Head-in-the-Sand

Western civilization really is at risk from Muslim extremists.
By Sam Harris
SAM HARRIS is the author of "The End of Faith: Religion, Terror and the Future of Reason." His next book, "Letter to a Christian Nation," will be published this week by Knopf. samharris.org.

September 18, 2006

TWO YEARS AGO I published a book highly critical of religion, "The End of Faith." In it, I argued that the world's major religions are genuinely incompatible, inevitably cause conflict and now prevent the emergence of a viable, global civilization. In response, I have received many thousands of letters and e-mails from priests, journalists, scientists, politicians, soldiers, rabbis, actors, aid workers, students — from people young and old who occupy every point on the spectrum of belief and nonbelief.

This has offered me a special opportunity to see how people of all creeds and political persuasions react when religion is criticized. I am here to report that liberals and conservatives respond very differently to the notion that religion can be a direct cause of human conflict.

This difference does not bode well for the future of liberalism.

Perhaps I should establish my liberal bone fides at the outset. I'd like to see taxes raised on the wealthy, drugs decriminalized and homosexuals free to marry. I also think that the Bush administration deserves most of the criticism it has received in the last six years — especially with respect to its waging of the war in Iraq, its scuttling of science and its fiscal irresponsibility.

But my correspondence with liberals has convinced me that liberalism has grown dangerously out of touch with the realities of our world — specifically with what devout Muslims actually believe about the West, about paradise and about the ultimate ascendance of their faith.

On questions of national security, I am now as wary of my fellow liberals as I am of the religious demagogues on the Christian right.

This may seem like frank acquiescence to the charge that "liberals are soft on terrorism." It is, and they are.

A cult of death is forming in the Muslim world — for reasons that are perfectly explicable in terms of the Islamic doctrines of martyrdom and jihad. The truth is that we are not fighting a "war on terror." We are fighting a pestilential theology and a longing for paradise.

This is not to say that we are at war with all Muslims. But we are absolutely at war with those who believe that death in defense of the faith is the highest possible good, that cartoonists should be killed for caricaturing the prophet and that any Muslim who loses his faith should be butchered for apostasy.

Unfortunately, such religious extremism is not as fringe a phenomenon as we might hope. Numerous studies have found that the most radicalized Muslims tend to have better-than-average educations and economic opportunities.

Given the degree to which religious ideas are still sheltered from criticism in every society, it is actually possible for a person to have the economic and intellectual resources to build a nuclear bomb — and to believe that he will get 72 virgins in paradise. And yet, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, liberals continue to imagine that Muslim terrorism springs from economic despair, lack of education and American militarism.

At its most extreme, liberal denial has found expression in a growing subculture of conspiracy theorists who believe that the atrocities of 9/11 were orchestrated by our own government. A nationwide poll conducted by the Scripps Survey Research Center at Ohio University found that more than a third of Americans suspect that the federal government "assisted in the 9/11 terrorist attacks or took no action to stop them so the United States could go to war in the Middle East;" 16% believe that the twin towers collapsed not because fully-fueled passenger jets smashed into them but because agents of the Bush administration had secretly rigged them to explode.



Such an astonishing eruption of masochistic unreason could well mark the decline of liberalism, if not the decline of Western civilization. There are books, films and conferences organized around this phantasmagoria, and they offer an unusually clear view of the debilitating dogma that lurks at the heart of liberalism: Western power is utterly malevolent, while the powerless people of the Earth can be counted on to embrace reason and tolerance, if only given sufficient economic opportunities.

I don't know how many more engineers and architects need to blow themselves up, fly planes into buildings or saw the heads off of journalists before this fantasy will dissipate. The truth is that there is every reason to believe that a terrifying number of the world's Muslims now view all political and moral questions in terms of their affiliation with Islam. This leads them to rally to the cause of other Muslims no matter how sociopathic their behavior. This benighted religious solidarity may be the greatest problem facing civilization and yet it is regularly misconstrued, ignored or obfuscated by liberals.

Given the mendacity and shocking incompetence of the Bush administration — especially its mishandling of the war in Iraq — liberals can find much to lament in the conservative approach to fighting the war on terror. Unfortunately, liberals hate the current administration with such fury that they regularly fail to acknowledge just how dangerous and depraved our enemies in the Muslim world are.

Recent condemnations of the Bush administration's use of the phrase "Islamic fascism" are a case in point. There is no question that the phrase is imprecise — Islamists are not technically fascists, and the term ignores a variety of schisms that exist even among Islamists — but it is by no means an example of wartime propaganda, as has been repeatedly alleged by liberals.

In their analyses of U.S. and Israeli foreign policy, liberals can be relied on to overlook the most basic moral distinctions. For instance, they ignore the fact that Muslims intentionally murder noncombatants, while we and the Israelis (as a rule) seek to avoid doing so. Muslims routinely use human shields, and this accounts for much of the collateral damage we and the Israelis cause; the political discourse throughout much of the Muslim world, especially with respect to Jews, is explicitly and unabashedly genocidal.

Given these distinctions, there is no question that the Israelis now hold the moral high ground in their conflict with Hamas and Hezbollah. And yet liberals in the United States and Europe often speak as though the truth were otherwise.

We are entering an age of unchecked nuclear proliferation and, it seems likely, nuclear terrorism. There is, therefore, no future in which aspiring martyrs will make good neighbors for us. Unless liberals realize that there are tens of millions of people in the Muslim world who are far scarier than Dick Cheney, they will be unable to protect civilization from its genuine enemies.

Increasingly, Americans will come to believe that the only people hard-headed enough to fight the religious lunatics of the Muslim world are the religious lunatics of the West. Indeed, it is telling that the people who speak with the greatest moral clarity about the current wars in the Middle East are members of the Christian right, whose infatuation with biblical prophecy is nearly as troubling as the ideology of our enemies. Religious dogmatism is now playing both sides of the board in a very dangerous game.

While liberals should be the ones pointing the way beyond this Iron Age madness, they are rendering themselves increasingly irrelevant. Being generally reasonable and tolerant of diversity, liberals should be especially sensitive to the dangers of religious literalism. But they aren't.




The same failure of liberalism is evident in Western Europe, where the dogma of multiculturalism has left a secular Europe very slow to address the looming problem of religious extremism among its immigrants. The people who speak most sensibly about the threat that Islam poses to Europe are actually fascists.

To say that this does not bode well for liberalism is an understatement: It does not bode well for the future of civilization.

Copyright 2006 Los Angeles Times

PUNISHMENT PARK: by Peter Watkins 1971

This movie could scarcely have been more timely. Punishment Park feels less like something that was made thirty years ago in our world, and more like something that leaked in sideways from an alternate universe gone horribly wrong. I doubt anyone in 1971 would have imagined that Punishment Park would still have relevance in 2006, but it does, and that fact alone is both exciting and ghastly.
In the late Sixties and early Seventies there was a small but thriving subgenre of movies that entertained alternate histories for the era. One of the most well-known (and most fun) was Wild in the Streets, which showed the Peace 'n Love generation coming to power and being just as thuggish and cretinous as the over-30 crowd they professed to hate. Another, all but lost to history, was Robert Kramer's little-seen Ice, a story of urban revolutionaries fighting back against repression in New York City (!). Punishment Park has similarities to Ice, but is far more immediate and engaging.
The movie posits a simple and horribly credible scenario: During the later years of the Vietnam War, hundreds of people are being arrested and kangaroo-courted in the United States for "inciting political unrest." They have two choices: lengthy prison sentences, or three days in Punishment Park, a stretch of California desert somewhere near Los Angeles. In Punishment Park, the prisoners are set free and forced to navigate a hostile stretch of burning terrain -- if they can reach the American flag at the end of the course within the allotted time, they are set free. Of course, they have more than the elements to contend with: Punishment Park is also used as a proving ground by police officers in training. If they get caught, they go to prison. "These officers have strict instructions not to molest you in any way," the controlling officer declares, and from the way he underscores those words verbally, we suspect there is going to be at least one blatant violation of that rule. We are right.



A new group of prisoners is given the option to go to Punishment Park.


I found it unlikely that any American director would have dared to film this material, and I was right: Punishment Park was created by British documentarian Peter Watkins. Watkins also directed the controversial and horrific War Game, a BBC-funded pseudo-documentary that wound up never being aired on the very network that funded it. Instead, it was released to theaters and later to TV and home video, and has become something of an underground classic in anti-war circles. It deserves a broader audience, especially in today's increasingly unsettled political climate.
The film cuts between two groups of people: one gang of prisoners who are just now being run through the farce of the tribunal, and another who are just now entering Punishment Park. The movie is not truly interested in any of them as individuals, but in a film like this, having individuals who stand out from the whole canvas would actually be a deficit. The point is not to create heroes and prop them up, but to depict a broad swath of possibilities. Every now and then, faces do swim out from the canvas: the balding, fat-necked tribunal master, or the angry black militant who speaks his piece of mind in court. The cops also get some camera time. "This was their choice," one of them says, referring to the Punishment Parkers. "They could have chosen to do a lot of things, but they chose instead to throw bombs and advocate the overthrow of the government. They're doing what they want to do, and I'm doing what I want to do."





The police are close behind as the runners slog their way through the desert.


One of the more interesting things Watkins does with the tribunal is populate it with a broad spectrum of the people that made up the "Silent Majority" in America. At one point we get a credit caption: Professor, Department of Sociology, University of Glendale. What's he doing here? The same thing as everyone else, evidently: getting his two cents in, and he does. There's another revealing moment where one of the runners (who bears a striking resemblance to Roger Daltrey) says, "They believe in protest and ritual defiance, and yet they participate fully in the rules for these games, and expect they'll come out the other end with the flag." When asked how things could be changed, he says, wisely, "I don't think anything can be done. I think we just got to evolve out of it." Sometimes even the tribunal members make sense, and I think that is exactly what Watkins wanted -- he's not here to side with either party, but to show the whole.
Watkins shoots the movie with a loose, fluidly improvisational camera style, and his editing juxtaposes sequences with biting intelligence. The parallels between this film and Battle Royale are obvious, although the two movies use markedly different approaches. Battle Royale was calculated melodrama -- searing social satire wrapped in the guise of an action movie. Punishment Park is very much an heir to Watkins' own War Game in its style and its detached, flat-affect feel. But Park and Battle Royale have something else in common, something subtle enough that it didn't come to me right away. In Battle Royale, the game was purposefully ludicrous: if it made sense, then the movie could be seen as investing it with credence it did not deserve. Punishment Park works the same way. The more we see of the park itself, the more we realize how it doesn't even work as a gladiatorial exercise -- it's a sham through and through.




The ultimate irony: they may not even be allowed to win.


Punishment Park was described as being "banned in the United States," but it is probably closer to the truth to say that it has simply never been shown here commercially. It premiered at Cannes to highly polarized opinions; the New York Times wrote (in a review that feels like Peter Sotos come 30 years early), "[it is] a movie of such blunt-wrong headed sincerity that you're likely to sit through the first 10 hysterical minutes of it before realizing that it is essentially the wish-fulfilling dream of a masochist. Because all literature, including futuristic nonsense like this, represents someone's wish-fufilling dream, I can't help but suspect that Wakins' cautionary fable is a wildly sincere desire to find his own ultimate punishment." The near-incoherence of this aside, I have to wonder why they were so eager to read in some hidden motive on Wakins' part for making it. Rolling Stone voted it one of the ten best films of 1971, while Playboy groused, "Seldom has the cause of peace and freedom been served so mindlessly" -- which assumed, incorrectly, that the movie was a knee-jerk vindication of the left.
Seeing Punishment Park released to video makes me wonder how many of Watkins' other, little-seen movies will come to the surface. Aside from The War Game, he has also made Privilege, an openly fictional movie about a future world church / government using pop music to control the masses -- another idea that today, like Punishment Park, seems to have undimmed relevance.

Wallowing Insane

The walk past the general store today was nice. I could smell the grass mixed with fertile soil after the rain. Virginia said she was going to leave me. After 12 years of marriage. I kept walking all the way to Dave's up the huge hill and past the parking German Shepard. I need a beer. The front of the bar is red brick. Built in the 1920's the bar used to be an old speakeasy. Bootleggers used to hide out in the basement that contains many tunnels.
The neon red sign to DAVE'S buzzes over my head as I walk in. Even at eleven in the morning the sign still acts as that beacon for the lonely. The solace for the disconnected and displaced.
I walk in and sit at the far end of the bar.
"Hi Walt" the bartender greets me.
"Hey" I wave to him.
Andy Stillmen is a large roly-poly of a guy, huge gut hangs like a shear cliff over his tight brown belt and a big dark brown beard wraps around his huge face. Combed over grey salt and pepper hair tries and camouflage a bald spot. He’s been a bartender here for 22 years. I look to Andy as my therapist. I talk he listens. He’s my Buddha. He gives me my redemption every time. I’m waiting for that one day when he looks at me and says. “Walt, your fucked”



I take my dark brown jacket off and hang it on a coat rack near a jukebox that plays Neil Young’s “New Mama”. I sit back down on the stool.

"So what will it be?” Andy asks.
"Just a beer...Pabst."
"Coming up."
He reaches under the bar and slides open a cooler pulling out a beer.
He pops the top and hands the cold beer to me.
"thanks"
I take a swig.
I look around the bar.
Almost empty except three other lonely, lost, horny, screwed up, junkie, poor people sittin at the bar.

As I look around the bar I catch my reflection in a mirror that lines the back wall of the bar.



It all stinks I think. She’s been out late the past week.
I’m not a hard man to live with.

She say’s she needs her freedom. That she’s doing stuff for us while she’s out. Making deals for me. Shmoozing.

What can she be doing?
My last book didn’t sell very well.
I’ve done five talk shows and some stupid ass fuckin filmmaker wants to do some kind of documentary about me.
How boring.
Looking at my mug for what an hour? Two hours?
I mean what can I say? I’ll feel like some kind of trained monkey.

“Another drink Walt?” Andy chimes in. His breath bouncing off my nose.
My god brush your teeth. I think to myself. I don’t want to embarrass the guy.
“Sure” I say.
“Whisky” I point to the good shit against the far wall.

I catch my reflection again.
I’m old.
I’m really fuckin old.
55 years old.
My skin sags around my neck. My hair is just about all fallen out.
My nose looks huge with all this saggin flesh.
My god what does Emily see in me. Good. I’m glad she’s gone.

She says I ignore her. She says I take her for granted.
I told her she’s getting things confused.
It’s the other way around. She takes me for granted.
I told her to get a good lawyer.

So she left.
And now I’m here. Lookin at myself in the fuckin mirror.

Suddenly a clean cut young man around 35 comes in and sits next to me. I can tell he recognized me and wants to say something.

Finally he gets the balls to say something. “Hi I really like your work, very honest writing.”

“Great” I say back. “Good” I scratch my left arm pit.

I take a drink. The whiskey going down smooth and warm. I can feel the warmth all through my body.

“I particularly like the book that you wrote about living in Los Angeles.”

“You do, do you?” I answer back. I’m annoyed. I want to be left alone during my crisis. I want to wallow.

“Why the fuck do you like that book?” He looked surprised that I responded back the way I did. He started fumbling with his words.

“Well I just like how you talked about everything…I mean I used to live in LA and…well it seemed very real.”

I fart really loud. A fart that shakes the bar. I think even the folks sitting across on the other side of the place heard me. Fuck. The people upstairs heard it. The dishwasher heard it and dropped and broke several mugs onto the ground. Women were running out of the joint.

I just smiled.

The poor kid got up and left without even saying good-bye.

Hummm…was it something I said?


To be continued

Roger and Me By SCOTT FOUNDAS

Scott Foundas responds to Ebert’s critic-bait
By SCOTT FOUNDAS
Wednesday, January 18, 2006 - 8:30 pm
Dear Roger:

Save for the storied contretemps between Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris, film critics are generally far too busy reviewing the new movies that open each week to spend much time reviewing each other. So I was understandably surprised to read your January 8 Chicago Sun-Times editorial “In Defense of the ‘Worst Movie of the Year,’” in which you lambasted my opinion of Crash, a movie you have repeatedly praised as being the best of 2005. Specifically, you were referring to comments I made in the recent Movie Club forum at Slate.com — a discussion about the past year in film that also included contributions by critics A.O. Scott of The New York Times, Jonathan Rosenbaum of the Chicago Reader and Slate’s own David Edelstein. As your headline suggests, I wrote in the forum that Crash was among my least favorite movies of 2005 and called it “one of those self-congratulatory liberal jerk-off movies that roll around every once in a while to remind us of how white people suffer too, how nobody is without his prejudices, and how, when the going gets tough, even the white-supremacist cop who gets his kicks from sexually harassing innocent black motorists is capable of rising to the occasion.”

I stand by those words and, as you point out, I am not alone in such sentiments. Your essay quotes negative Crash reviews by MSNBC critic Dave White and even the editor of your own Web site, Jim Emerson. To which I would add that, upon its release back in May, Crash received mixed-to-negative reviews from Edelstein in Slate and Scott in The New York Times, as well as from many other critics writing in the Los Angeles Times, Newsweek and The New Republic, among other publications. In the 2005 Village Voice poll of more than 100 major North American critics, Crash was cited by only four participants as one of the year’s ten best films, for an overall 66th-place showing in the survey. And lest anyone surmise that this amounts to some sort of contrarian backlash against a widely praised film, I should note that way back during the 2004 Toronto Film Festival, three-quarters of a year before Crash arrived in commercial cinemas, Variety critic Todd McCarthy wrote that the movie offers “a narrow, ungenerous and, finally, unrepresentative view of the world, one that suggests people are correct in suspecting others as having only the worst motives.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself, but maybe you, Roger, could have. In describing Crash, you’ve written: “A white racist cop sexually assaults a black woman, then the next day saves her life. His white partner, a rookie, is appalled by his behavior, but nevertheless later kills an innocent man because he leaps to a conclusion based on race. A black man is so indifferent to his girlfriend’s Latino heritage that he can’t be bothered to remember where she’s from. After a carjacking, a liberal politician’s wife insists all their locks be changed — and then wants them changed again, because she thinks the Mexican-American locksmith will send his “homies” over with the pass key. The same locksmith has trouble with an Iranian store owner who thinks the Mexican-American is black. But it drives the Iranian crazy that everyone thinks he is Arab, when they should know that Iranians are Persian. Buying a gun to protect himself, he gets into a shouting match with a gun dealer who has a lot of prejudices about, yes, Arabs.” That, in a nutshell, is as succinct a summary as I’ve read of everything that’s wrong with this picture. If only you’d managed to mention that the two carjackers who, when they’re not perpetrating grand theft auto, engage in animated debates about black-on-black racism and hip-hop as “music of the oppressor” — scenes aptly described by the name of one of the actors featured in them: Ludacris. (To answer your rhetorical question, Roger: If I were carjacked at gunpoint by these two guys, I wouldn’t “rise to the occasion with measured detachment and sardonic wit.” I’d merely wait for Ashton Kutcher to appear and tell me I’d been punk’d.)

I’ve said that Crash, which was co-written and directed by Paul Haggis, doesn’t accurately reflect the city of Los Angeles as I’ve come to know it after more than a decade of living here (during which time I’ve made lots of meaningful connections with others, none of which have been the result of a car accident). But as I think back on the film, I’m not even sure that it reflects life as we know it on planet Earth. The characters in Crash don’t feel like three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood human beings so much as calculated “types” plugged by Haggis into a schematic thesis about how we are all, in the course of any given day, the perpetrators and the victims of some racial prejudice. (Nobody in Haggis’ universe is allowed to be merely one or the other.) They have no inner lives. They fail to exist independently of whatever stereotype they’re on hand to embody and/or debunk. Erudite carjackers? A man who can’t remember his own girlfriend’s ethnicity? You may see such things as “parables,” but I call it sloppy, sanctimonious screenwriting of the kind that, as one colleague recently suggested, should be studied in film classes as a prime example of what not to do.

But then, Roger, perhaps all of us detractors are simply, as you put it, “too cool for the room.” According to you, we critics must bear in mind “the ways in which real people see real films,” the same people who you say enjoy paying to be manipulated. (And who’s to argue, when the officials currently holding our nation’s highest elected offices offer living proof that many of us enjoy being manipulated for free?) You go on to say that you’ve talked to dozens of viewers who were touched by Crash, and while I don’t deny that, I have had my own conversations about Crash with plenty of “real people” who feel less touched by the film than manhandled by it. Among e-mails I’ve received from Slate readers, one goes so far as to speculate that people are afraid to admit they don’t like Crash for fear of being considered racists themselves — and I think the film is engineered to make viewers feel that way — while another, somewhat more charitable correspondent quotes Oscar Wilde’s maxim that “all bad art is sincere.”

Finally, you express surprise that anyone could feel contempt toward a movie like Crash in the same year that witnessed the release of Chaos and Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo. But as I stated in Slate, by calling Crash the worst movie of the year, I don’t mean to suggest that it’s entirely incompetent or even a catastrophic all-star debacle on the order of The Bonfire of the Vanities or Town & Country. No, Crash asks (and expects) to be taken much too seriously for that kind of rote dismissal. So, why contrast Crash against two unrepentant, bottom-of-the-barrel stinkers — one a no-budget horror movie that took pride in using bad reviews as part of its promotional campaign and the other a lowbrow Rob Schneider comedy — rather than placing it in the context of those other movies from 2005 that so much more subtly and intelligently (and no less sincerely) grappled with the effects of race and class on our daily lives? I’m thinking, of course, of Michael Haneke’s brilliant Caché — my own pick for the best film of last year — and also about George Romero’s Land of the Dead, both of which are studies in how (mostly white) people of privilege attempt to seal themselves off from society’s “undesirable” elements (who just so happen to be people of color). And while we’re on the subject, I might as well mention Lars von Trier’s soon-to-be-released Manderlay, which premiered at festivals in 2005, and is about the very kind of psychological enslavement that might lead a group called the African-American Film Critics Association to present Crash with a best-picture award.

Haggis is right about one thing: None of us is without prejudice. You’re right that in my notes on Crash, I neglect to mention the name of the actor who plays the Mexican-American locksmith; in your editorial, you say with the utmost certainty that “when two white cops stop you for the wrong reason and one starts feeling up your wife, it is prudent to reflect that both of the cops are armed and, if you resist, in court you will hear that you pulled a gun, were carrying cocaine, threatened them, and are lying about the sexual assault.” These are indeed troubled waters, but if Crash is what qualifies as “a bridge towards tolerance,” excuse me while I phone my auto-insurance agent and increase my premium.

Sincerely, Scott Foundas