So Long Mustafa. A Great artist passes

An excerpt from “Everything for Love,” WC Turck, available on Amazon and at barnesandNoble.com

Mount Trebevich loomed high above the school and city center. Smoke drifted lazily from the Serbian trenches there. Those trenches could see up and down every street and alley in Sarajevo. They weren’t shooting today, despite the clear weather. They didn’t have to. Fear and unpredictability were as formidable to maintaining the siege as bombs and mines and bullets.
It was dusty and cold inside. The walls were covered with graffiti, so much that it seemed like something of a work in progress, a final assertion of a dying city, or the cynical conscience of the world. The building became a living history of lives that faded like echoes. There were declarations of love, calls to revolution, an homage to Che Guevara, filthy words and phrases in a dozen different languages and scripts. There were sketches, cartoons, Rock bands, rap verses, poetry and bits of prophetic wisdom like:

Ever since Tito died the world has gone to shit!
Elvis


Hasan was waiting for us in one of the first floor sculpture studios. The room was empty. Everything that could be burned had been pilfered. The books, desks and easels were all gone. Hasan looked so forlorn surrounded by that emptiness. He looked up smartly as we entered. His face was filled with worry.
“Where have you two been?” he asked.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “I had to deliver some things to a friend at the hospital and we got held up.”
He said we were late to meet with one of Sarajevo’s premiere artists. His name was Mustafa Skolpjak. He lived in the Academy of Arts building across the river. We hurried across the Princip Bridge, the spot where a young Slav nationalist had assassinated the Austrian archduke Ferdinand in 1914, beginning a series of events precipitating the First World War. The academy was an odd looking building with a prominent silver dome. At a glance it appeared abandoned. The tall windows had been blown out and shells had punctured the dome. The once carefully manicured lawns were overgrown with tangled weeds.
The heavy wooden door groaned loudly on its hinges. For a moment we stood in a narrow channel of daylight, illuminating part of a long staircase to one side, and a dark hallway to the other. We followed the hall past deserted studios to the small office where Mustafa lived.
“So would you like to meet Sarajevo’s greatest artist?” Hasan asked.
“Besides you and Nadja?” I winked, with a grin. He chuckled and said something about going into politics as he knocked at the door.
There was a long pause before a shadow disturbed the sliver of light beneath the door. I had read a good deal about Mustafa in the Press back home and was expecting someone fiery and philosophical, someone who exemplified the defiant persistence of the Sarajevo Arts community. Instead the man who opened the door was rather short and kind of dull. He had a thick, brushy mustache and heavy gray stubble. He smiled broadly when he recognized Hasan, though it seemed a terrific effort for him, as though it was not at all a natural act.
In jeans and a beat up leather jacket, his hair somewhat askew, Mustafa was more like a character from a Kerouac novel than anything else. He was quiet, hardly an egoist like Picasso, and certainly not the swashbuckling sort like Hemingway. At first impression Sarajevo’s greatest living artist was rather mundane.
“You’ve gotten big,” he rubbed Sulejman’s head. He invited us inside, apologizing that he had nothing to offer.
Stepping into the studio was like stepping into a small attic crammed with undreamed of treasures. The air was stale like an attic and filled with dust that hung like constellations among nebulous clouds of cigarette smoke. Midday sun flooded through a translucent sheet of UNHCR plastic covering a small window. The light was quickly scattered by abstract constructions of colored glass collected from around the city. Renderings and small paintings covered the walls or were stacked around the room. To one corner a mattress was braced between two burgeoning file cabinets. A tiny sink was filled with dishes and a pair of socks. Below the sink was the obligatory collection of buckets and jugs. At the end of his cluttered desk was a giant stack of magazines and newspapers from around the world. I mentioned that I read articles about him in America.Mustafa_Skopljak_vertikala
”America,” he pondered. He stroked the stubble of his square jaw. “What do they say for me in America?”
“Mostly how you’ve led Sarajevo’s art scene, and how you’ve triumphed and found inspiration in the war.”
“Hmm,” he considered. “I don’t find inspiration in the war. Other people’s words. I only find survival, but that doesn’t pass the time quite so well, and certainly doesn’t feed the soul.”
“All of these magazines and newspapers have stories about Mustafa,” Hasan motioned to the stack on the desk.
“Amazing,” I said.
Mustafa seemed almost ashamed of the attention. “It was only necessary to destroy a nation and murder two hundred thousand people so that I could become famous.”
We all looked to the window as a shell exploded on the mountain. The long, low rumble could be felt through the floor. It shook free more of that ever-present dust, but there was more to the sound. It made Mustafa’s life and talent so fragile and fleeting. Like every other man in the city he was a soldier, and if the Serbs tried to take the city his celebrity would afford him no special privilege. A single bullet or shell could instantly extinguish his rare gift. The artists of Sarajevo were a brave and resilient bunch, but they were also mortal.
We didn’t stay long at the academy. Mustafa was a private man, and despite his graciousness, our visit was something of an intrusion. Besides I was still suffering from the day before and wanted to go home and take a nap.
Hasan was headed back to school. Sulejman wanted to meet his mother at Markale (pronounced MARK-A-LAY), but Hasan didn’t want him to go there alone. The boy begged me to go with him, but I wasn’t really interested. Hasan could see that I was beat and scolded Sulejman about pestering me. With that Sulejman pouted and complained that he was sick and tired of sitting in the house with nothing to do. Out of sympathy I relented.
The Markale outdoor market filled a small square just off Marshal Tito Street, at a place where the street was at its narrowest. Markale was protected on three sides by the high walls of surrounding buildings. It was more than a market. It was an integral part of the city’s social fabric. Neighbors met to swap news and gossip. That simple function was even more important during the war.
Hardly a year had passed since a Serbian mortar slammed into the market killing sixty-eight, but old habits were hard to overcome. Within days of the attack Sarajevans returned to reclaim the market. As Sulejman and I crossed the street it was already jammed beyond capacity with shoppers, beggars and gawkers. I recalled Serbian assertions that the Bosnians had inflated the number of dead by dragging out cadavers. As packed as the market was on any given day it was a miracle that only sixty-eight had died that day.
Shopping was, of course, a relative term in besieged Sarajevo. People were crowded among the tightly packed tables, ogling a pathetic offering of goods. There were putrid looking chicken and pigeon carcasses, some washes with bleach to kill the smell. Not that it mattered. Even at ten or fifteen marks for a scrawny one the price was well out of reach for most. The NEW YORK TIMES some months earlier had celebrated the falling price of food in the city. Over the summer a pound of beef had plummeted from around a hundred Marks to twenty-five. The paper failed to mention that twenty-five marks represented one or two month’s income for most families. Prices fluctuated wildly with the fighting. A single egg might cost a few Marks in the morning, and go for six or eight or ten by afternoon.
Nadja was at the back of the square, looking over a paltry collection of small vegetables grown in the many war gardens that sprang up around the city. I stepped across the small crater punched by the February shell to reach her. It struck in a corner reflecting the full force of the blast into the square, turning tables and body parts into lethal missiles.
Nadja and Hasan had just been paid for the month with a carton of smuggled Drina cigarettes, or roughly the equivalent of one small chicken. She was haggling over a pile of little potatoes, scrawny carrots and some mangy garlic cloves. I gave Nadja a twenty Mark note, but the old Gypsy woman behind the table complained she couldn’t possibly make change for that. Nadja was a shrewd negotiator and managed enough vegetables to make a pot of soup for the next couple of days. She stuffed the precious goods into her tattered purse and, clutching it tightly, hurried out of the market.
“Did we do good?” I asked.
Nadja nodded. “I’m satisfied.
The street opened to a wide boulevard. Cafes had sprouted along sun drenched sidewalks as an assertion of the city’s undying spirit, as if the war was a distant thing. But reminders of the war were never very far away. There was the shriek of a patrolling NATO warplane, a firefight on the mountain and the grating annoyance of a passing UN tank. Just beyond the fringes of the cafes, where patrons chanced a Mark for a moment of normalcy, disowned refugees and the homeless begged for mercy or some small hope from those who had lost both a long time ago. Only the dead or the insane could truly escape the war, and at every given moment everyone in Sarajevo teetered at the edge of one or the other.

So long, Dear Friend

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A Deadly Gamble

First, Vladimir Putin is not Hitler. Not even close. Putin is hampered by a nationally fatal shortsightedness, blinded by the prism of Russian history and culture, and torn between modernizing an oil weighted economy and appeasing oligarchs who could sieze control of the country, or at least split into the Balkan-type civil fracturing of a nuclear power. That isn’t altogether different from the United States, by the way.

In my 2014 book, A TRAGIC FATE: Politics, Oil, the crash of Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 and the Looming Threats to Civil Aviation Kindle Edition by WC TURCK http://www.amazon.com/TRAGIC-FATE-Politics-Malaysia-Airlines-ebook/dp/B00RPXWDPK I described the dangerous position Russia has found itself, desperately grasping for economic and social equilibrium through the control of oil and gas reserves.

The Syrian crisis illustrates Putin’s precarious position precisely. First, the historic correction of oil prices, affected by a sluggish global economy, de-escalation between Iran and the West, the end of supply-chain disrupting wars, Fracking and OPEC’s assault on Fracking’s profitability, carbon emission initiatives and green technology threatens Putin’s economy and security. More than 2/3 of the Russian economy is based on oil revenues. Low prices are devastating to Russia, exactly the opposite of America’s consumer-based economy. Tensions in Syria with the insertion of Russia’s military appear to have driven a spike in oil prices, opening October 1st at nearly $47.

Second, Western, and particularly US policy and action in Syria’s civil war has proved a complete failure. According to the International Business Times Syria has ” 2.5 billion barrels of crude oil as of January 2013, which makes it the largest proved reserve of crude oil in the eastern Mediterranean according to the Oil & Gas Journal estimate.”

While the US wants Syrian President Assad out, envisioning a chaotic scenario akin to the Libyan debacle, that leaves the door wide open for Putin and Russia to step inside. The airstrikes this week confirmed that Putin is less interested in assailing ISIS than he is in supporting Assad.

The pay off for Russia is clear. Syria possesses vast reserves of oil, gas and oil shale as yet untapped because of the fighting. Think of Syria as something of a mini-Crimea, which Putin siezed from Ukraine because of its strategic interest and proximity to Black Sea oil and gas reserves. If Putin, as he sees it, can end the fighting and alleviate pressure on Damascus, or sweep it off into a corner of the country the appreciation of Assad would pay untold dividends for Putin.

It is all short-sighted of course. The world will only continue moving father and farther away from reliance on fossil fuels. Putin and his government have shown little or no inclination in evolving and adapting to that eventuality. That short-sightedness may be the most dangerous component of all of this. No matter what direction Putin goes, without divesting from oil and gas as the bulwark of his economy, disaster and danger are only a heartbeat away.

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DARK HORSE: Bomb, bomb Iran…

Why the drumbeat for war with Iran? The plummeting cost of oil. In 2003, after George Bush vowed publically to liberate Iraqi Oil, the major oil companies told him to leave it in the ground. From the 1980s thru September 2003 a barrel of crude went for between $25 and $33. Instability in Iraq, Venezuela and Nigeria pushed it up slightly, then following the invasion the price of crude jumped to over $40 a barrel, and then to $50. Iraqi oil and sanctions against Iran and US pressure on Venezuela kept major market suppliers out of the market. Capitalism, or market manipulation in action? By the end of the Bush administration crude was over $90 a barrel, with oil companies in the west making unprecedented profits. Iran is the 4th largest oil producer, but has been under an embargo for better than a decade.

The low prices represent a market correction, based on true natural market forces of supply and demand. That is not the strategy oil companies in the west have followed. Low oil prices devastate Russia’s economy, which is why he appears more militant lately, as the specter of tension puts scare into the market, raising prices. Low oil prices are great for America’s consumer driven economy. The line is in the $3.5 to $4 dollar per gallon range that hammers businesses and consumers. $60-70 per barrel is optimal for oil companies keeping the US price of gas at around $3, and ensuring large profits, though not the historical ones they once saw (government oil subsidies make up the difference).

Iraq with the ISIS issue keeps that country unstable enough to stagger the production of oil. Bringing Turkey into the war against ISIS (and Kurds) guarantees the reserves in Syria and Iraq remain tied down. Syria and Russia, by the way, are allies and oil business partners. (http://www.ibtimes.com/syrian-oil-gas-little-known-facts-syrias-energy-resources-russias-help-1402405). Curiously ISIS is fighting for those very fields.

Why no reports of Western Oil companies attacked or fleeing ISIS madmen? The Kurds we are supporting to save from ISIS is actually a middleman in blackmarket oil sales from ISIS to the West. Turkey, a NATO ally, also is part of the ISIS to market oil sales pipeline. The British are implicated in that network (http://beforeitsnews.com/awakening-start-here/2015/08/britains-secret-ties-to-governments-firms-behind-isis-oil-sales-and-no-one-saw-it-coming-like-2008-3336.html). The US, who, along with the allies vanquished 26 million Axis troops on land sea across 5 continents in just 5 years in the 1940s cannot destroy 30 thousand fighters in the open desert fighting on a relatively narrow swath of ground in two endemically poor neighboring countries?

The lifting of sanctions on Iran opens up the 4th largest oil reserves on the planet is devastating to Western oil company profits. With more and more pressure on US lawmakers to end corporate subsidies, and with greater pressure from renewable, the only avenue left is war. A republican president, heeding the cries for war, as Ted Cruz and Scott Walker have promised, or a Hillary Clinton administration, re: her Libya and Syrian policies, her policies over Ukraine and Crimea (See my book: A Tragic Fate) and her vote to support the war in Iraq all but guarantees a massive war against Iran. Israel, Hamas the Palestinian question and terrorism are simply the sugar coating on a very bitter pill. They are the trick that moves Americans into supporting war.

And you believed in market capitalism. Bless your heart!

http://www.upi.com/Business_News/Energy-Resources/2015/08/11/Oil-slumps-on-OPEC-supply-reports/2111439300493/

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MH-17: Reconstruction of a Disaster

The following is an excerpt from the upcoming investigation into the destruction of Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 in Ukraine. This reconstruction is based upon credible and verifiable news sources from around the planet…

Inside the cabin, the stewards and flight attendants were busy with meal service. The passengers were contented with in-flight entertainment. The flight so far has been routine, even mundane. There were still more than 8 hours remaining to Kuala Lumpur. The passengers were thinking of their final destination, making connections, seeing loved ones, business meetings and sleeping in their own beds again.

Far below, others are animated for war. Ten miles to the south of quiet little Hrabove a convoy of military vehicles rumbled through the town of Snizhne, one of them was recognized as a SA-11 surface to air BUK missile launcher. A June 29th post by the rebels bragged about being in possession of at least one captured BUK missile system after overrunning an airbase.

Local reports put the convoy in the town around lunchtime. Atop the tracked vehicle four missiles, each18 feet long, were unmistakable for a group of Associated Press journalists covering the war. A man in fatigues cautioned the journalists against filming before the convoy rumble west out of town. Dressed in desert camouflage, unlike the rebel soldiers green uniforms, he spoke with a distinctive Russian accent.

Movements of the missile launcher that day are confirmed in eyewitness statements, video and photographs. In November 2014 the Bellingcat Group of investigative journalists published a detailed inquiry of the vehicle and its movements. That report can be found at www.bellingcat.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Origin-of-the-Separatists-Buk-A-Bellingcat-Investigation1.pdf

The missile launcher and its crew, now near the town of Torez, as well as their command and control support were expectant of an enemy incursion. They were blinded by that perspective, which betrays a complete and criminal negligence at every level in the chain of command. If Russia, in fact, supplied the vehicle then the responsible authorities share substantial culpability for allowing trigger happy, irresponsible and ill-trained rebels such a dangerously sophisticated weapon.

Initially the crew filed a flight plan which would have taken them farther to the south at an altitude of 35,000 feet. Instead they were diverted north, ostensibly for thunder storms brewing to the south, and ordered to 33,000 feet for traffic. Slowing to 490 knots, MH-17 descended 2,000 feet.

In June, despite safety assurances, both British Airlines and Lufthansa decided against risking East Ukrainian airspace. Emirates suspended flights to Ukraine altogether, according to Reuters. As pointed out in a previous chapter the routine of war balanced against marketing and business concerns, it had become normal business practice for International airlines to fly over war zones simply to save money on fuel.

Ukraine was no different. Commercial airlines regularly flew over Iraq and Afghanistan during the wars there, comfortable that insurgent forces lacked the capability to threaten them. When the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull (pronounced: Ai-ya-fyatla-yoy-katl) erupted in 2010 disrupting air travel between North America and Europe and ground more than 100,000 flights, the cost to airlines and more than 6 million stranded passengers was in the tens of millions of Dollars. The costs to the bottom line are powerful drivers in the equation when left to airlines alone.

While indications are abundant and clear that the rebels assumed the incoming aircraft was a Ukrainian military transport there seems to have been a blatant disregard for protocols which would have allowed them to identify the plan as civilian. Visually it may have proved difficult, even with binoculars, to make a proper identification but the BUK system hardly relies on antiquated technology for identification. But while NATO member countries rely on the International Friend or Foe, IFF, the BUK radar has its own IFF system. According to HIS Jane’s Missiles and Rockets editor Doug Richardson:

“Although it has it own Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) system, this is only able to establish whether the target being tracked is a friendly aircraft. It is the electronic equivalent of a sentry calling out “Who goes there?” If there is no reply, all you know is that it is not one of your own side’s combat aircraft. It would not give you a warning that you were tracking an airliner.”

The BUK’s acquisition radar, deployed some thirty miles to the southwest in the village of Styla, allowed the rebel fighters to identify, track and target the aircraft. Whether they believed they were once again targeting a Ukrainian transport, or simply took advantage of a ready target remains unclear. Protocols, IFF, known civilian over flights, flight path, altitude, command structure and time on target removes the specter of the accidental and indicates at the very least negligence if not intention.

Once launched the fate of MH-17 was sealed. The system is highly accurate. According to Army-Technology.com, in association with Defense and Security Systems International the BUK Air Defense Missile System maintains a high kill rate at target:

A single missile can destroy tactical aircraft and helicopters with a probability between 0.9 and 0.95, while the kill probability against tactical ballistic missiles ranges between 0.6 and 0.7. The missile can operate continuously for one day with refueling and has a tear-down time of five minutes. The missile can destroy tactical ballistic missile within the range of 20km and can kill cruise missiles at 100m altitude and within the range of 20km. It has maximum target g-load of 10g and can destroy aerodynamic targets with a maximum speed of 830m/s flying at an altitude between 0.015km and 25km, and within 3km to 45km range. The missile system can operate in temperatures up to ± 50°C and wind speeds up to 30m/s. Its maximum operating altitude above sea level is 3,000m.

“A bird is flying to you,” a spotter told a rebel commander for pro-Russian separatists in Horlivka 15 miles west of the crash sight. He is identified as Igor Bezlor, a mercurial man and a typical character to be found in any conflict who is all too ready to rationalize any moral and ethical transgression to war. In temperament and stature Bezlor reminds one of the late Serbian thug and warlord Zeljko “Arkan” Raznatovic. His features are pallid and severe, an obligatory cigarette ever present and a black cap that seems costume-like.

“Reconnaissance plane or a big one?” asks Bezlor, from his regional headquarters in nearby Gorlovka.

There is no indication from the rebels that they were firing at anything other than a single target. They are very clearly heard discussing the size of the aircraft. If, in fact, there was a shadowing aircraft below or near the 777 the Buk radar would have indicated, and the battery would have had the capability of hitting both. The rebel leaders in those recordings have never officially acknowledged nor denied their authenticity.

On the ground at around 1:20 that afternoon residents of Torez recalled hearing loud explosions. Rostislav Grishin, a 21-year-old prison guard remembered hearing “two powerful blasts in a row.” The time must be viewed as subjective, though with a forward velocity and possibly one working engine, at least for a time, the descent would have been rapid; certainly faster than a simple freefall.

“First there was one, but then after a minute, a minute and a half, there was another discharge. I raised my head and within a minute I could see a plane falling through the clouds.” The two powerful blasts Grishin heard were undoubtedly the nearby launch of the missile followed by the detonation as the missile found its intended target.

The launch would have been powerful and thundering, followed by the long tearing crrrraaacckkk as the missile streaked skyward. Smoke and dust from the launch would have consumed briefly the massive vehicle. The roar of the launch, as recalled by a number of witnesses, carried for several miles in the rolling hills around Torez and Snizhne.

The 9M317 missile required a radar lock to steer it to the target. It is an awesome weapon when launched, a solid fuel rocket with a total burn time of about 15 seconds that finds it target at speeds of up to Mach 3 four times faster than MH-17 was travelling. A rebel Operator steered the missile in flight until the missiles own onboard system locked onto the airliner. For the crew on MH-17 and the passengers there would have been no warning as the missile streaked skywards at better than 2000 feet per second.

“Malaysian one seven,” instructs the ATC controller, “due traffic proceed direct Romeo November Delta.”

“Romeo November Delta, Malaysian one seven,” Mh-17 replied. The UTC time was 13:16:56. It was the last transmission from the aircraft.

The missile is designed to detonate within 65 feet of its target. From video and photos of the wreckage it is likely that the missile did not strike the aircraft directly. A direct impact wouldn’t have been necessary. With a 154 pound high explosive fragmentation warhead an explosion anywhere near the aircraft would have been devastating. What is certain is that the explosion was instantly catastrophic to the 777.

The missile raced up at the aircraft, passing underneath MH-17’s flight path from right to left at three times the speed of sound. Just below and behind where Captain Wan Amran sat the missile exploded with a blinding flash, probably within 20 to 40 feet of the aircraft and likely above the farm fields between the villages of Tymofiivka and Orlovo-Ivanivka. At the controls, opposite Wan Amran, Eugene Choo Jin Leong would have had no warning and no opportunity to react.

One hour and fifty-six minutes after takeoff Malaysian Airlines flight 17 disappeared from radar screens. It was 9:20am in Washington D.C.

Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.

CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com


The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting.[4] Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.

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Risking Everything for Love, 20 years ago today…

An excerpt from the memoir by WC Turck, Everything for Love, available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.com:

I had one last chance, and it was a long shot. In fact, it was unlikely to work out the way I hoped, but what choice did I have? If it failed I knew that I would lose Ana forever.
I barged into the marriage bureau startling the women there. One of them screamed and hurried to find a guard. The others could do little more that protest feebly as I went to the cabinet and pulled out the marriage file on the British journalists. In an instant I had it open and had my journal out.
“You must leave here or we will have you arrested,” one woman complained. I ignored her and quickly copied the citizenship document.
“One document can say both things?” I asked. The blond-haired woman nodded. Johnson at the embassy had already said that I could get the citizenship paper. That was the easy part. Near the center of the page I inserted the line, “In so far as this embassy is aware Mr. Turck is not married.” Nothing about the statement was untrue. I wasn’t married, and the embassy had no idea one way or another. It was a long shot, but it was all that I had.
There was shooting in the plaza again. In fact there was a lot of shooting, but there was no time to worry about it now. I had to get back to the embassy no matter what, but as I stepped from the bombed-out storefront two bullets struck the wall beside my head. I dove headfirst back through the window and crawled up against the wall.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, my frightened breaths exploding in the empty shop.
Every heartbeat thundered in my ears. I laughed, realizing how close I’d come to being killed. Fear was a weight I could ill afford, that is if I really wanted to be with Ana, but it was a weight that kept me from moving for some time. I fought it and threw myself into the open, letting blind momentum decide my fate. I was immediately at a dead run. Ahead of me, past the hotel and a Ukrainian APC on the road, death stalked from a thousand empty windows. A rifle shot thundered in the plaza. I shouted and strained to cover the last few yards before collapsing against the back of the hotel.
It was dark and cool inside the hotel. The place was empty, as usual. A few journalists kept to the shadows and relative safety of a small bar at the back of the cavernous lobby. Bosnian snipers were firing across the river into Grbavica now. The gunfire reverberated with muffled, hollow reports, like the dull throbbing of a kettledrum.
I hated it there. The hotel was a monument to the hypocrisy of war. The Serbs left the place more or less alone, despite that nearly every other building in and around the plaza had been destroyed or heavily damaged. The upper floors were gutted, and the Serbs took occasional pot shots at the front of the building to rattle and warn the foreign Press and diplomats who stayed there.
The Holiday Inn had always had something of an unsavory reputation. The squat yellow and peach building looked as if it had been dropped by accident among some of Sarajevo’s best known and most beautiful architecture. There were rumors that the owners had made some arrangement with the Serbs and local mafia. The relatively cosmetic damage to the place only tended to bolster its nefarious reputation.
The American delegation to Bosnia was on the third floor. It was called an embassy, but only in the loosest possible terms. Next door to the embassy the Newsweek correspondent, a rather miserable looking fellow, was working on a story. A Bosnian guard slept in a chair in front of the embassy. A fully loaded assault rifle threatened to spill from his lap. I quietly slipped past the guard into the embassy, surprising several intelligence officers who scattered quickly as I entered. A tall blond diplomat stepped forward, blocking me until they were gone.
“Dave Johnson(not his real name), First Secretary.” he said with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. He listened impatiently to my story. “So, you’re getting married. Fantastic! That’s just great. No problem, we can give you whatever you need.”
Johnson gave the paper a quick review and nodded.
“I’m sure this will be fine,” he said. “We’ll type it up. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”
“Dave,” I said at the door, “do me a favor and get an office in a better neighborhood. Every time I come here I get shot at. I’m starting to get a bad impression of Sarajevo!”
There was a woman I knew in the lobby. Her name was Fahira, an impeccably dressed business-like woman in her mid forties. Her reddish blond hair was flawless, and held in place by copious amounts of hairspray, that must have cost her a fortune to attain through the black market. Fahira was sitting before one of the hotel’s tall windows staring out at the desolation of her city. She was there most days, hoping to make money as a translator, but no one cared about Bosnian much anymore. I sat down beside her, and knew better than to ask her how business was. She hadn’t worked in many months and was growing more discouraged by the day.
“I thought you might have gone by now,” she said, without looking at me.
“Soon, I hope.” I said nothing of Ana.
“I think the war is lost.” She said dully. I didn’t reply. “When the world no longer cares what happens here, when the Chetniks know the world is looking the other way they will come and slaughter us.”
I let the topic go. I was in no mood for politics.
“How is your daughter?”
“She asks for things. What do I tell her?” Fahira pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse. She counted them and thought better of having one. She put them away and huffed. “I think that I have ruined her. When everyone else was starving, I could still afford food. We always had money, you know? Now we have no food, nothing. I almost wish that something terrible would happen, then perhaps someone will come and I will make a little money for her.”
I sat with her a while longer, though we didn’t say much. She did most of the talking. I stood and looked out into the plaza. The sun was setting and I didn’t want Ana to worry.
“Well,” I said, not looking at her, “good luck to you.” Fahira nodded slightly and looked off across the plaza.
Rain came that evening, falling over the city as a soft sigh that grew to a gentle whisper. By the time Ana and I left for Nadja and Hasan’s it was pouring. It was a cold autumn rain, that danced upon tiled rooftops and gurgled into failing and overburdened gutters…


The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting.[4] Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Saying Goodye in Sarajevo’s Bombed-out National Library, an excerpt from Everything for Love, a memoir

“This is such a sad place,” said Ana.
She paused at the rubble-strewn steps of the National Library. The city was silent, lulled into a somber peace by a low shroud of funeral gray clouds. They made the archways and galleries of the bombed-out library as deep and mysterious as a cave. There was a stillness to the valley, a muddled quality that left the world distant and out of focus, like an old photograph.
There was a sentry at the corner with a Kalashnikov slung over one shoulder. He looked like a guy from the neighborhood. He watched us curiously for a moment before turning away from the dust thrown up by a passing tank. Ana climbed the steps slowly and went inside without a word. I found her in the shadowy rotunda. Her eyes were closed, face turned upwards to the lattice of the broken ceiling.
I paused beneath an archway, not wishing to disturb such an intimate moment. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt and rotting books. Their ashes lay in heaps among the oriental arches and terraces. Serb shells had shattered many of the massive marble columns and a great pile of rubble stood in the center of the rotunda. High above the thundering wing beats of pigeons disturbed the moment. Ana looked at me, her expression weighted by something.
“Will you tell me now?’ she pleaded. All morning I had teased her about a surprise.
“Let me take a picture of you first.”
“Then you will tell me?”
“Maybe,” I laughed.
“I hate you,” she pouted.
“Be that as it may,” I snapped a picture of her, “but I still won’t tell you.”
“Pease, Bill, don’t be so cruel!”
The more insistent she became the more obstinate I became. Not that the surprise was so great. Rather it was more a gift of hope, a way of making the distance between us a little less painful. Ana danced across the rotunda, framed like an angel in the lens of my camera.
“Did you come to this place before the war?” I asked.
“Oh, it was such a beautiful place. It was, it was like walking into someone’s soul, or the soul of humanity. Ideas, truth and history called from every corner, begging them to take their secrets into your heart. There was a huge painting over there, and books there and there and there. I would often sit in those galleries, sometimes reading, sometimes just looking out at the river and mountains.”
Ana turned suddenly and did her best to feigned anger. “Bill, I really must tell you that I hate surprises. Do you really wish for me to hate you?”
“Nice try.” I snapped another photo.
“Why do you torture me so? I swear I will never speak to you again.” She found it impossible to keep from smiling.
“You’re like a child!”
“Oh no, I can be much worse.”
I lowered the camera and went to her. “Ana, do you believe in Christmas miracles?”
“Bill,” she protested, “don’t play games.”
“I left some money with Nadja and Hasan. Not much, but it should be enough for something on Christmas.” Tears welled in her eyes. Ana held me tight.
“I love you so much,” she whispered.
“You have come to mean so much to me,” I said. “Leaving you behind, it will soothe my broken heart to know that I made you smile one last time. Just remember me, okay?”
“I will remember you, I promise.” She kissed my neck. Her tears were wet and cool.
We climbed down from the library into the gray blue cityscape. Gunfire echoed as we walked home along the river. A crowd waited for a tram near the Princip Bridge, spread out along the wall should a shell land among them. From Marin Dvor came the fevered wail of an ambulance. A convoy passed an argument in a window. Numbed and shell-shocked soldiers wandered empty streets, as bitter and aimless as the roaming dogs long ago abandoned by destitute owners. A young man missing a leg hobbled along an alley to an uncertain future. Children were being born blocks from the line where men were dying. Young boys and girls learned the thrill and pain of first love, while a Gypsy family lived out of a storefront and cooked over an open flame. A crazy man ran naked down the street. A parent learned of their son’s death, while a couple made love next door. All of this in a world barely one by three miles long. Ana hugged me close and said that she felt like Robinson Crusoe.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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20 Years Ago Today I Asked Bosnian Artist Ana Tosic to Marry me. It Almost Didn’t Happen…

At curfew she walked with me to the end of her street. There was fighting on Igman. We watched flashes across the dark face of the mountain. There was worry in Ana’s face.
“You must leave soon, Bill.”
I studied her face, mulling over a thought. “What if I stayed?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I love you, Ana. What if we were meant to…”
She quickly cut me off. “If we were meant to be together we would have met in Chicago or Paris or anywhere but here.”
I sighed heavily and looked again at the mountain. She was right, of course.
“I talked with a friend the other day,” she said. “He works on the tunnel in Dobrinja. He says that if you can get there he will help you across to Butmir.”
“Ana, I…”
“It is very dangerous, but if you have no other choice.”
The time had come, and I decided that night, as I evaded the police on the way to Hasan’s, that I would leaving the following night. Ana’s friend would be at the tunnel and, with a bit of luck, would help me across. I would go to see her in the afternoon to say goodbye. It would be quick, like tearing off a bandage.
The next morning I returned to the military hospital for the letters Alto and Emira had written for their family on the outside. Snipers were dueling in the plaza. The halls of the hospital were crowded with patients and doctors chased there by the gunfire. Above the frustrated curses of staff, protestations and the moans of the sick and wounded, bullets could be heard slapping against the walls of the building, sounding like clapping hands. I found Emira calming patients, but I might have thought I had rescued her. Grabbing my arm she led me quickly up to Alto’s room.
“Terrible,” she said of the shooting, “much worse than I have seen it in some time.”
The Serbs were putting pressure all around the city, attempting to force the Bosnians to divert troops from the mountain offensive.
“Little boys with dangerous toys,” I remarked.
“You will hate me, but I haven’t finished the letter. I simply have not had time, with all the fighting and new patients. We are overwhelmed, you understand. I don’t think that Alto is finished either. I’m sorry, but if you could return tomorrow.”
“I was leaving the city tonight.”
“One more day, if it is not too much of a problem.”
At least I might have one more day with Ana. “No, it’s no problem.”
“It’s funny,” she smiled. “I didn’t know what to write. Is that crazy? After so long I had a million things to say and to know. I could have written a book, but with all this time passed and only a few small pages, what is most important to say? All I could think to say was ‘I love you’ a thousand times.” Emira shrugged and smiled weakly. “So you’re leaving the city.”
“Soon.”
“You don’t sound very happy?”
“I met a girl.” We paused near Alto’s door. The shooting had stopped and he was on his cot working on the letter.
“A girl? That’s fantastic!” Emira exclaimed. “Tell me her name, really you must.”
“Ana.”
“Your Ana is a lucky girl,” she hugged me. “I hope she knows that.”
“If she won’t marry you,” Alto quipped, “I will!”
Emira swatted at him playfully, admonishing him with a sweet smile. “You’re mad! Now finish your letter so this poor man can go home to America.”
“I’m not finished yet,” he said.
“It’s not supposed to be War and Peace!” Emira remarked.
“Just war,” Alto replied.
Two bullets smacked the wall beside the window chasing us into the hall again. Alto hopped around on one foot having abandoned his crutches with the letter in the room. As more gunfire resounded in the plaza below he thought better of returning for either of them.
“Ah, jebim te…!” he swore.
“Relax,” said Emira. “Bill will return tomorrow.” She looked at me, her eyes hungry for every detail of Ana. “So is this serious with your Ana?”
“It was all a mistake, Emira.”
“Real love is never a mistake.”
“I didn’t plan on this. Really, it was never my intention.”
“Did you think that one day you would just wake up and say, this is the day I will fall in love? When you return tomorrow we will have coffee and we will talk more.”
Later that evening Ana and I went to see her grandmother downtown. Ghostly white clouds drifted silently above the dark city and broken rooftops. I said nothing about leaving, and Ana seemed to be in no mood to confront that eventuality either.
Ana’s grandmother Angela lived in a five-story building near Bashcharshija. There were no lights in the stairwell. Tall windows on each landing allowed starlight and offered a magnificent view of Trebevich, but also made us targets for snipers. Angela was expecting us.
She appeared on the landing at her door beckoning us to hurry. She greeted me warmly and ushered us inside. Despite her age and the hardships of the war, Angela remained a lovely and refined woman. I saw not a small amount of her in Ana. They were both proud and mannered almost to a fault. A wool shawl was thrown around her shoulders, and there were hints of silver in her curly dark hair. By candlelight her skin had the luster of fine alabaster.
The apartment was small but inviting and warm. The window in the tiny front room held a stunning view of Trebevich and the frontline. Despite the fact that the walls of the building were peppered with bulletholes, Angela’s windows had miraculously remained intact. The room was kept like a museum, with a beautiful espresso colored loveseat, and an impressive library of Bosnian and Yugoslav literature kept under lock and key behind bevelled glass doors. Opposite the windows and mountain, and easily the centerpiece to this magnificent place, stood a turn-of-the-century Austrian writing table.
The walls were filled with original oil paintings by some of Yugoslavia’s best artists. Among them were lithographs and several sketches of a nude girl I felt sure were of Angela done many years before. The candlelight warmed the dark wood of exquisite Austrian antiques. In glimpses it was almost as if we had stepped into another time. There were keepsakes from around the world, and posters that hinted at Angela’s career as a Yugoslav film producer for movies like “Tito and Me,” “A Time for Gypsies,” and “When father was Away on Business.”
I could feel her studying me as we sipped hot tea. She seemed to scrutinize every word and gesture, as if to gauge some clue to my motives. Ana seemed to notice as well, and seemed terribly worried over her grandmother’s opinion, much as she was with Cico. Years of sizing up opponents in the cutthroat system of the Yugoslav Communist Party had made her adept at identifying and neutralizing threats. For the moment I was a threat to her granddaughter. Despite that, I found that I both admired and feared Angela. As if sensing this, Ana would reach over now and then to touch my knee and let me know that everything was all right.
Angela produced a small plate of palachinka, jam-filled Bosnian crepes. She delighted in watching as Ana and I devoured the entire plate. It was, quite frankly, the only substantive food either of us had eaten in days. Angela had gone to great expense to make them.
She usually kept a very tight, indeed miserly, reign on her finances, which were dwindling steadily as the war continued. In the late Eighties, following the death of Tito, as the Yugoslav Dinar began to crumble, Angela wisely converted much of her cash to German Marks. She knew that the cash starved government and corrupt officials would plunder the state-controlled banks. If war broke out the Dinar would be worthless.
We stayed only a short time. Angela begged us to visit her again. She rarely had visitors any longer, and the cold and war had aggravated her arthritis so that she almost never left the apartment. Neither of us let on that I would be leaving soon. We could hardly bear the thought ourselves. We hurried past the windows on the stairs as tracers spit from trenches on the mountain. Down on the street Ana held me tight.
“How did I do?” I asked.
“You were great. She really liked you. I knew that she would.”
A soldier was waiting in the war room when we returned to Ana’s. He was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed blond hair. He was still in uniform and dirty from being on the line. He paced the room while his girlfriend looked on with a concerned expression. She was equally stunning by appearance, imbued with the grace and elegance of a dancer. Long golden hair was pulled tightly from her small face. Their expressions were severe and tense. Ana knew why they were there. She checked to be sure no one was on the stairs and closed the door tight.
“Bill, this is my friend Damir.”
I held out a hand but he ignored it. “What has Ana told you about the tunnel?”
“Nothing.” I shrank from his girlfriend’s icy stare. Her name was Nina. She and Ana had gone to school together, and had trained at the same dance school.
“Did she tell you that I work on the tunnel?”
“She never mentioned any names.” I looked at Ana. Her expression spoke of the danger and seriousness of all this.
“Damir,” Nina scowled, “this is a big mistake.”
He waved her off and thought for a moment. “Normally I would not do this. There is a reason that foreigners are forbidden from the tunnel. If the Chetniks learned the location the war could be lost.” He sighed heavily. “However, because of my friendship with Ana I will help you, if you can get there.”
“You understand that if Damir is caught he could be shot,” said Nina. “Will you carry that on your conscience?” She glared accusingly at Ana.
“I will be at the tunnel Monday and Wednesday night,” Damir went to the door. Nina joined him there. His eyes met mine, as though second-guessing his decision. “Do not tell anyone of this.”
They left quickly, Ana and I languishing in the heaviness of their departure.
“I’m sorry for Nina,” Ana rubbed my chest. “She comes off like a bitch. It’s just that she worries for him terribly.”
I nodded. “Do you trust him?”
She looked so terribly sad as she nodded. I sighed and checked the time. It was nearly curfew.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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The ISIS Overreaction. No strategy may be part of the strategy. A new rant from the FILTHY PUNDIT(He ought to have his mouth washed out with soap) Politics, way over the %$#@ing top!………………..

Do something! Why doesn’t Obama have a strategy? Just go bomb ISIS back to the stone-a…okay, pre-stone-age. I am not an Obama apologist, and I advocate a robust reaction to ISIS, but people, PLEEAASSEE! The just-do-something syndrome is as dangerous in this instance as the don’t-do-nothing paralysis. For all of the experts who either can compel us that war is never the answer and we should just ignore ISIS like a petulant child until they realize their erroneous ways to the war pornographers who want to ride, or ride someone’s kid over the hill in some Yee-ha, cheap beer swillin,’ flag waving sporting event, where are the real questions for all these self-infatuated experts? Jumping in with both feet on this one just cuz ya gotta have a strategy to satisfy most people in this country who would struggle to find Syria on a map, let alone bomb it is dangerous.

But FOX and the Republicans are hysterical over Muslims, Muslims, Muslims everywhere! So we jump in hard. Does that become a giant lightening rod for Jihadists, a tipping point for moderates, a call to arms out of sympathy? And then what? A bombing campaign must be backed up with a longer term strategy on the ground and internationally. What does the US-led bombing of Sunnis in Iraq mean for the ethnic divisions strained to the breaking point in Iraq? Those opposing ISIS on the ground are fractured, factionalized and often beleaguered.

ISIS has drawn thousands to their ranks amid porous borders that would make the Mexican/American border look like the Berlin Wall by comparison. What happens to those people? Who polices them up? Who restores order without turning genocidal or vengeful against otherwise peaceful and victimized Sunnis caught in the middle of the Sunni fanatics of ISIS? What is they scatter and export violence in an ill-conceived war? What stabilizes the region in the longer term that prevents this from flaring again? Because those answers are difficult doesn’t mean we do nothing, by the way.

As for Syria, Assad is not suddenly our pal, but there is a semblance of stability across extremist Sunni and Shia lines, but there is also legitimacy to the original rebellion which was co-opted, and from which sprang this extremism. Here’s the deal. The world isn’t a cartoon. It is complex, which is not a call for inaction, but rather caution, planning, perspective and wisdom. After the major fuck ups of foreign policy the past 40 years by this country, we ought to be wise as old owls! If you absolutely have to stick something into the wall socket, you’d better damn well turn off the breakers feeding the current, or at the very least make sure you are grounded. Jamming something in the wall, otherwise, will likely bring a world of unexpected surprises…and none of them are good.

CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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ALERT! Press conference, rally Sunday to highlight global support for Gaza and US complicity in Israel’s crimes against Palestinians

(CHICAGO 08/09/2014) – On a day when President Barack Obama said that when the United States has the “unique capability to help avert a massacre,” of minorities in Iraq, we cannot “turn a blind eye,” the Chicago Coalition for Justice in Palestine condemns Mr. Obama’s blatant hypocrisy and calls on the US government to end all diplomatic, political and financial support of Israel.

Israel has been targeting civilians in Gaza since July 8 in a military onslaught the United Nations has warned may amount to war crimes. Israel has killed nearly 2,000 people, including more than 370 children, and wounded more than 9,000. Several Latin and South American countries have cut ties with Israel and a member of the British Cabinet resigned in protest over the UK’s stance on the massacre in Gaza. The Chicago Coalition says it is time for the United States to end its complicity in the death and destruction of the Palestinian people!

WHAT: Press conference and rally

WHERE: Southeast corner of Michigan and Congress
WHEN: 2:15 p.m., Sunday, Aug. 10

WHO: Speakers will include lay representatives of several Latin American countries as well as interfaith peace activists.

The Chicago Coalition also encourages people to remember that even if a truce is reached and Israel’s attacks against Palestinians ends, the occupation and siege on Gaza are still in full force. The Coalition demands an immediate end to Israel’s occupation of the Palestinian people and an end to the siege on Gaza. Both contravene international law and deprive Palestinians of their human rights.

The rally will begin at 2:30 p.m. and will be followed by a march to Federal Plaza.

Sunday’s protest is being convened by the Coalition for Justice in Palestine, whose members include American Muslims for Palestine (AMP), Chicago Islamic Center, Islamic Community Center of Illinois, Mosque Foundation, Palestinian American Community Center, Palestinian American Council, Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP)-Chicago, and United States Palestinian Community Network (USPCN). Groups, including ANSWER Coalition, the Anti-War Committee-Chicago, the Arab Jewish Partnership for Peace and Justice in the Middle East, Jews for Justice in Palestine, Jewish Voice for Peace, and the Palestine Solidarity Group, are supporting the rally.

CONTACT:

Hatem Abudayyeh, 773-301-4108; hatem@aaan.org;
Kristin Szremski, 708-717-4180; media@ampalestine.org

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Revolution and Beer Unrestrained: Do not read if you are overly sensitive, easily offended or stupid. A no punches pulled commentary on the worst day since the Gaza genocide began ….. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………… dear Liberals, Progressives, Anarchists, Socialists and anyone else astounded, horrified and enraged by today’s events in Gaza, if you think that Netanyahu and his neo-Nazi cabal of fucking genocidal scum give a fuck about your protests or die-ins you are sadly mistaken. If you think appeals for humanity, mercy and restraint will accomplish dick, the American media and government are fully aligned to cover their ass closer than a lifer to a short-eyes in a prison cell. (Look it up, it’s funny.) The reality is, the Israelis bombing the shit out of Gaza at the core think of the Palestinians as their own personal niggers, and when the niggers get uppity the plantation owners will bring the hammer down. Truth is what you want? Fuck you! You gave that shit away when you legitimized the democrats, paid any attention to the ass-clowns in the corporate media-including MSNBC- and every time you feel sorry for the race raping fucking bigots on the Right. 90% of that media is nothing more than the taint for parent corporations supplying the bombs and tech that is murdering Palestinians; two fucking thousand at this point! And the republicans, who suck the dick of that big business sell your religious idiocy back to you into this guilt-laden bible prophecy mind fuck control shit. It’s a sin to criticize Israel cuz then your a Jew hating heretic, and we all know Israel is the 51st fucking state of the United God-damned States of America. Hell, Israel dick suckers like Joe Walsh, Rush Limbaugh and Ted fucking Cruz have more loyalty to fucking Israel to the United States. Even with the haphazard, couldn’t hit a fucking barn Hamas rockets, life in Israel is better than it is here. They don’t have fucking homeless or poverty anything like we have here, because we supply billions to their genocidal fucking military, and because all their homeless and impoverished they keep penned up in the Gaza strip where they can use them as slave fucking niggers to shovel their shit or as target practice. Hey, their just fucking Muslims, and who gives a fuck about Muslims. Their rat fucking little kids are born just to kill Jews and be terrorists, so fuck them too. Right? An Israeli shell hit a school today, and then during what was supposed to be a ceasefire hammered a market killing 17 people buying fucking bread and goddamned humus, but all fucking Israel has to say is that Hamas had a slingshot or a condom full of piss to fling at Israeli tanks and jets and you’ll say, its Hamas’ fault, just like our dick sucking, stand for nothing, corporate whores in the government said today. No proof, just puppets with Netanyahu’s dick up their ass. Fuck Israel, fuck Obama and fuck this government for not actually standing on the rights of people but being fucking evil. And fuck them for making me use the word evil, because I hate that fucking word. Take a page from Evo Morales and declare the Israeli government a terrorist regime presiding over a genocide and hunt down those motherfuckers and throw them in the fucking Hague!!!…..Wow, that was cathartic!

2gaza

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-28573674

WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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