Where have all the flowers gone?

The New Neo Posted on by

One of my readers, and Michael Totten, have called my attention to this interesting interview with the always witty, sometimes spot on, sometimes infuriating Christopher Hitchens (well, at least I can be thankful I’m not his brother).

Hitchens was asked about the resentment of the Iraqi people towards the Americans. In his answer, he refers to seeing with his own eyes the famous “sweets and flowers” (either actual or metaphorical) with which the troops were welcomed, and which others contend were nonexistent and an example of the Bush administration’s stupidity (although for some reason, in the transcript as given, “sweets” is spelled “suites”–hmmm, I bet there were some of those, too!):

Peter Robinson: Explain to me the psychological state on the ground which Americans–which I–find so difficult to understand. The population did indeed hate Saddam Hussein. Nobody doubts that. Correct? And the population at the very minimum is intensely resentful of Americans. True? True? Explain that conundrum.

Christopher Hitchens: The welcome that I’ve seen American and British forces get in parts of Iraq is something I want to start–I want to mention first because there are people who say that that never happened. It is commonly said by political philosophers like Maureen Dowd say that the–where were the suites[sic] and where were the flowers. Well I saw it happen with my own eyes and no one’s going to tell me that I didn’t. I saw it with–months after the invasion, people still lining the roads, especially in the south.

Peter Robinson: In the south?

Christopher Hitchens: Especially in the south–still lining the roads and waving and the children waving which is always the sign because if the parents don’t want them to, they don’t. For miles, it was like going–it was like this is the nearest I’ll get to taking part in the liberation of the country, to ride in with the liberating army. I’ll never forget, you know, I will not allow it not to be said that that did not happen. And in the marshes too–the marsh area of the country which was drained and burned out by poison by Saddam Hussein. Again, almost hysterical welcome and in Kurdistan in the north. So extraordinary. But remember when you said the population hating Saddam Hussein, that’s true, really true. But more than anything, they feared him. They were terrified of him. These are people who not just forced to obey under terrible and believable threat but made to applaud, made to participate, made to come out and vote, made to come out and demonstrate that they loved him, made to applaud when their relatives were executed…

It’s hard to argue with someone who was there–although I have very little doubt that many will do just that.

The funny thing is, I’ve never understood the “so, where have all the flowers (and sweets) gone?” people. Unless my memory is deceiving me, I remember seeing a fair amount of waving and cheering myself, on TV (if not flowers, exactly)–and marveling that there was anyone at all in Iraq who would be brave enough to venture out and risk doing so at the time.

But then I started to wonder about the origin of the “flowers” quote, or sometimes it was the “flowers and sweets” quote. If you Google it, you’ll find countless references to it, but many of them simply assert that it was predicted by the Bush administration, without giving an attribution or link. I started to think that perhaps it was one of those urban (or media) myths that never really had happened, but that had become legendary nevertheless.

However, for what its worth, I think I’ve tracked down its origin. It seems to rest on a combination of two interrelated statements. One was by Dick Cheney on March 16, 2003, on “Meet the Press,” and involves his prediction that US forces will be greeted as “liberators.” He never mentions sweets (or even suites) or flowers. But he does mention one Kanan Makiya, a Brandeis professor who is an Iraqi ex-pat:

NARRATOR: Another assumption was that Iraqis would greet the Americans as liberators, an assurance they got from the INC.

Vice Pres. DICK CHENEY: [“Meet the Press,” March 16, 2003] I really do believe that we will be greeted as liberators. I’ve talked with a lot of Iraqis in the last several months myself, had them to the White House. The president and I have met with various groups and individuals, people who’ve devoted their lives from the outside to trying to change things inside Iraq, men like Kanan Makiya, who’s a professor at Brandeis, but an Iraqi. He’s written great books about the subject, knows the country intimately, is a part of the democratic opposition and resistance. The read we get on the people of Iraq is there’s no question but what they want to get rid of Saddam Hussein, and they will welcome as liberators the United States when we come to do that…

The very next day, there was a seminar on Iraq that featured Richard Perle and said Kanan Makiya, held at the National Press Club in Washington. Here’s part of the transcript:

(QUESTIONER): Vice President Cheney yesterday said that he expects that American forces will be greeted as liberators and I wonder if you could tell us if you agree with that and how you think they’ll be greeted and also what you meant you said before that some Iraqi opposition groups might be in Baghdad even before American forces?

KANAN MAKIYA: I most certainly do agree with that. As I told the President on January 10th, I think they will be greeted with sweets and flowers in the first months and simply have very, very little doubts that that is the case.

So, there you have it. It seems it was Makiya who told it to the administration, back in January. It doesn’t appear that anyone in the administration actually used those words, although Cheney definitely made the more general prediction about being greeted as liberators.

And indeed, as Hitchens makes clear, some did greet the Americans as liberators, although fear was rampant–fear of retaliation if, as in the first Gulf War, the Americans left prematurely, and fear of the occupation itself. Both were valid and understandable fears, I might add.

How naive was the Bush administration, and how unprepared? I don’t think there’s any doubt there were many miscalculations and errors. No war plan–and probably no peace plan, either–survives the first battle, right? Only with hindsight are we able to figure things out (and even then, not everything), and only the opposition is absolutely certain it could have done so very very much better.

Neo-neocon’s handy guide to northern New Englanders

The New Neo Posted on by

Here are some lesser-known facts about folks who live in New England. And by “New England,” I mean the part I know best, northern New England–that is, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, and Maine.

Actually, I’m not so sure about Vermont any more. Vermont seems to be populated these days mostly by outsiders such as myself (I’ve only lived in New England since 1969, after all). Connecticut? It ain’t New England. Any state that is composed half of Yankee rather than Red Sox fans is not New England. Sorry. Massachusetts? Borderline. Rhode Island? What’s that? (Just a joke, folks, please don’t send me angry e-mails–but you have to admit it is rather small).

Fact A: New Englanders don’t use umbrellas.

These last few days it’s been back to the cold-and-rainy-Seattle-in-winter scenario, weatherwise. Yesterday at the supermarket I reluctantly got out of my car, pushed the button on my umbrella that automatically opens it (love that thing!) and huddled under it as I raced in to do my shopping, when I noticed that I was the only person around using an umbrella.

It’s not the first time I’ve noticed this. New Englanders are hardy; they laugh at the weather. They scorn people “from away” who feel they will melt if a little rain falls on them, even if it’s 48 degrees and windy and the rain chills them to the bone.

Fact B: New Englanders don’t use garages.

Actually, I want to amend that–they use them, just not for cars. When I first lived here, people would often say something like this to me, “We went by your house the other day and were going to stop by, but we figured you weren’t home because your car wasn’t in the driveway.” I found this puzzling–my car was usually in the garage, I’d say–and they looked back at me equally puzzled. Car? In a garage?

No, garages in New England are for storage. Even during the five or so months a year that we get a great deal of snow, and leaving a car in a garage would just seem to make sense, people here prefer to leave them out and dig around them. And it’s not that the homes lack storage, either–most have large attics and deep basements and a storage shed or two on the property. So the garage thing remains a mystery, but I think it must be connected to the umbrella thing.

Fact C: If you weren’t born here, forget about it.

It’s not that people won’t be cordial. But you’ll always be somewhat of a stranger.

Fact D: Women mow the lawns.

It’s not an absolute rule, but it’s pretty much the case. Years ago a relative was visiting from California and pointed this out to me (I’d never noticed it before, but after that I noticed it often). Actually, what he said one day when we were driving around sightseeing, was this, “I’m going to move here. The men don’t have to mow the lawns.”

Fact E: New Englanders love ice cream.

So what, you say. Doesn’t everybody? Well, New Englanders love it more, and they have less reason to, because we have more cold weather (see this by authorities Ben and Jerry on the subject, as well as this: New England is known for its high ice cream consumption, no matter what the season…).

I try to be part of this important New England tradition, especially if the ice cream is ginger (I know, I know–I’ll probably take a lot of flak for admitting that. But, have you ever tried it?) Ice cream stands dot the land, and although they close for the winter, they define “winter” somewhat narrowly. They tend to reopen when the weather is still very cold, and you can see stalwart souls standing out there in near-blizzard conditions, indulging in the long-awaited pleasures of their favorite cones. Very hardy folk indeed.

Coming home: Vietnam (and other) vets

The New Neo Posted on by

“Coming Home”–it was the title of a 1978 movie about returning Vietnam vets, starring (of all people, adding insult to injury) Jane Fonda. I saw it and don’t remember it very well, but I thought of it when I heard of the following event: Operation Homecoming, a large celebration in honor of Vietnam vets that will be happening this week in Branson, Missouri (hat tip: Michelle Malkin and Third Wave Dave). The “Operation Homecoming” website refers to the event as, “The homecoming you never received.”

I was recently watching some TV footage of the celebratory homecomings of several Iraq war veterans, and I was struck by the differences between their experiences and those of returning Vietnam vets. I certainly remember the latter, from my own personal history–I greeted my boyfriend alone, with no fanfare, and he came on a regular commercial flight. Of course, this wasn’t his initial return flight from Vietnam, the details of which I don’t know (it occurred base-to-base), but that certainly wasn’t a public event, either, and family were not present. If a band was on hand, I didn’t hear about it.

Why the difference? I’m not an expert on this, but one explanation that readily comes to mind is that there were far fewer National Guard members fighting in Vietnam than in Iraq. National Guard units are, by their very nature, geographic, and they usually stay together as they serve. They leave in units and they return in units, so the families tend to know each other and to live nearby and form a sort of support group. Obviously, in that situation, the homecoming can be unified, and it most certainly will involve a ceremony of some kind.

I think it’s similar with the regular military in today’s all-volunteer army. There is a great deal of solidarity compared to the typical Vietnam vet, although in the case of the regular military of today (as opposed to the Guard of today) it’s not initially geographic–they come from different areas rather than a single one. However, there are a larger number of men and women with spouses and children who live near the base, and who know each other; and the return tends to also be in a unit, to that same base.

In Vietnam it was different for the draftees, who constituted a huge portion of those who served. As best I can recall, they were drafted one by one, trained with people they didn’t know, and were then plugged into fighting units that already existed when they went to Vietnam. Service there was time-limited: one year, virtually to the day. There was a revolving crew of people in a unit, all (or at least most) with different beginning and ending dates for their own personal tour of duty.

If you could survive that year intact, it was over for you–you went home and you were safe. Of course, there were people who flew with you on the transport plane back to the States, but they weren’t necessarily those you had known you and served with you. You came back to a base (as I recall, usually in California–Fort Ord perhaps?) to be debriefed. Then you were given leave to see your parents and other relatives and friends. Usually there were only a few months left of your service–my boyfriend spent them training new draftees.

It was all very quiet and individual. Returning vets usually wore their uniforms to fly (they got huge discounts if they did), but they flew on commercial aircraft, and they flew alone. I met my returning boyfriend in New York at Kennedy Airport (or was it still Idylwild back then?) in July of 1969, almost exactly thirty-six years ago. Our reunion was emotional, but it was solitary. No brass bands–not that, at the time, we wanted any, and I didn’t even notice their absence. After all, by that time the war was considered a tragic mistake, nothing to be proud of. My personal experience does not include anyone making rude remarks or gestures to us, but I remember getting some funny looks in the airport as we walked through it with my boyfriend in his uniform.

But he was only too happy to take off that uniform, both physically and metaphorically–although, in a larger sense, he never did take it off completely; the experience affected him greatly, probably for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to talk about it, either. We broke up some months later over different issues, and we never really did talk much about his Vietnam experiences, expect for a few incidents he described to me. But I know that, at the time, the lack of a big celebratory homecoming didn’t seem worthy of note to either of us.

World War II was different from Vietnam, too, as were other previous wars. These were wars in which the military, including the draftees, were in “for the duration” unless they were wounded or shell-shocked. There were many people who returned as virtual strangers to their families, because of the length of the separation as well as the terrible and intense experiences they’d had.

Today’s volunteer and career military have far more contact with their families while overseas, as do the Guard (e-mail, for example, rather than the terribly inefficient–although more easily saved–snail-mail of yesteryear). Tours of duty are no longer for the duration ( I believe the turning point was Vietnam in this respect). They are long, but not endless. But the “for the duration” rule had an important aspect that affected homecomings–it meant that, when homecomings did occur, they occurred all at once, and in the context of a celebration: VE Day, general jubilation. No lack of brass bands on that day!

So, these present-day homecoming celebrations for Iraq vets are a way to redress what is now recognized as a huge and unique problem (one of many) that occurred in the conduct of the Vietnam War and the treatment of its returning veterans. In a conscious effort, people are trying to recognize the sacrifice of the troops who served in Iraq, even though the war isn’t over and we’re not celebrating the equivalent of VE Day. That’s what the proliferation of yellow ribbons and car decals and all those “Support Our Troops” signs are about. Even though some of it may seem self-serving and hypocritical–especially coming from those who are strongly against the war and who may even seem at times to be doing everything in their power to sabotage it–I think it comes from a good impulse, and that impulse originates in the memories of those strangely muted Vietnam vet homecomings.

“Operation Homecoming” is an even greater attempt to redress the absence of a homecoming celebration for Vietnam vets. It may be too little, too late; but it is something nevertheless. Ever since the 2004 Presidential campaign and the nomination of John Kerry, we seem destined to rehash these old battles. Perhaps this time we’ll get it right–and, if so, it’s something we can actually thank him for. The wheels of justice may indeed grind slow, but they grind exceedingly fine.

More from Radical Son

The New Neo Posted on by

I’ve just finished Radical Son. Those who recommended it to me were correct; it’s a fascinating account of one of the biggest political “changers” of recent times. David Horowitz was way to the left of me in his “before” shot, but we seem to have ended up somewhat in the same place now.

Horowitz’s book is filled with quotable quotes. From time to time I will post a few. Here he is in 1986, addressing a pro-Sandinista crowd at Berkeley (in the belly of the beast, as it were):

Twenty-five years ago, as one of the founders of the New Left, I was an organizer of the first political demonstrations on this Berkeley campus–and indeed on any campus–to protest our government’s anti-Communist policies in Cuba and Vietnam. Tonight I come before you as a man I used to tell myself I would never be: a supporter of President Reagan, a committed opponent of Communist rule in Nicaragua.

I make no apologies for my present position. It was what I thought was the humanity of the Marxist idea that made me what I was then; it is the inhumanity of what I have seen to be the Marxist reality that has made me what I am now. If my former colleagues who support the Sandinista cause were to pause for a moment and then plunge their busy political minds into the human legacies of their activist pasts, they would instantly drown in an ocean of blood.

When confronted by a reality he couldn’t deny, Horowitz refused to retreat into the world of pretty ideas. He finally faced up to the reality of the carnage created by Communism (and enabled by its “useful idiots” on the left) during the course of the 20th century, from Stalin’s murders to Vietnam and Cambodia after the US pullout. History proved him right on the Sandinistas, too, although I wonder how many in that Berkeley crowd ended up taking note of that fact.

“They would instantly drown in an ocean of blood”…yes. Horowitz didn’t pull his punches when he spoke for the left, and he certainly doesn’t do so now that he’s on the right. That, at least, has not changed.

Flag Day–long may it wave

The New Neo Posted on by

I wrote the following on Memorial Day, but I thought I’d post it again today, since it seems even more appropriate for Flag Day.

Flag Day is one of those lost holidays. It was easy to ignore even when I was a kid and paid more attention to holidays. After all, it didn’t count because we didn’t get off from school, did we? What’s a holiday if you can’t get off from school? Flag Day’s history indicates pretty clearly that the holiday was always intended to be pitched to school children, but they would have gotten much further with kids’ appreciation if they’d made it a school holiday.

Flag Day seemed pretty basic–fly the flag. We did that at school anyway in those days (I suppose they still do), as well as saluting it every morning–all without giving it much (or any?) thought. So, here is my essay on giving the flag some thought:

I was driving down the highway yesterday, and I noticed that the car ahead of me had a small American flag decal on its trunk. It got me to thinking about how I’ve never displayed a flag on my car or my home, except for a small one on my porch on the very first Fourth of July after 9/11. I’ve never been one to wear T-shirts with slogans, or campaign buttons, or any of those sorts of public declarations of self and/or belief. I’m just a very private person (the apple in front of the face, for example).

But I clearly remember that huge proliferation of flags post 9/11. Flags on cars, on homes, pinned to lapels–everywhere one looked, so many more than ever before. There were, of course, those who carped about it (see this for a typical example). Too nationalistic. Too jingoistic. But I rather liked it–even though at the time I was still an unreconstructed liberal. It gave me a feeling of comfort and continuity. We might be down, but we weren’t out yet.

For many days after 9/11 I found myself going to the ocean and sitting on the rocks, watching the ubiquitous commercial fishing boats and ferries go by. Everyone remembers that blue blue sky of 9/11, but I don’t know how many recall that it stayed that way for some time afterwards. The weather was spectacular, almost eerie in its beauty, and very serene, although I felt anything but. At the ocean, I would ordinarily see airplanes on a regular basis–but those days, the almost supernaturally blue skies were very, very quiet.

I thought about many things as I sat there. I believed another large attack was imminent, maybe many attacks. I had no idea what could ever prevent this from happening. I thought about George Bush being President, and at the time the thought did not fill me with confidence, but rather with dread. Snatches of poems and songs would wander in and out of my head, in that repetitive way they often do. One was the “Star-Spangled Banner”–all those flags brought it to mind, I suppose.

I’d known the words to that song for close to fifty years, and even had to learn about Francis Scott Key and the circumstances under which he wrote them. But I never really thought much about those words. It was just a song that was difficult to sing, and not as pretty as America the Beautiful or God Bless America (the latter, in those very un-PC days of my youth, we used to sing as we marched out of assembly).

The whole first stanza of the national anthem is a protracted version of a question: does the American flag still wave over the fort? Has the US been successful in the battle? As a child, the answer seemed to me to have been a foregone conclusion–of course it waved, of course the US prevailed in the battle; how could it be otherwise? America rah-rah. America always was the winner. Even our withdrawal from Vietnam, so many years later, seemed to me to be an act of choice. Our very existence as a nation had never for a moment felt threatened.

The only threat I’d ever faced to this country was the nightmarish threat of nuclear war. But that seemed more a threat to the entire planet, to humankind itself, rather than to this country specifically. And so I never really heard or felt the vulnerability and fear expressed in Key’s question, which he asked during the War of 1812, so shortly after the birth of the country itself: does that star-spangled banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

But now I heard his doubt, and I felt it, too. I saw quite suddenly that there was no “given” in the existence of this country–its continuance, and its preciousness, began to seem to me to be as important and as precarious as they must have seemed to Key during that night in 1814.

And then other memorized writings came to me as well–the Gettysburg Address, whose words those crabby old teachers of mine had made us memorize in their entirety: and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. Here it was again, the sense of the nation as an experiment in democracy and freedom, and inherently special but vulnerable to destruction, an idea I had never until that moment grasped. But now I did, on a visceral level.

Another school memory of long ago was the story “The Man Without a Country.” It used to be standard reading matter for seventh graders. In fact, it was the first “real” book–as opposed to those tedious Dick and Jane readers–that I ever was assigned to read in school. As such it was exciting, since it dealt with an actual story with some actual drama to it. It struck me as terribly sad–and unfair, too–that Philip Nolan was forced to wander the world, exiled, for one moment of cursing the United States. “The Man Without a Country” was the sort of paean to patriotism that probably would never be assigned nowadays to students.

Patriotism has gotten a very bad name during the last few decades. I think part of this feeling began (at least in this country), like so many things, with the Vietnam era. But patriotism and nationalism seem to have been rejected by a large segment of Europeans even earlier, as a result of the devastation both sentiments were seen to have wrought during WWI and WWII. Of course, WWII in Europe was a result mainly of German nationalism run amok, but it seemed to have given nationalism as a whole a very bad name.

Here’s author Thomas Mann on the subject, writing in 1947 in the introduction to the American edition of Herman Hesse’s Demian:

If today, when national individualism lies dying, when no single problem can any longer be solved from a purely national point of view, when everything connected with the “fatherland” has become stifling provincialism and no spirit that does not represent the European tradition as a whole any longer merits consideration…”

A strong statement of the post-WWII idea of nationalism as a dangerous force, mercifully dead or dying, to be replaced (hopefully) by a pan-national (or, rather, anational) Europeanism. Mann was a German exile from his own country, who had learned to his bitter regret the excesses to which unbridled and amoral nationalism can lead. His was an understandable and common response, one that helped lead to the formation of the EU. The nationalism of the US is seen by those who agree with him as a relic of those dangerous days of nationalism gone mad without any curb of morality or consideration for others.

But the pendulum is swinging back. The US is not Nazi Germany, however much the far left may try to make that analogy. And, in fact, that is one of the reasons they try so hard to make that particular analogy–because Nazi Germany is one of the very best examples of the dangers of unbridled and amoral nationalism.

But, on this Memorial Day, I want to say there’s a place for nationalism, and for love of country. Not a nationalism that ignores morality, but one that embraces it and strives for it, keeping in mind that–human nature being what it is–no nation on earth can be perfect or anywhere near perfect. The US is far from perfect, but it is a good country nevertheless, striving to be better.

So, I’ll echo the verse that figured so prominently in “The Man Without a Country,” and say (corny, but true): this is my own, my native land. And I’ll also echo Francis Scott Key and add: the star-spangled banner, O long may it wave, O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

(Thanks, Mudville Gazette, for the opportunity to link to your open post on the subject. And Michelle Malkin has links to more Flag Day posts.)

Niger and fistulas and hope

The New Neo Posted on by

I don’t ordinarily read the Wall Street Journal. It’s one of the periodicals that isn’t available for free online, and I’ve never felt such a deep need to read it that it seemed worth the price to me.

But I’m reconsidering, mainly because of an article by Roger Thurow that appeared in yesterday’s WSJ. I came across it only through a fluke–on rare occasions, in an attempt to entice me into buying it, a free copy of the WSJ simply appears on my doorstep, and that’s what happened yesterday.

Perhaps they know exactly what they’re doing, because this particular article was enough to make me think I should be reading the paper regularly. The title, “Married at 11, a teen in Niger returns to school,” gives little hint of the depth within.

I assume that most readers here are not subscribers, so I am going to summarize the article for you. It deals with another sad fact of sexual and reproductive life for Moslem women in the area of the southern Sahara–the first, of course, being what is sometimes euphemistically referred to as female circumcision, but is more correctly known as female genital mutilation. The second is the prevalence of early marriage, pregnancy, and fistulas, common in an area stretching from Eritrea to Mali.

Yes, these topics are sickening and sad, but so are the realities of these women’s lives. But the story is not without hope, as you will see.

What’s a fistula, and why are they so common in these countries? This article highlights Niger, where girls are typically married even before the arrival of puberty, although they don’t ordinarily live with their husbands until after reaching puberty (the girls, that is–not the husbands, who are typically older). At that time sexual relations commence, often leading to very early pregnancies. In addition, the girls drop out of school on marriage, which means they leave primary school, never to return.

Many teens’ bodies haven’t yet matured enough to deliver vaginally, but in all of Niger, only 10 medical centers are capable of performing Caesarean sections. A fistula is caused by unrelieved, protracted labor. The pressure of the baby pushing for days causes a hole to tear in the wall between the bladder and vagina. This results in uncontrollable leaking of urine.

These restrained words convey an almost unimaginable but unforunately commonplace horror–girls barely emerged from childhood themselves, enduring painful and lengthy labors, and ending up with a defect that causes them to become outcasts.

More than one million young women with the condition are scattered throughout the so-called fistula belt…Because of their severe incontinence and smell, many have been ostracized by their families and villages and live by themselves or with fellow fistula sufferers.

Horrible, tragic.

But, strangely enough, this ends up being a story of incredible courage and heroism on the part many people–and, especially, of familial love.

The author follows the story of a young girl in Niger named Anafghat Ayoub. Hers is the usual tale of extremely early marriage, dropping out of school in the third grade, and very early pregnancy. Her husband had left for work in Libya, her mother was dead, and her father was a poor goat herder with several daughters younger than she. Here is what happened when Anafghat was ready to deliver:

After three days in labor, Mr. Mahomed [Anafghat’s father] knew he needed help. He scraped together money from friends and relatives to hire a car to take them to the nearest town with medicine and maternity nurses. For about 60 miles they bounced over rutted dirt roads [imagine this journey, after three days of exhausting and unproductive labor!]. Once there, the nurses said they weren’t equipped to handle her delivery. Mr. Mahomed hired another car, for $40–a fortune for a goat herder. It took them to Niamey, the nation’s capital, more than 100 miles away down a paved road pocked with potholes.

So the same father who had married her off at such a tender age (for the brideprice of a precious camel–a camel that ended up either lost or stolen, by the way) is the father who now was willing to go through fire to save her.

At the hospital, doctors performed a forceps delivery of her stillborn child. Anafghat lived, but she now had a fistula “the size of a baseball,” and an infection, which the doctors staved off. But they could do nothing about the fistula.

Anafghat stayed at the hospital for four months, awaiting the arrival of a team of American doctors, who have been to Niger six times already to help women like Anafghat. When they finally arrived there, she endured a three-hour repair surgery, performed by a volunteer surgeon from Johns Hopkins. She has since recovered nicely.

During her recuperation, Anafghat noticed a woman from Niger who was a medical student making the rounds with the American doctors. Anafghat, the goatherder’s daughter from the rural village, was extremely taken with her, saying: I want to live in Niamey, be a doctor and be an important woman. And she extracted a promise from her chastened father that she would be allowed to return to school, unheard of for a woman (or, rather, girl) in her situation.

And so she has returned to school, and she’s doing very, very well. According to the school’s director: The others call her “the college student” because she is so smart and older…

Anafghat is back living in the small round hut with her family. She and her father say she has no plans to return to her husband and she will stay with her family until she advances to the higher school. And she wants to make sure her younger sisters follow her. Mr. Mahomed sat on one of the beds stirring a bowl of rice, surrounded by all of his daughters.

He says he will keep his promises to Anafghat. “Even if one of my daughters asks to get married while they are still in school,” he says, “I will refuse.”

I have to say that this story–which is much longer and more detailed than I’ve excerpted here–moved me to tears; first of rage, and then of inspiration. People like this will be the ones to build the foundation of a better future for the women of the area, if allowed. There is great hope that this movement will grow. Hear what Sabou Ibrahim, director of the National Hospital, has to say:

A fistula woman who is repaired and goes back to her village brings many changes…All the women get together and they talk about the risk of having a child so young.”

Before, I suppose these “fistula women” stayed away, shunned by all. Now they can go back and spread the word, and have a good chance of preventing this from happening to others.

The more people see it is in their own interest to decline to follow a traditional cultural dictate which has led in the past to so many blasted lives, the more people will feel comfortable doing so. Then the practice (and the fistulas) will disappear from these societies–and not a moment too soon.

ADDENDUM: I wanted to include a link to the agency sponsoring the American doctors, the International Organization for Women and Development, Inc., founded by Barbara and Ira Margolies of Rockville Center, NY, and also to give them a donation. But I couldn’t find a webite for the group. This was the closest I could come, a feature on one of the doctors. If anyone can get any better information on this organization than I was able to find, please post it in the comments section. Thanks.

ADDENDUM TO ADDENDUM: Reader Marianne has found the website, which is here. And this is the donations page. Thanks so much, Marianne!

You’re next in line, Saudi Arabia: votes for women

The New Neo Posted on by

When I was in second grade, my class gave an assembly presentation in which each of us read a little speech about some figure in US history, pretending to be that character. I was Susan B. Anthony.

Although I no longer remember the speech I made, I never forgot that she had helped women earn the right to vote. It seems hard to believe, but at the time I made my little debut, women had only been voting for about thirty-five years.

How long had women’s struggle to gain the vote taken in this country? Approximately seventy difficult and dogged years. In fact, most of the early leaders of the movement, including Anthony herself, died before seeing the Promised Land of the 19th Amendment.

I don’t know how long women in Kuwait have been petitioning to vote; my guess is that it’s been less than seventy years. My guess is also that certain recent Middle Eastern events, in which the policies of one George W. Bush have played no small role, were part of the reason the Kuwaitis decided one month ago that the time had come to let women in that country vote.

Kuwait has now announced this further news, a mere month later:

The Kuwaiti government has appointed its first female Cabinet minister, a month after lawmakers in this oil-rich nation granted women the right to vote and run for office, state-owned television reported Sunday.

Political science teacher Massouma al-Mubarak, a women’s rights activist and columnist, was given the planning and administrative development portfolios, Prime Minister Sheik Sabah Al Ahmed Al Sabah was quoted as saying. The two portfolios previously were held by Sheik Ahmed Abdullah Al Ahmed Al Sabah, who also is the communications minister.

“I’m happy,” al-Mubarak, 54, told The Associated Press. “This honor is not bestowed on my person but on every woman who fought to prove that Kuwaiti women are capable.”

The achievement of the vote for women in Kuwait, and the appointment of this first woman to a Cabinet-level position, aren’t simply questions of women’s rights long overdue, although they most certainly are that. They represent an extension of the scope of democracy in an area of the world that could sorely use some improvement in the position of women, developments that might one day prove to have a generalized ripple effect on the cultural ethos there (and yes, though it’s not PC of me, I think it could stand some improvement).

Further facts of possible interest: Ms. al-Mubarak seems to have replaced two men, if I understand the article correctly. And Saudis, please take note:

Women can now vote in all Middle Eastern nations where elections are held except Saudi Arabia.

Gestating change

The New Neo Posted on by

It’s been almost exactly a month since my most recent post in the “A mind is a difficult thing to change” series. Some of you may be wondering–well, where’s the next one?

It seems these things are so intense to write–particularly the whole Vietnam series–that I need to take a breather afterwards.

But I’m happy to report that I’m about to start on Part V (actually the ninth article in the series). I anticipate being able to post something within the next week or two. My plan is to cover the years between the fall of Vietnam and 9/11 in one large gulp. Then, on to 9/11 and after.

We’ll see.

The Cats in the Fax

The New Neo Posted on by

I seem to be on a roll with animal stories. And no, I’m not a fanatical PETA-type person.

But even the Cat in the Hat had nothing on these Cats in the Fax when it comes to making serious mischief.

And how, pray tell, is an owner to control where a cat pees? I thought cats did more or less what they wanted to, when they wanted to, where they wanted to.

Dean: winning with morals

The New Neo Posted on by

Howard Dean is hopping mad:

Dean seemed yesterday to embrace his reputation for volatility, saying he is being buoyed by activists and donors. At one point, a Chicago alderman, Joseph Moore, had trouble being recognized; he joked that next time he would ”jump up and down.”

”That’s my job!” Dean said, and the room shook with applause.

Dean is definitely a fighter, no doubt about that. I don’t think he’s good for the Democratic Party if, as he said, the goal is to win some of us lost sheep back into the fold–although I was not a “Reagan Democrat,” the constituency he seems most intent on trying to woo.

I can’t for the life of me figure out how his stance, which does not foster reassurance vis a vis Islamofascist terrorism, could entice a Reagan Democrat, or even a post-9/11 neocon like me, back to the Democratic Party. And the article’s headline, “Democrats can win with morals, Dean says,” seems to emphasize morals as a strategic move, rather than coming from personal integrity, a perception, which, correct or not, isn’t likely to help Dean or the Democrats a whole lot.

Not a shaggy-horse story, either

The New Neo Posted on by

In the non-shaggy dog story I discussed a few days back, there was a link to a site I found bizarre but charming. Unless you followed my post to its conclusion, though, and clicked on all the links, you may have missed it. This would break my heart, because I think -well, I just think it’s worth looking at. Nothing about politics, by the way, and quite indescribable.

So please, let’s all take a moment on this Sunday in June for a leisurely look around. Don’t neglect the photos.

As I wrote earlier–no, it’s not a spoof, and it’s not the Onion, either; it seems to be absolutely for real. Who knew there even were mini-horses, the size of dogs, that people could hold in their laps (if the lap happens to be a strong one)? And who would ever think that these horses could be trained, like dogs, to guide the blind?

First, someone had to have the concept, which is quite a leap–like the first person to eat a lobster. And, once the idea came, it doesn’t seem that it could actually be implemented, does it? But apparently these horses do what dogs can do, although the training process is arduous (see this for an explanation). It’s a testament to human–and animal–adaptability, creativity, and persistence. Although they are almost unbearably cute, mini-horse guides do have a definite “redeeming social importance” element–they are not just cute, after all; these are highly trained workhorses.

Before you leave the site, please don’t forget to note the pieces de resistance, the sneakers.

More weather complaints

The New Neo Posted on by

I’m all talk, no action–as in “everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.”

Since everything is so easy to look up on Google, I just discovered that that quote isn’t by “anonymous,” as I’d thought, but was written by someone I’d never heard of before, Charles Dudley Warner, journalist, author, Mark Twain collaborator. His essays are described as “charming” and “polished,” unlike this one (well, you can’t hit them all out of the park).

My excuse? Just one short month ago I was complaining tediously about the cold. I actually didn’t turn off my furnace till about two weeks ago. And now, now–well, I guess there’s no pleasing me. It’s been hot and exceptionally humid, and even the thunderstorms we seem to have every day now aren’t helping a bit. A while back I thought I had moved to Seattle in winter; now it appears to be Houston in summer.

And today, of all things, I was involved in a yard sale, one of my least favorite things to do on earth. It’s over, I’m too pooped to blog, and I’ll see you guys tomorrow.