Tuesday, March 18, 2014

From the Archives of Marxism-The Heritage of the Paris Commune

 


Workers Vanguard No. 1041
 





















7 March 2014
 
 

On 18 March 1871, as the bourgeoisie fled Paris for Versailles, the workers established the world’s first proletarian dictatorship in the French capital. The heroic Communards, as Karl Marx put it, “stormed heaven” and seized power, which they held until late May when the Commune was drowned in blood by the resurgent capitalists.
We reprint below an excerpt from 1871: The Paris Commune, a pamphlet written in 1927 by Max Shachtman, at the time a cadre of the American Communist Party. Shachtman explains how lessons drawn from the Commune later helped guide the Bolshevik Party through the three Russian Revolutions referred to in the text below: the defeated revolution of 1905; February 1917, when the tsar was overthrown; and October 1917, when the working class took power. The shortcomings of the Commune laid bare the bankruptcy of the political program of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, an ideological father of anarchism, and of Auguste Blanqui, who envisaged an insurrection led by a conspiratorial group of revolutionaries. Typographical errors in the excerpt have been corrected.
*   *   *
The Commune is written large in the history of the working class of the world. It was the first great attempt of the proletariat of a nation to establish the rule of the working class thru the dictatorship of the proletariat, accompanied by weak, unclear efforts to adapt to this overthrow of bourgeois domination a new social order.
The weaknesses, shortcomings, hesitance, lack of clarity and insufficiencies of the Commune have been pointed out. The lessons to be learned from its experience must be studied by the struggling working class of the world.
The main source of the weakness of the Commune can be traced to the absence of a determined, conscious revolutionary party which would have given it direction, firmness and decision.
“If in September, 1870, there had been found at the head of the proletariat of France the centralized party of revolutionary action,” writes Trotsky, “the entire history of France and with it the entire history of Humanity would have taken another direction. If on the 18 of March power was found in the hands of the proletariat of Paris it was not because they had consciously seized it, but because their enemies had quit Paris.”
Without a revolutionary proletarian party, without such an instrument the Paris Commune could not, despite the unparalleled heroism and the self-sacrifice of its noble defenders, maintain itself. With a ruling body in which almost every delegate represented a different viewpoint, in which there did not reign a dominating single clear idea, it was natural that the results would prove fatal to the uprising. Even the vague viewpoint which united its two leading groups was shattered by the concrete experiences which they underwent. The Proudhonians found their doctrinaire hatred for association of labor and industry confronted by their own decrees in the Commune which aimed at the organization of great industries and the federation of the workers in every factory into one great association. The Blanquists, the doctrinaires of highly-pitched dictatorial centralism, failed to follow out even their own theories and neglected completely the centralization of the political and military apparatus, as well as the agitation in the provinces for the unity of revolutionary Communes thruout the land.
The Communards made the error of failing to use the power which had fallen into their hands to consolidate the rule of the working class and complete the ruin of the bourgeoisie. The failure to push the attack upon the Versaillese and spread the hegemony of the revolutionary proletariat thruout the country was a fatal blow to the uprising. Their refusal to push forward determinedly the work of expropriating the expropriators, taking over the economic life and substance of the city was another source of weakness.
The feebleness of their attempts to put hands on the Bank of France, which as Engels says was worth ten thousand hostages, was an indication of this grave fault. This point was only a sharp indication of the failure of the Communards to take even a thousandth part of the advantages of power to suppress with an iron hand the enemy, that the Versaillese took.
The history of Bloody Week is a bitter lesson learned by the proletariat, a lesson which means unrelenting struggle against an unscrupulous enemy, the utilization of all the instruments and means of proletarian power for the extermination of the brutal vampire of the ruling class.
The difficulty of an insufficiently developed working class, the lack of a political party of clear principles, tactics and experience, and the absence of highly developed industry, might have been overcome by the Commune had it not been forced to assume the defensive on the military field from the beginning. Its natural anxiety for defense from extermination by the Versaillese made it, to put it mildly, difficult to begin very much economic work. The steps it took despite these difficulties already gave an indication as to the real socialist nature of its economic measures and quite safe predictions can be made as to the development towards a socialist economy that might have resulted thru the military victory of the Communards over Thiers.
The Commune, slandered and calumniated by the bourgeoisie for decades, is the property of the revolutionary working class today, in the Communist movement where its spirit is embodied. The Commune lives in even more heroic form, in broader lines, with more power and greater clarity of purpose in the revolution of the Russian workers and peasants. The existence of the revolutionary movement of the working class today, honoring the great Paris Commune and carefully learning from its experience, the existence of the first working class republic in Russia is the vindication which history and the working class have rendered the heroic efforts of the Parisian working men.
The working class of Russia has long ago learned the lesson of the Paris Commune. Painstakingly they built up their iron regiments into a mighty Bolshevik party, armed with the sharp weapons of Marxism, and dominated by the irresistible will to power which led the first successful proletarian revolution in the world. The revolutionaries of Russia knew that the chief source of success in the uprising for liberty was a conscious group, a party of the vanguard of the working class which would be able to give leadership and direction to the struggle, the lack of which was the evil genius of the Commune.
And the Communist movement of the world today, learning equally the lessons of the Commune and of the three revolutions in Russia; of the revolutions and uprisings in Germany, Hungary, Bulgaria, Italy and Finland, is preparing for the revolution by building up more strongly every day the fighting parties of Communism, steeled in every struggle.
“Workingmen’s Paris,” wrote Marx in his brilliant Civil War in France, “with its Commune, will be forever celebrated as the glorious harbinger of a new society. Its martyrs are enshrined in the great heart of the working class. Its exterminators history has already nailed to that eternal pillory from which all the prayers of their priests will not avail to redeem them.”
It is the admirable and fitting eulogy to the immemorable action of the Paris workers. The celebration of the Commune is the celebration of the approaching victory of the most oppressed class in history. The lessons of the Commune are being slowly learned by the workers. In its lofty spirit of heroism the revolution of today finds new inspiration and courage and determination.
“The cause of the Commune is the cause of the social revolution,” said the greatest Communard of all times, Lenin, “of the complete political and economic liberation of the working class, the cause of the proletariat of the entire world. And in this sense it is immortal.”
***Bowling Alone In America?- For The NQHS Girls’ and Boys’ Bowling Teams, Circa 1964 and For “Chrissie M.,” Class Of 1964



This sketch is based on a true situation related to me by a fellow classmate a while back who wished to remain nameless so I will use the name Joseph Bowdoin here. And, no, Chrissie M. is not the real name of the young woman from the Class of 1964 that he asked me to dedicate this sketch to because, well, because her husband, her very real husband, is some kind of ex-college linebacker and as a rule, a very firm rule, I do not mess with giants who might take umbrage even fifty years later. Hey, I am just the messenger here. If she reads this she will know who it is about. That said, transport yourself back to 1962 …    


 


Chrissie, Christine Anne McNamara, bowls. Chrissie McNamara, the “hottest” sweet sixteen quail in the sophomore class at North Quincy High School bowls, bowls candlepins that take some skill to perfect. Oh sure Chrissie does other things, things like cheer-leading for the raider red gridiron goliaths in the brisk, bright, leave-filled fall, and doesn’t cheer-lead the basketball team because winter time is primo bowling time, participates in the school play, writes for the school newspaper, has a sweet what-you-see-is-what-you get personality, and is off-handedly beautiful. Not your drop-dead-remote-ice-queen-who- will- need-plenty-of-cosmetic-help-as-she-frightens-away-the-age-lines beautiful but whole package beautiful, looks, personality, intellect, that would have you, hell, has me scratching my head. Scratching and figuring as I watch her reading something just this minute about two rows over from where I sitting in this dead-ass last period Miss Shields’ study class.

Best of all, even if all my scratching and figuring don't work out today, in less than an hour I will get to go past her house, after I have made sure she is walking in front of me, on the way to my own house, and will probably get a big Chrissie smile as I do so. And maybe a “Hi Joey-Bowey” from her as well. That’s me, Joseph Bowdoin, and the “Joey-Bowey” is from the kids back in middle school, and I don’t like it, don’t like it at all. Except from Chrissie it is okay, just fine. Yeah, it’s like that.

Yes, but here is the problem in a nutshell, Chrissie bowls, and if you want to get anywhere with Chrissie, as everybody knows, and has known since about fourth grade, way before I got here, you had better bowl too. You can be Paul Newman’s “Fast Eddie,” and “shoot pools” and have done all kinds of adventurous stuff but if you don’t bowl go slump-shouldered to the back of the Chrissie line. You could be the greatest running back in the history of football, breaking every record and every linebacker’s mean-spirited heart but no bowl-no go. Get, heart-broken, in back of Paul in that just-mentioned line. If you are a nerdy guy, as I am, somewhat, but you bowl, well, theoretically you have a chance, but let’s face it plenty of talented, good-looking guys, who under ordinary circumstances would give bowling the gaff, are, even as I speak, thinking about sharpening up their games to get a crack at those ruby-red lips. Damn.

Oh, did I mention that I have been in love, or half in love, or some percentage in love with Chrissie ever since she gave me an innocent kiss from those ruby-red lips at her thirteenth birthday party back when I first came to North Quincy. Really, the kiss was nothing but a good wishes peck on the lips that wouldn’t count for anything for older guys, or girls either, but for a shy thirteen-year old new boy I was in very heaven. Call me crazy, call me a nutcase ready for the funny farm, but every once in a while when Chrissie calls me “Joey-Bowey” from her front door I swear she says it in such a way that maybe that kiss wasn’t so innocent after all. In any case I have been plotting, maybe not every day, but plotting ever since to get a second, real kiss from her ruby-red lips. And to hold that slender hour- glass figure, to dance close to those well-formed legs, and to tussle with that flaming mass of red hair that goes with those ruby-red lips. And, and… well you get the idea.

But see Chrissie bowls and I don’t, although I have, lately anyway, spent a fair amount of time at the North Quincy Bowling Alleys, the bowling place located downstairs across from my real hang-out, my corner boy hang-out, Balducci’s Pizza Parlor up the Downs. Now those lanes are  not the kind of bowling alley that Chrissie or any other foxy girl would hang out in at night because, honestly, it’s a creepy place where young junior high school wannabe hoods, real high school drop-outs, rejected no-go corner boys, and beer-swilling adults hang out and make noise. But, see, it is the perfect place for a non-bowling guy to hang out and “learn” bowls, learn bowls on the quiet.

Oh, did I mention the other problem that I just recently found out about, the problem beyond my not bowling, my not yet being worthy of that second ruby-red lipped Chrissie kiss. I see that I haven’t now that I think back. Well, here it is if you can believe this. I can’t get to bowl with Chrissie, can’t get to bowl with her that is unless I ask her for a date which is way ahead of where my current plans for her have unfolded, because at school, at foolish North, the boys and girls have separate bowling teams that don’t even bowl at the same places.

Yes, I thought you would see my dilemma. See the idea was that I would start bowling with one of the mixed teams, Chrissie would notice me and notice that I could use a few pointers, would come over and give me those few pointers, and then when I walked by her house not only would she give me that big warm smile but probably want to talk about this or that, bowling this or that, and that would be my opening to ask her to go bowling, bowling alone with me. Foolproof, right? Except for that stupid school rule thing.
Now here is how I heard the story why there are two separate teams and why they bowl at different places, although I might be off on a few points, maybe more than a few and maybe the guys were kidding me along about it,. A few years back the North Quincy alleys used to be the place where everybody, boys and girls, bowled after school for practice a couple of days a week and for competitions between the teams.  And that made sense because it only takes about ten minutes to get there from school. Now, like I explained to you already, this joint is nothing but a run-down place with about ten lanes, an ice cooler filled with tonic, that’s soda for you foreigners, a couple of food- vending machines, a few pinball wizard machines, a rest room I avoid using, if possible, and that’s about it. Small time stuff. Everything kind of dusty and seedy from the minute you head down the darkened stairs right on through. Good enough though, like I also said before for hoods, corner boys, and rookie bowlers. 
But then, back in the mixed bowling team days, it was kept up better and was a magnet for kids, boys and girls alike, to come and bowl…and other things. Those other things being listening to the big oversized jukebox filled with a ton of records, rock and roll records to cry for, and three for only a quarter too. Dancing, close dancing, on the small dance floor that was set up then, and that you can still see all scuffed up and scummy now. And some off-hand hanky-panky, kid’s stuff really, from what I heard, the usual boys copping a “feel” and the girls letting them like has been going on since they invented teenagers, in a couple of small back rooms that Jake, sweet brother Jake, let the kids use. 
You can see where this after school jukebox rock and roll, close dancing, and backroom thing is going, just like I could when I heard it. Murder and mayhem. No, not from the kids gone wild under the influence of communistic rock and roll, or libertine close dancing, or hell-bent backrooms but when the parent police heard about it. That part is foggy but it, as usual, involved a snitch by someone to his parents, or something overheard on the telephone by a parent, or something. And from there to the Principal police, and from there to the real cops. Nothing ever came of it from the real cops, which tells you automatically that the parent and Principal cops overreacted, as usual.
But now you can see what a fix I am in. So Chrissie tomorrow after school will probably be chalking up spares over at those same North Quincy alleys and the guys are over the other side of town at the Wollaston Boulevard Bowl-a-Drome and never the twain shall meet. And you wonder why kids, including this kid, are ready to jump off the rails, and none too soon either. But I still hold on to my dream of bowling alone with those ruby-red lips. I’ll let you know if I work out another fool-proof plan, okay.


***Out In The Be-Bop 2000s Night- Desperately seeking...

 

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin:

Yah, I know I switched up on you. Just when you had me written off as irretrievably lost in a time capsule about in 1964, or worse, suffering from some age-related infirmity and thus not capable of uttering the words “twenty-first century” I come up and sting you with juts such a message. So be it. As is well known usually when I write about any part of the be-bop night, it concerns the times of my schoolboy “high-tide” feverish, mad monk-driven be-bop nights in the mid to late 1950s when I first got the itch, the wandering idea itch. When I heard some distant unknown, maybe unknowable, sound in my head that said follow the high white note. Or it might have been the early 1960s when I shared those be-bop nights, shared that faraway beat calling us like lemmings to the sea , with Frankie, Frankie Riley, king of the be-bop schoolboy night in our old beat-down, beat-up, beat seven ways to Sunday, beatified, working-class neighborhood in North Adamsville. Certainly for me, us, be-bop times did not extend later than the late 1960s and the hitchhike hippie on the road warrior highway, a separate highway more visceral road, but on this one I have to extend forward to the new millennium to make my pitch. So hear me out, will yah.

******

Desperately seeking…

an idea. I will keep this short and sweet. I have to admit to failure, abject failure, utter failure, despairing failure, and twelve other forms of it, in my efforts to keep up a steady drumbeat of commentaries about the old days at North Adamsville High (many of which, mercifully, have been relegated to the recycle bin, trash barrel, deep freeze space or other designated welcoming cyberspace disposal sites). Failure, do you hear me? Why? I foolishly, again, again meaning here when one of my “projects” did not turn out right that is the characterization they deserve, believed that my commentaries would act as a catalyst and draw 1964 classmates, and other former students at North Adamsville, out. Hell, even an off-hand straggler from fiendish cross-town arch rival Adamsville would be given a hero’s welcome.

What I was really thinking about though was, maybe, some long lost comrades of the schoolboy night like hang-around guys in front of Harry’s Variety (where the white-tee-shirt, blue-jeaned, engineer-booted, cigarette-smoking, unfiltered of course, sneering, soda-swilling, Coke, pinball wizards held forth daily and nightly, and let me cadge a few odd games when they had more important business, more important girl business, to attend to) would find their voices. Maybe they could tell, finally tell, the secret swaying of the hips, just so not too much left or right, that got them all those extra games, and the girls, fast girls too. Or the gang around Doc’s Drugstore ( a place where all the neighborhood boys, all the sixteen year old boys, and maybe some girls too, all the plaid-shirted, black-chino-ed, “cool”, max daddies came of drinking age, from Doc's shelves, for medicinal purposes of course). They could tell of magic elixirs from rums and raw whiskey, and confess, yes, confess that that whisky taste was nasty. Or, even holy of holies, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor “up the Downs” when Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, was king of night (and a few days too) and I was his lord chamberlain. Maybe tell of some pizza dough secrets, or how to snag a girl with just the right jukebox combination when dough was short and you were lonely. But no, no one came forth to spew their whitewashed stories almost a half a century later. Probably, on some of the stuff, some of the kiddish schoolboy night stuff, they didn’t realize the statute of limitations ran out, and ran out long ago. But that’s not my problem.

At some point I figured out that this was not to be the case that those phantoms had lost their voices or preferred snickered quiet, and I resolved to push on anyway at the whim of whatever demons were driving me on. Fierce demon, raider red bleeding demons, to speak out of gone-by days. I was going along fine until I realized and the readers, or at least a few readers, tipped me to this hard fact of literary life. I was recycling the same basic story just in little different guises. You know teen alienation, teen angst, teen love, teen hate, and teen lost themes. And girl-less-ness, or too many girl-ness, or wanna be such. Same, ditto, Xerox. Praise be king trash barrel of the dark, dark just before the dawn night. And quick click fingers.

Now, frankly, and this is the core of my plea, I have run out of ideas. A recent re-reading of some of my commentaries has rubbed my face in that hard fact. Two themes, one mentioned above, in various guises have emerged; no, have jumped from the page at me, from the work- the 'tragic' effects of my growing up poor in the land of plenty in the 1950s be-bop working class night and that usual teenage longing for companionship and romance. Gee, those ideas have never been the subject of literary efforts before, right?

Okay, okay nobody asked me to volunteer to be the unpaid, self-appointed voice of the Class of 1964 and so I have only myself to blame. I swear I will get into a twelve-step program for the nostalgically-challenged just the minute I get out of the rehab program for political junkies. But in the meantime-help, or else. And what might that or else threat mean? I am desperate enough to steal someone else's thunder from the general North Adamsville High Message Forum that I have been peppering with my ravings. Do you really want to hear me on the subject of Squaw Rock or other seamy, steamy tales of the seashore "submarine" night? And name names. Or, how nasty some of our teachers were? Ditto on the names. Yawn. Or the kinky, perverted, long-suppressed dark side of the North Adamsville High School Band and what they did with those seemingly innocent instruments? Or ........have me go into back into that dreaded Recycle Bin and dust off some of those rejects? Think about it. Send an idea-quick.

******

P.S. Someone has suggested a comparison or contrast between Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis along the lines of Rolling Stones/Beatles (Class of 1964-Stones or Beatles) or Brenda Lee/Patsy Cline (Battle of The Sexes-Round 235) commentaries that I had done earlier this year. This does not count as a new idea though as that goes to the old lonely nights and girlless days theme that we are trying to move away from.

Of course, Jerry Lee and his electric energy on the keyboards was better than Elvis except when he was young and hungry before military service and those awful movies got the best of him-that's a no-brainer. But it is an idea that will find its way into these pages on its own. Meanwhile how about some North Adamsville idea? I am ready to start writing about President John Adams, his wife Abigail, his son John Quincy, his grandson, Charles Francis, his great grandson, Henry and unto the nth generation if nothing better comes along. And believe me, Adamsville born and bred, I have all the dirt on those guys and their dolls. You have been forewarned.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Out In The Be-Bop 2000s Night- Desperately seeking...



Markin comment:

Yah, I know I switched up on you. Usually when I write about the be-bop night, at least the times of my schoolboy “high-tide” feverish, mad monk-driven be-bop nights it is either the mid to late 1950s when I first got the itch, the wandering idea itch, or the early 1960s when I shared those be-bop nights with Frankie, Frankie, king of the be-bop schoolboy night in our old beat-down, beat-up, beat seven ways to Sunday, beatified, working class neighborhood. Certainly be-bop times don’t extend later than the late 1960s and the hitchhike highway road, a separate highway story road, but on this one I have to extend forward to the new millennium to make my pitch. So hear me out, will yah.
******

Desperately seeking…

an idea. I will keep this short and sweet. I have to admit to failure, abject failure, utter failure, despairing failure, and twelve other forms of it, in my efforts to keep up a steady drumbeat of commentaries about the old days at North Adamsville High (many of which, mercifully, have been relegated to the recycle bin, trash barrel, deep freeze space or other designated welcoming cyberspace disposal sites). Failure, do you hear me? Why? I foolishly, again, again meaning here when one of my projects does not turn out right that is the characterization they deserve, believed that my commentaries would act as a catalyst and draw 1964 classmates, and other former students at North Adamsville, out. Hell, even an off-hand straggler from fiendish cross-town arch rival Adamsville would be given a hero’s welcome.

What I was really thinking though was, maybe, some long lost comrades of the schoolboy night like hang-around guys in front of Harry’s Variety (where the white-tee-shirt, blue-jeaned, engineer-booted, cigarette-smoking, unfiltered of course, sneering, soda-swilling, Coke, natch, pinball wizards held forth daily and nightly, and let me cadge a few odd games when they had more important business, more important girl business, to attend to)would find their voices. Maybe they could tell, finally tell, the secret swaying of the hips, just so not too much left or right, that got them all those extra games, and the girls, fast girls too. Or the gang around Doc’s Drugstore ( a place where all the neighborhood boys, all the sixteen year old boys, and maybe some girls too, all the plaid-shirted, black-chino-ed, “cool”, max daddies came of drinking age, from Doc's shelves, for medicinal purposes of course). They could tell of magic elixirs from rums and raw whiskey, and confess, yes, confess that that whisky taste was nasty. Or, even holy of holies, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor up the Downs when Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, was king of night (and a few days too) and I was his lord chamberlain. Maybe tell of some pizza dough secrets, or how to snag a girl with just the right jukebox combination when dough was short and you were lonely. But no, no one came forth to spew their whitewashed stories almost a half a century later. Probably, on some of the stuff, some of the kiddish schoolboy night stuff, they didn’t realize the statue of limitations ran out, and ran out long ago. But that’s not my problem.

At some point I figured out that this was not to be the case, that those phantoms had lost their voices or preferred snickered quiet, and I resolved to push on anyway at the whim of whatever demons were driving me on. Fierce demon, raider red bleeding demons, to speak out of gone-by days. I was going along fine until I realized and the readers, or at least a few readers, tipped me to this hard fact of literary life. I was recycling the same basic story just in little different guises. You know teen alienation, teen angst, teen love, teen hate, and teen lost themes. And girlless-ness, or too many girl-ness, or wanna be such. Same, ditto, Xerox. Praise be king trash barrel of the dark, dark just before the dawn night. And quick click fingers.

Now, frankly, and this is the core of my plea, I have run out of ideas. A recent re-reading of some of my commentaries has rubbed my face in that hard fact. Two themes, one mentioned above, in various guises have emerged; no, have jumped from the page at me, from the work- the 'tragic' effects of my growing up poor in the land of plenty in the 1950s be-bop working class night and that usual teenage longing for companionship and romance. Gee, those ideas have never been the subject of literary efforts before, right?

Okay, okay nobody asked me to volunteer to be the unpaid, self-appointed voice of the Class of 1964 and so I have only myself to blame. I swear I will get into a twelve-step program for the nostalgically-challenged just the minute I get out of the rehab program for political junkies. But in the meantime-help, or else. And what might that or else threat mean? I am desperate enough to steal someone else's thunder from the general North Adamsville High Message Board that I have been peppering with my ravings. Do you really want to hear me on the subject of Squaw Rock or other seamy, steamy tales of the seashore "submarine" night? And name names. Or, how nasty so of our teachers were? Ditto on the names. Yawn. Or the kinky, perverted, long-suppressed dark side of the North Adamsville High School Band and what they did with those seemingly innocent instruments? Or ........have me go into back into that dreaded Recycle Bin and dust off some of those rejects? Think about it. Send an idea-quick.
******
P.S. Someone has suggested a comparison or contrast between Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis along the lines of Rolling Stones/Beatles (Class of 1964-Stones or Beatles) or Brenda Lee/Patsy Cline (Battle of The Sexes-Round 235) commentaries that I had done earlier this year. This does not count as a new idea though as that goes to the old lonely nights and girlless days theme that we are trying to move away from.

Of course, Jerry Lee was better than Elvis-that's a no-brainer. But it is an idea that will find its way into these pages on its own. Meanwhile how about some North Adamsville idea? I am ready to start writing about President John Adams, his wife Abigail, his son John Quincy, his grandson, Charles Francis, his great grandson, Henry and unto the nth generation if nothing better comes along. And believe me, Adamsville born and bred, I have all the dirt on those guys and their dolls. You have been forewarned.
In Boston

An urgent message from Northeastern students: solidarity rally Tuesday March 18 at 10 AM


Tuesday March 18 at 10:00 a.m. 
Support Northeastern University students facing disciplinary hearings for Palestine justice work

The administration of Northeastern University has suspended Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) after months of discriminatory restrictions. Two students of color face disciplinary action for leafletting student dormitories, while no white SJP members have been singled out for sanctions.

 These two students will attend disciplinary hearings on the morning of Tuesday, March 18th and SJP has called for the solidarity of the greater Boston community.  Whether you support justice for Palestine or simply free speech on campus, come out at 10 AM to defend these brave students who have done nothing more than speak out for human rights.

We will meet on the public sidewalk in front of the Krentzman Quadrangle, by the Northeastern University stop on the MBTA Green line.

 We will march entirely on public sidewalks, and legal observers will be present.

 Please spread the word far and wide!


 
Workshops and Schedule Announced for
One Nation—Under Surveillance
A One-Day Conference about Building Networks of Solidarity
In Defiance of NSA Spying & the Erosion of Democratic Rights
 
Keynote: Pulitzer-Prize Winning Journalist Chris Hedges
Saturday, March 29, 2014 –10:00 a.m. 
(Registration & Tables at 9:00 am)
Torp Theater, Davidson Hall, Central Connecticut State University
1615 Stanley Street, New Britain Connecticut
 
Registration: Solidarity Price: $25; Non-CCSU Students & Unemployed: $10. CCSU Students Free; Scholarships are available. Pay via credit card online at ctstopindefinitedetention.com or Send checks made out to the “CT Coalition to Stop Indefinite Detention,” c/o Nancy Bowden, at 7 Scotland Rd., Bloomfield CT 06002, 860-212-9596
Initiated by the CT Coalition to Stop Indefinite Detention, the ACLU of CT, the Council on American Islamic Relations-CT, United Action-CT. Sponsored (Gold) by the Tree of Life Foundation of CT and CCSU Center for Public Policy & Social Research. CCSU Student Affairs. Sponsored  by Boston United for Justice with Peace, Middle East Crisis Committee, Promoting Enduring Peace, Greater New Haven Peace Council, Rosenberg Fund for Children, Project SALAM, Socialist Action CT, United National Antiwar Coalition, Occupy Hartford Trust. Endorsed by Greater Hartford Central Labor Council, National Lawyers Guild of CT, KnowDrones, Norwich NAACP, New London NAACP, ANSWER CT, Greater Hartford Coalition on Cuba, Boston Stop the War, CT United for Peace, Norwich Area Green Party, RI Coalition to Defend Human & Civil Rights, Activate CT, Justice Party CT. Hosted by CCSU Youth for Socialist Action.
 
============================================================
Program
Keynote: 
Chris Hedges, former New York Times reporter, Pulitizer-Prize wining journalist, columnist for Truthdig, author of 12 books, and was a plaintiff in the historic lawsuit “Hedges vs. Obama,” a court challenge to the indefinite detention provisions of the National Defense Authorization Act.
 
Panelists:
--Dawud Walid, Executive Director, Council on American Islamic Relations of Michigan
--Professor Khalilah Brown-Dean, Author, Once Convicted, Forever Doomed: Race, Crime, and Civil Death.
--Tania Unzueta, National Day Laborer’s Organizing Committee
--Ana Maria Cardenas, Interreligious Foundation for Community Organization / Pastors for Peace Project
--Bruce Miller, Executive Board of the Rosenberg Fund for Children
--Robert King, former Black Panther who served 23 years as one of the Angola Three.
--Saru Jayaraman, Author, Behind the Kitchen Door and founder of Restaurant Opportunities Centers United.
--Lynne Jackson, Project SALAM and the leader of the Journey for Justice in defense of Yassin Aref
--Brett Kaufmann, National Security Fellow in the ACLU's National Security Project.
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Workshops and Facilitators:
Criminalizing Communities of Color and The System of Mass Incarceration:  What You Can Do: Barbara Fair, People Against Injustice; Beatrice Codianni, Reentry Central; Sandra Enos, Author, Mothering from the Inside: Parenting in a Women’s Prison.
Don’t Deport My Mother: The Fight to Stop Deportations Today: Tania Unzueta, National Day Laborer’s Organizing Committee; John Jairo Lugo, Unidad Latina en Accion; Patricia Rosas Blanco, Los Manos Unidos.
Islamphobia, Entrapment, Surveillance, and the So-Called War on Terror: Defending Muslim Americans Today:  Mongi Dhaouadi, CAIR CT; Dawud Walid, Michigan CAIR; Steve Downs, Project SALAM and the National Coaliiton to Protect Civil Freedoms.
The Right to Do Palestine Solidarity Work—in the Community and on the Campus:  Rev. David Good, Tree of Life Foundation; Maxwell Geller, Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) at Northeastern University Law School.
The Fight Against Domestic Surveillance Drones Takes Off!: Nick Mottern of KnowDrones and organizer of the 2014 national Spring Days of Action; Isa Mujahid, Field Organizer, ACLU of CT.  
Individual Defense Cases—True Stories and Lessons:  Lynne Jackson of Project SALAM and the Yasin Aref case; Robert King, one of the Angola Three; Jorge Limeres, Comite Pro Independencia de Puerto Rico en Connecticut and supporter of Oscar Lopez Ramirez
Report Back from Lobby Day; The Civil Liberties Legislative Agenda in CT and the Nation:  ACLU of CT; Council on American Islamic Relations CT; CT Green Party.
Labor, War, and Free Speech—World War I: Lessons for Today: Steve Thornton, author of A Shoeleather History of the Wobblies: Stories of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) in Connecticut
The Democratic Right to Organize: Low Wage Workers:  Saru Jayaraman, author, Behind the Kitchen Door with be joined by activists with the campaign for a domestic workers Bill of Rights, the Fight for Fifteen minimum wage campaign, and the new effort to recover wages from McDonalds.
Do Women Have the Right to Study Unmolested? Title 9 Case Plaintiffs from the Yale and University of Connecticut campuses.
 ====================================================================
Schedule
9:00 am Literature Tables Open and Onsite Registration Begins
10:00 am Welcome; Overview of Goal and the Flow of the Day
10:15 am Panel
Finding Strength by Defending Our Democratic Rights--Together:  Voices from the Movements to for Muslim American Civil Liberties, Low Wage Workers, Political Prisoners, Immigrants, and International Solidarity.
11:45 am:  Bag Lunches Provided ($8 for non-CCSU students), Book signings
Keynote Address: 1:00 pm:  Chris Hedges  
2:15 pm Workshops
3:45 pm Panel
What Will Effective Solidarity Look Like Today? What Divides Us and What Can Bring Us Together to Achieve Democratic Rights for All?
Discussion:  A plan for organization, education, & mobilization in 2014.
 

 
Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade
Fundraising Appeal
 
Hi Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade Supporters
We need your help! 
Please Donate and Support the Saint Patrick's Peace Parade
Please send this request on to people on you email list

alt

Or go to:  http://bit.ly/StPatsPeace.
The 4th Annual Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade, the alternative people’s parade for Peace, Equality, Environmental Stewardship, Jobs, Social and Economic Justice is just days away. This Sunday we will gather once again in South Boston for the only “Peace Parade” in the country. Our parade has been growing every year. We have wonderful bands, floats, vehicles, drummers and a couple thousand participants.
 
We do not charge anyone to be in our parade
We do not have big corporate sponsors giving us money for our parade
We don’t sell advertisements
We don’t have rich benefactors or underwriters
We do not have a trust fund supporting our parade
 
One thing we do have is YOU.
 
We also have a lot of expenses and would like to ask our friends to help us with a small donation. Our parade is not a high budget item but it still costs us several thousands of dollars.
 
We would like to ask our friends to help support us with parade expenses.
 
If you are able to contribute, please take a moment and consider writing us a clicking the donation button above or do it the old fashion way - write a check, to help defray some of our expenses.
 
Checks can be made out to:  Veterans For Peace
Mail you check to:
Veterans For Peace
P.O. Box 1604
Andover, MA 01810
 
On behalf of the Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade Organizing Committee,
THANK YOU
Erin Go Bragh
 
Pat Scanlon (VN 69’)
Coordinator, Veterans For Peace, Smedley D. Butler Brigade










Ukraine: US Launches a Fascist Government, and World War Three?


Neonazis UkraineOn March 5, Ukraine’s Putsch “Prime Minister” Arseniy Yatsenyuk, arbitrarily sacked three senior Defence Ministry politicians, Deputy Defense Minister Alexander Oleynik, with Deputy Defense Ministers Vladimir Mozharovskiy and Arturo Francisco Babenko. According to Itar-Tass (6th March) they had drawn Yatsenyuk’s ire by expressing: “sharp criticism over giving the Right Sector militants the status of regular military units.”

A contact of the publication stated that one of the three had also:

“told Yatsenyuk that actions of today’s Kiev authorities in overtures with radical nationalist organizations would destroy national unity” and that it was simply: “harmful to involve the state military agency in such dangerous games.” Their stand resulted in “management reshuffles” – in the country in which Assistant Secretary of State Victoria Nuland has stated that the US has invested $5 Billion: “in the development of democratic institutions and skills in promoting civil society and a good form of government.”(1)

So far US multi-billion democracy-building via the man of whom Nuland opined to the US Ambassador to the Ukraine, Geoffrey Pyatt: “I think Yats is the guy …”(2) has all the hallmarks of becoming a mirror of the historic tragedies in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya and being plotted via further humanitarian horrors committed by their proxies in Syria. Additionally the Nobel Peace Laureate American President appears to have reignited the Cold War, laid to rest with such joy across the world as the Berlin Wall fell just over twenty four years ago, on the 9th November1989.

However, if the US Administration’s choice as a democratic Prime Minister is scarily woeful, the man who would be President, Dmitry Yarosh, is nothing short of astonishing. As Julie Levesque has written in a meticulous, jaw dropping article: “Dmitry Yarosh, leader of the Maidan Brown Shirts (is) on an international wanted list and charged with inciting terrorism.

“Under the new government, Yarosh is leader of the Neo-Nazi Right Sector delegation to the Ukraine Parliament. His close friend and political partner Andriy Parubiy co-founder of the Neo-Nazi Social-National Party of Ukraine (subsequently renamed Svoboda) was appointed by the new government to the position of Secretary of the National Security and National Defense Committee (RNBOU), a key position which overseas the Ministry of Defense, the Armed Forces, Law Enforcement, National Security and Intelligence. Right Sektor leaders Yarosh was appointed to the number two position at RNBOU.” Levesque asks: “Have the Neo-Nazis cornered Ukraine’s National Security agenda?”.

The answer would appear to be a rapidly accelerating affirmative, with Robert Parry stating that Neo-Nazis are now in charge of four Ministries and:

“some ten ‘oligarchs’ mostly run the show in shifting alliances, buying up media outlets and politicians, while the vast majority of the population faces a bleak future, which now includes more European-demanded ‘austerity’ …”(4)

Meanwhile the stand-off over the Crimea continues. Train tickets between Kiev and Crimea have been suspended by the latest government shoehorned in to the latest “new democracy.”

In neighbouring Russia, as the Sochi Paralympics opened with a spectacular ceremony, President Obama, Prime Minister Cameron, Chancellor Angela Merkel and their parties hurled their collective toys from their prams and failed to attend. Another chance to make peace not war in what should be the Olympic spirit, also willfully thrown away.

The opening theme was “Breaking The Ice,” and “the importance of breaking down barriers and stereotypes …” a popular 1990’s Russian song called “Good-bye America” played as the Russian team closed the parade.

However for all the US posturing, Gallop shows President Putin’s popularity rating at a consistent 67.8% an endorsement of which his American counterpart could only dream, fluctuating between 38% to 42%.

As this ends news comes through that the US is to send fighter jets and personnel to Poland and Lithuania by Thur day, the US Navy destroyer, the USS Truxton, one of the largest destroyers ever built for the US Navy, has crossed in to the Black Sea for “exercises” with the Bulgarian and Romanian navies (5) there are mass protests in the south and east of Ukraine about the “self proclaimed” government in Kiev and America has unleashed a possible World War Three.

http://www.quickmeme.com/img/f1/f1271dbe3172c798f550d12ea3c32a93eeaf5cb260ea4ad2d5c72f6ce0517f8d.jpgSomebody in the Nobel Peace Prize Committee, please demand the return of that ill awarded Peace Prize.
See The Growing Campaign to Revoke Obama's Nobel Peace Prize
"The Nobel Peace Prize that President Obama received 40 months ago has emerged as the most appalling Orwellian award of this century."

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