain hormones in women, although I failed to find a properly researched document to support this.

Girls here want to get pregnant quickly, partly because they have very strong maternal instincts, and being a single mother is perfectly acceptable socially — in fact this is the only way. The rule is babies first, with whomever, with no thought whatsoever about the future. My travel guide, who speaks fluent English, sees absolutely no reason why he should have any discussion with his daughters about the risks of unplanned, early, single motherhood. At the age of 23, he has three daughters, from three different women. Mostly he does not care what the woman he has a relationship with does when he is not with her. Incest is not uncommon.

People have enough to eat, so major crimes do not happen. But when crime must be controlled, it is through fear of punishment and much more importantly through real-time policing; those who cannot think much into a future don’t worry about punishment tomorrow. This reminds me that in many parts of Africa there is no word for “tomorrow” or “future.”

As I have seen elsewhere among people lacking reflective, critical reason — which is the situation in most of the non-Western world — petty crime, such as seizure of cellphones, is not considered immoral and hence is very common. The police and military must stand on every corner.

The area around Iquitos could be better than Switzerland. It isn’t. But you cannot blame lack of resources, lack of space, or even lack of educational possibilities. People here have a very high time-preference. A remote village of 500 people that I went to, about two hours away by boat from Iquitos, started getting surplus money through its interactions with jungle-related tourism, so it set up a night club and two bars. Not a piece of machinery was bought.

Contrary to what a rational person might have expected, Iquitos isn’t a peaceful paradise — the situation got worse with the influx of money.

Any excess money over basic needs gets spent on pleasure, right away. Iquitos is very noisy, because people like loud music and other loud sounds. Girls in very short skirts stand outside shops to attract people to buy motorbikes, TVs, and big, high-capacity sound systems, all playing at full blast. Casinos (and I am told brothels, in this rather promiscuous society) are everywhere, showing how bored people are. They are addicted to constant distractions.

Any rational person would have expected the surplus to go into investments in capital. But of course, the World Bank with its Ivy League educated “economists” must be happy, for they want consumption to go up. Contrary to what a rational person might have expected, Iquitos isn’t a peaceful paradise — the situation got worse with the influx of money.

Outside the supermarket here, there are several women sitting with scales, to let people weigh themselves for a few cents. None has business. There are shops after shops after shops, all well stocked, selling exactly the same wares, with none too busy. Hundreds of women sit next to one another selling exactly the same vegetables and fruit, all staring in oblivion, from early morning to late in the evening. Everywhere people, including the receptionist at my hotel, sit glued to the soap operas on their TVs. Soap operas are packed with fighting and exaggerated emotional dramas.

Anyone who tried to understand the situation might come, quite contrary to what the mainstream developmental economists would suggest, to the conclusion that in the final analysis the problem here — as elsewhere in the developing world — is not lack of capital, space, resources, safety, or property rights; nor is it overpopulation. The World Bank, the IMF and most economists are looking in the wrong direction.

The problem of poor societies is their lack of imagination, creativity, and reason, which is the dominant characteristic of the non-Western world. Modern education has completely failed to inculcate these human qualities. Perhaps it has made the situation worse, for education has been marketed to people in the non-Western world as something that offers a better material future, not a bigger vision of life. This has encouraged rote learning, not a passion for understanding the universe. In the end the education instilled in such students becomes just another baggage of beliefs, burdening them and distancing them from imagination, creativity, and reason.

Material prosperity without intellectual and spiritual growth does not add up and is not sustainable.

In most parts of the poor world (Africa, India, Peru, Central America, the Middle East, etc.) economic growth — the kind encouraged by international institutions — has had many bad consequences. These regions did not develop the concept of reasoning, planning, and strategic thinking. In the absence of these things, removing people from their tribal lives leads to emptiness and confusion. Any money they get goes into showing off and into too much drinking and partying. Noise, smell, chaos seem to develop quickly wherever surplus money comes to exist. Obesity and other lifestyle diseases are growing rapidly in all of these poor countries. And most rational people in the West fail to understand the situation: rational people’s rationality preempts them from understanding how irrational the developing world really is.

In such places wealth does not lead to peace, hygiene, improved health, and enlightened living. Even what could be an oasis becomes noisy, dirty, and diseased. The developing world has been the economic beneficiary of easy imports of technology, almost all of it attributable to the internet and telephony — both of which, during the past two decades, opened the floodgates of quick economic growth. Contrary to the claims of international institutions, growth in most of the developing world cannot be shown to be a product of liberalization, the spread of democracy, or public education.

For now, the World Bank and the IMF can justify their existence, but correlation is not causation. Liberalization didn’t really happen, although democracy is rearing its ugly head everywhere in the developing world. It has involved masses of people in public policy, masses who cannot think and reason, and are mostly driven by the desire for bread and circuses. Public education hasn’t delivered.

At the core, material prosperity without intellectual and spiritual growth does not add up and is not sustainable. Now the low-hanging fruit has been plucked, and growth rate in the developing world is falling rapidly. The consequences of overconsumption and lack of capital investment are becoming visible.

A true developmental economist should look at the reality beyond the superficial economic numbers. I am extremely happy and free in Iquitos, but what a tourist and an outsider with money can experience is not the full reality. Never trust economists who do a quick fly-in and fly-out of a poor country and while there get driven around in Mercedes cars and stay in five-star hotels. Ask them if they have been to Iquitos, and the jungles with mosquitoes and naked tribes.




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Closing the Circle

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We may be approaching one of the most significant events of our time: the end of the Castro regime in Cuba. So long have Fidel Castro and his friends reigned in Cuba that it is hard to get perspective on the regime and its history. The history of Cuba itself remains little known to Norteamericanos.

Fortunately, there is Robert Miller. A longtime contributor to Liberty, Robert was reared in Cuba, as a member of a prominent family. He has spent most of his life in the United States but has followed events in his homeland closely. When Liberty discovered that Robert was writing a memoir of his family’s life in Cuba, their flight to the United States, and their adventures here, we asked Robert if we could print parts of his work. Robert agreed. We will be featuring it in several segments, of which this is the first.

The memoir is not a work of political science; it is something much more: an introduction to ways of life, parallel to those of North Americans, and connected at many points, but always pungently different. We think our readers will find this view of Cuba, before and after the Castro Revolution, strange, unpredictable, charming, funny, tragic, and always very interesting. — Stephen Cox

* * *

Part I

“Fidel does not have cancer. I’m very well informed . . .

Nobody knows when Fidel is going to die.”              — Hugo Chavez   

My mother, Ana Maria, died on July 14, 2000 at 78 years of age. For 40 years, ever since our flight from Cuba in 1960, she’d clung to the hope of outliving Fidel Castro Ruz, a man four years her junior. Almost more galling than having Castro outlive her was having her saint’s day fall on July 26, the anniversary and official title of Fidel Castro’s revolutionary movement. To a Cuban, one’s saint’s day — the birth date of the Catholic saint after whom one was named, in this case Santa Ana — is a personal holiday second only to one’s birthday. After our flight following the revolution, first to Mexico and then to the United States, she never again celebrated anything on that day.

My family has deep roots in Cuba. My maternal grandmother, also Ana Maria, was a third-generation Spanish émigré from the Canary Islands. John Maurice, my maternal grandfather, was an American contractor in Aguascalientes, Mexico when the 1910 Mexican Revolution erupted, so he fled for Havana where prospects seemed better.

Both were stern and imposing, with bulldog jowls, sharp, no-nonsense eyes, Grecian noses, and thin, locked lips, ever vigilant against any whiff of impertinence. Nonetheless, it must have been love, because in 1914 they married.

A massive man, a rigid disciplinarian, and a heavy drinker and gambler with a streak of willfulness that could turn violent, John Maurice was also an ambitious wheeler-dealer. He soon worked his way as a primary subcontractor into Cuba’s biggest construction projects under President Gerardo Machado.

Cuba was a faded canvas awaiting, if not a Michelangelo, at least a Jackson Pollock.

Nineteen-fourteen Cuba was caught in a time warp. It had achieved independence only 12 years before. Tiny next-door Haiti had been independent since 1804, besting what was then the world’s most powerful army, the Grande Armée of Napoleon. Since Cuba’s independence from, first, Spain and then, in 1902, from the United States — a facilitator in the first effort — it had experienced only five chief executives, two of whom were governors appointed by the US during post-independence interventions. Only three were duly elected presidents. And only one, Tomas Estrada Palma, the first, was considered uncorrupt.

In some ways Cuba in 1914 was like the US in 1804, when the War for Independence was a relatively recent memory, and its heroes still played a significant political role. But unlike the US in 1776 — a thriving outpost of a British Empire that was nowhere near its potential peak — Cuba was a distant province of an increasingly decrepit, inept, and corrupt Spanish empire. Slavery had been abolished only in 1886. Spanish investment in Cuban infrastructure was nearly nonexistent. There were no paved highways, and dirt roads were impassable after rains. What few railroads existed charged exorbitant monopoly prices for oxcart speed delivery. Cuba was a faded canvas awaiting, if not a Michelangelo, at least a Jackson Pollock. But first it needed reframing, restretching, restarching, stapling, and a solid foundation on a hardwood easel.

In 1925, Brigadier General Gerardo Machado, a hero of the War for Independence from Spain, ran for president under the slogan “water, roads, schools,” promising to end corruption while serving only one term (as the 1901 constitution dictated).

When he was elected, Machado kept his promise, building a beautiful new capitol building in Havana, with rotunda and wings modeled on the US Capitol, a paved trans-island highway, an enlarged and modernized University of Havana, a modern, progressively designed federal prison, the Hotel Nacional and Hotel Presidente, the Asturia Building (today the National Museum of Fine Arts), the Bacardi Building, and an expansion of health facilities. But he was not as successful in attacking corruption. In 1927 he pushed through Congress an amendment to the constitution that allowed him to run for a second successive term — a term that turned out as clean as the still undependable Havana tap water.

John Maurice was a beneficiary of the Machadaso, as Machado’s steamroller public works program was nicknamed. His first big commission, the capitol building, was completed in a scant three years. Begun in 1926 by the Purdy Henderson Co., it took 8,000 men to complete by 1929.

He then joined the big push to complete the Carretera Central, Cuba’s main trans-island artery; also built all at one go between 1927 and 1931. Family lore holds that John Maurice also worked on the Carcel Modelo (or model prison), the federal penitentiary on the Isle of Pines (the insular comma off the southeast coast of Cuba) that was built between 1926 and 1928, at the same time as the Capitolio and the Carretera Central. The three projects must have been a logistical challenge for the 41-year-old contractor. How he juggled these many responsibilities remains a mystery, though it is not uncommon for contractors to spread themselves thin by taking on multiple projects (often to the irritation of their employers).

Sometimes she’d field long distance calls from Ernest Hemingway, whom she always recognized by his unintelligible Spanish. He insisted on using it anyway.

When my mother turned 13 she was shipped off to a Louisiana Sacred Heart convent to learn English. After graduation she was offered a full scholarship to a Sacred Heart college in Missouri. It was not to be. With the Great Depression in full swing and the war in Europe about to break out, her father, John Maurice suddenly died of a kidney infection, leaving the family nearly penniless and saddled with his gambling debts. So instead, Ana Maria attended secretarial school, graduating quickly and putting her new earning power immediately to use as a bilingual telephone operator back in Cuba.

Sometimes she’d field long distance calls from Ernest Hemingway, whom she always recognized by his unintelligible Spanish. He insisted on using it anyway. When my mother, in turn, insisted that he speak English so she could understand him, he’d demand to know if she was aware of who he was. “No,” she always answered tersely.

“I’m Papa,” he’d impatiently retort. When no acknowledgement was forthcoming, he’d testily add, “Papa Hemingway!”

My mother’s answer, “I don’t know who you are,” was always followed by a torrent of profanity. Ana Maria not only didn’t care, she disliked arrogance, pretension, the concept of celebrities, Hemingway’s writing, and Hemingway himself.

With time these outbursts became more frequent. It seemed — to her anyway — that her imperious prudishness egged him on, something that gave her great satisfaction. With time and little patience, she took to hanging up on him — another “no” he interpreted as a “yes.”

Ana Maria had developed into a strikingly beautiful, statuesque woman. Tall for her times, with a ready laugh, she was indispensable in her social circle. Nicknamed Mina — a practice universal in Cuba — her friends called her Minita, the diminutive being more expressive. Nonetheless, she was not frivolous and had inherited her parents’ sedateness and instinctive disgust toward all manner of filth and uncouth behavior, malas palabras (obscenities) and the bodily functions to which they referred, including bodily odors. She always accused anyone who sweated profusely as stinking like a “guaguero de la Ruta 43,” a Havana Route 43 bus driver.

During WWII, Mina worked for the US Office of Censorship in Miami. After the war she returned to Havana and got a job with the newly founded American International Company (now American International Group, or AIG). The Havana AIC branch was established by my father, Howard Wesley Miller, who had been a principal in the founding of C.V. Starr & Co., the parent company of AIG in New York.

In need of a bilingual secretary, Howard was assigned Ana Maria. A trusting man of few words and a forced smile, he found Ana Maria’s regal reticence attractive (not to mention, as they say in Cuba, that she was “mas bella que pesetas” — more gorgeous than dollars), so he immediately fired her. Already married, he didn’t quite trust himself. When his wife unexpectedly died, Ana Maria was rehired. They were married in 1948.

Howard, born in 1898, 1899, or 1900 — the uncertainty owing to his forging of papers in order to enlist in the Navy during WWI (a ruse Mina was later to use to obtain a driver’s license before her time) — was more than 20 years Mina’s senior. He had already packed a lot of living into those years.

After two years as a gunner’s mate in the Atlantic theater, he was discharged in 1919. The war had kindled a spark of adventure. With an Belfast Irish buddy from the Navy, he bought a used Model T Ford and crossed the United States along the old National Trails roads; a disjunct network of pioneer trails, oftimes poorly maintained state highways, municipal streets, unmarked rural roads, and confusing and braided connecting easements — the majority consisting of unconsolidated sand and dirt that turned to mud after rains.

Still restless, Howard then headed to Havana to learn Spanish and serve an apprenticeship in public accounting, a trade he’d briefly studied in Chicago. In 1921, immersing himself deeper in the Latin American milieu, he went to Buenos Aires, rooming — by chance — with Aristotle Onassis, another expat also looking to make his fortune. Both applied for jobs with Standard Oil of New Jersey, then just starting to exploit possibilities in Argentina and Bolivia.

The Great Depression and FDR’s New Deal regulatory environment were the perfect challenge. If he could turn a profit under such adverse conditions, imagine what he could do in boom times.

Onassis didn’t make the cut: his language skills — in either English or Spanish (I never got that straight) — weren’t up to snuff (not that Howard’s Spanish merited any gold stars). Still, for some unknown reason, Standard Oil hired Howard, assigning him his own mule as an exploratory geologist’s assistant, prospecting for promising deposits across South America’s Chaco region. Eschewing traditional gaucho garb (or even a hat), and parting his hair straight down the middle, Howard, a native New Yorker and third-generation German immigrant, donned Wellies, jodhpurs, a white dress shirt, and wire-rim glasses. Though he stood out for his mildly eccentric outfit among the Chaco gauchos, it was his brains that were soon noticed. In no time, he was promoted to field clerk in a drilling camp in Patagonia and, before his 30th birthday, became Officer and Director of Standard Oil’s Argentine and Bolivian subsidiaries. That was when his earlier acquaintance with Onassis came into play.

Not one to pass up a good grudge, Onassis — by then well on his way to acquiring the world’s largest privately owned shipping fleet — had refused to carry Standard Oil products because of their earlier rebuff of him. But Howard needed tankers, and only Onassis’ fit his needs. Over a meeting I can’t possibly imagine — my father being neither garrulous nor guileful, and neither a big eater nor drinker — the two men sat down to resolve the problem. What was said, promised, or done, only the two men knew, but, their differences resolved, Onassis added Standard Oil to his list of potential clients.

Twelve years in Latin America — ten with Standard Oil — had taken their toll on Howard: he had contracted malaria, a condition that would bedevil him for the rest of his life. However, more importantly, he was still restless. He decided to call it quits and returned to the states. The Great Depression and FDR’s New Deal regulatory environment were the perfect challenge for him. If he could turn a profit under such adverse conditions, imagine what he could do in boom times.

During the following ten years he became, successively, comptroller of the Sphinx Trading Corporation, then Treasurer of Bush Terminal Buildings Company — a commercial property developer — and then controller of the Oxford Paper Company of Rumford, Maine, at the time the world’s largestpaper company under one roof.

Although in his early forties when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Howard immediately volunteered for the Navy, his old service branch. He was given a desk job, this time as an auditor. But for some unknown reason — perhaps his recurring malarial attacks, he served for only six months before being discharged. In 1942 he joined Starr, Park & Freeman, Inc., the initial precursor of what would much later become AIG, as Assistant Treasurer. In 1946 he returned to Havana as president of the American International Company, which supervised American International Underwriters operations throughout Latin America. That’s when he met my mother, Ana Maria.

Howard and Mina got married in Manhattan in January 1948. He returned to New York with a promotion: as treasurer and director of AIU. They settled in Massapequa, Long Island. The newlyweds planned on having children, adding some siblings to Howard’s 13-year-old son, John, from his first marriage. Howard was in a position to call his own shots, so the return to the United States had an ulterior motive: my parents wanted to ensure that their children were born in the US, in case they ever wanted to run for president.

I, Robert (soon to be nicknamed Baten, in the Cuban fashion), was born on November 19, 1949, proving — contrary to some opinions — that I am not a bastard. My sister Anita (Nana — from hermana, ‘sister’ or Nani, in diminutive) was born the following year, with little Patsy — my earliest memory — arriving in 1953.

Howard, now Pop to us, and Mina (mami or mima) lived in a Tudor mansion on a magnificent estate with an enormous lake behind it — or so it seemed to this three-year-old kid. They had brought Cuba along with them in the form of Mina’s mother, my Abuela (grandmother), Ana Maria Diaz y Otazo; a Cuban tata (nursemaid) to care of us kids; and a Cuban cook. Tata would often take us to the lake for an outing — in the summer, to pretend to fish; in the winter, to pretend to ice skate, an undertaking so thoroughly befuddling to her, and one that scared her so much, that she always invoked the saints and cut it short. Few Cubans had ever seen ice in situ.

My exposure to my parents being fitful, my first language was Spanglish, with a bias toward Spanish. We had a Dalmatian named Freckles (nicknamed Paca) who had his own fenced mini-estate. My brother John — at this time strictly an English speaker — and I loved to play with Paca. John attended a military boarding school and, with his sharp uniform, impressed me no end. Like his father Howard, John was a man of few words.

In fall 1953 — just after Fidel Castro launched his first failed coup on July 26 — and when Patsy was just barely old enough to travel, Pop sold the Massapequa estate and moved the family back to Havana. It was my first plane ride and one that I thoroughly enjoyed, pampered by the beautiful stewardesses and immersed in an illustrated book on American Indians and one on the animal kingdom.

Tata would often take us to the lake in the winter to ice skate, an undertaking so thoroughly befuddling to her, and one that scared her so much, that she always invoked the saints and cut it short.

Howard and Mina settled in Alturas del Vedado, one of Havana’s poshest neighborhoods, in a two-story concrete house near the dead end of Calle 43, next to a tributary gorge of the Almendares River. Terrazzo-floored throughout, the salmon colored house was high-ceilinged, spacious, and airy. My sisters shared a room, while my brother — whom I seldom saw — and I shared another room. Pop had gotten him an accounting internship at AIC’s Havana office. John would invariably come home late and leave early. When he reached majority, John left Cuba to seek his fortune in the US.

Kitty-corner across the street lived the just-deposed ex-mayor of Havana, Nicolas Castellanos, with whose children and grandchildren I’d later come to hang out. Directly across the street lived Luis Echegoyen, the star of MamaCusa, one of the top-rated comedy shows on Cuban TV, somewhat reminiscent of Jonathan Winters’ "Maude Frickert" character. His sons, Yoyi and Luis, about my age, became frequent playmates. One block away stood the Mexican Embassy, and two blocks away, the Peruvian Embassy.

Afraid I’d lose what little English I’d acquired, Pop and Mina enrolled Nana and me in Ruston Academy, an American school. The arrangement didn’t last. Mina was disgusted with their low academic standards and their emphasis on drawing, naps, and play time. It seemed that we were learning nothing and paying a high price for it. After a short while, she transferred Nani to the local Academy of the Sacred Heart, while I was transferred to La Salle, a Catholic school run by the Christian Brothers, many of whom were Spanish (at the time, Cuba had been independent from Spain for only 53 years, and the ties were still strong). President Fulgencio Batista’s children attended La Salle at the same time, but whether I was aware of this, knew who Batista was, or might have cared, I don’t recall. The students would ceaselessly ridicule the Brothers’ (to our minds) effeminate Castilian pronunciation of ‘Ds’ and ‘Ss’, always lisped in the most affected manner. But they got back at us: their fire-and-brimstone approach to catechism instilled the fear of God, hell, and sex in me for the next 20 years.

Catholic school didn’t quite have the same effect on Fidel Castro, who attended Belen, a Jesuit school in his time. The boilerplate catechism instilled in him the virtues of sacrifice and a strong empathy for the poor. As for sex . . . Castro hasn’t been nicknamed El Caballo (the stallion) for nothing. El maximo philanderer’s sheer number of affairs, assignations, and marriages rivaled the length of his speeches, the longest of which, delivered on January 1968, was 12 hours.

* * *

Pop and Mina were hands-off parents. Pop worked every day, but had also taken up golf at the Havana Yacht & Country Club, where I’d occasionally accompany him on rounds.

Neither Nani nor I remember spending any time with mami, with one exception. Later, after we’d moved into the mayor’s house, my bedroom connected to my mother’s dressing room through a common door. Most non-school mornings I’d hang out with her while she “put on her face” applying make-up and becoming a sounding board for whatever outfit she tried on. Mina’s vanity, L-shaped and entirely mirror-lined with decorative smoked edges, was extensive and packed with brushes, lipstick, curlers, mascara, talcums, creams, lotions, and myriad unidentifiable devices and concoctions. Mina was an excellent amateur painter and she approached her face as she would a blank canvas. The conversation flowed easily and we enjoyed each other’s company. Intermittently, she’d get up and head for the walk-in closet to try on an outfit. She never directly asked my opinion as to how it looked. To this day we still wonder how our mother passed her days in Cuba. Mostly, our tatas — now two, one for baby Patsy and one for Nana and me — took care of us. But I do remember our Havana debutante ball.

We children were strangers in a strange land. Soon after arriving, our parents engineered a birthday party to end all birthday parties, in order to introduce us to every possible playmate available in this new country. Every little cousin — no matter how distant (even in-law cousins) — every child of Mina’s or Pop’s friends, or business colleagues, or friends-of-friends’ kids, every kid in the neighborhood was invited. They all came. Pop and Mina hired a mini-amusement park, set up in our large back yard with an electric train, a mini-montaña rusa (roller coaster), ponies in a circle, a petting zoo — mostly goats and rabbits — and who knows what other childish delights. It was all meant to be a surprise — and it was.

Castro hasn’t been nicknamed El Caballo (the stallion) for nothing. El maximo philanderer’s sheer number of affairs, assignations, and marriages rivaled the length of his speeches.

There were 30 children there — not a single one smiling in surviving photographs. I well remember my own reaction: resentment at sudden, forced fun, friendship, and camaraderie. What were all those people doing there? Why did I have to “enjoy” myself? I had always been the master of my days, each one a blank canvas that I filled creatively according to my whims and plans. When someone imposed an agenda on me, it was a violation of my autonomy. Nani, even more sour-looking in photos than nearly all of the other children, particularly resented having to share a birthday with me, older and a boy to boot. I tried to hide, but someone dragged me out (in a not unkindly fashion). A gift of cowboy cap guns with holsters cheered me up, so I donned an Indian headdress and shot little girls at close range.

One of those little girls was Sara Maria, the skinny, curly haired daughter of Mina’s best friend. She and Nana had become friends. Sari, as we called her, wasn’t your typical doll-clutching, let’s-play-house little girl, so I put up with her. After immigrating to the US, we kept in touch. She was to marry Luis Luis, an academic, who was later to become the Organization of American States’ (OAS) chief economist, and whose insightful studies of the post-Castro Cuban economy became the basis for many of my articles about the island.

We didn’t last long at that house. Pop was doing well and, feeling a bit restless, cramped, and ambitious (he rued being from Brooklyn, at that time a run-down, unsavory neighborhood), approached Mayor Castellanos with a proposition. He and Mina bought the ex-mayor’s residence. Castellanos in turn built himself an even bigger house on the empty lot next door.

Now, at the time, Cuban elections had always been relatively free, that is, when compared with voting practices in countries such as Mexico or Guatemala. Nonetheless, the most ambitious party could always find ways of digging up dependable votes: union leaders controlled their workers; businessmen squeezed their employees; ministries rewarded civil servants with illegal bonuses; and a high percentage of voting cards lacked the requisite photographs and so could be used by anyone. The system had produced only one laudable administration, the very first one after independence, that of Tomas Estrada Palma. And at that, only his first term. By his second, he’d been soured by the lack of reciprocal idealism and turned vengeful, venal, greedy, and power mad.

The 1952 election started out no differently than any other: in Cuban-cigar-smoke-filled rooms with Mayor Castellanos cajoling together a grand coalition of anyone and everyone who had a claim on a piece of the action. Together they would apportion power and spoils uncontroversially and multipartisanly. But this time Fulgencio Batista, one of the primary contenders, didn’t want to share.

Batista was a tragic figure. He was nicknamed “the Okie from Banes” (el guajiro de Banes) and “el negro” because of his modest education, lack of sophistication, and dark complexion. According to the scuttlebutt of the time, he was one of the last surviving mixed-blood, indigenous Carib Indians — noteworthy because the Spanish conquistadores had — unwittingly — almost annihilated Cuba’s entire aboriginal population. (Cuba was now European, African, or mulatto). Batista had only risen to the rank of sergeant when, in 1933, he stepped into history. That year, during the unrest that followed the overthrow of Gerardo Machado, who had become a dictator, he led a popular, behind-the-scenes, intra-army “Sergeants’ Coup” that wrested power from the commissioned officers and, in an absurd reversal of traditional chain-of-command logic, conferred power unto the lower noncommissioned ranks — the sergeants themselves.

Prior to the coup, the army had been kept out of politics through a spoils sharing program whereby politicians paid off the higher officer ranks to secure their loyalty. The sergeants wanted a fairer redistribution of the loot. After the insurgency, Batista turned the government’s loyalty-buying racket into an overt army-extortion racket that benefited all ranks. Now that he ruled the armed forces, he promoted himself first to colonel and later to general. Batista, in effect, yet behind the scenes, ruled Cuba for seven years. In 1940 he ran for president, won, and ruled more-or-less competently — competently according to the standards of the time, with economic development programs, infrastructure improvements, and health and education investments.

At the end of his term in 1944 he had become immeasurably rich, but his marriage was falling apart, his popularity was at an all-time low, and he still hadn’t been asked to join the exclusive Havana Country Club. More important, his party surprisingly lost the election. In the midst of a midlife crisis, the Okie from Banes divorced his wife of many years, married a young socialite, and fled to Florida, into self-imposed retirement to enjoy his wealth and new-found connubial bliss. In 1952, restless, ambitious and more popular than ever in his own mind, he returned to Cuba to contest the 1952 elections.

A gift of cowboy cap guns with holsters cheered me up, so I donned an Indian headdress and shot little girls at close range.

Nicolas Castellano’s coalition could easily have defeated Batista; but not one to quibble, the ex-sergeant launched a second military coup on March 10 and named himself president of Cuba once again. The coup cost Castellanos the mayoralty. More importantly, it was the casus belli that launched Fidel Castro on the road to the revolution that rules Cuba to this day.

On July 26, 1953, and just before our new, five-member family had moved to Havana, Fidel Castro — precipitately, unprepared, and with a handful of loose cannons (both literally and figuratively) — attacked the Moncada Army Barracks in the province of Oriente. Some of his contingent even traveled by public bus. They were quickly defeated and brutally rounded up. Most were shot on the spot. Castro escaped with his life only because he’d married into the family of one of Batista’s ministers. Imprisoned for life in Carcel Modelo on the Isle of Pines, he declared, “History will absolve me.”

Pop rented our first house in Havana to an American by the name of Phillips, whom my mother said was a CIA operative. Nani, my sister, recalls, “All I remember about the Phillips family is that there was a girl close in age to me who spoke very little Spanish and that one Easter they invited me over for an ‘Easter Egg’ hunt, a bizarre concept to me at the time, and even weirder because the eggs were NOT CANDY but REAL HARD BOILED EGGS! YUCK! These Americans are CRAZY!”

Pinpointing the identity of that Phillips is a hit-or-miss affair, based on a last name, the memory of a little girl’s playmate, and my dead mother’s off-hand remark made years ago. Luckily, a David Atlee Phillips, CIA operative in Havana at the same time, wrote a memoir, The Night Watch, with many details that can be cross-checked against our meager bits. If Pop’s renter isn’t David Atlee Phillips, the coincidences verge on the miraculous.

Our new house at 130, Calle 36, was located on what, arguably, was Havana’s highest terrain. All the land around it sloped down. No wonder it was called Alturas del Vedado (Vedado Heights). It had all the amenities one might expect from the residence of the second most powerful man in Cuba.

Along with four bedrooms and bathrooms (all with bidets), one of which, the master suite, had a large adjacent makeup room lined with mirrors on every wall, the house boasted the following: a banquet-sized dining room (also lined with mirrors); a spiral terrazzo staircase leading upstairs from a grand entry foyer; four living rooms, one upstairs, and one with a six-foot aquarium; a small upstairs kitchen; a large office; a main kitchen with a built-in breakfast counter island, which could sit 12 people; and a built-in, industrial, 6-door, stainless steel refrigerator with an additional 2 doors facing the opposite room — a bar with curved counter adjacent to a patio; a multi-car garage with chauffer’s quarters; an attached L with maid’s, cook’s, and tata’s quarters; and, finally, a small, triangular chemistry lab, one which I soon put to good use with a 1950s-vintage, definitely-not-child-safe, riddled-with-warnings, skulls-and-crossbones chemistry set. Not good enough for pop, he immediately added a swimming pool with adjacent shower and changing room next to the already existing wading pool.

And the grounds! Three large, fenced yards, each with a patio, thick with bougainvillea, hibiscus, and all sorts of flowering tropicals only adults could identify; a breadfruit tree, a mango tree, and a flamboyant tree, with its huge, distinctive seed pods, and overarching, protective canopy.

The breadfruit tree, next to the columpio, or swing set, was a disgusting botanical specimen. The breadfruit — large, flesh-colored, wrinkled bombs, like a fat old woman’s oversize breasts — would drop to the ground when overripe and plop open disgorging a viscous, off-white, vomit-like, foul-smelling interior. This was unimaginable as a food source but wonderful for mortifying my sister, whom I would try to push into the putrid glob. I had once tried to pick up a portion of a felled fruit, carefully holding it by its skin, to lob at her, but the glutinous mass had no integrity and I ended up covered in breadfruit glop.

I came to idolize our driver and, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, declared, “un negrito chusma del solar” — a black bum from the sticks.

Life in the new, big house — especially now that I was a bit older — was an opportunity of possibilities. Pop would, on occasion, read me to sleep. His staples were Zane Grey and Winnie the Pooh, about the only English I was exposed to, but one that paid a dividend. One of Pop’s business associates from the US would occasionally come to visit. He’d always bring his little daughter, Kathy, with him. For some strange reason — in spite of little boys’ general aversion to little girls — we took a shine to each other. Not more than six or seven years old, Kathy and I would seek nooks and closets to hide in and kiss. We were not overly concerned with being discovered — other objectives being more pressing at the time — except by my sister Nani, who would try to exploit the knowledge to tease me (to no avail).

We acquired a black Chrysler limousine with foldout middle seats, and a black chauffeur, Jesus, to match. And yes, it’s true, Cuban chauffeurs always had a great collection of dirty magazines. Jesus and I became buddies. For some unknown reason, I never saw the rest of the household staff associating with him. He and I would take to hanging out, talking about absolutely nothing of consequence. His strong and unaffected, easy Cuban Spanish entranced me. It flowed so unencumbered and atonal. All the Ds and Ss, and many of the Rs became slight aspirations, or vanished. The Vs and Bs became indistinguishable. Most GUs became Ws. All fricative and lingual obstacles somehow disappeared. Even the consonants seemed to slouch. I came to idolize him and, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, declared, “un negrito chusma del solar” — a black bum from the sticks.

One day, stuck in a traffic jam on the way to the Barnum & Bailey circus (a rarity in Havana), right at an intersection, a car in the cross street T-boned into our limousine, scaring us all to death. “Ay, Dios mio!” exclaimed Abuela. It was our very first car crash and proved to be the end of both the limousine and the chauffeur. Jesus, who knows why, was let go. I suspect Pop and Mina weren’t totally accustomed to being chauffeured people. Pop then bought, in quick succession I think, first a Cadillac, then a Ford Fairlane.

After only one year at La Salle, Pop and Mina transferred me to the St. Thomas Military Academy, another Catholic school. Since I was a little angel, I can only surmise their reasons for the transfer. For one, it was a partial boarding school, in that I left home at 7 AM and returned at 7 PM, was fed three meals a day, and showered. Additionally, it was an arrangement that had suited my brother John so well when he was in grade school, that he chose it willingly when he entered high school. Finally, Mina’s brothers, John and Robert, had both gone to military school. But they were scamps of the worst sort and needed discipline like a broken bone needs a cast. Looking like twins, they’d often cover for each other when one got into trouble.

St. Thomas was located outside the city, in the middle of manicured parade grounds, athletic fields, and open space, all surrounded by giant trees that blocked any outside view. Its focus was discipline, and it was instilled under many guises. Students were assigned a number; mine was 119. Woe betide him who forgot his number. Marching drills with rifles alternated with kickball played on a baseball diamond. Students wore starched white shirts with sharp grey and black uniforms topped by either a crushable garrison cap or a billed dress winter cap — and black patent leather shoes shined and buffed to perfection.

My father retired from AIC in 1955 because of failing health. It wasn’t just the malaria. He returned home one afternoon looking very serious. Mama told us not to disturb him; he’d been diagnosed with a heart condition, angina pectoris, and would henceforth have to take dynamite pills. I was incredulous that dynamite could be used as a medicine. He was also advised to give up smoking.

I watched Pop go into the living room farthest from the center of the house, sit down, and pull out his pack of unfiltered Pall Malls. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it with his Ronson pocket lighter, and took a big drag.

I didn’t understand.

“He’s enjoying his last smoke,” my mother whispered. After he was done, he got up, threw the remainder of the pack away, and became his old, cheerful self. He never smoked again. It was a lesson in self-discipline I never forgot.

Pop was only 57 when he retired from AIC, but he was full of dreams still unfulfilled. Politically he was a moderate social democrat. He was one of those extremely successful capitalists with a strong sense of noblesse oblige — he wanted to do good while doing well. So he introduced the 1950s version of the Model-T Ford to Cuba: the Volkswagen bug.

VW’s first Latin American foray had been in Brazil, where the bug became very popular. Pop’s Autos Volkwagen de Cuba S.A. building, a combination showroom and mechanical plant, was outside Havana, near Rancho Boyeros, the airport (now Jose Marti), and Mazorra, the insane asylum. Pop was proud of his new venture and took us all to tour it. In the spirit of things, he sold our Ford Fairlane and brought home a red and white VW microbus. Such a strange-looking contraption! And so much fun! We loved to ride around in it. In no time he had orders from tour companies who wanted to use the multi-seated vans — with sun roofs — for sight-seeing groups. Even Fidel Castro got to test-drive one of these new “People’s Car."

Pop wanted to do good while doing well. So he introduced the 1950s version of the Model-T Ford to Cuba: the Volkswagen bug.

Early after the triumph of the Revolution, before the sugar cane curtain descended, before the endless rationing queues and shortages taught Cubans the lost virtue of patience, before the busybodies of the neighborhood Committees for the Defense of the Revolution killed all spontaneity and much of the nation’s humor, before physical and moral despair enveloped the island, while he was still popular, even idolized, Fidel Castro liked to appear in public unpredictably, followed — of course — by his retinue of guards. It wasn’t just vanity; he wanted to keep his finger on the pulse of the progress of the Revolution.

Dropping into a restaurant, he struck up a conversation with a pretty girl nicknamed Kika. One thing led to another, and he ended up going home with her in her VW bug, surrounded by his caravan of vehicles full of guards.

“You’re a very good driver,” Fidel told her, but added that the Bug was uncomfortable for anyone over six feet tall. The primus inter pares was too big for a proletarian car. Nonetheless, he was impressed. In the famous speech he delivered in March 1959, the one during which a white dove alighted on his shoulder, Fidel promised every Cuban a Volkswagen Beetle. Whether this would have been a windfall or a disaster — windfall if Castro bought the cars, disaster if he confiscated them for distribution — Pop’s reaction to Castro’s pledge went unrecorded.

But to return to the age before Castro: Batista, to improve his poll ratings, decided to amnesty all political prisoners. On May 15, 1955 Castro was released. In June he flew to Mexico to lick his wounds, reorganize, and plan an invasion of Cuba. One year later, on November 24, 1956, he sailed for Cuba with 82 men aboard the critically overloaded yacht Gramma.A week later they landed on the southwest coast of Cuba. Only a dozen survived or evaded capture. Those 12 men made their way into the Sierra Maestra mountains, regrouped, and rebuilt a force that would soon become a minor thorn in the government’s side. That thorn slowly infected and spread sickness to the entire island.

But I wasn’t aware of any of that. I was now old enough for my first communion, a Catholic ritual that marked entry into the age of reason, when a child was old enough to cope with the mystery of transubstantiation and understand that the bread and wine ingested at communion were the body and blood of Christ — literally. It would be many years later that, as an anthropologist, I would interpret communion as ritualized, symbolic cannibalism, a practice shared by many religions. But for now, I was torn by conflicting emotions.

Wine! I’d get to drink wine! At dinner, Pop already let me sip his Hatuey beer, a bottle of which always accompanied his meal. I was ambivalent about its taste, mostly just wanting to imitate and bond with my father. But wine! That was some real grownup stuff.

On the other hand, I was filled with foreboding at the gravity of the holy sacrament and my responsibility to do my best in the eyes of God. Unfortunately, this required participation in another sacrament: confession. I’d been taught that, when confessing one’s sins to a priest, two things were essential: full disclosure and full contrition. It was never easy for me, especially if I thought the priest knew me. I didn’t mind God knowing my sins, but another person? Especially one who was my teacher at St. Thomas Military Academy, where the event would take place? It seemed an undignified violation of one’s sovereignty, but one which I soldiered up to . . .

. . . Until I came up with a brilliant idea for my confirmation a year or two later, an idea somehow, no doubt, inherited from Pop’s affinity for accountancy.

I didn’t mind God knowing my sins, but another person? Especially one who was my teacher at St. Thomas Military Academy?

Confirmation, a rite-of-passage meant to ratify and seal the Catholic faith in the recipient, is an acknowledgement of the child’s doctrinal maturity. I was going to become a foot soldier of Christ, and I took my prospective responsibilities very seriously, especially since the sacrament was going to be administered by a bishop, my first ever contact with a Prince of the Church. The ceremony took place at our parish church, Our Lady of Perpetual Help of the Redemptorial Fathers.

For that confession, instead of divulging every sordid detail, I’d tally the number of violations against each commandment and present the results as if they were on a ledger: “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” I’d begin, followed by:

1st Commandment: no sins
2nd Commandment: no sins
3rd Commandment: no sins
4th Commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother”: no sins

(Had I known that Catholic doctrine includes, by extension, siblings, a confession of these transgressions would have been in the double, perhaps triple digits.)

5th Commandment: no sins
6th Commandment (“Thou shalt not commit fornication”): 20 sins
7th Commandment: no sins
8th Commandment: no sins
9th Commandment: no sins
10th Commandment: 2 sins

(Not being able to distinguish between greed, envy, and admiration, I always admitted to a couple of sins in this category, just to be sure I covered all my bases.)

Notice the 6th Commandment.

* * *

Life was perfect. It was a timeless time, a time to explore life. The hands-off parenting really suited me. No rules were imposed other than being home for dinner on time, never lying or stealing, and getting As in school. I had the run of the neighborhood, and it was the perfect neighborhood for a kid to have the run of. Four parallel dead-end streets, accessed from a marginal avenue with little traffic, butted up to a tributary barranca of the Almendares River. A continuous concrete wall, doubled at the street ends with a concrete barrier, separated the 200-foot precipice from the homes, empty lots, and dead-end streets atop the highest ground in the city, Alturas del Vedado. Kids didn’t stray far. All the routes on the other three sides out of the neighborhood led downhill and into congestion.

Three blocks away stood the Parque Zoologico — the zoo, actually the zoo park, because it wasn’t just a zoo; it included large playgrounds with swing sets, slides, and sandy play areas. Carmen, our tata, would often take us there to pass the time. Those times always included the awkward experience of “making friends” — meeting up with kids you didn’t know, or barely knew; kids you hadn’t been introduced to; little strangers whom you didn’t know whether you wanted to know at all; little kid bodies that hid cruel little bullies inside that were impossible to escape from once engaged; but whom, if you didn’t make some sort of connection with, you’d be stuck playing with your sister or, even worse, stuck playing with your sister and the little girls she’d managed to befriend. Anyway you looked at it, it was pure hell for a shy, private little boy.

A giant entry moat full of fat, catatonic crocodiles guarded the park entrance. We’d throw kilos — pennies — onto their hides to get them to stir. None ever did. One could roughly estimate a croc’s last move from the number of pennies on its back. Once we spied one so laden that the kilos added up to near a peso, so we alerted the keeper that he was dead. The keeper laughed, saying that that giant was particularly lazy.

Zoo visits were always a treat, in spite of the disconcerting social scene. The roasted peanuts vendor sold a hot, paper cone-full for un medio — a nickel. Once, when Pop took me there, he stopped at a roadside cafecito stand for a sweet Cuban espresso on our way back home. The attendant eyed me to see if the order was for two. I looked at Pop silently asking if it would be all right if I had a demitasse. He ignored the silly question. Today we were two men, sharing a drink. Though my siblings and I, seven-, six-, and three-year-old children, already drank café con leche for breakfast, it was my first shot of 100-proof Cuban espresso. We each had two.

A giant entry moat full of fat, catatonic crocodiles guarded the park entrance.

Coca Cola was popular in Cuba at the time as it was in the US, a staple of Cuba Libres — rum and cokes — but kids gravitated toward Malta, a thick, rich, very sweet, carbonated malt soft drink — somewhat like a Guinness without the alcohol and lots of sugar — or Ironbeer, a soft drink still very popular in Latin America. Coke was, however, reserved as a special treat when mixed with condensed milk — a nectar imbibed only at home or when one was a guest.

After the US embargo was instituted and Coke was no longer available, the Cuban government created TuKola, bottled and sold by the Cerveceria Bucanero. Someone ought to have been investigated for subversion, or an excessive sense of humor. Tu cola means, literally, your tail, or more accurately, your butt. Because of the Cuban obsession with glutei, it has become an endless source of catcalls, innuendos, and, now, very old jokes.

A cast of colorful characters plied their trades on our streets, either with horse-drawn carts or pushcarts. “Granizado, granizado!” The shaved ice vendor would clarion. He was my favorite, followed by the ice cream man. Un medio, a nickel, was always forthcoming from Abuela, and would buy anything I wanted. We ignored the tamale man, Cuban tamales being somewhat bland, with the pork chunks mixed in with the corn meal.

Early in the morning — earlier than I was usually up — the bread vendor would come by. Little Patsy’s preferred breakfast was a fresh roll smothered in olive oil accompanied by café con leche, hot milk and coffee in equal amounts, with lots of sugar. Nani and I, introduced to scrambled eggs, wouldn’t eat them without ketchup (a condiment we also liberally poured on black beans and rice).

The produce cart appeared in mid-morning, with mostly local goods: “Malanga! Boniato! Mamey! Mango! Guanabana! Frutabomba! Yuca! Platanos verdes y maduros! Piña! Kimbombo!” The vendor would shout, never missing an item. Sometimes I’d accompany the cook out to the cart to watch the transaction and help carry the produce in.

I remember the lottery vendor, a staple of the Cuban street scene, appearing at our back door only once. He never returned. Either the gambling bug hadn’t hit our household staff, or he was asked not to come back.

During mosquito season, a fumigating jeep plied the neighborhood roads, fogging entire blocks with the sweet-smelling DDT. I was fascinated by the process, knowing that the fog was poisonous, yet widely and regularly used. At night, we slept under white mosquito nets, made bearable when the new, window-model air conditioners were installed.

The local cop, a pasty-faced, pudgy cherub with the ubiquitous pencil-thin mustache, made no enemies, but he kept a sharp eye on the neighborhood. He once picked me up after dark — I must have been nine years old — during that fateful week in 1958 between Christmas and New Year’s when Batista had fled Cuba but the rebels hadn’t yet reached Havana. For those few days Cuba had no government, and it wasn’t a good time to wander the streets after dark with a gun to make you a target.

During mosquito season, a fumigating jeep plied the neighborhood roads, fogging entire blocks with the sweet-smelling DDT.

But not everyone on the streets was, to me, a welcome sight. Gerardito was my neighborhood bête noir. A bit older than I was, he always approached with a wry smile — a conman’s smile — and engaged me with some line or other until he could trip me up. Then he’d pounce. The first time he tried talking me into tasting an habanero pepper right off the vine, saying it was delicious. Since Cubans don’t eat and are not familiar with chilies — the cuisine being more Spanish than Mexican — and at eight years of age I wasn’t a fan of raw vegetables, I didn’t bite. When he became pushily insistent and wouldn’t take a bite himself, I suspected something was up. Finally, he grabbed a pepper and squished it all over my face, concentrating on my mouth and eyes.

He didn’t laugh. He just watched me scream and run away. Secure bullies simply enjoy the quiet satisfaction of success.

The next time I saw him, he had a broomstick in his hand. One end was whittled to a dull point. I immediately ran away. But being bigger and older, he caught up with me. As I struggled to escape, he rammed the stick into my right nipple, repeating, “See what happens when you run away from me?”

The injury soon festered and grew so large that Mina called our doctor. Dr. Ferrara came right away, diagnosed a cyst, and declared it had to be removed in a hospital. It was my first operation with full anesthesia. Years later, in American schools, I’d be asked why I had only half a nipple. “I was caught up in a street fight in Cuba during the Revolution,” I’d respond.

Later, after the Revolution had triumphed, Gerardito adjusted well. He was the only kid we knew with an electric toy car, one you could actually ride in. Carnival, at the beginning of Lent, was a big affair — as it still is in New Orleans and Brazil. In Cuba, where ancestral Spanish ties were still strong, clubs and associations based on the region of Spain from which one’s family hailed — Asturias, Valencia, etc. — would sponsor Carnival floats, marching bands, bagpipers, commercial displays, dance troupes, and just about any homegrown spectacle that would instill pride and provide delight. Children would dress up in regional Iberian costumes, complete with mantillas, castanets, and painted-on mustaches.

In 1959, Gerardito broke with tradition. Riding solitary between floats in his little electric car, he’d dressed up as Castro, with a fake white dove of peace attached to his epaulet, and a vain, arrogant smirk on his face. Fidel wouldn’t have objected.

For those few days Cuba had no government, and it wasn’t a good time to wander the streets after dark with a gun to make you a target.

Our household staff managed to be more inconspicuous yet more informal than most servants in more temperate climes. Carmen, Nana’s and my tata, was thin as a sugarcane stalk, dark haired, and with a face lined by country living that did not reveal her age. She was very relaxed but serious. After Pop, Mina, and we kids left the country, our house became the property of “The People.” It was deemed too large for Abuela, the single resident — according to the new regime’s housing laws. So our grandmother invited Carmen and her entire family to move in. They did, and were allowed to remain. Carmen sent us letters every month or two, keeping us informed on the condition of Abuela and the house.

When January of 1958 dawned, it only hinted at what the future held for the island. The previous year had been pretty uneventful, except in two important respects.

Throughout 1957, Fidel Castro’s 12 men — reduced to nine soon after landing — had managed to entrench themselves in the Sierra Maestra mountains in Oriente Province, on the western extremity of Cuba’s easternmost province, grow to a respectable force, and even win a few skirmishes. But they had gained little ground.

They were lucky. Batista had been tipped off about the landing and had sent the army and air force to welcome them. With a casualty rate of 73 men out of 82, armed forces commanders were convinced that the invaders had been neutralized. They radioed headquarters that Castro and his men had been annihilated. As far as the government was concerned, no follow-up action was required, and Castro was left alone to reorganize.

Two weeks later, Herbert L. Matthews of the New York Times made his way into the Sierra Maestra and interviewed Castro in his redoubt. The interview and storybrought Fidel Castro to the attention of the world with both print inchage and television footage. It was the moment when Castro stepped onto the world stage — and into people’s hearts and imaginations. Matthews portrayed the bearded rebel as serious, humble, honest, and idealistic, a role Fidel fitted — or played — to a tee.

Still, various attempts at widening the struggle had failed. The next year, however, was another story.

On January 31, 1958, an expeditionary force of 16 men and one woman, with a large quantity of arms, left Miami in a small yacht, the Thor II. They landed near Nuevitas, in Camagüey province, in the middle of the island, where Cuba’s northernmost coast protrudes up like a dowager’s hump. They broke up into smaller units and, with the aid of supporters and new recruits, began the arduous, 120-mile march into the Escambray mountains, due south, near the southern coast of the island. Along the way they engaged two army units, one by ambush.

Under the joint command of Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo, a Spaniard whose family were Republican veterans of the Spanish Civil War, and William Morgan, an idealistic American soldier of fortune, the men reached their new base of operations in the mountains within a few weeks. At the end of February they published their Escambray Manifesto, laying out the objectives of their movement.

A second front, completely independent of Castro and his July 26 Movement — but with common cause — was now established.

Aqui, Radio Rebelde, la voz de la Sierra Maestra!” The voice of the Revolution, set up by Che Guevara, began broadcasting in February. Between 5 pm and 9 pm, all of Cuba listened in to the daily battle accounts and Fidel’s speeches. Rumors that anyone listening would be arrested and tortured dissuaded no one, and only titillated audiences. Listening in made everyone feel like a participant in the Revolution; it made people feel that they were getting away with something — a hard-to-resist guilty pleasure.

We didn’t need Radio Rebelde to tell us about the bold incursion of M26 — as Castro’s rebel movement was known — into central Havana that February. It was all over the news. Two men had gone into the Lincoln Hotel and kidnapped Juan Manuel Fangio, the Argentine Formula One world champion racecar driver. Although semi-retired, he was in Cuba for the island’s Grand Prix. Fangio had dominated the first decade of Formula One racing,winning the World Drivers' Championship five times, thus making a record that stood for 47 years. To the boys at St. Thomas, he was a big celebrity, and it was all we could talk about.

It was the moment when Castro stepped onto the world stage — and into people’s hearts and imaginations.

The kidnapping was meant to embarrass the Batista regime by canceling the Cuba Grand Prix. But Batista insisted that the event go on. Police set up roadblocks and checkpoints everywhere, but Fangio could not be found. The rebels treated him well, installing him in comfortable quarters and allowing him to monitor the race on the radio. They tried to win him over to their revolutionary plans, with very limited success, since the Argentine was apolitical. After 29 hours Fangio was released, after forging friendships with the young idealists.

The publicity stunt was a great success. Fidel Castro and the July 26 Movement were on everyone’s lips — and not just as a distant guerrilla effort. The kidnappers were never found, adding to a growing perception of the regime’s incompetence. Public opinion sensed that Batista was losing his grip on power.

In March, Fidel Castro took another big gamble: he divided his forces and started another front in Oriente. Raul Castro, with a force of 60 men, marched east of the Sierra Maestra to the Sierra Cristal on Oriente’s north coast, opening up the Frank Pais — a third front — in the war against Batista. The revolution was morphing into a real war.




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Credibility vs. Credulity

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Climate catastrophists are distraught. The planet is headed for hellish doom, and few of its inhabitants care enough to alter its climatological trajectory in any meaningful way. The world has ignored catastrophist demands to decarbonize its economies, and rich countries, who have caused catastrophic anthropogenic global warming (CAGW), are not doing enough to help poor countries, who are its victims. Worse yet, the climate cult is crumbling, as its science-challenged leaders struggle to wage a crusade whose viability depends on propping up a scientific hypothesis that cannot stand on its own.

Catastrophist leaders have been unable to make a convincing scientific case for CAGW, or for the solution that they propose to avert it. Decades of advancing their scientific arguments (based on, e.g., flawed climate models, blatant manipulation of climate temperature data, shrill pronouncements of unsubstantiated alarms, followed by shriller, more frequent pronouncements of unsubstantiated alarms) have failed to win public support. So have vigorous attempts to appropriate scientific authority, coerce scientific consensus, and quash scientific debate. Their most ambitious intellectual efforts (incessant ridicule of skeptics, unrelenting vilification of dissenting scientists, and threats to imprison fossil fuel company CEOs, "climate deceivers," "doubt-sowers," and others) have attracted few converts.

According to catastrophist lore, America is the problem. Americans, catastrophists say, are in denial about the coming devastation and the science that predicts it. We dismiss the ominous tweets of President Obama (e.g., "Ninety-seven percent of scientists agree: #climatechange is real, man-made and dangerous"). We chuckle when John Kerry likens global warming to weapons of mass destruction (WMDs), skeptics to Holocaust deniers, and alternative theories of climate change to the work of "shoddy scientists." We are blind to the self-evident truths of climate warming that catastrophists see, everywhere they look: storms, floods, droughts, fires, famines, terrorism, species extinction, heatwaves, cold snaps, allergies, and diarrhea, to name a few.

The climate cult is crumbling, as its science-challenged leaders struggle to wage a crusade whose viability depends on propping up a scientific hypothesis that cannot stand on its own.

America remains doubtful and oblivious. Just how stupid can we be, wonder alarmists? Bill Clinton thinks that such skepticism makes America look like "a joke." It's "almost like denying gravity," muses Joe Biden. Have Americans become even stupidersince Obamacare, which, according to Obamacare architect Jonathan Gruber, relied on "the stupidity of the American voter" for its passage?

Indeed, American ignorance is said to be behind the watered-down Paris climate change accord. Thought to be humanity's last best chance to avert otherwise certain climate disaster, the agreement was not legally binding and fell far short of catastrophist demands. Catastrophist leaders blamed the US Senate. Had that body been willing to ratify a treaty mandating US emissions reductions, then Messrs. Obama and Kerry would have been able to persuade the other 190 or so countries to mandate theirs.

The US Senate, of course, is controlled by Republicans, as is the House of Representatives. That is, the US Congress is controlled by Republicans, for whom climate change is not the most important issue of their time. Congressional Democrats, on the other hand, having been duly indoctrinated by climate science that was settled decades ago, believe that CAGW is the greatest threat to humanity. Unlike Democrats, Republicans do not understand that fossil fuel is the scourge of the planet, abetted by the industrialization, capitalism, and democracy that threaten its very existence. This misapprehension is typified by so-called Tea Party Republicans — "flat-earthers" that Obama has no time to meet with — and "climate deniers," whose ignorance of science, according to Kerry, disqualifies them from "high public office." Presumably they would have been qualified had they attended the kinds of high schools and colleges where, Kerry continued, he "learned that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and it does so 24 hours a day."

We are blind to the self-evident truths of climate warming that catastrophists see, everywhere they look: storms, floods, droughts, fires, famines, terrorism, species extinction, heatwaves, cold snaps, allergies, and diarrhea.

Which raises the question: in this intractable climate change battle, who are the actual idiots? Where is the evidence that the catastrophist elite is any smarter than the Americans, even the ordinary Americans, that it obsessively derides and belittles? Instead of asking why America is unwilling to buy their planet-saving scheme, catastrophists should ask why their leadership has been unable to sell it. Why is it that — armed with daily evidence of omnipresent climate damage, the pressure of world opinion, the unrelenting propaganda of stroppy environmentalism, the vociferous endorsement of celebrities and journalists, and the lofty, unified validation of the world's climate scientists — such luminaries as Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John Kerry, and Al Gore can't make the case? They are losing to the Koch brothers and 40 or so members of the Tea Party!

Part of the answer is that those leading the climate crusade know the least about science. Otherwise, they would be able to explain climate change issues (such as the ongoing warming pause, the elusive tropical hotspot, the pesky Medieval Warm Period, the perfervid climate models, and the profligate green technologies that are "unproven or even illusory") in a way that Americans could understand. Dr James Hansen, the father of global warming, laments Obama's inability to articulate his policies to the public. “He’s not particularly good at that," said a discouraged Hansen.

There has been no measurable global temperature increase for 18 years of uninterrupted, anthropogenic belching of record quantities of CO2 into the atmosphere. This is no small fissure in the CAGW theory; it is a gapping chasm that screams for resolution. Yet in May 2013, more than 15 years into the hiatus, as climate scientists frantically struggled to find an explanation of why the climate had not warmed as fast as everybody had anticipated five or ten years earlier, a clueless Obama asserted, "We also know that the climate is warming faster than anybody anticipated five or ten years ago." Three years later, still clutching a theory in need of serious modification, if not complete revision, he fatuously calls skeptics "deniers," as he remains in obstinate denial of the continuing warming pause.

After injecting over 100 billion tons of CO2 into the atmosphere since 1998 (one quarter of the amount that all humanity has spewed since 1750) with no temperature increase to show for it, one can understand how Americans, even ignorant Americans, would be skeptical of the CAGW hypothesis, and embarrassed by their president's habitual attribution of storms, floods, droughts, and terrorism to rising temperatures that have yet to occur.

Where is the evidence that the catastrophist elite is any smarter than the Americans, even the ordinary Americans, that it obsessively derides and belittles?

While they wait for the missing heat to appear, perhaps catastrophist leaders could use the time to explain the tropical hot spot (the signature of manmade warming, predicted by climate models). It too is missing — as is the rapidly melting Arctic ice predicted by Mr. Gore in his 2006 Academy Award winning documentary, An Inconvenient Truth. In accepting the Nobel Prize for his climate prediction abilities, Gore warned, "The North Polar ice cap is falling off a cliff," and "could be completely gone in summer" by 2013. But in May 2015, NASA reported that polar sea ice has been increasing, and is currently about 5% greater than the post-1979 average.

As an example of another precognitive gem, in his documentary, the doltish Gore proclaimed:

Humanity is sitting on a time bomb. If the vast majority of the world’s scientists are right, we have just ten years to avert a major catastrophe that could send our entire planet’s climate system into a tail-spin of epic destruction involving extreme weather, floods, droughts, epidemics and killer heat waves beyond anything we have ever experienced — a catastrophe of our own making.

With only months until the bomb is scheduled to go off, the vast majority of the world’s scientists are no doubt in denial about ever having belonged to Al's "vast majority" club. Gore has become a laughingstock, and his credibility as a climate forecaster has vanished in the eyes of most climate experts — except for the catastrophist elite, who, as the case for climate hysteria crumbles before their eyes, step up the hysteria.

To Obama, "the scientific consensus" that he cites in his delusional rantings extends to an endorsement of his policies. It does not. That there is scientific authority attached to his policies is the bilge of political dogma. Unfortunately, it is this bilge that Democrats grasp as scientific truth, angrily rejecting divergent ideas as anti-science — promulgated, of course, by fossil fuel company shills. Skeptics should be prosecuted under the RICO Act, and coal company CEOs should be jailed "for all of eternity," says Robert F Kennedy Jr. Such is the preferred catastrophist method of settling science.

The climate cult has hijacked climate science for political purposes. Its hysterical claims of future havoc are disingenuously designed to scare the world into believing that eco-socialism is earth's only hope for survival. But such claims are based on the projections of severely flawed climate models. Even the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) admits that “there remain significant errors in the model simulation of clouds." There is observational evidence that “water vapor feedback” used by models to amplify the warming effect of CO2 is offset by clouds. Moreover, a recent study of the earth's albedo (the fraction of incoming solar radiation reflected back into space) found that "climate models fail to reproduce the observed annual cycle in all components of the albedo with any realism" and that the inability to accurately quantify the reflection of sunlight by clouds is "one of the major obstacles in climate change predictions."

(Clouds and water vapor make up 95% of atmospheric greenhouse gases (GHG); CO2 comprises only 3.6%, of which only 0.117% is manmade. Catastrophists claim that this miniscule quantity will significantly raise the temperature of the entire planet.)

Even the Tea Party would agree that, through the greenhouse effect, some level of manmade warming is expected. But where is the evidence for significant warming? It's what the Global Climate Models (GCMs) tell us, catastrophist leaders insist. That is, we are being told that 0.117% of atmospheric GHGs drives our climate, and the information comes, not from scientifc observation, but from GCMs that are incapable of faithfully simulating 95% of atmospheric GHGs. We are also being told that, because we wonder about all this, we are knuckle-dragging morons who may need to go to jail.

There has been no measurable global temperature increase for 18 years of uninterrupted, anthropogenic belching of record quantities of CO2 into the atmosphere.

Climate cultists, in their reflexive attacks against those who question the authority of mystical climate models, demonstrate their own, and more fundamental, ignorance of science. As Thomas H. Huxley long ago noted, the true scientist "absolutely refuses to acknowledge authority . . . For him, skepticism is the highest of duties; blind faith the one unpardonable sin."

Yet blind faith is the price of admission to the cult. Skepticism must be checked at the door. In a study reported by the Huffington Post and Mother Jones, the Tea Party is ridiculed for its skepticism. "Tea Party Members Really, Really Don't Trust Scientists," scoffs the Mother Jones headline. Based on the study sample, Democrats are the most trusting, with 83% of them believing scientists on environmental issues. Independents are next, at 63%, followed by mainstream Republicans, at 60%. The Tea Party comes in last, at 28%.

Only 1% of Democrats distrust scientists, boasts the report, compared to 43% of the Tea Party crowd. That is, Democrats are incurious, credulous lemmings, and 43% of the Tea Party seem to have passed high school physics. This would explain why the Tea Party has a few questions for climate scientists (who, after more than 30 years and untold billions spent on climate research, can't make their case), and why almost all Democrats have no questions at all.

To be fair, what could climate change gurus be expected to know about climate science? They are lawyers. For all Mr. Obama knows, the Stefan-Boltzmann Law is a racist statute, surreptitiously enforced in the South. Harry Reid's total knowledge of global warming is that the Koch Brothers are behind it; they "own that ugly tar stuff in Canada." Harry probably thinks that a CO2 absorption band is an undergarment worn by Al Gore when being theatrically elevated by a pneumatic scissors lift, as he was in An Inconvenient Truth.

John Kerry's closest brush with science was the clean room "bunny suit" that he donned at the Kennedy Space Center (KSC) to promote his 2004 presidential campaign. It was an experiment that went awry: photographs of the event portrayed Kerry as a goofy ass; the Kerry campaign blamed NASA for leaking them to the media; NASA's General Council ordered the removal of all images of Kerry's KSC visit from all NASA websites. Some might consider the removal to be censorship, while others might view it as a scientific contribution — since the display of John Kerry in a bunny suit would have scared dozens of promising space camp kids away from pursuing a career in science.

Climate cultists, in their reflexive attacks against those who question the authority of mystical climate models, demonstrate their own ignorance of science.

Nowadays, as an international climate change star, Kerry imparts climate science wisdom to world leaders, urging them to exploit "the small window of time that we have left in order to be able to prevent the worst impacts of climate change from already happening." At home, when he is not pondering time-travel, Kerry advises the American public about "shoddy scientists" and "extreme ideologues" whom we should not allow "to compete with scientific fact" — fact such as the idea that climate change is the "most fearsome WMD," that Canadian tar sands are a "hydrogen bomb," and that "those who continue to make climate change a political fight put us all at risk," all notions plucked from the meditative, objective, non-ideological mind of John Kerry.

In reality, climate cult leaders are boisterous dilettantes who are distressingly ignorant of science, except for its shameless use as bunting for their political ambitions. Hillary Clinton, who has even less scientific credibility than Kerry, is suddenly, and furiously, following his "small window of time" advice — now that she is running for president. She cannot explain why she thinks that only manmade CO2 causes global warming, that only catastrophic warming will ensue, or that only solar panels and windmills can stop it, but to win the Democrat nomination, she promises to install a half-billion solar panels by 2027, enough, supposedly, to power every American home. Depending on the polls, the theatrics of Gore and Kerry would not be beneath her. With Obama blaming global warming for droughts, and Biden blaming it for forest fires, Clinton could start showing up at tornado sites, wearing a green pantsuit and a whirling, funnel-shaped hat, spinning in proportion to her feigned outrage.

In the Democrat debates, let's just hope that no one asks Mrs. Clinton about the tropical hotspot. She might reply, after a grating cackle, that it's a nightclub on a Caribbean island where Bill goes to sate his albedo. The enraged catastrophist elite would attack the moderator, accusing him of being a denier, a climate-deceiver. "Go to jail, oil company shill," would cry the big government shills. On the other hand, at a Democrat debate involving climate science, only 1% of the audience would doubt her answer. Where credulity reigns, dilettantes have credibility.




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Paul Ryan and the Extreme Populist Establishment

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When it comes to the Republican Party’s base, there isn’t “an establishment” — there are two. The Realistic Conservative Establishment (the RCE) consists of those in power (in the media and industry) who speak to and for those Republicans who embrace free market capitalism and limited government (the free movement of goods, labor and capital globally). The Extreme Populist Establishment (the EPE) consists of those in power who speak to and for those Republicans who embrace populist economics (opposition to free trade, to immigration across the board, and to companies moving operations abroad to avoid America’s corporate taxation and regulation).

The two establishments are fighting to get the Republican base to nominate their preferred candidates and pursue their preferred policies. The focus now is on the presidential primary, with the EPE generally supporting Donald Trump, with the backup position of Ted Cruz or Ben Carson. The RCE support is split among the remaining candidates (except Rand Paul, who is more the libertarian choice). But nowhere is the split between the two Republican establishments more clear than in their respective treatments of one of the unsung heroes of our time, House Speaker Paul Ryan.

You should measure the success of a negotiation not merely against what you get, but against what you get facing the opposition you have.

Ryan only recently took over after then-Speaker John Boehner resigned from a controversial tenure, a bitterly disappointing one to the populist base and the EPE. After weeks of turmoil, Ryan reluctantly agreed to become speaker. He met with deep skepticism by the EPE. Now Ryan has accomplished several things, and the EPE has attacked him furiously. As a classical liberal, I am angry at the short-sighted EPE commentators attacking what I perceive as major accomplishments.

Consider Ryan’s recently negotiated budget deal. EPE hero Rush Limbaugh was outraged at it, saying it gave Obama everything, and the conservatives nothing, and opining that “what has happened here is worse than betrayal.” Others echoed this sentiment. But I contend that the Ryan deal is in fact a good one, especially considering the fact that the Democrats still have the power to stop bills in the Senate and hold the White House. I mean, Earth to EPE pundits: you should measure the success of a negotiation not merely against what you get, but against what you get facing the opposition you have. Let’s look at some of the major provisions of the deal so condemned by the EPE.

First, Ryan secured about $700 billion in tax cuts — extending some useful deductions and making some (such as the R&D tax credit) permanent. Oh, and the tax cuts include greater expensing of small business costs, and renewable energy credits are phased out.

The second major victory the Ryan deal won was an increase of $573 billion in spending for defense, and another $163 billion for veterans’ programs. To those of us who have voted Republican as opposed to Libertarian all these years, this is huge. Realist conservatives and classical liberals view defense as the most important function of the federal government, and while the previous “sequester” deal did lower the deficit, it did so by cutting defense spending massively. Would I have preferred that this increase in defense spending not been accompanied by increases in spending for pet Democratic social programs? Sure, but defense spending has been held hostage by the Democrats, with the ransom being increased domestic spending; and that won’t change until there is a Republican in the White House. Concession on this issue was what it took to secure Obama’s signature on the compromise deal.

The third victory achieved by the deal escaped notice by the EPE commentators as much as by the mainstream media (the Progressive Liberal Establishment). The deal puts major restrictions on the highly politicized and deeply corrupt IRS. These restrictions include forbidding the use of personal email accounts for conducting IRS business (Lois Lerner’s cute little trick), as well as barring the targeting of nonprofits based upon their political or other ideological beliefs. This was a deeply satisfying victory for those of us who feel we have been politically targeted by the IRS.

This asinine prohibition was passed by a Democrat Congress and signed into law by a Republican president nearly 40 years ago, in the middle of the oil crisis.

Of course, if the Republicans can elect a president this year, I would push for that president to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate Lerner — along with the dozens of IRS creeps who worked with her to annihilate the Tea Party — for violations of the civil rights of taxpayers.

But the fourth victory is one that is a profound gamechanger. It will transform not just the American economy but the politico-economic order of the whole world. Again, this victory escaped the notice of the EPE pundits no less than the mainstream media. Ryan’s deal amazingly succeeds in repealing one of the most idiotic laws ever passed — the law prohibiting American oil companies from exporting domestically produced oil. This asinine prohibition was passed by a Democrat Congress and signed into law by a Republican president nearly 40 years ago, in the middle of the oil crisis. Really, how stupid is it to attempt to get the country’s oil companies to drill for more oil — by walling them off from the world market? The policy guaranteed that the major oil companies would focus on oil exploration abroad. So it sent more American jobs abroad, made us even more dependent on foreign oil, and sent vast billions of dollars out of the country, to enrich our enemies. The ill-considered law no doubt delayed our oil fracking revolution by decades. Ryan’s compromise not only suspends this law, but permanently repeals it.

The elimination of the export ban is massive. We can now compete head-to-head with the Middle Eastern and Latin American oil states, along with Russia. We can help Europe become completely free from dependence on Russian energy, thereby dramatically weakening Putin’s power to cause mischief. By keeping world prices low, we starve Putin of petro-dollars with which to build up his military. In fact, the continuing low price of oil has drained Russia’s reserve fund by 30%, and it is projected to be empty by the end of the year. We can become Asia’s number one supplier of fossil fuels, keeping our friends (Japan, Taiwan, and South Korea) close and our enemy (China) closer. Moreover, by selling them oil and natural gas, we can lower our trade deficit enormously. Finally, we can cut the Venezuelan socialist regime off at the knees.

Indeed, just a few days after the deal was signed, the first two tankers carrying American domestic crude for ports abroad. The first ship left Corpus Christi, Texas, bound for Trieste, Italy, loaded with oil drilled from the Eagle Ford Shale field by ConocoPhillips. The second ship left Houston carrying oil to Marseilles, France. The shipping should ramp up rapidly: the Corpus Christi terminal alone is capable of sending out 400,000 barrels a day (BPD) as is, and developments under way will boost that to 575,000 BPD in the near future. The CEO of ConocoPhillips suggests that the demand from foreigners for our oil will hit 2,000,000 BPD by 2020. If the price of oil recovers and moves into the $50 range, exportation should just explode. So much for “peak oil” and eternal dependence on the OPEC thieves.

We can now compete head-to-head with the Middle Eastern and Latin American oil states, along with Russia.

This is a success that was way beyond the dreams of us who believe that our fracking revolution will make us energy independent. But the only way to get anti-fossil-fuel Democrats in Congress and our global-warming-obsessed president to agree was to offer them all a lot of useless spending — such as renewing subsidies temporarily for unproductive forms of energy such as wind and solar power.

Of course, should the Republicans win the White House in 2016 and hold both chambers of Congress, these subsidies can be easily ended. But should the Democrats keep the presidency and take back the Senate — which they will surely do if Trump gets the nomination — it would be almost impossible for them to reinstitute the ban on exporting oil.

In fine, Ryan outfoxed the Democrats magisterially — amazing for someone who just stepped into the job.

What peeves the EPE commentators about the deal? Their stated objections are obviously weak. They complain that in the bill Ryan negotiated, ObamaCare was not eliminated, the taxes intended to pay for it (such as the steep tax on “Cadillac” health care plans) were deferred for two years, funding for Planned Parenthood was not ended, and the budget deficit increased. The replies are simple. If Ryan had put the elimination of ObamaCare in the bill, it would not have passed, or if it did, Obama would not have signed it.

Should the Democrats keep the presidency and take back the Senate — which they will surely do if Trump gets the nomination — it would be almost impossible for them to reinstitute the ban on exporting oil.

Ironically, soon after getting this bill done, the ever-clever Ryan was able to put through Congress bills repealing ObamaCare outright and ending funding of Planned Parenthood and place them on the desk of the president, who of course immediately vetoed them. Ryan thus kept his promise to force Democrats to vote publically on the issues, and put them on the desk of the president to veto. But for this, the long-time EPE pundit Lou Dobbs bashed Ryan, saying that getting those bills through Congress was mere theater.

What really angered the EPE crowd is that Ryan dared to cut a deal at all. The EPE crowd would rather be right than be president. And that’s the way they will continue to play it.




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Libertinism is Not Libertarianism

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During the past decade or so, liberty-lovers have picked up the fight for legalization of prostitution and drugs. This has often involved a good deal of context dropping and evasion of other issues.

When Stephen Harper lost the Canadian elections in 2015, some well-known libertarians celebrated, for they now anticipated complete legalization. But the biggest competency of the new prime minister, Justin Trudeau, is his looks and the dynasty he represents. He was voted into power primarily by those who lack self-responsibly and self-control and who want either a neverending hedonistic slugfest or mere free stuff, in what otherwise is one of the world’s so-called most educated and supposedly rational countries.

Trudeau lost no photo-ops when he greeted immigrants from Syria with open arms. Those for freedom of movement rejoiced, sometimes in nearly incredible terms. “The more [Syrian migrants] the better,” wrote one of the best known pro-liberty authors. Some antiwar libertarians, who want the US to end all entanglements in the Middle East, were also full of praise — and on this occasion, unconcerned about collateral civilian deaths — when Russia in a matter of days indiscriminately bombed parts of Syria to destroy rebel groups, including ISIS.

In a true, anti-statist, free society, prostitution and drug addiction would be tolerated, but very hesitatingly.

Some libertarians have taken it upon themselves to rebel against everything that Christianity, and in some cases other religions, stand for. Some encourage promiscuity and drunkenness — libertine behavior and trash-talk being the fast way for some women to rise in today’s “liberty” circles. If a woman works as a call-girl to pay for her education, this is a smart move, according to some in the liberty camp.

All of the above, particularly the pursuit of single-issue goals without thought of the larger ecology, is not a fight against the state and its tyranny but a fight against civilization and reason. Consequently it is, ironically, a fight against freedom and liberty, and must increase the size of the state.

In the past, such fights were the domain of the shallow, non-thinking, materialistic cult of the left, which plays on people’s unexamined emotions, particularly those related to the biological instincts of survival and procreation. But now cultural Marxism — and its mind-ossifying methodology of “argumentation” — has become so infused in society that many libertarians, especially anarchocapitalists, have come to see emotionally provocative, unexamined, single-issue goals as their own.

Prostitution and drugs

In a true, anti-statist, free society, prostitution and drug addiction would be tolerated, but very hesitatingly, because they present an inherent contradiction. Civilizations know that freedom comes from self-control and self-responsibility — not from giving in to impulses — and that certain conventions have evolved in societies around the world because they lead to an increase in human happiness and freedom. A free society would appreciate the fact that gluttonous sensuality is not a sign of freedom but an assertion of the anti-libertarian forces of unreason.

Liberty by its very construct must be founded on discipline, respect, self-control, and self-responsibility. Any society that lacks these virtues cannot be a free society, because its citizens will labor under a mental debility. Irrespective of the kind of written laws they have, their lack of necessary virtues will create a tyrannical state.

I dislike living in places where prostitution and drugs are rife. I have nothing personal against those who indulge in them. I have my own inner journey, and they have theirs. But I have nothing in common with them. I see virtually no channel of communication — nothing that connects us in values — open between us. Mostly we talk through each other, wasting everyone’s time.

Liberty by its very construct must be founded on discipline, respect, self-control, and self-responsibility. Any society that lacks these virtues cannot be a free society.

Those who watch too many James Bond movies, the adventures of Kim Kardashian, etc. — and even those who don’t — believe that promiscuity is a Western product and export. Quite to the contrary, it was European missionaries who found themselves horrified by the unrestrained promiscuity of most non-Western societies. This was one of the reasons they deemed the non-western societies uncivilized. Hence the widely used term “Victorian morality” — although people hardly imagine the historical implications of how this term came to exist, tending to use it only when they want to blame the English for sexual repression.

Contrary to popular belief, non-Western societies are very materialistic and impulsive, mostly because the concept of reason never got traction there. Women in vast parts of the world — in Africa, Latin America, tribal parts of India, and so on — are available merely for the asking. You see glimpses of this in the rest of Asia and Eastern Europe, too. Alas, in such sexually liberated places, women have a very low status and are treated like commodities. Also contrary to popular belief, such sexually liberated societies are no less prone to sexual crimes, for desire, when given a free rein, is a bottomless pit, offering the ever illusory elixir of happiness.

In the same vein, middle class children in India — particularly boys — are much indulged up to a certain age, precluding them from developing self-discipline in later years. Because they fail to develop inner faculties of self-control and self-responsibility, when they gain adulthood the only way to make them a productive part of the society and keep them out of crime is fear, abuse, and punishment. Such adults just cannot be an ingredient of a free society.

A libertine society is an oxymoron, for you can either have liberty or be a slave to your desires.

Even when the satisfaction of impulses does no direct harm, hedonism is eventually not satisfying. Any sophisticated society that has evolved culturally knows this instinctively. Any thinking person comes to the same conclusion. But today, hedonism (a supposed product of Western civilization) is being promoted as liberty in vast parts of the developing world. The consumption of bad, sugary food and every other kind of gluttony is increasing exponentially. Every year I return to a developing country, and it seems that waistlines there are increasing by an inch a year. Lifestyle diseases such as heart disorders and several kinds of cancer are placing forms of medicine that deal with their symptoms among the biggest growth sectors. Not too long in the future, these diseases may become the biggest crisis for humanity. Promiscuity — even where it was more restrained — is also rising exponentially.

The two religions of the desert — Christianity and Islam — train their citizens to control their desires, although the latter, having failed to underpin its beliefs with reason, still does it mostly through repression and indoctrination, leading to many other horrendous problems. But the point remains: in general, giving free reign to impulses and desires, and a culture of high time-preference, produces a lack of civilization and hence of liberty.

Drugs do destroy the mind and create chemical dependency. They make people lethargic and subliminally dependent on others. When unable to finance their habit, they take to theft, to public welfare, or, if they still retain some brains, to fraud. All these create enough cultural poison to bring in the police. A libertine society is an oxymoron, for you can either have liberty or be a slave to your desires.

Prostitution and drugs are not mere victimless crimes, as they are commonly — and rather simplistically — depicted by people who want to legalize them. For the sake of intellectual honesty, those who favor legalization (as I do) should recognize that when one increases the demand through legalization, the supply will also increase. And there is strong evidence that legalization of prostitution worsens the exploitation of women, through increased trafficking and inducements offered to gullible girls. These girls are then controlled through fear — a problem that those who grew up in happy families fail to recognize. The situation with drugs is not too dissimilar.

Immigration and religion

Then there are those who hinge their concept of a free society on unfettered immigration. They forget that while they constantly argue with people to convert them to free-thinking individuals, hoping to end up with legal structures in which liberties are respected as they were in the glorious past of the West, they also, in effect, are advocating the admission of millions of traumatized refugees, deeply indoctrinated in uncivilized and violent behavior. For such liberty-fighters with simplistic goals, culture is a blank slate on which anything can be written. But culture, alas, is virtually impossible to change, as those who want to impose institutional changes on the backward parts of the world have consistently discovered.

The compassion shown by Europeans and North Americans to recent migrants from Syria is heartwarming, and virtually unique on our planet. I have nothing against migrants. But an awareness of the fuller reality would provide some guidance about the extent to which they should be accommodated.

The evil of religion is another, single-goal target of certain libertarians. Here again, cultural context is lacking. Religions and traditions are the repository, in concentrated form, of thousands of years of our tacit knowledge and wisdom. Without the subliminal transmission of virtues and knowledge through customs and traditions, schooling — which is mostly devoid of the complexity of real life and can at best provide theoretical underpinnings — would take too long to educate people. The individual lifespan is too short. Formal education, by itself, is an extremely inefficient tool of real education. It almost completely fails to impart wisdom and sophisticated thinking. What the USSR and China created by partially destroying their cultures were minds that lacked frameworks to absorb understanding and wisdom. We need raw math and science — to provide theoretical underpinnings, a sort of objective glue — but they cannot by themselves impart wisdom. Tacit knowledge is much complex and fundamental.

Culture, alas, is virtually impossible to change, as those who want to impose institutional changes on the backward parts of the world have consistently discovered.

Contrary to their claims, many of the vociferous atheists I have known are actually devout believers in scientism — in the idea that anything that cannot be scientifically explained is not real. They believe they have perfect answers or they are very close to them. They fail to realize that despite 500 years of scientific progress our understanding of the world is miniscule in comparison to what is there to be explained. Then these believers in scientism think they are believers in reason, but reason is not final knowledge; it is a chisel, a tool to continue exploration for better and better knowledge, in full understanding that a perfect answer might, very possibly, never come. Indeed, reason has had to work continuously to chisel religions into shape. Most religions failed and became ossified. Christianity, as major religions stand today, is perhaps the only one that carries some capacity to evolve.

Most evolved people — and every such person I have known personally — had deep religious or spiritual experiences growing up, even if they became atheists later on. As an atheist, I do want religions to come out of their tribal instincts, but the reality is that the vast majority of humanity does not think, would not think, and would rather die than think. They need something to believe in. It had better be Jesus Christ or Buddha than Obama, the stupid-box, or Miss Universe. Those in the liberty movement who want religion to end — as I do — must ask themselves whether fighting against it would not result in worse problems. Destroying religions without offering something in return would produce a very bland, passionless, immoral world.

Many people, on both the Left and the Right, who have not examined what they want to fight for see an enemy and want to liquidate it. But if they don’t understand the ecology, the complex historical, social, and intellectual surroundings, they only create space for a more resistant and harmful enemy.

Several people I know voted for Trudeau in Canada because they were against what they regarded as Harper’s attempt to create a police state. Having voted that enemy out, they now realize that not only will Trudeau retain — except for some lip-service — most of the police-state elements of Harper’s regime, but he will greatly “assist” Canada in its degeneration to a socialistic, irrational, values-lacking society. Had my acquaintances understood the ecology, they might have more sensibly voted for Harper. I myself would have suggested abstention, to avoid legitimizing the state.

Fighting legitimizes the state

Would I want prostitution and drugs to be legalized? Yes. I certainly would not fight to keep prostitution and drug consumption illegal, because I do not want to interfere in other people’s lives. Moreover, the only way self-responsibility can be developed is by letting people experience the consequences of their actions. Those who are gullible will eventually be fooled by someone else anyway. But I see no reason to fight for legalization of prostitution and drugs, because I understand that my fight for liberty has many other issues to confront, and if those are not adequately dealt with, any legalization and resulting liberties will be transitory, fleeting, and illusory.

Destroying religions without offering something in return would produce a very bland, passionless, immoral world.

Similarly I would like complete freedom of travel and I won’t resist if this is enabled tomorrow, but given the many other issues involved, I abstain from a single-minded focus on fighting for free immigration. Most importantly, any fight for legalization validates the idea of the state, the most criminal of human institutions.

My fight is for self-responsibility and self-control, which are cornerstones of civilization and liberty. My fight belongs in the space of reason. In the real world, issues are much entangled with one another. In societies that lack inherent moral impulses (which is the case with virtually every society outside the West), my fight is to shake people’s souls to infuse in them the concept of reason. Even in the West, my fight is not just to end the welfare-warfare system but to stop the hemorrhaging of the concept of reason. Unless this is done, any single-goal fight will have illusory results. Most likely, indeed, it will make the situation worse.




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Asian Immigration and Trumpeterian Fabulism

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I have always viewed with disgust the pervasive anti-immigrant sentiment that has plagued this country for decades, and is now reaching a fever pitch. It is most on display in the Republican Party — as I, a long-time supporter of the party, am ashamed to say. You can see the nativist hatred in its full intensity by watching the followers of our latest populist demagogue Donald Trump — people I call “Trumpeters” — exhibit orgiastic glee when he tells them he will deport 11 million illegal aliens, together with any American-born children they may have.

Trump — a man in the populist mold of Huey Long and Father Coughlin — already promises he will set up a “deportation force” to enter the immigrants’ homes and arrest them en masse. Since the immigrants are all entitled to court hearings, a President Trump will have to set up internment camps to house the millions of arrested immigrants until they can be tried.

Trump’s immigrant-bashing is all the more outrageous when we remember that when Romney was running for president, Trump bashed him for suggesting that illegals “self-deport.” Trump has no compunction about the illegal immigrants’ children born here being included, advancing the unusual legal theory that the Constitution does not (as the 14th Amendment seems clearly to do) make the children of illegals born here legal citizens.

You can see nativist hatred in its full intensity by watching the followers of Donald Trump exhibit orgiastic glee when he tells them he will deport 11 million illegal aliens.

Trump has repeatedly promised us a “fabulous wall,” to be paid for — by the Mexicans themselves! All we will need in addition are fabulous concentration camps. This is fascism of a new kind — fabulous fascism. And we need a new word for it. Perhaps the Orwellian neologism “fabulism” best captures Trump’s political program.

Of course, as readers of this estimable journal know, I don’t think that this resurgent nativist tide is — as the mainstream media portrays it — solely a Republican phenomenon. We must remember that Obama himself, when he was a US Senator, play the key role in scuttling the Bush comprehensive reform plan; moreover, after winning the presidency and having near-dictatorial control of Congress, he refused to introduce any immigration plan, or even discuss the topic for two years. He started to feign interest in the issue only after the Republicans took back the House, and intensified his charade when they took back the Senate.

The reason is, as I have suggested, that two key components of the Democratic Party base are deeply anti-immigration: organized labor, and the African-American community. The former dislikes immigration because it fears that immigrants will lower native-born workers’ wages and compete for their jobs, and the latter fears not only competition for jobs but losing its status as the main victim group entitled to governmental support.

But the joke is on the nativists, because the most recent wave of immigration is in fact rescuing this country.

Demographers love the cliché, “demography is destiny,” no doubt in great part because it accentuates the importance of their profession. But there is a fair amount of truth to it. For this reason, the most recent Pew report on recent trends in American demographics is well worthy of comment.

This resurgent nativist tide is not solely a Republican phenomenon. We must remember that Obama himself scuttled the Bush comprehensive reform plan.

As most of the European and Asian countries face contracting populations, our population is slated to grow robustly. The Pew report projects (on the basis of the most recent US Census data) that the American population will grow by an estimated 36% over the next half-century, reaching 441 million in 2065. The main driver of this projected increase in population is immigration. The report notes that nearly nine out of ten of the additional 103 million people will be immigrants or the children of immigrants (both legal and illegal). In fact, the percentage of immigrants in America’s population will rise from the current 14% to an estimated 18%.

Being spared the baleful effects of demographic decline puts us in much better economic shape than virtually all of our trading partners — indeed, most of the world. Social scientist Joel Kotkin has recently explored the idea that most countries will be facing demographic implosion. He points out that half the world’s population is now living in countries that are at negative population growth and suggests that by 2050, 139 countries (representing three-fourths of the world’s population) will be at negative population growth. China is just the most recent country to face this problem — which is why it has now frantically reversed its “one-child” policy. (What a surprise: government planning that results in failure! Who could have imagined it?) China is facing the same problem as Japan, Korea, Singapore, and most of Europe: increasingly fewer workers to support the elderly population.

Japan in particular is the paradigm case of a country struggling with deep demographic distress. The current population of 127 million is predicted to shrink to 108 million by 2050 — at which time there would be three Japanese over 65 for every one under 15. By 2100, the U.N. projects that Japan’s population will shrivel to 84.5 million, while Japan’s National Institute of Population projects it will plummet to 60 million — less than half its present size.

Exceptional in the Asian context is India. India continues to experience population growth, and is predicted to overtake China to become the world’s most populous country in just seven years. India faces no labor shortage in the foreseeable future — its population is not expected to peak until about 2060.

Being spared the baleful effects of demographic decline puts us in much better economic shape than virtually all of our trading partners — indeed, most of the world.

Even more interesting information from the aforementioned Pew Report is that there has been an historic demographic shift in the pattern of American immigration. Up to the 1970s, most immigrants to the US came from Europe. Starting in the 1980s, and peaking in the 1990s, most immigrants hailed from Mexico (and elsewhere in Latin America). But since 2011, most immigrants have come from Asia.

Nearly two-thirds of Asian Americans today are foreign-born, compared to only 37% of Hispanic Americans. Asians are predicted to surpass Latinos as the biggest foreign-born group in four decades — at which point, if the predictions are accurate, a higher percentage of Americans will be Asian than Black.

As Asians increase their numbers in America’s population, they will increase the wealth and productivity of this nation. Why? Because more than any other ethnic group — whites included — they embrace traditional marriage and education. Consider first the rates of American children born out of wedlock. As of 2013, the statistics are stunning: 72% of Black children are born outside of marriage, 66% of American Indian children, 53% of Hispanic children, and 29% of white children. The figure for Asian children is only 17%.

Now consider educational attainment. Looking at American ethnic groups, the percentage of adults with a bachelor’s degree or higher in 2014 was: American Indian 5.6%, Hispanic 15.1%, black 22.4%, and whites 40.8%. Asians were at a whopping 60.8%.

Obviously, we should hope that the immigration of Asians only accelerates — the proliferation of scholars and entrepreneurs that would result would be of enormous economic and social benefit to all of us non-Asians.

Part of the reason for this historic shift is that the number of Asians seeking citizenship keeps rising steadily, in large part because Chinese and Indian students in American universities apply for citizenship upon graduation. Given the fact that most Asian countries — including China, but excluding India — are in demographic decline, we can expect that India will more and more be the supplier of our immigrants.

But another reason for the historic shift to Asian American immigration is the recent reversal of Mexican immigration. As a recent WSJ article reports, over the last five years, more Mexicans headed back to Mexico than moved here — 1,000,000 Mexicans decamped, compared to 870,000 coming in.

Trump’s fabulist fascism targets immigrants as a way to appeal to neurotic and psychotic voters who made bad personal life choices.

There are two major reasons why the flow of Mexican immigrants has reversed. First, over the past two decades, the Mexican birth rate has plummeted, and is now at about replacement level. But second, while the economic boom times from the 1980s until 2008 created lots of jobs for Mexican workers, the slow growth of jobs during the Obama “recovery,” along with the higher rate of growth in the Mexican economy, has drawn many Mexicans back home.

So Earth to Trump:

The Mexicans are already self-deporting, and the new wave of immigration is from Asia, not the Middle East.

And me to Trump:

I am a classical liberal, i.e., one who favors modern free market capitalism. This system, which involves the free movement of financial capital, products, and labor (human capital) across the world to find their most productive uses, isn’t just the right thing to do from the perspective of economic theory. During the modern era, and during the past half-century in particular, it has proven empirically to be the only force able to lift massive numbers of the absolute poor out of their misery — something that no other force (including religion) has ever been able to do. And this system is also morally superior because it allows the maximum amount of personal liberty: unless it threatens the security of the nation, every person should be free to invest his money where he believes it will give him the best return; unless it threatens the nation, every person should be free to buy products he finds it in his interest to buy, from anyone else on the planet; and unless it threatens the nation, every person should be free to employ anyone it is in his interest to employ.

Hence I hate interventionism (i.e., welfare statism), despise socialism, and loathe communism. But I both loathe and fear fascism. Forinterventionism, socialism, and communism are based on relatively weak psychological forces, to wit, envy of the rich and pity for the industrial working class. I say that these psychological forces are weak, first because the world is moving with increasing acceleration toward a global post-industrial (or more specifically, an epistemic) economy, with low-level factory work disappearing not just in America, but in every other industrialized economy (including China’s). So the appeal to pity for the proletariat is losing power, as the proletariat itself disappears. (Witness the precipitous decline in union membership in the private sector over the past half-century). And second, envy can always be countered by self-love: show an envious man that he, too, can become wealthy and the envy dissipates as “greed” (self-interest) grows.

But fascism — while it certainly does exploit envy of the rich and pity for the proles — appeals mainly to the love of one’s own tribe and the hatred of other tribes. Its power to pervert patriotism and intensify it by demonizing other groups is potent. Trump’s fabulism targets immigrants as a way to appeal to neurotic and psychotic voters who made bad personal life choices — failed to graduate from high school, had kids without first having jobs and husbands, got into drugs or booze too deeply, refused to work hard, whatever — and are profoundly unhappy. Trump, like all demagogues, is a master manipulator of pathological politics — the politics of projection of one’s own failures upon innocent people.

That is why Trump is to be feared, as well as despised.




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Take This Climate Deal — Please!

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On December 12, 2015, climateers the world over celebrated as a new climate change accord, known as "the Paris Agreement," was approved. It was the culmination of four grueling years of behind-the-scenes negotiations designed to save the planet from catastrophic anthropogenic global warming (CAGW). At the stroke of the gavel marking its acceptance, the more than 40,000 climate change diplomats from 195 countries erupted into cheers, ovations, high-fives, champagne toasts, tearful embraces, and, of course, rampant backpatting.

“This is truly a historic moment,” proclaimed United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-moon — the first "truly universal agreement on climate change." According to the New York Times, President Obama "strode triumphantly into the Cabinet Room of the White House to declare victory in his quest" for the ambitious deal. An ebullient John Kerry tweeted: "#COP21 agreement is the strongest, most ambitious global climate agreement ever negotiated." It is "the best chance to save the one planet we got," intoned Mr. Obama, perhaps too choked up for grammar. Or perhaps he noticed the Eiffel Tower illuminating the phrase "no Plan B," and the shuddering possibility that the deal — his vaunted legacy — could fall apart.

It is a progressive's dream: a profligate, utopian scheme that will fail, even if it achieves its goal.

Scaremongering climateers tell us that, unabated (i.e., absent the Paris climate change accord), mean global temperature will rise 3.7 °C by 2100, rendering earth uninhabitable. With the accord, the nations of the world pledge to reduce their greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions to levels intended to limit the rise to no more than 2.0 °C. But the decline in GHG emissions resulting from the Paris agreement is predicted to reduce the temperature rise by a vanishingly small 0.2 °C. That is, if the pledges of all 195 participating nations are carried out to a tee, including the expenditure of trillions of dollars on green technology, the mean global temperature will rise 3.5 °C by 2100, rendering earth uninhabitable.

While cameras inside the convention hall captured the joyous tears of climate diplomats as they celebrated fabricated success, they missed the angry tears of climate activists outside, as they rebuked the Paris agreement as an irresponsible, fraudulent charade, too diluted to be of any meaningful value. The soft-spoken Dr James Hansen, father of CAGW, referred to the deal as "a fake," "a fraud," "just worthless," and "just bullshit." But it will establish a colossal, intrusive UN climate bureaucracy that will haunt the world forever. It is a progressive's dream: a profligate, utopian scheme that will fail, even if it achieves its goal. Measured on a scale of maudlin self-congratulation (the auto-aggrandizometer), this is progressivism's finest achievement in central planning.

Although the agreement is not legally binding, climate change luminaries such as Obama, Kerry, and Ban Ki-moon assure us that the emission reduction goals will be met. Signatory nations must fulfill their pledge or face international ridicule through the agreement's clever "name-and-shame" mechanism. There is nothing like peer pressure to bring totalitarian police states such as China into compliance.

Similar pressure will be applied to support the Green Climate Fund — a coffer to be filled annually with $100 billion from rich nations for the purpose of cajoling poor nations into remaining poor.

Without the fund, none of the 130 nations of the developing world would have signed the agreement. With the fund — according to the delusions of progressives from the developed world — dictators, bureaucrats, and crony industrialists from impoverished countries will purchase exorbitantly expensive solar panels and windmills instead of extremely cheap coal, oil, and gas, and they will convince their citizenry that chronic disease and poverty can wait while 0.2 °C is shaved off the 2100 global temperature. (To the 1.3 billion people who have never experienced electricity, what's the rush?)

There is nothing like peer pressure to bring totalitarian police states such as China into compliance.

To ensure compliance, the Paris accord mandates that all nations shall report on their emissions reduction progress every five years — “a serious form of enforcement and compliance,” insists Mr. Kerry. Patting himself on the back, Kerry said that the voluntary pact (a 31-page cornucopia of vague commitment, toothless aspiration, and astounding deceit) would "prevent the worst most devastating consequences of climate change from ever happening." Who knows? With CAGW thought to be so solved, progressives may use the Paris agreement as a model to tackle other vexing problems, such as social injustice or income inequality. At this very moment, liberal thinktanks could be pondering the idea of bribing African or South Asian countries into pledging lower birth rates; or shaming Islamic terrorist organizations when their beheading reduction pledges are not met.

Returning to reality, the pledges of the landmark Paris accord (an agreement that will not work even if its pledges are met) will not be met — not even close. Rich countries will try; they will achieve some token, largely symbolic, degree of success. Poor countries won't bother; they have vastly more pressing challenges. No matter the size of the Green Climate Fund, the developing world will not be persuaded to replace cheap, reliable fossil fuels with expensive, unproven solar and wind technology — technologies that, after more than 30 years of development, still rely on subsidization for survival. These are also technologies that have become staggeringly more expensive after only five years of the enormous, unsubsidized strides in US fracking technology that have produced staggering declines in oil and gas prices. Oil prices, for example, which have been above $100 per barrel since 2011, have plummeted to below $40.

Media accounts credit Obama for the agreement's acceptance. They say that in pledging the US to draconian emission cuts, he leveraged the rest of the world to follow. But the US is in no position to make such a commitment, it is not legally bound to do so, and there is neither congressional nor popular support for it. Warned Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, “Before his international partners pop the champagne, they should remember that this is an unattainable deal based on a domestic energy plan that is likely illegal, that half the states have sued to halt, and that Congress has already voted to reject.”

This lack of enthusiasm is produced, in no small part, by the economic stagnation that has plagued the US economy from the day Obama took office. With unprecedented, and growing, national debt, declining net worth, and labor participation at its lowest since the Carter years, where will the money come from?

Dictators, bureaucrats, and crony industrialists from impoverished countries will convince their citizenry that chronic disease and poverty can wait while 0.2 °C is shaved off the 2100 global temperature.

Ironically, the most promising source of money is the energy bonanza that fracking has created — the very source of prosperity that progressives seek to ban, in their efforts to decarbonize the world's economies. Unleashing US energy production could swiftly stimulate the US economy, lift incomes and wages, expand the middle class, create new jobs, generate enormous tax revenues, and eradicate the debt. But with the 2016 election drawing near, Democrat candidate Hillary Clinton pledges to outdo Obama. She plans to build 500 million solar panels and promises that 33% of all US electricity will be generated from wind and solar by 2027. Not to be outpandered by Mrs. Clinton, rival candidate Bernie Sanders promises 80% by 2050; and Martin O’Malley promises 100%.

It is highly unlikely, however, that a beleaguered American public will allow a Democrat president to shutter its energy goldmine, thereby continuing economic stagnation. As to the prospect of a Republican president, McConnell says that Obama should not make "promises he can’t keep." Nor should he "take credit for an ‘agreement’ that is subject to being shredded in 13 months.”

The Paris deal has no chance of thwarting CAGW — if planet salvation was even an important consideration. For those who are astounded by Mr. Obama's claim of victory, or who are wondering how so much credit could be awarded for so little accomplished, his triumph has nothing to do with saving the planet. It is a purely political victory — one for which he does deserve credit, and the highest of praise from progressivism, considering the coming creation of the UN climate change behemoth.

It is this deceitful absurdity that has progressives doing cartwheels and patting themselves on the back. The agreement itself is irrelevant, serving only to set the stage for future global central planning. The four years taken to write it featured little more than a backroom search for language that would read like a treaty but would be watered down and rendered toothless enough to get 195 nations to sign it — of which, 130 had to be bribed with the Green Climate Fund. It is not legally binding; the emissions reduction pledges are voluntary and aspirational, enforced only by the palsied hand of a “name-and-shame” system of global peer pressure. As to contributions to the slush fund, rich countries are "strongly urged" to fulfill their commitments.

The watering down process persisted to the end, holding up the vote to adopt the agreement for two final hours. Fearing that the Obama administration might be required to seek Senate approval for a binding treaty, US diplomats insisted that the word "shall" be changed to "should" in a clause on meeting emissions targets. They might as well have found a place for "pretty please" or "just bullshit."




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The Religion of the Environmentalists

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The crazed environmentalism of the official class has recently been the subject of two articles in Liberty, which is highly appropriate: if those people won’t leave the subject alone, why should we? Here’s my own, smaller contribution.

I’m interested in the status of environmentalism as a religion. I agree with the libertarian and conservative consensus that it is. What makes me curious is the psychological component. What do the true believers in environmentalism get out of it, as a psychological reward?

The traditional religions offer many psychological rewards and motivations: a personal relationship with the God of the universe; the prospect of eternal life; the glory of religious art, music, and literature; pride in an ancient heritage; the calm assurance of truths understood by contemplation. These are rewards that environmentalism does not offer.

If you believe what they said, they were ready to shoot themselves over the possibility that George Bush would permit oil drilling in a tiny part of Alaska.

Environmentalism offers no hope of an eternal life; its concern is entirely with this world. It replaces God with material objects and forces that cannot speak and cannot help. While some adepts claim that nature puts them in a contemplative state in which they make actual discoveries of truth, the truths they learn are hard to identify. Their experience, as described, is indistinguishable from the one you get from eating a big dinner. As for art, music, and literature, the best that environmentalism seems to offer is the photography of pretty objects, and one can find that in any fashion magazine. There is no environmental music, and as for literature, if you think John Muir was a good writer, you might do well with any other old-fashioned sermonizer. The great literature of “nature” was the literature of the Romantic period, which was pre-environmentalist; it was a literature specifically concerned, not with the preservation of certain rocks and trees, but with the mind’s superiority over the natural world:

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
       And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
           Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
               Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
        A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the Dejection ode

When I try to find some grand tradition of environmentalist “literature,” I think of Samuel Butler’s parody in The Way of All Flesh (1903):

The first glimpse of Mont Blanc threw Mr Pontifex into a conventional ecstasy. “My feelings I cannot express. I gasped, yet hardly dared to breathe, as I viewed for the first time the monarch of the mountains. I seemed to fancy the genius seated on his stupendous throne far above his aspiring brethren and in his solitary might defying the universe. I was so overcome by my feelings that I was almost bereft of my faculties, and would not for worlds have spoken after my first exclamation till I found some relief in a gush of tears. With pain I tore myself from contemplating for the first time ‘at distance dimly seen’ (though I felt as if I had sent my soul and eyes after it), this sublime spectacle.”

Not only are many traditional rewards completely absent from the environmentalist’s psychological balance sheet, but many new debits have been added. One of them is panic fear. If you can believe the sources, environmentalists are convinced that the civilized world is about to be ended by “climate change,” that “unless all of us work together now,” a new dark age will descend upon humanity. On the local level, they are constantly being scared to death by some new “environmental threat.” What a way to live! If you believe what they said, they were ready to shoot themselves over the possibility that George Bush would permit oil drilling in a tiny part of Alaska that not one in ten thousand of them could have found on a map, that none of them would ever have visited, and that could not have affected any of their lives, even if a meteor had wiped it out. And now they’re looking, with fear and trembling, at a convocation of blowhards in Paris as the last, best chance to Save the World.

So what are the psychological rewards of the environmental religion? There must be some. I’ve thought of four.

1. An easily sustained self-righteousness. Members of traditional religions are famous for this quality. Jesus denounced the self-righteous religious teachers of his time, finding many of these “hypocrites” among people who were close to agreeing with him on doctrinal issues. But traditional religions usually make you jump through some hoops before you blossom forth as a scribe or Pharisee. To be a self-righteous Christian, you have to be baptized, make a financial pledge, show up at the charity bazaar . . . something. But an environmentalist can feel self-righteous about nothing more than voting Democrat, or intending to. The kindergarten teacher who scares the kids into thinking that if they don’t recycle all their garbage they’ll be killing the whales no doubt experiences one of the cheapest rushes of self-righteousness available on this planet.

There is no environmental music, and as for literature, if you think John Muir was a good writer, you might do well with any other old-fashioned sermonizer.

2. Freedom from moral control. Traditional religions have mechanisms to keep their members in line. That sounds pretty grim, and often it is, but imagine what would happen if they didn’t, if every believer got to express his self-righteousness in any way he wanted. But you don’t have to imagine anything; just look at the environmental movement. Is there anyone in the movement whose job is to say, “Wait a minute. You’re going too far. There’s such a thing as truth. It really isn’t true that ISIS was caused by climate change. And you know, when you remove a lane of heavily traveled road and turn it into a bike lane, you’re not doing any good for the environment. Not only are you hurting other people but you’re increasing emissions from the jammed up cars. So my advice is, stop it.” Have you ever encountered anyone like that — in the movement itself?

3. Membership in an exclusive group. When you notice that last month you depleted your bank account by $1,000, rather than the $2,000 you predicted, you naturally welcome that knowledge. “Whew!” you say. “That’s great! Next time, I’ll pay better attention to my math.” When you meet a nice elderly lady who spends one day a week working for her church’s charity mission, and she notices that the number of homeless people has greatly diminished, you’ll hear her say, “Thank you, Jesus! Something must be working!” But when you suggest to an environmentalist that the dire predictions of climate change, or whatever such people want to call it this month, may not be true, you know what the reaction will be. Your facts will be dismissed, your intelligence will be questioned, and if you persist in conveying the good news, that will be the last time you get a chance to do it.

Now, who would want to hear bad news? Only people for whom knowing the terrible truth provides membership in a group of superior minds, in a club of intrepid thinkers who know things that other people don’t, including things they don’t know because the things aren’t true. Millenarians are commonly of this type. If you try to show them that their prophecies of a dreadful end-time are not being fulfilled, they won’t feel happy and relieved; they will shun you with contempt. Membership in their exclusive group is purchased at the price of unquestioning belief, and for some people, this isn’t too high a price for the satisfaction it gives.

4. Aggression. Put satisfactions 1 through 3 together, and that’s what you get. The environmental religion is a refuge for people who enjoy feeling right in their own eyes, who value their membership in an allegedly superior group far more than the claims of truth, and who want to be free from normal ethical controls. When those conditions are satisfied, the pleasures of aggression can be indulged without limit.

Is there anyone in the environmental movement whose job is to say, “Wait a minute. You’re going too far. There’s such a thing as truth"?

The spirit of aggression is, of course, well manifested in the constant barrage of leaflets, “public service” announcements, museum displays, school curricula, political diatribes, and other means of insulting and degrading any human being who drops a Kleenex in the “non-recycle” bin. It is manifested in the gleeful fantasies of those religious visionaries who delight in imagining a not too distant future when deniers will find their cities sinking under the waves and their children screaming for relief from 130-degree temperatures.

And there are many Americans who, mild-mannered in the book club or the faculty lounge, derive great and sordid pleasure from damaging others’ lives and livelihoods. Do you think people would give their time and money agitating for laws against plastic bags or paper plates if they didn’t get a kick out of closing down some “polluter’s” business? Do you think they would fight, as California’s “environmental activists” have fought, to dump billions of gallons of water into the Pacific Ocean in order to “save” an ugly and useless fish, while demanding harsh penalties for humans who do not “save water”? Do you think the bureaucrats who take out two lanes of a busy street and turn them into bicycle paths feel anything but pleasure as they watch a thousand heathen motorists creeping through a traffic jam, while a solitary saint whizzes past them on a bike? Do you think anyone would do such things, if he weren’t enjoying his aggression against normal people?

Isabel Paterson observed that “there is a secular self-righteousness which borrows all the unbearable features of formalized piety with none of its graces.” When she made that remark, in 1932, she was thinking about some particularly unfortunate aspects of Victorian culture — about which, she noted, there were also many good things to say. But there aren’t any good things to say about environmentalism. And unlike the Victorians, it’s still around. In fact, it’s everywhere.




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Ayn Rand: Champion of the Working Class?

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In his libertarian manifesto For a New Liberty, Murray Rothbard accused Ayn Rand of being a pawn of corporate people profiting from the welfare state. As evidence that she was out of touch with reality, he cited her famous statement that the businessman is America’s most persecuted minority (Mises Institute edition [388], quoting Rand, “America’s Most Persecuted Minority: Big Business” [1962]; reprinted in Rand’s Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal).

Objectivism, to the extent that the general public knows anything about it, is often regarded as a rightwing position and can be seen as a boon to efforts to push libertarians into the hand of the Tea Party Right. While this belief is ignorant, the masses do not have a detailed and nuanced grasp of the details of libertarian doctrine, nor should we expect them to. Many people merely adopt a false and shallow impression that libertarians are some type of conservatives who are on the far Right, compared to moderate Republicans. Some left-libertarians, such as I, are very frustrated with the tendency of Objectivism to be classified in this way. The truth about Rand (like the truth about all things) is deeper and more surprising than a first impression would allow. Rand should not be considered a member of the Right. In several important ways, indeed, she resembled a populist leftist.

The middle-aged Rand, still fresh from her own experience of poverty, tended to respect working-class folk more than rich people.

To examine the sense in which she was, historically, a friend of the working class and an enemy of the conservative Right, several things come into focus. First, let us consider Rand herself. She was a working-class woman, and quite poor during much of her adult life. It was only with the sale of the movie rights to The Fountainhead, when she was almost 40 years old, that she achieved significant self-made wealth, which was to last and grow for the rest of her life. To say, then, that Ayn Rand hated the working class and loved the rich would be to assume that she hated herself for many years — something absurdly contrary to her fundamentally self-loving and perhaps narcissistic personality.

Second, Rand always had a particular affinity for working-class people who want to earn their wages instead of relying on the welfare state. For example, Rand pushed to have The Fountainhead movie premiere in a working-class area, saying that she knew her “real audience” was there (Barbara Branden, The Passion of Ayn Rand, Anchor Books edition, 212). When the audience in working-class Southern California applauded the movie at its premier, Rand said, “That’s why I like the common man.” The middle-aged Rand, still fresh from her own experience of poverty, tended to respect working-class folk more than rich people.

Third, and perhaps most obvious and also most extremely inconvenient for rightwing libertarians, is the conservative movement’s frequent hatred of Rand, and her counterattacks against that movement during the 1960s. Any disciple of Rand knows what the hateful, anti-Randian sentence “To a gas chamber, go!” means and embodies; for those who don’t, a more extensive knowledge of the history of the libertarian movement is required (for which I recommend Brian Doherty’s Radicals for Capitalism, one of the best works on the subject). Rand’s hatred of conservatives is undeniable. The title of her essay “Conservatism: An Obituary” (1962, reprinted in Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal) is self-explanatory. If one goes beyond the title to read the text, one sees that Rand held nothing back. She was full of anger. She once said that liberals seek to enslave the body and conservatives seek to enslave the mind, both conceding freedom to that part of human existence which they care about least. This comment is hardly flattering to the Right.

Fourth, and finally, consider Rand’s signature novels themselves. Of course, all her fans have read them, but few have read carefully. In The Fountainhead, Gale Wynand gets rich by pandering to the stupid masses in his newspapers. In Atlas Shrugged, James Taggart, the major villain, is, among many other things, a rich white male businessman who inherited vast wealth and is the CEO of a major railroad. Is this a character created to praise the rich, a character that rich people should love?

Rand would have seen the working class as a place where many potential John Galts exist.

Or did Rand seek to praise productivity and intellect, not the rich as such? Compare James Taggart to his sister Dagny, a hero of the novel. Dagny is a woman who actually runs, not simply pretends to run, a great railroad. Her role in the novel makes it years ahead of its time in terms of gender equality. Let us not forget that Rand was a woman, and, as such, a living embodiment of the freedom of women to pursue careers, a freedom by no means certain for most women in America during Rand’s lifetime. Most people would regard progressive feminism as a leftist element in Rand. The creator of Galt’s Gulch, the Utopia in Atlas Shrugged, is fairly prosperous in the Gulch itself, but in “our world” he is a mere day laborer who lives in poverty — and that’s where he lives during most of the book. It is easy to connect the dots and assume that Rand would have seen the working class as a place where many potential John Galts exist. One of the basic messages of the novel is that our world would condemn all such people to a meager existence.

Murray Rothbard despised the big business Right (at least before his “paleolibertarian” phase); I believe that Rand did as well. Contemporary conservatives may exploit Rand’s ideas, just as they exploit so many other ideas, both economic and philosophical; but that’s no reason for working-class libertarians and left-libertarians not to embrace Rand as one of their own.




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Impossible Dreams

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Climate change experts from more than 190 countries are said to be on the verge of forging a binding international accord that will reduce humanity's CO2 emissions to a level sufficient to stave off future global warming. The details of the agreement will be negotiated this December in Paris, France at the 2015 United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), aka COP-21, short for"the twenty-first session of the Conference of the Parties” (COP) — to distinguish the futility of the Paris summit from thatof the previous 20 such conclaves, the first of which was held at the Rio Earth Summit, by the climate shamans of 1992. Who knows? The 21st time might be the charm.

President Obama thinks so, and is counting on it. According to Politico, Mr. Obama has been working furiously behind the scenes (and the backs of Republican climate deniers in Congress) to "seal his environmental legacy" by creating "the broadest, farthest-reaching deal in history, reworking environmental regulations for governments and corporations around the world and creating a framework for global green policy for decades."

As with the Iran nuclear weapons deal, Obama's objective is the agreement, not what the agreement will accomplish. His goal is to obtain any "broadest, farthest-reaching deal in history" that enshrines his name at the top of the signatory list. The goal of the Paris agreement, which is to reduceglobal greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions to a level that prevents the average global temperature from increasing more than 2°C by 2100, is an irrelevant, environmentalist dream, impossible to achieve — even if Obama possessed congressional endorsement or public support, both of which he does not.

China and India (who, together, are responsible for 30% of the world's CO2 emissions) only pledged to reduce their emissions. A pledge is not a commitment.

Obama's Clean Power Plan (CPP) and his cancellation of the Keystone XL pipeline were not designed to curb global temperature increase. They were merely symbolic gestures contrived to invoke similar gestures from countries such as China and India. The CPP (15 new EPA regulations, estimated to cost Americans $230 billion) will have essentially no affect on global temperature. The Iran agreement will: from four to five million barrels per day of new Iranian oil unleashed into the atmosphere — a glib concession just to secure an agreement, any agreement. Apparently, that was not "the moment" that Obama spoke of in his 2008 nomination speech, "when the rise of the oceans began to slow and our planet began to heal."

To hear Obama tell it, securing an agreement in Paris will be a simple matter of establishing an emission reduction commitment for each nation, a process that will now be less contentious because of his encouragement and leadership. Last month, after a five-day climate session was held in Bonn to draft the blueprint of the Paris negotiations, Obama took credit for persuading India and China to reduce their emissions. He hopes to use their pledges "to leverage the entire world for the conference." Once the Paris deal is reached, the nations of the world will begin the task of fulfilling their commitments by replacing fossil fuels (coal, oil, and natural gas) with renewable energy (solar and wind) — right after Obama proclaims victory for the planet, and, of course, for himself.

Of the climate negotiations, Mr. Obama might tritely say that the devil is in the details. But the real devil is in what he has not mentioned in his crusade to promote the deal. China and India (who, together, are responsible for 30% of the world's CO2 emissions) only pledged to reduce their emissions. A pledge is not a commitment, and no mention was made of the revolt at the Bonn meeting by 130 developing nations, who rejected a preliminary draft because it omitted their most important concern: climate justice — aka reparations for damages done to poor countries by rich countries, whose wealth has been obtained through the rampant injection of CO2 into the atmosphere since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. That protest, which has now expanded the negotiations into the realm of extortion (of money and technology from rich countries), was led by China and India. Obama may simply have "leveraged the entire [third] world" to line its pockets with climate justice money from the industrialized world.

Developing countries will not install the solar and wind farms that Obama incessantly praises as earth's only salvation. They can't afford to do so — not if they want to raise their burgeoning, destitute populations from what is by Western standards abject poverty. The energy they need will be generated from cheap, abundant fossil fuels. As he blatantly flaunts a storybook promise of renewable energy, Obama is obstinately silent about its harsh reality. Despite technological strides, renewable energy remains prohibitively expensive and woefully inadequate for generating the quantity of clean energy required to stave off global warming. After decades of development and untold billions spent (more than $150 billion by the Obama administration alone), solar and wind power combined generate less than 4.5% of US electricity, and both industries would immediately collapse without taxpayer-funded subsidies.

Developing countries will not install the solar and wind farms that Obama incessantly praises as earth's only salvation. They can't afford to do so.

Nor has he mentioned the global carbon budget, which setsan upper bound on the quantity of CO2 that humanity can emit without pushing the average global temperature over the 2°C threshold before 2100. According to Oren Cass of the Manhattan Institute, under optimistic assumptions regarding energy efficiency and the adoption of renewable energy, total emissions by the end of the century are projected to be almost five times greater than the quantity budgeted to save the planet. What is the point of committing the US to costly emission reductions of 26% to 28% by 2025, when the global carbonbudget will be consumed by the early 2030s?

No matter what the US does by 2025 to reduce its emissions, by 2030 it will already be too late to “save the planet” — a tidbit of climate change knowledge that Obama is reluctant to divulge. Indeed, no matter what wealthy nations collectively do is futile. Observes Cass,

If developed-world CO2 emissions ceased tomorrow, the developing world would still need to instantly slash its emissions by more than half — and hold at that level indefinitely — to remain within the carbon budget until 2100.

Any success that Obama has in Paris, therefore, will depend on his ability to "leverage" developing nations into meaningful emissions reductions. His chances are slim, if he even cares to try. As Cass notes:

In short, no evidence — distant or more recent — indicates any willingness by developing nations to make even nonbinding pledges to slow the growth of CO2 emissions, let alone accept the dramatic reductions required to substantially alter the trajectory of atmospheric concentrations.

To climate catastrophists such as Mr. Obama, the solution to this conundrum is simple, self-evident, and not to be discussed in public: an enormous transfer of wealth from rich nations to poor nations, where the money will be used (a) to buy solar panels and windmills, (b) to create decent jobs and lives of dignity, and (c) to defray the cost of adapting to the coming storms, droughts, floods, famines, terrorism, rape, and innumerable other products of the Industrial Revolution.

The idea is not new, and has captured the effusive support of Hillary Clinton, Pope Francis, and other climate change experts. In his encyclical on climate change, the Pope asserted that wealthy nations owe an “ecological debt” to poor nations and argued for “mechanisms and subsidies which allow developing countries access to technology transfer, technical assistance and financial resources.” As Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton proposed a Green Climate Fund that would provide at least $100 billion annually to developing nations. Last year, at COP-20 in Lima, Peru, Alex Rafalowicz of Friends of the Earth (FOE) demanded that rich countries pay poor countries more than $1 trillion annually.

Obama can be expected to agree. After all, there's not much distance between social justice and climate justice. But he has not indicated what concessions he would be willing to make to the clamoring bloc of 130 developing countries (representing more than 85% of the world's population) who insist that climate reparations must be the centerpiece of the Paris negotiations.

No matter what the US does by 2025 to reduce its emissions, by 2030 it will already be too late to “save the planet.”

FOE has developed a method of allocating the global carbon budget in a manner that it believes should be adopted by climate treaty negotiators. Known as Climate Fair Shares, it calculates the emission reduction commitments and reparation amounts that must be allocated to each nation to preserve earth through 2100. Beyond the appeal to planet salvation, it no doubt has political appeal: what nation could object to paying its fair share?

To illustrate how the negotiations would work out under the FOE scheme, China would be allowed to increase its GHG emissions from its current level of 12.1 billion tons to 16.2 billion tons by 2030. It would also receive $604 billion annually in climate justice payments from rich countries. In contrast, the US would be required to reduce its emissions from its current level of 6.7 billion tons to 1.8 billion tons by 2030 — a reduction of 73%, even though Obama has thus far commited the US to only a 26% to 28% reduction by 2025.

After all, there's not much distance between social justice and climate justice.

The US cost to achieve a 73% reduction would be many trillions of dollars, and require that all coal- and gas-fired power plants be replaced with extravagant solar and wind farms. On top of this immense cost are climate justice payments, $810 billion per year by 2030. According to Climate Fair Shares, these payments, compliments of US taxpayers, will "create 24,291,600 new decent jobs" and "deliver renewable energy for lives of dignity to 810 million people" — in other countries.

The developing world expects the Paris negotiations to produce an agreement along the lines of the Climate Fair Shares scheme. Mr. Obama has not addressed that possibility, nor has he indicated where the money will come from if it materializes. The US, which is in much better shape economically than most countries, is more than $18 trillion in debt, not to mention the crushing debt of Medicare and Social Security, enormous programs that will be insolvent by the early 2030s — right around the time when humanity blows its entire carbon budget and irreversible, hellish climate catastrophe begins, 70 years ahead of schedule.

These are some of the obstacles that face Mr. Obama in his quest for prominence in the annals of climate history. He has dismissed most of them, or chosen not to bother the American public with their stark realities. Then there is the warming pause, now in its 18th year, which threatens the anthropogenic global warming hypothesis motivating the Paris charade, and which Obama denies (a clumsy irony, since “denier” is his principal argument against any and all global warming skepticism). To secure his environmental legacy and fulfill his promise to heal the planet, the desperate Obama must find common ground between rich and poor countries. But in the Venn diagram of possible treaty outcomes, the intersection of planet salvation and climate justice is the empty set. The negotiators from developed nations and the negotiators from developing nations have only one thing in common: both parties seek a goal that they know, and have known all along, is impossible to achieve.




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