The final piece from END:CIV is both a reality check and a call to arms. Can we really expect the power structures to change their destructive ways by asking nicely? Do we have unlimited time to stop the destruction of the planet? The answer to both questions is no. If we are serious about defending the biosphere and abolishing the institutions responsible for the hyper exploitation of the land, we have to become a resistance movement and go beyond “feel good” symbolic actions.
The concept is an old one. The amount of human blood spilled over control of fossil energy deposits and associated transfer routes, in the 20th Century alone, probably rivals the amount of oil BP’s Macondo well has unleashed in the Gulf of Mexico so far. But in the 21st Century the concept has gained a popular name, and really hit its stride—all the way to perhaps relegating the entire life-support system of Earth as an energy sacrifice zone.
A federal grand jury last week indicted retired pitcher Roger Clemens on charges he lied to Congress.
In February 2008, Clemens, a seven time Cy Young winner, voluntarily met with a House committee and testified he didn’t knowingly use steroids or human growth hormones. The only evidence against Clemens appears to be the testimony of his former trainer, Brian McNamee, who claims to have injected Clemens with the drugs about 40 times between 1998 and 2001. Clemens says he was led to believe the injections were Vitamin B-12 and an anesthetic, Lidocaine, both legal under Major League Baseball guidelines. McNamee cut a deal with the Department of Justice to avoid prosecution. Clemens could be sentenced to 30 years in prison.
Probably half the country thinks Clemens took illegal drugs. Probably half the country thinks he didn’t take the drugs and was set up by his trainer. But that’s not the important issue.
by Dahr Jamail and Erika Blumenfeld t r u t h o u t (see photos by Erika Blumenfeld)
Sunday 22 August 2010
The scene is post-apocalyptic. Under a grey sky, two families play in the surf just off the beach in Grand Isle, Louisiana. To get to the beach, we walk past a red, plastic barrier fence that until very recently was there to keep people away from the oil-soaked area. Now, there are a few openings that beach goers can use. The fence is left largely intact, I presume, for when they will need to close the beach again when the next invasion of BP’s oil occurs.
A father jokingly throws sand at his little boy who laughs while dodging it. This, against a background of oil rigs and platforms looming in the Gulf. In the foreground, littering the beach, are tar balls. We stroll through the area, eyeing even more tar balls that bob lazily underwater, amidst sand ripples in the shallows … they are in the same location where the father sits, grabbing handfuls of sand to toss near his son.