Avi Dichter is the current Home Front Minister of Israel. In 2002, in his capacity as head of the Israeli intelligence service Shin Bet, he assassinated Salah Shehadeh. Because this assassination also killed 15 others, including 9 children, and injured dozens more, human rights advocates, including the Center for Constitutional Rights, have called for his arrest and trial as a war criminal. Salah was a Hamas leader in Gaza with whom Israel was negotiating a cease-fire. In 2012, Israel assassinated Ahmed Jaabari, with whom Israel was also negotiating a cease-fire.
Should not Georgians be concerned that their public safety officers are exchanging notes with war criminals and representatives of Apartheid Israel’s military and police?
The #USA #military made #racist assumption that Shock and Awe in #Iraq would lead to total surrender.
Just like some believe that the First Nations of Central America allowed the Spanish to conquer them because they thought a white god would come from the east, or that the Spaniards’ horses and guns created a mystical fear which prevented resistance, the United States believed it could use overwhelming military force (pdf) to end all resistance quickly and turn Iraq into an oil-revenue generating colony.
Since before Sun Tzu and the earliest chroniclers of war recorded their observations, strategists and generals have been tantalized and confounded by the illusive goal of destroying the adversary’s will to resist before, during, and after battle. Today, we believe that an unusual opportunity exists to determine whether or not this long-sought strategic goal of affecting the will, understanding, and perception of an adversary can be brought closer to fruition.
Graphic showing European Union arms sales to #Egypt
At the November 2011 School of the Americas Watch vigil in Columbus, GA, I attended two sessions on the United States military’s use of drones and activists’ resistance to this use.
Bringing democracy to a nation near you.
Legacy of Twin Towers, 10 years later #Mercenaries #Military #Contracts #Budget #Cartoon
Among the [Cossack insurgents] were boys of sixteen and seventeen, freshly mobilized into the ranks of the insurgents, throwing out their legs bravely over the warm sand, for some unaccountable reason talking and singing gaily. For them war was a novelty, like a new game. During their first days of fighting they would raise their heads from the harsh earth to listen to the bullets whistling over their heads. “Greenhorns” the front-line Cossacks contemptuously called them as they taught them to dig trenches, to shoot, to carry their equipment on the march, and even the art of delousing themselves and of wrapping their feet in rags so that they should not get tired so quickly in their heavy boots. But meantime the lad would stare out on the world around him with astonished, birdlike eyes, raising his head and gazing out of his trench, afire with curiosity, trying to see the Reds while the Reds’ bullets whistled past him. If death was his portion, the sixteen-year old “soldier” would stretch himself out and lie like a great child with boyishly round arms, and he would be carried back to his native village to be buried in the grave where his for-bears were rotting. His mother would meet him, wring her hands and crying aloud over the dead, tearing the grey hair from her head. And when the body was buried and the clay on the mound was drying, the aged, bowed mother would carry her unquenchable sorrow to the church, there to “remember” her dead son.
But if the bullet had not inflicted a mortal wound, then only would the lad begin to realize the merciless nature of war. His lips would tremble and writhe. The “soldier” would cry out in a childish voice: “Oh, Mother, Mother!” and little tears would roll from his eyes. The ambulance cart would shake him up over the trackless fields, the company medical officer would wash the wound and laughingly comfort him as if he were a child: “Now, Vania, don’t behave like a cry-baby!” But the “soldier” Vania would weep, would ask to go home, call for his mother. If he recovered and returned to his company, then indeed he was beginning to have a thorough understanding of war. Another week or two of battles, of bayonet-fighting, and then see him stand in front of a captive Red soldier and, with feet set wide apart, spitting like any brutal sergeant-major, hear him hiss through his teeth:
“Well, peasant, so you’re caught, you bastard!” So you wanted the land? Wanted equality? I expect you’re a Communak. Tell us, you snake!” In his anxiety to show his daring and “Cossack” frenzy he would raise his rifle and club the man who come to his death on the Don lands, fighting for the Soviet government, for Communism, for the abolition of war from the earth.
And somewhere in Moscow or Vyatka province, in some lonely village of the enormous Soviet Republic, a mother would receive the report that her son had “fallen in the struggle against the White Guards for the emancipation of the toiling people from the yoke of the landowners and capitalists.” She would read it again and again, tears running down her cheeks. Her motherly heart would be consumed with a burning grief, and every day until she died she would remember him whom she had carried in her womb, whom she had borne in blood and woman’s agony, him who had fallen under an enemy’s hand somewhere in the unknown Don region.