Although There Isn’t Much To Celebrate
When this site was started America had just suffered the worst attack on its native soil ever. Although terrified for the future, the tone of the early posts reveals a sense of optimism. There was a sense that America would survive and emerge even stronger than before the attacks because it along with the civilized world would confront and defeat the Evil that lay behind the attack. I had faith in the premise and idea of America, and that having abandoned my faith in a divine being, it would prove to be a decent albeit human-based substitute.
I was wrong.
I was wrong about nearly everything that I wrote in those early days. I was wrong that America and the world would confront radical Islam. It hasn’t and the streets of Zanzibar and Nairobi that I had once wondered freely without fear of anything more than having my pocket picked cannot be walked by an American without fearing an acid attack or al Shaabab version of Jeopardy.
I was wrong that the moral relativism that underpinned leftist thinking would be shaken by the attacks, forcing them to see the enemy was religious in nature as they believe albeit not Christian-based. They haven’t and their enemy still remains their neighbors and colleagues who choose not to think like them. I used to believe that such leftists were misguided, but now I think they are evil and as blameless as the Islamic terrorists they provide comfort to. After all, it’s just returning the favor since most conservatives think liberals are misguided while most liberals think conservatives are evil.
I was wrong that by liberating Iraq we would drain the swamp of extremism. Instead Iraq has become a client state of Iran and a battle ground between Sunni and Shi’a, breeding extremists who will one day take their skills to Tel Aviv, Frankfurt and New York.
I was wrong that America would not choose one of its most inexperienced politicians to lead them, and that once they had, they would avoid electing him to a second term. I was wrong that this president once elected would recognize he governed a center-right nation and would keep the steering wheel centered. Instead he took the wheel, hit the gas and flung the car to the left off a cliff. A blend of two races, instead of uniting them he has divided them and the country in ways not seen in generations.
I was wrong that a country who economy was crashed into the ground by bankers would jail them if not tar and feather them. Instead the president, the man who inspired Occupy Wall Street, invites them to lunch.
I have been told that because of my political views my children should die, and that I should be killed, my body dragged behind a truck. Another man takes to network TV saying he wishes I was dead. Yet when I defend myself against these attacks I’m called an extremist.
My country, the land of my birth which my father risked his life defending in the Philippine jungles in 1944-45, has developed a government that flouts its own rules, viewing its own citizens as threats to its existence. Instead of the government being of the people and serving their needs, the American people are viewed as existing for the benefit of the State. The concept of citizen loses it’s meaning in such a situation, so the State opens the borders to allow anyone to arrive and feed it. Foreign spying programs are turned inward, and everyone becomes a potential terrorist. Those whose political beliefs are antagonistic to the State then become subject to the monopoly of coercion and violence the State enjoys. Openly criticize the President at a prayer breakfast, expect a visit by IRS auditors.
Over the past twelve years I have gone from a Democrat to Independent to Republican and now a self-identifying (small “l”) libertarian. I have gone from the parent of a toddler to a parent of a teen. I went from living in one of the largest metropolitan areas on the world to one of the country’s most rural and empty, and I like it. I went from wanting to be liked and popular to wanting to be left alone. This journal mirrors those transformations. I don’t write anymore hoping to be discovered like Michelle Malkin or Andrew Breitbart, I write because if I don’t I’m afraid I’ll die inside even more than I already have.