Category Archives: Obscurantism

Jumping the Great Whitegeist: the Alt-Right Viewed from the Right

34651npi-richard-henrik-lana-mike

“You guys feel like going for frozen yogurt?”

(Part II here)

The belief that bloviating is tantamount to action is a peculiar, late-20th century misapprehension, precisely the plush-doll American dream that Occupy Bernie and the alt-right both think they’re rejecting. Don’t get me wrong—Richard Spencer’s incisive, he’s got pluck, and neofascism is an overdue rejoinder to the empiricist hubris, intellectual courtesanship and mercenary behaviorism of TED Talk America. Last I checked, however, the medium is still the message. So the George Lincoln Rockwell redux represents der wille zur macht only slightly less than weed legalization.

Still, to its credit, until just before the election the alt-right was the last bastion of real, uncöopted social satire left in this country. I mean, what’s less relevant today than SNL? Lately the dominant, left-liberal paradigm begets only humorless ideological directives and “validation” of skin-crawling peccadillos. Like aging pop-stars, Saudi oil-wells and boomer entitlements, the brick-and-mortar media is an obsolete investment being defended with increasing shamelessness:

6_major_corporations_own_90_communications

Even its Silicon Valley supersessionist heirs (whom you’d think would display more independence of thought, Lord knows they’ve got the requisite leverage) cling to its mid-20th century CFR ideological commitments, such that criminal syndicates that reject the premise get more leeway than political opponents who accept it:

screen-shot-2016-11-30-at-5-58-10-pm

Under the spreading chestnut tree….

Speaking of Vice, myriad popular online outlets affect a cutting-edge veneer these days, but a good general rule is that the more lurid and higher-budget the content, the more wholly owned are its producers by the planetary managerial class. The biggest backers of Vice, for instance, are BofA, Disney, George Soros and Rupert Murdoch. This brackish scene deserves the vilest ridicule, the most acerbic satirization, but there’d be no funding for that, for the same reason nobody ever invades Switzerland. The powerless don’t leverage power—it leverages them, and all the penny-ante social media antics in the world won’t get the alt-right’s fingers unstuck from the pearly gates of the Big Time.

A lot of Counter-CurrentsTRSRadix Journal and Red Ice content was deliciously subversive circa pre-Trump, when the point was to express these verboten ideas, not just expand the audience for them (which always means reducing the common denominator.) Now that the antiseptic media klieg lights have warmed the alt-right’s obligingly exposed butt cheeks, the fact can’t be concealed that vindictive, half-witted, pathos-laden language (not to mention dry, committee-meeting type knit-picking about activist strategies and doctrinal purity) is rife on these websites, a click-hungry humorlessness that has diffused throughout the alt-right punchbowl as the imperative to justify itself to outsiders eclipses insider ribaldry.

But who expects humor from fascists? Fascism is always a sign of rigor, yes, but specifically it’s a sign of rigor mortis. What portends the Kali Yuga is not Jews or loose women, it is you, my alt-right friends—i.e., the inexorable, entropic pull that cheap novelty exerts upon the human psyche, which is why Evola’s advice was to ride the tiger, not stick your head in its mouth.

But how many alt-right personalities have really read all the authors they like to block-quote on social media? How sad to be peddling an ethos of order, hierarchy and opposition to commercial vulgarity in the 10 cents’ admission Imagination Land of new media, only to get mere first world pushback as they traffic in ideologies that really punished thought-crime. Now that they’ve had their fifteen minutes, the little grandeur-deluded, self-appointed leadership will spend the rest of their lives panhandling like one-hit wonders performing at an Indian casino: “Remember me? Just ten grand more to meet our goals this season.” Even Milo was writing interesting content as recently as 2015, before the Twitter ban and his election-year transition to full-time attention-whoring. Spencer’s criticisms of him are apt, and blissfully unselfconscious.

So the problem with the 2016 NPI conference wasn’t the menace or poor taste of the coy sieg heiling, it was the quivering bunghole that compliments the kind of toast Spencer delivered. I mean, “Children of the Sun”? That’s what the Times was calling a Nuremberg rally? Sounds more like a Maya Angelou quote over a stock photo. Children of the fucking sun, why not “God’s Chosen People”?

large_image

“Hail Trump! Hail our People! Hail victory!”

The fact that the bourgeois American WASP is an over-socialized, emotionally sterile cardboard cutout who masochistically enjoyed deferring this past seventy years to comparatively dysfunctional cultures that have a little more cut-loose panache than his own is as little discussed on the alt-right as Germany’s no-go zones are on MSNBC. But to suppose Trump will arrest these developments significantly is pitifully gullible optimism. As Spencer told some pie-faced yenta at Rolling Stone, “I think we’ve leveraged ourselves in an incredible way, but at some point we need to cross the Rubicon and have a footprint.” Translation: OMG, this might even lead to an internship. In a duck costume. At a mall kiosk. For (in the words of the great Marshall McLuhan) when you gaze long into the Facetwat, the Twatterface gazes also into you.

Advertisements

an embarrassment of kitsches

Your rags betray your vanity

Your rags betray your vanity

‘Multiculturalism’ suits them to perfection, conjuring up the agreeable image of a global bazaar in which exotic customs can be savored indiscriminately with no commitments required.                         —Christopher Lasch, Revolt of the Elites (1995)

The battle’s din subsides; CNN’s swarthy erstwhile good guys have all gone home to beat their wives. Skulking asthmatically through the suk between protection racket badlands a gangly, mysterious stranger with the untrimmed, languid mug of a bus bench masturbator declares the blast radius liberated as he assesses the remaining impediments to liquidation, consolidation and free love.

They should’ve given him the Qaddafi treatment.

The consummate, bloviating hail-fellow hipster who’ll pretend to know about anything and gives a shit about nothing, in each country he visits it’s the same schtick: fatuously lament the local misfortune between mouthfuls accompanied by disconcertingly age-incongruous pornographic moaning, lob an “and how does that make you feel?” or two with the narcoleptic gaze of a burnt-out psychoanalyst, then inquire primly about the timetable for Americanization. Nary a child-like denizen of these backwaters slated for development realizes they’ve lain their Sunday best before a predator, and when they slaughter their enemies with US ordnance he shudders as though Mr. Whiskers just dragged in a decapitated rodent. For chrissake, people—have a little class, will ya? I’m tryin’ ta eat over here.

Ours is an age propitious for the lily narrator who’s seen everything and experienced nothing, but once had a drink with someone who did. Let him assure you no good can come of principles, if your aim is to keep in victuals.

Regime mouthpiece Anthony Bourdain is Karl Marx’s last laugh, a typical effete and soon-to-be incontinent (but still partying) leftover of a once puerile, now senile revolution that refuses to clear the stage and—herpes notwithstanding—always has a happy ending, and endless rationalizations for prudence. Galavanting, dainty-sampling, conflating impudence with pluck under that jaunty canopy of special providence for drunkards, fools and the United States of America—where enjoyment of the finer things vindicates imperial prerogatives and televangelical lucre as surely as going slumming sends shivers down the asscrack—he never seems to tire of recounting how very much yonder humble folk meant to him. A missionary of mass-market libertinism in humanitarian guise, he combines the scolding and verbally chastened impulses of progressivism with insatiable lust for colonial spoils. A hippy-dippy paver of paradise, ever on the lookout for unsullied authenticity to add to his collection of taxidermied heads, he’s a blue-state Paula Deen with as much regard (and as much use) for the niggers as a payday lender. And he looks like a big gay squirrel.

No fewer Indians dead for today’s cowboys being bi-curious, Bourdain’s interview questions of local denizens are always lower-div clichés, three steps short of poignance and five steps beyond real engagement. In the end, I didn’t know what to do about all the poverty I saw, but I sure ate good while I felt bad about it. He’ll use your history as a prompt for glib establishment tautologies, your city as a backdrop for a trustfund odyssey journal entry, the most hackneyed stereotypes about your culture and a dozen words of your language for a thin veneer of erudition between fits of sleep apnea brought on by the dreadful exertion of deciphering your pitifully accented ESL. The jingling in his pocket plays to local mercenaries, airtime whores and the shucking bourgeois sleeper cells that furnish him obsequious Squantos and Queequegs for guides, but never to the salt of the earth, whose testimonies he’s happy to peddle wistfully through an interpreter, but who lack the truly ground-down sense of thrift and proportion his handlers have in mind for them.

One can well suppose how this sausage gets packaged—A: Hey Pepe, who’s the gringo? B: Pipe the fuck down and put on a shit eating grin, will ya? Can’t you see he’s being followed by cameras? Which are as good as apostles, or Angles of the Lord; on whose shoulders they alight separates hip from square, living from dead, but they can only lead you if you want to be led. This week, we’re here with the guy who’s been doing the thing that speaks so poignantly to the universal Us and where We’re all going…. Well why in the hell didn’t they put him on TV years before? And isn’t that universal We just the old, royal one? This isn’t a two-way street, after all. You’re telling us what to care about.

When Nir Rosen mocked Lara Logan’s rape in Cairo, it was despicable because he and she are playing the same game, only she has to play it with a twat between her legs, while he gets to take his own assignments (“Imperialism,” he told the Senate). Same isn’t true of Anderson Cooper.

In the words of another plagiarist luminary artificially accorded relevance beyond any reasonable expiration date, The times, they are a changin’: of her travels, Rebecca West gave us a thousand-odd pages devoted with desperate passion to a single area of the planet. Kerouac regurgitated his faggy soul in its tipsy entirety, little though anybody wanted it. Orwell took up arms with his hosts. Jon Stewart may’ve been a sycophant who played an iconoclast on TV, but he did it four nights a week, and even Brian Williams deserves credit for admitting he’s a phony. But Bourdain is a new low, a middlebrow parakeet, a geopolitical ambulance chaser whose every insight turns out to be precisely CNN’s vapid conventional ordure, served up in affected tones suggestive of some scintillating intellectual morsel. The world according to Anthony Bourdain is an abortion, a tree falling in the woods—an undifferentiated clump of cells that only the trend-setter, the marketing hack and the affluent solipsist’s ADHD nanosecond of consideration renders extant. And as this gas bag orbits his handlers’ parcels, he regurgitates his inch-deep cognitive intake in blithe, self-important banalities as homogenous as his digestive output.

By itself this carnivorously pontifical agenda-setting is quite unremarkable; what makes Bourdain’s every blasé pledge-drive du jour so egregious is the feigned humanity, withdrawn in the space of an Instagram share once he’s on to the next paternalistic holiday in the sun.

He checks in with the Congo to report whether anything’s changed since Conrad, and concludes that it hasn’t. Nope, still, uh… dark. Blame King Leopold, that’ll keep the heat off our sponsors! His Morocco is nothing but the footsteps of Burroughs and sundry lesser man-boy love pioneers, to whose mughrebi meanderings he devotes the entire episode. He presents the haunted ruins of Leptis Magna as a veritable oasis of civilization in the Libyan dregs; his only complaint is that the cocks have all been chiseled off the facades by Mohammedan prudes. He gives Iran the predictable recalcitrant-child treatment: thankfully, there are a handful of brave ESL speakers holding out there, dreaming of TJ Maxx and the caramel macchiato. His Lebanon is a blur of caricatures, titillating nightlife mashups juxtaposed with exotic houses of worship and gratuitous stock footage of multi-confessional war dead. The feminism of Beirut literata Joumana Haddad in Parts Unknown is reduced to little more than…. parts unknown, the unemployed forbidden fruit of some deposed oriental despot’s harem, all lipstick and leggings and horridly uncouth death threats from jealous cleric cousins lurking somewhere off-camera. When he temerously characterizes the country’s deadly fissures as hip vibrance, she asks whether his lurid enthrallment has anything to do with the fact he’s just visiting, and the piece of shit deflects by asking “Am I not supposed to love this place?” Well you’d better ask it first, Tony. This isn’t the gay princess cruise you take it for. Where Flaubert got off light with syphilis, today they might pull your fucking fingernails out with a pair of pliers. (Now that I’d tune in for!)

Apparently monolingual (his copy-hacks don’t seem to realize raconteur is French for blowhard, anyway), Bourdain’s every encounter is a one-way street. Each new attempt to relate to those foreign “friends” he so self-servingly calls upon is terribly awkward to behold, even when he’s visiting English-speaking realms. But friends these guilelessly hospitable or attention-whoring dupes undoubtedly are, in the same sense that vile showbiz backstabbers are so adept at namedropping and mutual exploitation. His every word and gesture is smoke. Anthony Bourdain has Muslim friends the way Donald Trump does. He’s got as much chance of breaking bread with the locals unaided by fixers and coming away in one piece as the camel has with a needle’s eye. Underneath the mealy ideals is a sugar daddy impresario indulging crimson fetishes on the cheap as he moralizes behind hired protection. And did I mention he looks like a big gay squirrel?

A Profoundly Evil Man

img_2240

“This next cat flew in all the way from the Hamptons, please give him a warm welcome….”

Part one here

More post-election fools-gold profundity this week as Jon Stewart’s artificial-relevance tour continues:

I think one of the lessons of this book and what we’re talking about is to put satire and culture in its proper place, that controlling a culture is not the same as power. And that while we were all passing around really remarkably eviscerating videos of the Tea Party ― that we had all made great fun of ― [they were] sitting off a highway at a Friendly’s taking over a local school board. And the lesson there is, as much as I love what we did…there is a self-satisfaction there that is unwarranted, unearned, and not useful.

Since when do Jon Stewart’s ilk have to earn self-satisfaction? But the local Friendly’s, there’s the locus of power, not Viacom or the White House, where during Obama’s tenure Stewart was a regular and, at the time, secret guest. This flag-draped charlatan’s disdain for the world of Rockwell’s Four Freedoms is palpable. If controlling a culture is not the same as power, can any amount of power ever be enough?

Ah, but there is a silver lining (via HuffPo):

‘Not everybody that voted for Trump is a racist, I don’t give a fuck what any of you say to me. You can yell it at me, you can tweet it at me. They’re not all racists. Or they’re not giving tacit support to a racist system … We all give tacit support to exploitative systems as long as they don’t affect us that badly.’

[Stewart] brought up a conversation with another person who argued that ‘by saying that [Trump supporters] are not all racists, [he’s] giving tacit support to a man of racist language.’ Stewart then pointed out that many Americans are complicit in exploitative and damaging systems, asking the person to pull out his iPhone. ‘I was like, Guess how those are made, guess who makes them?’ Stewart said. ‘Oh yeah, but that’s …. It’s not different, we all do that. All of our shit stinks and getting beyond that takes incredible work.’

Incredible work,” Jeezus, don’t sell yourself short there, Jon. How much is this fifty minutes going to cost me? These remarks aren’t observations, they’re machinations, an effete struggle session. Power is always selectively moral, at least in China the proletariat keeps its mouth shut. So if a professional moralizer can get past his complicity in sweatshop slavery, what hope is there for those recalcitrant rubes down at Friendly’s?

Shrunken Heads

not-a-bear-necessity

Sharing is caring

Appreciation for Thanksgiving turkeys

Ulterior horizons, perfunctory well-wishes

They’d watch you be gutted like it was on TV

and wonder about the giblets

There’re no limits to what’s impersonal

Quid pro quo, exsanguinated

The serpent points the way to knowledge

that people are coin operated

Big, open, sensationless pudding-vaginas

contriving stratagems for service opportunities

Need a light there, pal? Lemme get that for ya

Thin-surfaced canned food-drive communities

Conversion therapy

b7rjlvtiqaescc7

“Please, Rick! You have to let me help you!”

“That particular combination of arrogance and timidity sets my teeth on edge.” (Orson Welles)

The art of the con is all about abstracting the mark’s perception so that he no longer answers to his gut. America may not be the apex of civilization, but it is definitely the apex of the con, where the backbiting, eyeless-smile real estate lady posts schlock bible verses on social media, and the seed-eating yogi is liable to suffer a rage-induced aneurysm over a stolen parking spot at Trader Joe’s.

Jon Stewart is one of the more poignant exponents of this dissociation. Here he is this week with Charlie Rose, holding forth on the recent presidential election:

….America is not natural. Natural is tribal. We’re fighting against thousands of years of human behavior and history to create something that no one ever [has]. That is what is exceptional about America. This ain’t easy and that’s an incredible thing.

Did you catch that? We’re fighting against nature, human nature. Who among us can instruct men to transcend this mortal coil? Let he who is without humanity cast the first instruction. But the point Stewart wanted to make was that we (meaning, the appointed) should not stereotype Trump voters any more than “we” would Muslims or others. The earnest liberal’s moment of clarity is always another defense mechanism. Of course a figure like Stewart has something conciliatory to say all of the sudden. Ass-licker that he is, how could he stay relevant otherwise?

Obviously, “Trump voters”=nominally Christian Anglo-Saxons, the erstwhile national stock—those of them who aren’t left-wing, anyway. In Stewart’s worldview we are to refrain with few exceptions from critical discussion of the group characteristics of almost every other category of people. But Stewart isn’t suggesting “we” admit whites to the illusory hearthside of this exemption, no no no: he’s merely calling for a tempering of the critique, a strategic retreat. Stewart’s snide diagnostician’s schtick has always been to call for dispassion and in this, he’s as wise as his admirers say. Indeed, the depths of the inmate’s psyche must be plumbed, its mysteries penetrated, so as to determine upon the proper course of further treatment.

Bad Hair Day

tumblr_lopv2rlipn1qaod4yo1_r3_500

It was a simpler time

Progressive friends assure me that the right-wing corporate media elected Donald Trump. ‘Right-wing media’! Are they blind? But I think I understand their misapprehension: Bernie Sanders was derided as populist and utopian, ergo economic “justice” is not a priority of an intelligentsia long complicit in both neocon wars and neoliberal predations. But the intelligentsia isn’t merely corporatist and interventionist, it is maximally sexually libertine, and racially divisive. Should this not give the earnest liberal pause?

In Hebrew we have a phrase, avoda b’ayinaim, which means something like ‘brazen deceit’ or, ‘unconcealed legerdemain.’ Sweatshop lords sponsor anti-racist celebrity PSAs…. a 21st-century Guernica is rationalized in liberal quarters as humanitarianism…. a soilent-green corporatocracy champions a thing it calls ‘diversity,’ except when it doesn’t. Foreign aid and international lending are tied to the actual promotion of abortion and sexual libertinism.

Far be it from me to credit musty old fables with prescience—ones that aggregate scientific hubris with multiculturalism and characterize sodomy and usury as aggressions deleterious to spiritual and societal hygiene—but some of us are starting to notice a pattern. In light of the chilling reality of ideological enforcement—an exclusively leftist speciality, at least nowadays—even I got fingerfucked into voting, and now feel eerily ambivalent and a tad greasy, as well I ought to. Donald Trump is a symptom, not an antidote, and clearly not the director of the show we’ve just seen, but a faux-paleocon, an exploiter of the working class and very probably a child-rapist, who will expand the police state and the war machine. That his butt-smoke showman’s bombast about ‘disasterous trade deals’ and ‘international bankers’ is what got him elected should indicate not what we can hope for from his administration, but how the system switches gears when it’s so far gone in terms of legitimacy. ‘What a stunner! Who could’ve seen it coming?’ Avoda b’ayinaim. 

Trump’s wannabe greaser-pimp noblesse oblige—his periodic sympathetic gesture to the bellhop or the garbageman—is razor thin, but it’s precisely the bellhop and the garbageman who will now be savaged by the intelligentsia, permeated as it is by dread of the peasantry it presumes to know what’s best for. Though historically the left’s concerns are proletarian, lately it transpires that these can be assuaged very effectively with butt-smoke moral rectitude, little-man hip-hop flights of fancy or Whole Foods and gay TV characters. Joe Dirt, on the other hand, is armed—a bone in the system’s throat no hat-passing Bernie or OWS stink-in can hold a candle to. He needed placating this inauspicious autumn with #MAGA the way his counterpart in a Subaru needed ‘hope and change,’ eight summers and a thousand years ago.

Camile Paglia put it this way:

People want change and they’re sick of the establishment — so you get this great popular surge… If Trump wins it will be an amazing moment of change because it would destroy the power structure of the Republican party, the power structure of the Democratic party and destroy the power of the media. It would be an incredible release of energy… at a moment of international tension and crisis.

That the power of the establishment could be detonated so blithely is a woeful delusion from so normally prescient a commentator, but Paglia was correct about one thing: there has now been an incredible exorcise of energy, precisely the narcotic catharsis a mark needs to go on being conned.

Jacob’s Plateau

brugghen2c_hendrick_ter_-_esau_selling_his_birthright_-_c-_1627

Oh, alright…..

The onset of a darkening time

Of shadows as forms

Of eyes that guard no souls

Of the recession of green meadows into the bulldozer’s maw

Of menacing clouds amassed before the precincts of eternity

to download and be uploaded, or whatever

The metastasis of sickening flesh

Of bloodless jowls sagging beneath little green visors

Of numbers who aspire to be ants

Of the licensure of volition

Of callow dogs as commanders

who’ve refined to eyeless guile the art of getting what to eat and never stopping once they’re sated

Because there’s only so much to go around

Sizzler

img_2147

I am their father

How to get the DNA out of this algorithm?

A cubicle for Montezuma’s ransom

Your lucky rabbit’s foot is a handler’s gland

and second prize is a set of steak knives

What do you feel like eating?

You’ve got a family don’t you?

Because I’ve got this insatiable taste for flesh

You know, character is the barcode of transmutability

and you set the ceiling

I may not’ve determined the number of inches from fly to forehead

but I can decide how vicious I jizz tendons and marrow and keep you in suspense

Whobody? Anybody

Are you what it takes?

Tzel-mahvet

masada-sunrise-ein-gedi-and-dead-sea-trip-from-jerusalem-in-jerusalem-157980

This might burn a bit

When a stranger’s blithe gesture outweighs your plodding devotion

and you’re granted the serenity to accept the things you cannot change

When you carry around in you a shattered Jerusalem

and find yourself a stranger, but people aren’t strange

The millstone, the cross, the imperative to forgive

the impulse to murder, the necessity to live

the dread that stalks awake-nights, the antiseptic light

dementia and goosebumps and envy and blight

When lies gain the weight of stentorian tomes

and vigor and vim, and known unknown knowns

Then we ordinary folk can cross bridges in space

secure, validated with spit in our face

and decide when to chase and to now flee our tails

and determine the contours of our own comfy jails

When Might may lie down with the left and right hands

and erode all embankments and count up the sands

Then old Lot and his daughters can go fuck themselves

and grannies and housepets and Santa Claus’ elves

and beat the meatcleavers to swordshares and plows

and secure our slick winnings with purrs and meows

and confide our blanch longings despite no true friends

and incline our ears, trifling, to the way the world ends

The Europa of Rape

dav_oath

we hold these fruits to be self-evident

“It goes without saying that mercy remains the privilege of the most powerful man….” (Nietzsche, “Genealogy” 2:10)

Population control has its ins and outs.

Ins and outs.

Ins and outs.

Ins and outs.

Kind of gives new meaning to the term “DP camps,” no?

Most Muslim societies are very crowded and poor, patriarchal and sexually repressed yet predominantly youthful…. So the dramatic recent uptick in sexual assaults across Europe correlates neatly with the introduction of millions of desperate, mostly young, mostly male Muslims into the continent.

But is this a Muslim issue?

What the Islamic world most notably has, that the west for the most part does not, is Islam; a concept generally grasped in the singular though it denotes quite a number of things. What the west most notably has that the Islamic world for the most part lacks is affluence, which can have multifarious causes and infinite effects but is wholly and exclusively one thing.

Among its more instructive effects is an incident which took place in Morocco in 2013.

One Daniel Galvan, a late-middle aged Spanish national, had been living in that country, in an apartment he owned there, for nearly a decade. In that time he may have sampled a great many local delights, but what he’s specifically known for is the rape of at least eleven local children, ranging in age from two to fifteen, with the compensated connivance of native fixers.

After he’d been prosecuted by Moroccan authorities and served eighteen months of a thirty year sentence, Galvan’s custodians were furnished by the Spanish embassy with a list of forty-eight of its nationals in Moroccan detention, contained in a peremptory demand for their unconditional release, a demand Mr. Galvan (whose name was on the list) became a beneficiary of.

As Galvan’s luck would have it, Morocco’s King Mohammad VI does not in fact rule an independent country. In fact, he has a history of so-called diplomatic gestures entailing the pardon of convicted first world pederasty tourists. Why a postcolonial vassal would release these people on demand is self-explanatory, and less interesting than why an affluent power would want them back.

It seems the Spanish authorities didn’t trust a third world regime to sit in judgment, and mete out punishment, of their subje…. er, constituent. So why did they accept King Muhammed’s verdict when he elected, not merely to extradite Galvan to serve out the sentence in his home country, but to pardon him? For you see, upon his return to Spain Mr. Galvan was turned loose and permitted to taste the sweet air of freedom, which he would have enjoyed indefinitely had public outrage (uncharacteristic in a country with a controlled press) not mounted (pun intended) upon King Muhammed, whose government then declared the pardon an oversight, issuing an international arrest warrant that compelled the Spanish government to act. Even so, in spite of how obliging Morocco had been in releasing the Spaniards in its detention, its demand for Galvan’s extradition was rebuffed.

A number of facts are implied here, chiefly that the urchins of Morocco are living under a regime that cannot be inconvenienced, on their behalf, to relinquish the opportunity to prostrate itself before a more powerful neighbor; and that Mr. Galvan is living under a regime that is more concerned to oversee his due process rights than it is with what caliber of subject it has in him. How can such a regime (i.e., a western European democracy) be expected to really systematically differentiate among migrants or, indeed, between anyone subject to its jurisdiction, migrant or non? Its stated purpose is not to prevent its subjects wrongs but to ensure their rights, a moral cover to extend sovereignty and perpetuate the many advantages its franchisees enjoy. The more powerful ones enjoy the advantages they will, the less powerful ones enjoy the advantages they must, and in exchange they tacitly surrender their whole volition (you might say, their spirit), not to a government per se—this isn’t a libertarian argument I’m making—but to an amorphous commercial and administrative hierarchy that nevertheless facilitates highly tangible if ostensibly metaphysical commodities exchanges (“justice”) as a matter of course.

On a related note, the right-wing sector of the US press—Drudge, Breitbart, Fox, etc.—is abuzz this week at the revelation that a last-minute incentive was written into the Iran nuclear deal by the Obama administration, a sum of $400,000,000 cash, transferred to Tehran on the very day (it so happens) when a handful of Iranian-American prisoners were handed over to Uncle Sam. Obama is being accused of capitulation, of paying ransom. But whatever you think of his decision, there’s something to be said for a regime that will spend hundreds of millions of dollars to retrieve a half dozen of its subjects.

Nevertheless, one US citizen exchanged in the deal, rather than gratefully keeping his mouth shut, saw fit to turn on his redeemers by going on record with the opposition press after his homecoming, to describe being brought to the tarmac of the Tehran airport and handed over to US officials only after an unidentified plane had arrived, presumably containing palettes of greenbacks. In the name of his fellow first world denizens’ right to avoid increased risk of kidnapping in the third world, this fellow retroactively opposed his own right to’ve been ransomed—how righteously convenient. And under a brief flurry of media scrutiny, the regime defended its decision to redeem this man so he could fink on them.

Now, you might be wondering how the Galvan case in any way indicates that Europe’s migrant rape phenomenon is something more than a Muslim issue. Migrants=rape, jeezus, it’s not algebra. But when it comes to the surge in sexual assaults on Europeans by Muslim migrants, in no way is the facilitation of this state of affairs by EU authorities a Muslim initiative. If very many of the goings-on in this world were Muslim initiatives, there’d be no sex tourism in Morocco.

And Morocco is not much less independent a country than many others, Muslim or non. For instance, if a Lebanese murders a solitary Israeli in Denmark, the full force of the Mossad will almost certainly bear down upon him, and his family. But if an American Gentile on holiday in Tel Aviv rapes a Jewish schoolboy, he’ll be afforded a more meticulous due process than many locals are for lesser crimes, and certainly not be killed. What the fuck’s up with that? Likewise, western sex tourists in Thailand are liable, if busted, to be extradited to face prosecution in their home countries, but if they get caught with a dimebag they’ll face execution by hanging, right there in Thailand, whose king picks his battles as surely as his Moroccan counterpart, which is to say, rarely.

So what we have is a handful of inordinately wealthy organizations whose protection, however inadvertent, enables their subjects, for a pittance, to abuse any lesser power’s citizens up to the limit of what that lesser power’s laws allow, its authorities are interested in detecting, and its officials are permitted to prevent.

And this abuse is not limited to rape, though rape is a salient, common-denominator analogy that also takes place literally, in this context, though perhaps not nearly so often as figurative cannibalism. It extends to the sadistic mistreatment of mail-order brides and adopted children, cut-rate reproductive surrogacy, organ harvesting, not to mention labor—almost anything you can name, really. Point is, to not seek a wealthy country’s protection (i.e., US or EU citizenship) is tantamount to leaving yourself open to being ruthlessly exploited and bombed by those very same countries. Rapist or rapee, them’s your options, and self employment ain’t one of them (that’s why rape’s illegal, duh). I’m no more keen on seeing Stuttgart transmogrified into Iskenderun than David Duke is, but if Holocaust guilt is behind all this then the Holocaust is just one more impediment to confronting the depravity our human rights have bought us, digestive systems have to have an outlet. Is a pale German football hooligan more likely to murder a hapless swarthy Semite in a dark subway station, or pay twenty-five Euros to sodomize a Ukrainian teenager in Holland?

In many traditional societies, perhaps especially Islamic ones, female rape victims can be murdered by their own male relatives. This is called honor killing, and like Oedipus, you’d better believe it is comprehensible. Hate me all you want, just don’t look in the mirror: there’s something repellent about a desiccated soul deprived of its most sacred honor. Deep, pre-social instinct impels us to shun the contagious, the needy and the irreparable, and we do it all the time. How often will most people visit an ailing grandparent?

This is why so many prostitutes were rape victims first, why so many boys who are raped take exclusively to homosexuality as adults. Once placed beyond an invisible symbolic boundary, there’s nothing left for them except to affirm fate, to deny that something was taken or lost by declaring that this is who I really was all along. In the modern west, one way or another, rape victims are invariably told either to forget all about what happened and put it behind them, or that they can be made whole again, if only they’ll cooperate with a treatment regimen. For whose benefit? These are lies: confront colon cancer with all the positive attitude in the world and you’ll still be out a colon.

The slut walkers of the world want to re-confer the stigma of rape upon the rapist, but that’s not how rape works (see also: “the international community”). They can fulminate, demand action against pre-crime and publicly shame whomever they please (except actual rapists), but for the victim these gestures are a mirror image: self-abasement in reaction to powerlessness. “Proud slut,” indeed. If she didn’t have all that oil, we wouldn’t have needed to invade her.

The very presence of a rape victim in the community signals the failure and complicity of all would-be protectors and sympathizers. The primitive (i.e., the only) impulse in response to this dread realization is either abandonment (to quarantine the stigma with the primary carrier) or erasure, either active (by honor killing) or passive, by denial—the latter (in some societies) involving the marriage of the victim to her rapist or (in the best case scenario) the revenge-killing of the perpetrator by the victim’s male relatives. In all of these cases (SlutWalk included), the real goal is to drive away the guilt of the people around and associated with the victim, by denying the victim their reality until all that’s left for them is drugs, broken glass and compulsive self-laceration. Get well soon! Please, seriously. You’re making the rest of us uncomfortable. But the reality of rape will only ever be confronted by the victim, whose very existence becomes subordinate, because the community insists on controlling the narrative.

So criticize Islam and globalism all you like, but we get the neighbors we deserve.