WHO IS A JEW? A Response to the slaughter of GAZA.

IMG_0348 GAZA protest
Who is a Jew?
A Response to the slaughter of GAZA.
by Daniel Shea 7/12/14
photo by Jim Lockhart

In the 1980s after the death of my three year old son Casey (a victim of my exposure to Agent Orange) my heart was ripped from my chest, it killed me.

I  became part of the living dead, a ghost pretending to live, going through the motions of waking,  eating,  off to work, then home again to repeat the process of a mediocre existence.

Despair became so unbearable that while looking for a way forward I found myself studying Judaism and joined a class at a reform synagogue.

I was moved by inspirational histories,  literature, Rabbinical dialectics and a people who had the nerve to question the actions of their own god and beg mercy for the lives of those from Sodom and Gomorrah.

I learned  these parables are a way of teaching critical theory not literal stories from some magical deity in an imagined spiritual dimension where he/she/it dreams of our existence.

I converted to Judaism and found a home for my own ideas of morality,  a place for challenging bigotry, hate,  injustice and the meaning of being a Jew.

To be a Jew is knowing what it is not.  It is not a race, it is not a single culture,  it is not a nation. Some would reduce it to a religion but that I think clips it’s wings.  It is a school of thought, a philosophy of Socratic argument on questions like what is ‘good’ or what is ‘just’ and are there absolutes?

Thus Judaism is an educational discipline of discovering how to be a moral and loving human being without prejudice to other paths of discovery.

This is my conversion, I am no longer in need of synagogues, churches, nations or political parties only people who like me want to share this planet we live on in peace with our brothers and sisters and with an unpolluted nature.

To be human then is not to war, not to oppress, is not to occupy and it is not to kill – it is to nurture life,  to embrace it. Thus this is what it is to be a Jew.

Israel cannot be a Jewish nation because it has forfeited what it is to be a Jew. It’s claims are false, it’s rabbis ARE NOT teachers of critical thinking but narrow bigots who worship a false god – the State of Israel.

Jews living in Israel & the world over, reclaim your identity, make Israel stop its rain of death on the Palestinians of Gaza.

Daniel Shea a Jew
Veterans For Peace
more on the Israel/Palestine

http://jewishvoiceforpeace.org/content/israeli-palestinian-conflict-101

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Monkey Business: Subic Bay the Philippines

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Monkey Business: Subic Bay the Philippines
By Daniel Shea
October 13, 2013

It was late 1968 or maybe Jan of 1969 when I arrived at Sep Cd. Co MB USNB Subic Bay Philippines. Time has a way of fading into the background of one’s memories, maybe because it seemed like just yesterday and then we only lived in the moment.

I was a fresh combat marine, a machine gunner from the guerrilla warfare of Viet Nam, no more snipers, mortars or booby traps to contend with, no more humping mountain jungles in sweltering temperature of 90 to 100 plus degrees looking for death to strike from behind every tree, leaf, rock or bamboo thicket.

You would think this a welcome relief now to be so far away from the slaughter of war but you would be wrong. One worries about those left behind, those you shared survival with and what about my little brother who came into my same company and platoon, my brother who took my place as two brothers were not to serve together in combat. If he were to die and I to survive was a constant reminder of guilt no matter how unwarranted I had to bare.

Worries of the mind are different from the realities on the ground, thus there was some relief in this new duty station. Subic Bay was a naval station and we marines were guarding ammo bunkers out in the jungle. We walked posts alone in the jungle four hours on four hours off, twenty four seven for four days with two days off to play in the whore town of Olongapo city. It was a poor little barrio across a canal so polluted its smells permeated the whole city. Our only goal was to get drunk and get laid and forget we were in hell. As time went on I began to see that we were abusing these people just by our presence, because we saw them only as someone to serve our needs and desires. Empathy took hold of me as I realized that the young women were trapped in a sex trade made available to men of war, killers and criminals alike. Many of the women hoped to develop a longtime relationship with one of the regular marines or sailors in hopes of getting married and escaping the hell they were in.

Sorry but I am digressing from my story to the business of different sort, a business of corruption where I found no peace, it is a story that will have to be told some other time.

Peace for me was in the solitude of the jungle and my encounter with the Monkey King we called Brass Balls.

First let me explain something about how different were the jungles of Viet Nam and the Philippines. The jungles of Viet Nam that I knew had already been bombed from air, land and sea, set a blaze by napalm and flamethrowers, riddled with bullets and human remains, a jungle pre-soaked from chemical herbicides known as Agent Orange. While the canopy of trees could still blot out the sun and the brush so thick paths had to be carved out with machetes, still it was quiet, no chattering of birds or monkeys. Where once mighty tigers stalked their prey, tigers and prey were no more, the poisons and noises of war had killed or chased life out this ancient rainforest, there was now only a ghostly silence.

The only sounds were our boots on a dying earth, our heartbeats pounding in our ears and huffing breaths from our chests to remind us we were still alive. That and the bloodsucking vampires you know as mosquitoes and flies, showing no mercy, tortured the living.

Now the jungles of the Philippines were alive with all matter of life, the grunts of wild boars and water buffaloes, pythons big enough to swallow a man, birds of every feather and every squawk, tweet and whistle, monkeys calling to one another from the tree tops, fruit bats as big as man ruled the moonlit nights above a jungle that never sleeps. It was a jungle with certain dangers, every variety of poisonous snakes were underfoot or aloft in the branches, but for the marine on watch, walking his post, the most feared were the monkeys who didn’t take too kindly to our presence in their habitat.

I had been warned to stay clear of these furry men with canine teeth, they were known to have attacked a marine or two, of which many tales where told. One such story was about a monkey King marines called  Brass Balls for he feared neither man nor beast. It was said, a marine confronted him on his post, fired one round in the air to scare him off but BB kept coming at him, he shot he swears directly into him but the beast jumped into the air and landed on his rifle, BBs weight smashed the rifle into the ground and the final round went off and the terrified marine ran all the way back to the guard station refusing to stand guard ever again.

I thought the story was all smoke, just one of those jungle legends told to frighten the new guy. It had been months and I had many strange encounters while walking post in the kingdom of Brass Balls. Still I fell in love with the jungle, her mysteries, her symphony of sounds, her perfume of sweet blossoms, she even hid me from the world when I decide to take a nap out of the hot sun.

Yes, there were monkeys, I would see them from time to time, I would keep my distance and just watch them as they leaped from tree to tree foraging the various fruits, leaves or nuts within their reach. They moved through the jungle like a military operation, always with guards scouting out for dangers and steering a direction though this sea of green. Once I came across a troop of these monkeys, I watched them cross the road sending out guards two on one side of the road and two on the other side. They called out to the majority and they came out of the canopy of the trees and crossed the road all eyes and ears alert to any danger that might approach. I gathered up my courage and decided to follow them into the jungle, curious to see where it might lead. As I got farther from the road and deeper into the green I began to notice myself being surrounded as the guards where swinging through the branches to get behind me. Fear alerted me that I had better get the hell out of there or I might find myself in a heap of trouble. I raise my rifle to the ready and put a bullet in the chamber and slowly backed out until I found safety on the road again. I felt as though I had avoided an enemy ambush and was glad to have escaped without firing a shot.

This would not be my last experience with these ape men of this magical forest. One day on a hot summer afternoon I was walking my post when I saw a large troop of monkeys making all kinds of chatter, some up in the canopy of trees on my left and across the road over the fence others foraging bananas. One of the guards saw me coming and made such a holler all the troops to the left scrambled out the trees and took to the road and leaped over the fence. I kept moving forward thinking I had scared them off. When a whole army of monkeys charged the cyclone fence and clung to it and started shaking it in protest to my presence.

That is when I saw him, Brass Balls, he climbed the fence stood on two feet like a man in the middle of the road facing toward me. He was no more than fifteen or twenty feet away from me, we stared eye to eye while the army to the right hollered insults at me. I don’t know what came over me but I raise my hands over my head and shook them like a chimpanzee and made monkey hoots imitating Tarzan’s Cheetah I had watched for years on TV reruns. Funny as it may sound Brass Balls did the same and I seemed to understand what he was trying to communicate.

All of his troop had made it over the fence except one of the youngsters still skirting back and forth in the branches to the left of me. She seemed terrified to have been separated from the her family, all alone she was crying out for help.

I made another monkey imitation and went to the left to get behind this little one and BB to went to his right scampering up the jungle vines into the branches and chased this frighten baby back over the fence and into the fold. Everything was now relaxed, the army on the fence dropped back into the banana trees and began foraging again. Brass Balls leaped back over the fence and again faced me eye to eye and we both shook our hands over our heads and grunted and hooted at each other in mutual respect and then he slowly climbed over the fence and rejoined his troops.

Fascinated by the whole experience I found a grassy knoll and sat down  watching this huge family of monkeys going about their business now not caring at all that I was present. I laid back and fell asleep and was woke-up by my hat being lifted off my face. Startled, but staying calm my hat was lifted again this time I noticed it was one of the baby monkeys that had got curious enough to sneak up and see what strange monkey this was whose fur could be lifted off his head. Then I looked up and I was surrounded in the branches all above me by the whole troop. No longer considered a threat my presence was tolerated, thus could be ignored as they went about with all their monkey business.

I have often wondered how this King of the monkeys Brass Balls would tell this story to his grandchildren. Would he remind them that if man and animals can attempt the others’ language, suspend their fears of each other and learn to cooperate, that peace may be possible among all the creatures of the earth?

Only if we humans can learn to communicate with each other in mutual respect, learn to share our knowledge and resources so all may benefit, then it might be possible for us to build the foundations essential to achieve Peace on Earth and Good Will to All.

Gangsters Cha! Cha! Cha!

by Daniel Shea

2006 Digital Painting by Daniel Shea

A Marine’s Reaction to The Act of Killing – the movie

By Daniel Shea September 20th 2013

2012 documentary film, directed by Joshua Oppenheimer. It is a Danish-British-Norwegian co-production, presented by Final Cut for Real in Denmark, produced by Signe Byrge Sørensen, co-directed by Anonymous and Christine Cynn, and executive produced by Werner Herzog, Errol Morris, Joram ten Brink, and Andre Singer. It is a Docwest project of the University of Westminster.

See Wikipedia for Synopsis of film http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Act_of_Killing

I want to explore my reaction or feelings after seeing this film. I think this is an important, unique original and artistic film as it documents an oral history in visual scenes re-enacted by the Monsters of death themselves. It will – I am sure – enter the lexicon of film buffs, film school academics, critics of all kinds, struggling to define a language to categorize it into to some genre that does not yet exist.

Will it be a one of a kind film like the racist Jim Crow film “Birth of a Nation”? Who knows but anthropologists, psychologists, sociologists, criminologists and historians, from every field of the social sciences will construct and deconstruct studies and theories abundant enough to keep librarians employed for some time to come, as they attempt to explain the meaning one gleans from the film and the men in it who kill.

What makes monsters?

It is a good question, as a veteran of Viet Nam, a marine, a machine gunner, a trained killer, I have asked myself this very question, was I or am I a monster? How could I let myself become a man who could and would kill another human being? All the excuses fall flat, except I do find some solace in the fact that I can’t remember if I ever fired my weapon and if I did wouldn’t it have been because someone was firing at me or my platoon?. There is this one time when we entered a village set with booby traps, men died yet there is a black hole in my memory, redacted, in the twilight zone of another dimension. It is an amnesia that I welcome but if it ever reveals that I was a part of a massacre I am not sure I could live with myself.

If ever I remember and find my fears unwarranted still what right would I have to relinquish my guilt, I still participated in war I had no right to enter, if I wasn’t resisting the war then my very presence was a violation of Internationals Laws Against Wars of Aggression and a direct assault against the Vietnamese.

I was told we were at war against a people so evil, they would destroy our freedoms as they are doing to their own people who we have come to protect and liberate from the shackles of communism. “Communism” I didn’t even know what that “C” word even meant and I didn’t even take the time to find out. I knew nothing about the Vietnamese or their history, culture, language nor the geography I would trample beneath my jungle boots.

In the Act of Killing we hear the word “Communism” over and over, we must crush all the communists, we killed the communists and there are no communists here because we have killed them all.

The main interviewee and main character is Anwar Congo, a handsome older man, looks of African descent and reminds me of my Cuban brother-in-law and one of his friends Juan an Afro-Cuban now long deceased. Anwar like these Cubans in my life, hated the communists but on a day to day level I found them gentle loving men whose families were at the center of their experiences. They were kind to old ladies and would go out of their way to help anyone in distress. I would argue with them about the better side of the revolution as compared to the dictatorship of Batista, another man they had no love for. Our conversations were heated but always civil and we parted as friends at the end of every debate.

It is hard not like Anwar when you see his interaction with his nephews or grandchildren (I can’t remember which) as he gently admonishes one for injuring a duck. He instructs him to pet the duck gently and to say he is sorry to the duck. To tell the duck it was an accident he didn’t mean it any harm.

I am struck by the contradiction and wonder what caused him to suppress this nature of goodness that resides in him, it must have been there all along or where else would it have come from? Was Anwar making excuses for his own violence, does he mean to say all his killings were an accident? Accidents of history? of ignorance? of youthful ideological passions? I don’t think it entered his mind but it did mine.

From this film my mind dances from contradiction to contradiction like Anwar doing the Cha Cha after slaying a victim, I try to put into context how we as a nation, as people can suppress our humanity, dance with death, twisting truths into lies and shouting patriotic slogans to our youth to egg them on to war, to kill or die for those who beat the war drums and make profit from music of guns, bombs and screams of the innocent caught in the chaos.

How can we stand by and say nothing, are we not guilty if we do nothing to lift a finger to stop the machine of war that kills everything that stands in its path? Is this silence not monstrous and criminal?

This film triggers much anxiety in me, these stories of murders and the men who tell them fill me with anger and memories of my own violence. I do not hate them but I do not understand them. I have rejected violence in my life and thus hate has no place in my heart, but I find it hard to forgive them for their crimes. They do not ask for it and most continue to perpetrate forms of extortion, by their very presence which instills fear in the people they encounter.

Anwar Congo describes himself as a “gangster” which he and his comrades define as meaning “free men”. I think “free men?” free to kill? free to rape? Free to do whatever you want without consequence? This is the meaning of freedom?  Anwar goes on to demonstrate the efficiency of killing with wire, how it digs into the skin so the victim can’t get their fingers in between to resist, also less blood, less to clean up.

Anwar watches replays of their enactments, their making of a movie and his face is intense, he watches himself as though looking into a mirror of the past and he is not sure of himself. He and the director revisit the place where many of the killings take place and Anwar begins to convulse as if to vomit up the evil that has possessed him all these long years, such a guttural sound is coughed up, you feel as if he might vomit his inner demons, hounds from hell which will in turn devour him.

I have never seen anything like this film before nor been so frustrated to make sense of it all, because it does make sense of insanity and yet reason is elusive. It is a must see film and I hope it will help us all understand how a society, politics, and ideology can prompt such violence in human beings and thus help us find a way to prevent it.

These monsters who call themselves “Gangsters” must be held accountable for their crimes, that is our responsibility least we be monsters ourselves.

A Review

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Billy Moon author Douglas Lain

Review by Daniel Shea of Veterans For Peace Chapter 72

September 16th 2013

Abstract:

“Billy Moon was Christopher Robin Milne, the son of A. A. Milne, the world-famous author of Winnie the Pooh and other beloved children’s classics. Billy’s life was no fairy-tale, though. Being the son of a famous author meant being ignored and even mistreated by famous parents; he had to make his own way in the world, define himself and reconcile his self-image with the image of him known to millions of children. A veteran of World War II, a husband and father, he is jolted out of midlife ennui when a French college student revolutionary asks him to come to the chaos of Paris in revolt. Against a backdrop of the apocalyptic student protests and general strike that forced France to a standstill that spring, Milne’s new French friend is a wild card, able to experience alternate realities of the past and present. Through him, Milne’s life is illuminated and transformed, as are the world-altering events of that year.”

I just finished this excellent book by Mr. Lain – the timing for publication couldn’t have been better as in Paris of 1968 when a growing opposition to U.S.A.’s War in Vietnam was spreading across the globe, an opposition that recognized the loss of one’s own freedoms in a world seized in the grip of an iron fist of fascism.

Today people here in the U.S. & everywhere in the world have been speaking out against US military strikes against Syria. A revitalization of the anti-war, peace & justice movements are growing. There is much to be gleaned from this fictional look back at our broken history, what inspired, what worked, what didn’t.

There seems to me the story leaves us with lingering questions – why didn’t it set the world rightside up? Maybe the answer is, there are more chapters to this story than anyone ever expected. Life is always just a beginning, there is no end, the end of an actor in the play of life dies and leaves the stage but the stage & the play continues, each act just another beginning. Are we looking for the end or a utopian theme? What is our goal, how would we write the script, what characteristics would we ascribe to ourselves?

These are the same questions that faced the students and workers in Paris of 1968 and Mr. Lain takes us through the streets of Paris with Christopher Robin Milne, two activist students Gerrard and Natalie and a bear named William in a surrealistic, magical realism fantasy of dreaming a revolution while living in and making a revolution.

Who are we, what would we do if fascism creeped into our everyday lives? Would we be revolutionaries, zombies or collaborators? Well believe it or not fascism is on your doorstep, it is time for you to decide what actor/character you will bring to the stage.

Open Letter to our Congress and the People of the United States

Open Letter to our Congress and the People of the United States
by Daniel Shea of Veterans For Peace
September 4th 2013

My major concern is the possibility that president Obama will employ a military solution against Syria which I am adamantly opposed to.

I have heard the arguments over Assad’s gassing his citizens, the statements that claim we have evidence but none have been presented nor been verified by credible sources.

We do not need another cry of WMD wolf but even if true the idea that bombs, bullets, grenades and mortars are any less atrocious, nor no less criminal is to me absurd.

I am glad that congress has asked the president to make his case before them – it is as it should be. If congress does the right thing and opposes intervention then the world may gain some faith that in the USA, democracy lives. That is does work and that the people of the United States have no ill will against the people of Syria and that we believe a political solution is possible as a bridge to peace.

Thus we need all our representatives to oppose any military strike no matter how limited. Two wrongs – do not make a right! Though if they approve the strike against Syria only more deaths will occur. Which begs the question in what universe is our killing any less evil than theirs?

Both sides in this civil and now sectarian war are culpable for murdering the lives of innocent men, women and children. Both sides accuse the other of using chemical weapons, crying foul by the other. There are no good guys in this conflict, a conflict we need not enter into, for it is for Syrians and Syrians alone to solve.

WE as a nation have no credibility in the Middle East, nor do we in much of the rest of the world and if we should again stick the noses of our missiles into this fight, I am afraid that it will only get worse. No one can predict that it will not escalate, maybe even into a world war, a nightmare that could equal an apocalypse.

I am a Viet Nam combat veteran, an Agent Orange victim of our military’s use of chemical weapons and know the pain this has caused me and so many other veterans and their families thus we are all opposed to these poisons but have no stomach for making things worse. Just so president Obama can save face for drawing a red line he really had no right to make all on his own.

There are more courageous alternatives, first wait for the United Nations inspectors report, second encourage the UN to call for a truce to discuss a path to end the conflict, third let the so-called rebels (many now who are outsiders even more detrimental to democracy) that we will not arms them and will only support them in UN peace process.

If we really want to make a difference we will work to make all weapons sales to other nations an international crime and hold those individuals and manufacturers accountable for war crimes.

If president listens to our people and not the war profiteers (who are salivating over the possibility of their products of death filling their coffers with blood money galore) then I will applaud him, for it takes more wisdom and courage to walk the path of peace than one of war.

The UK has said “NO”! And, we say NO! Peace be with You!

An Allegory of Truth

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An Allegory of Truth
by Daniel Shea 8/30/2013

True story, an Arab friend (let’s call him Jamal to protect his identity) told me a story about a visit from his brother who was on vacation, coming from Saudi Arabia.

Jamal: My brother came to visit, I was telling him, I was concerned over the treatment of women in our country. He argued all the old dominate male myths of superiority that I and all our society had been bred on.

Brother: Women must know their place, if they abide by our traditions then their husbands will respect them and they and their husbands will be happy. This is the way it is and has always been. Why do you want to stir up the a hornet’s nest? What have these Americans done to you? You are being corrupted by their evil influences, it is their propaganda that is misleading you, time for you to come home and get your bearings.

Jamal: We continued to argue but he stuck to his guns, and before long his vacation came to an end and he would have to return home. But before leaving he wanted a memento and possibly something he could make some money off when back at home. Thus, my brother found a novelty shop and these peculiar postcards and pictures called “Magic Eye Pictures”, you know, the ones where you stare at these two dimensional cards or posters and like magic, you see a three dimensional image. They are kind of amazing as your eyes adjust to the staring, eyes crossing and tearing suddenly as if by magic and as though looking through a glass window, space opens and a three dimensional image appears.

Jamal said his brother bought up a large supply to take back home where he had visions of amazing all his family and friends and maybe making a little profit by selling some of them. If things went well he might even see if he could become the business representative of the manufacturer for all of Saudi Arabia.

Unfortunately when he showed them to his family and friends they were unable to see anything but the squiggly two dimensional colored lines and nothing more. He was about to lose a lot of money on this venture and his dream of being the king of the ‘magic eye business’ in Saudi Arabia going up in smoke. He needed to find someone who could see what he could see. He and his friends, smoked some weed, still nothing, they went to a Saudi speak easy to drink the demon alcohol and nothing. His friends said he was crazy, that the Americans had brainwashed him, there was nothing to see but posters and cards with crazy colored zigzag lines. He began looking at each of the posters and cards, and he could still see the 3D images as clearly as a day’s sunrise.

His mother and father humored him and said they didn’t understand what had happened to him but they liked the colors and abstractness of his posters and they bought a few and framed them to put on their walls. This was Jamal’s brother ultimate humiliation. It became apparent that he was alone in this ability to see what he saw. He began to doubt his own sanity, and called me, saying Jamal, what did you do to me, no one here is able to see what I can see so plainly. What kind of American trick is this, did you drug me with some evil American poison?

Jamal: I told him no, don’t be silly, but now you know how it feels when nobody believes you. You did the same thing to me when I spoke about justice and rights for women. It is a little like Plato’s Cave Allegory where once exposed to truths previously outside one’s perceptions, when one first sees something never experienced before we can’t even believe our own eyes, but soon the facts of the reality set in and when we try to explain this objective experience to others they think we are mad.

That is what I was trying to explain to you about the injustice of our homeland and its’ repression of women.  It is like this, once you see injustice you become familiar with its forms, its patterns, its shapes and you will see it in any direction you look and you can’t escape it, you learn to see the opposite of injustice recognizing the differences between rights and wrongs and like the magic eye pictures the truth immediately appears. Trying to teach others what you see as plain as the nose on your face is not so easy, they must experience the truth for themselves and once seen they cannot see differently but if they fear to tell the truth because they fear being alone, an outcast or even insane, then to deny the truth, they must lie.

There isn’t any magic way of perceiving the truth about the world we live in, one must experience the contradictions about our traditions and look beyond our own cultural box, it is the trappings of things we have been taught all our lives. To break free, open your mind and think for yourself, allowing yourself to see the reality before your eyes and trust your own heart, it will give you confidence to tell the truth. – The end.

Jamal told me this story and it affected me deeply, I began to share his story because it teaches us to think critically, we all know the patterns of oppression, so look for its opposite, learn the patterns of true justice and find your truth, then you will find your path to living your life as a true human being.

Michael Hastings dies in a fiery auto accident? Really?

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Michael Hastings dies in a fiery auto accident? Really?
By Daniel Shea June 19th 2013‏

There have been a number of heartfelt stories on the death of  this award winning investigative journalist Michael Hastings, as well there should be. Still something is lacking.

I had read his book “The Operators: The Wild and Terrifying Inside Story of America’s War in Afghanistan” early this year. This book and his June 22, 2010 Rolling Stone article “The Runaway General” both profile General Stanley McChrystal and his inner circle.

I too am shocked at Michale Hastings death in a story that says “[he] …died early Tuesday in an explosive one-car crash in the Hancock Park neighborhood of Los Angeles…A witness, … named Jose, says he saw Hastings’ car moving at an extraordinarily fast speed coming down Highland from Santa Monica Blvd., which would mean the car was traveling south. According to Jose’s description, the vehicle may have gone out of control while crossing Melrose Ave.” (The Daily Caller)

What troubles me about the stories on his tragic death is that they are routine, for a not very routine reporter.

No investigative journalism has gone into this story. Why was Hastings speeding, does he have a record of reckless driving? Was he drinking? Did he have an argument with someone earlier in the day, who was the last person to see him? What was his state of mind? Was he suffering from PTSD?

Michale Hasting took down a Commanding General and his inner circle with his exposes, these men were at the heart of a counterinsurgency war in Afghanistan. They are trained killers, propagandists and true believers in their way or the highway. Hastings reported in his book that it was hinted that if the story went sour on McChrystal (and it did) they might have to kill him. Hastings confronted this threat directly and was satisfied & let it go.

But now that this incredibly brave journalist has died in a “runaway out of control, hit a tree and exploding into a fiery blaze car accident” no one is questioning the possibility of a hit?

Hastings deserves at least a better explanation of the circumstances that led to his early demise.

Read his book “The Operators” and his “The Runaway General” Rolling Stone article as well as his other contributions

http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/the-runaway-general-20100622
http://www.rollingstone.com/contributor/michael-hastings