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napoleoninrags · 4 years

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President Barabbas

The mob chose a mobster. Elections have consequences.

by Greg Olear

"Easter is a very special day for me ... Easter Sunday, and you'll have packed churches all over our country.” —Donald John Trump, 24 March 2020

I WAS RAISED Catholic, which meant that every Sunday, come hell or high water, we went to church. The Catholic Mass is extremely rote. There’s a lot of call-and-response, a lot of standing up and sitting down, a lot of the same material, repeated over and over and over again. The Apostles’ Creed, for example, has been recited at Mass, in much the same way, since it was codified at the Council of Nicaea during the reign of Constantine the Great, a mere 17 centuries ago.

The best day of the liturgical year, in my recollection, was Palm Sunday. The priest always shared the same story: Pontius Pilate, the Roman prefect, appeared before his subjects in Jerusalem on the occasion of Passover, and agreed to free a single Jewish prisoner. The mob had to choose: should Pilate free Jesus, the alleged “King of the Jews,” or Barabbas, a notorious criminal? Whereupon we, role-playing in the pews, would cry, WE WANT BARABBAS! My brother and I shouted with gusto, to my mother’s extreme annoyance: WE WANT BARABBAS! And so the killer was set free, and Christ condemned to die.

I didn’t know at the time that this passage, perpetuating as it does the “Jews killed Jesus” myth, was used for centuries by anti-Semites to justify their despicable deeds. I never interpreted it that way. To me, the story is about how mobs, led as they are by riled-up morons, can easily be fooled and manipulated into voting against their best interests.

The 2016 election is a recent example of how the angry masses, presented with a clear choice of good guy versus bad guy, chose unwisely. It’s not fair to either party to compare Hillary Clinton with Jesus Christ, and Pontius Pilate did not use the Electoral College system in determining whom to pardon, but notorious criminal Donald John Trump is absolutely President Barabbas. The mob went with the mobster.

Three years into the Trump Administration, and a shocking number of the president’s associates are either in prison, about to head to prison, under indictment, or under investigation. There is Paul Manafort, Trump’s campaign chair, currently incarcerated. There is Michael Cohen, Trump’s longtime personal attorney, fixer, and bagman: ditto. There is the treacherous Michael Flynn, awaiting his sentence (or, perhaps, his pardon). There is Trump’s longtime buddy and shadow campaign advisor Roger Stone, soon to toddle off to the hoosegow. There’s also those who have not yet been indicted because of the nefarious machinations of the corrupt Attorney General, William Barr: Rudy Giuliani, Jared Kushner, Mike Pompeo, Mike Pence, Mick Mulvaney, Erik Prince, and Trump’s lousy kids Ivanka, Eric, and Don Junior.

What is remarkable here, aside from the obvious fact that Trump cavorts with an uncanny number of crooks, is that none of these people has flipped. Manafort pretended to, only to ratfuck the FBI. Flynn, too, lied to investigators. Only Cohen gave up some dirt—but how much did he really surrender? The thing is, the rest of these people aren’t nearly as hard. Trump wants to pardon Roger Stone because he knows him well enough to know that he will sing to stay out of the Big House. Jared Kushner, aka Boy Plunder, has done so many illicit things that he will keep FBI agents busy for years; is Mr. Ivanka really not going to flip to avoid prison? And I can’t imagine Don Junior exhibiting the same trollish swagger around Cellblock D.

Trump’s partners in crime are all selfish assholes. They have no real loyalty. Giuliani, for example, loathes Trump with every fiber of his noxious being. He’s only protecting him out of his own self-interest. At some point, to preserve themselves, these fuckers will all turn on each other, and it will be the end of Reservoir Dogs all up in here: a bunch of petty crooks threatening to take each other down.

So why haven’t they?

A big queen sits in the middle of the stalemated chessboard, preventing all movement. The queen’s name is William Barr. He is the titular Attorney General of the United States, but his actual function is to slow-roll the Department of Justice from its takedown of Trump and his co-conspirators. To that end, he holds up witnesses. He stymies evidence from being sent to prosecutors. He cock-blocks US Attorneys, sure as he cock-blocked Mueller. He kicks the can and kicks it again and again and again, hoping to run out the clock. Barr has been so successful that the GOP is not even remotely worried about the bad stuff coming out. He’s gummed up the works so badly that we couldn’t even get witnesses at the fucking impeachment trial.

With a big, fat cork in the bottle of evidence, Trump and his fellow criminals do not have to fear retribution from law enforcement for as long as he stays in office. The only danger now is if they turn on each other. If they respect omertà, they are golden. Thus it is in all of their interests—Trump’s, but also Pence’s, McConnell’s, Pompeo’s, Kushner’s, and so on—to stay the course. These people will do anything, including exacerbate a global health crisis, to not get caught. They don’t care if we die. Repeat: they don’t care if we die. As Mr. White says in Reservoir Dogs: “The choice between doing ten years and taking out some stupid motherfucker, ain’t no choice at all.”

What are they hiding?

In Trump’s case, generations of criminal involvement with the mob—first La Cosa Nostra, later the Russian mafiya. His grandfather was a minor pimp at the dawn of the organized crime era, but Donald’s father, Fred Trump, was, as Lincoln’s Bible tells us, “a businessman front for the Genovese crime family.”

To best understand Fred, just track his rise from single-family home construction to big residential developments. From Shore Haven (1947) to Beach Haven to Trump Village, all were done with known mafia partners, in Genovese-controlled territory, and eventually with a fully Genovese-owned construction company (HRH Construction).

When the Russian mafiya began rolling in, they landed in Fred’s properties and partnered with the Genovese on some big ticket scams. This was also during the time that Fred and his attorney Roy Cohn set up S&A concrete (via Nick Auletta)—a joint venture between Tony Salerno (Genovese boss) and Paul Castellano (Gambino boss), so that donald could build in Manhattan. Remember donald’s quote, “Even my father, he said, you don’t want to go to Manhattan. That’s not our territory?” That’s because Manhattan, for construction, was Gambino territory. They controlled the concrete and unions. And Fred was a very loyal, shrewd front for the Genovese. To get his idiot, greedy kid into Manhattan, Fred and Roy Cohn had to get those two mob bosses to agree on a joint venture.

When the Russian mafiya pushed out the Italian mob after the fall of the Soviet Union, Donald Trump began laundering money for unseemly Vor associates of Semion Mogilevich. The Russians extended him credit when no US bank would touch him, and he remains in their debt—a fact the Mazars and Deutsche Bank documents will reveal, which is why Trump has moved heaven and earth to keep said documents secret.

Because the Russian mafiya works hand in glove with the Russian government, Trump is also, as Hillary Clinton correctly told us four years ago, Putin’s puppet. His ties to Russian intelligence (Putin, remember, is ex-KGB) go back decades. Recruitment of Trump by the KGB began in the Reagan Administration; for all we know, his succession of ex-Soviet-bloc wives better reflect his allegiance to the Soviets than his taste in women. He is also connected to the Russian organized crime via his friend Jeffrey Epstein, a collector of kompromat and money launderer for arms dealers; Epstein’s longtime partner was Ghislaine Maxwell, daughter of Robert Maxwell, the spy and former business partner of, yes, Semion Mogilevich.

Trump’s underworld ties were all there in 2016, barely below the surface, for all the world to see. Wayne Barrett wrote about them for the Village Voice. Robert Friedman alluded to them in Red Mafiya. Craig Unger covers them closely in House of Trump, House of Putin. The mainstream media knew damned well what the guy really was, but chose to equate Trump’s years of actual mobbed-up crimes with HRC’s email server. The result? Every half-wit Fox News watcher proclaims, with a straight face, that Hillary, not Donald, is the crook!

Truth: Trump is a notorious criminal, a serial rapist and sexual assailant, wholly owned by the mob, controlled by the underworld and the Kremlin. He is a latter-day Barabbas—and because of the whims of a riled-up mob, he’s now, somehow, the President of the United States. Make no mistake: If he thinks it will help him avoid prosecution, he will order the churches open for Easter without qualm or hesitation. In his calculus, Jesus gave up His life for us, so we should give up our lives for Trump. He will happily pervert the holiest of Christian holy days to get what he wants. To this monster, nothing is sacred..

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venikamenon · 6 years

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Boundaries & The Men Who Did Not Respect Mine

In light of the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, the #metoo movement, the accusations against powerful people in the entertainment industry in India, discussions around sexual assault have been inescapable. Here are a few instances that impacted my life profoundly.

This is going to be a little long and a little all over the place but strap in, because it’s an emotionally exhausting ride.

This story begins in 6th grade.

My maa and I were vacationing in Shimla, a north Indian mountain-covered city. On our last night there, we were waiting in a crowded bus station for our Volvo to depart.

I was wearing a white puffy jacket, given to me as a present by my American aunt and uncle, which automatically made it more special than all of my other jackets. I don’t remember anything about this vacation apart from what was about to happen, but I remember being happy. I remember smiling at all the other families that waited along with us. My mother, the sole provider for my family of five, was first and foremost a bad ass professional (a word I would not have been allowed to use back then), so when she was able to tear herself away from her work, it was a reason to celebrate.

I remember smiling at this man who was looking at me.

Me, I was 10-11 at the time.

I did not think anything of it in the moment. But pretty quickly, I realized this man was following my maa and I around. Every time I looked up – and I did have to look up as I was a short chubby child –, he was a few feet away. His face holding a smile and his eyes staring right at me, unwavering, unblinking, focused.

I remember feeling uncomfortable, not being able to breathe, and looking at my maa for help, but not being able to say anything.

Every time, I would turn my back to him, he would circle around us to be in my field of vision. Over and over again. No matter where I looked and how hard I tried to look away. I was frozen, stuck in a nightmare, unable to vocalize.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally boarded the bus. As I looked back one last time to check if I was safe, I was horrified to see him walk on after us. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t be trapped on this bus with this man for hours. I remember beginning to tear up, and whisper to my maa some incoherent words about this man following me and smiling at me.

She immediately stood up and screamed in the bus “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME”. She didn’t ask me if I was sure, she didn’t ask me why I didn’t say something sooner, she didn’t ask if I had proof. She stood up and screamed “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME” and in that moment, protected me and took the public burden off of me.

This man immediately ran out. No one on the bus said anything.

I don’t remember anything else from this whole trip, but I will never forget this man’s face and how this man made me feel. He made me feel dirty and ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. He made me want to rip my soul out of my body and put in in another new and unseen one.

Two things happened as a result of this. First, to the confusion of my mother, I refused to wear that white jacket again, even though it was the warmest, the fanciest and the favoritest jacket that I owned. I couldn’t separate that memory from the clothes I wore that night, no matter how irrational the connection. And if I couldn’t get rid of my body, this was the closest thing I could throw out.

Second, I stopped smiling at strangers.

All this and I’d never even been touched. I would not be able to prove anything in a court of law.

This was the first time the ether had whispered to me, beware of strange men – a recurring theme in every woman’s life, but particularly in India where the danger is “out there” (a notion with heavy classist connotations but that is for another time).

At 17, I moved to New York to pursue my education at a liberal progressive school with 70% women-identifying folk. A safe place.

At the end of my first week of school, a safe place, I called my maa and told her that one of my friends, in the room opposite of mine, had been raped by another student. Both of them were women. Anyone can be an abuser, but what was most shocking was that the abuser just dropped out the very next day of the case being filed with the school, so this person faced no consequences. However, this is not my story to tell.

I know this story does not fit neatly into the man-assualts-woman narrative, but the truth is messy and full of nuance. The other truths are that statistically, men are the primary perpetrators of interpersonal and sexual violence, and that almost all women know someone or have themselves been victims of sexual violence or harassment. It was the first time I witnessed an institution be unable to hold an abuser accountable.

My second year at college, I took an intermediary French class with Man Trash. Man Trash and I were friends, the way you are friends with someone in your class when you need to know when the next test is and what the homework is. We would often be in the same spaces because Man Trash was a good friend of one of the men in my Sophomore year crew. Man Trash was always funny, good at French and nice to me. But, when Man Trash expressed interest in one of my other friends, I became a little concerned. You see, I had heard through the grape vine that Man Trash had been accused of non-consensual touching. I looked into it a little further and found out that two women on separate occasions had brought up the fact that Man Trash had not respected their boundaries. So, when my friend expressed reciprocal interest in Man Trash, I had to confront him before things got any further.

Man Trash proceeded to tell me that it was all a misunderstanding, that alcohol was involved and that the school had already looked into it and they didn’t find anything. And I believed him.

I had been on the school’s Sexual Assault Task Force for a year at this point and had thorough insight into how flawed the investigative procedure could be. I had mocked these pathetic excuses of “alcohol” and “misunderstanding” for vile behaviour from men I didn’t know, mainly online, before.

And yet, I believed him because we had partied together, and he was always nice to me. He was my man friend’s good friend. He helped me with my French homework. I never tried to find out more details or to corroborate if what he told me was true.

A year later, while I studied in Paris my junior year, he raped another friend of mine. However, this is not my story to tell.

This was the first time I was complicit and was unable to hold an abuser accountable. I am so sorry to the women I failed by associating with this despicable human being and giving others the impression that he was safe to be around.

That year when I was in Paris, I used Tinder for the first time. The first Tinder date I went on was at a bar, and it went well. He offered to drop me home. Once we were in his car, he insisted that we go back to his place, even though I repeatedly said no. In a very calm voice, he kept insisting “let’s go to my place.” He did not shout. He did not act violent. But he kept driving away from my house. I was terrified. I finally said I was going to call my friends if he didn’t stop immediately. That’s when he reluctantly turned the car around. When I typically tell this story, it’s for a laugh: ha ha the one time I was almost kidnapped ha ha.

One of my closest NY friends – a man – has recently been encouraging me to get back on Tinder. I haven’t been able to explain to him why it’s just not for me. I can’t explain to him how trapped I felt in that car in Paris that one time. How suffocating it was to say no repeatedly and be talked over and ignored. I can’t separate that memory from that app, no matter how irrational the connection.

There isn’t even time for the story about the man who asked if he should send me a picture of his penis in the middle of our conversation about skateboarding, or the man who grabbed my butt on the train, the man who followed me on to campus one night when I got home too late etc.

As women, we are encouraged to either bear our souls and recount our most horrific experiences for the benefit of some men maybe perhaps kind of understanding our frustration and distrust of men a tiny bit, or move the fuck on with our lives because god forbid our emotions inconvenience you.

Here, I would like to clarify that in no way I’m saying what has happened to me is the same as sexual assault. Too many women I know have experienced way worse. My point being: women experience gross and blatant, sometimes traumatic, disregard for their boundaries all the time.

When my mother was first starting off her career, her boss gave her a few x-rated magazines to file. She quit shortly after.

When my high school friend was on the way to a birthday party with this boy we had both known for many years, he tried to grab her on the way there. He apologized to her years later and she may have forgiven him, but I never will.

A fellow college alum who graduated many years before me, recently wrote about how her abuser was trying to re-invent himself in the age of #metoo as a changed man, having never apologized to her or shown any repentance.

My favorite statistician, Mona Chalabi, finally reported someone she used to work with who regularly send her inappropriate messages.

I know there are other stories out there, but none of them are mine to tell. But in each of these cases, the perpetrators faced no lasting consequences.

I am using this to process and to collect my own thoughts. If you made it through to this part, I don’t have a neatly packaged message for you.

Sometimes, I want to scream till my lungs give out. Sometimes, I want to write till my laptop dies. Silence is no longer an option for many of us.

#brett kavanope #brett kavanaugh #dr blasey ford #believe women #me too #no means no #me too india

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