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Excerpt

2009-07-22T11:59:00.001-07:00

She came from nowhere
to grow up and go everywhere
to return to the only man she had ever loved

I fired. He fell. Khalid fled inside the house. Hassan turned and ran. And someone we had not spotted, zoned in on the flash from my rifle fire and shot me in the left arm. They couldn’t hit the fucking Kevlar vest? That’s just rude. The adrenaline was enough to get me off the roof and back to the safe house on the edge of town. Jack hit the door seconds after I did.

“Where are you hit? Shit where are you hit?”

“Give me a damn minute and I’ll let you know. Mercy, calm down,” I said being anything but calm inside my head. I had forgotten how much I loved this rush, a dangerous addiction, and the pain was kicking in.

“I thought you were hit in the head. Oh god. I thought you were dead. Damn, I’ve never been so scared. The sight of you scrambling over that roof was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” As he talked he was wiping the sweat off his brow and pulling down my robes to get to the wounded arm. “Sit down. I’ve got the med kit, and we have to stay put until the ruckus dies down. I checked our trail, we’re clear. How do you feel? Are you hit anywhere else? You need to drink water. You’re bleeding like a sieve.”

“Thank you for the visual Jack, I think you should take a breath. I’ve been shot before you know, but I can’t say it’s any easier the second time. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! It hurts!” I could tell by looking, the bullet had done a fly by on my upper arm. As they say in the movies, just a flesh wound – but I’m so not Bruce Willis – it hurt and was bleeding like there was no tomorrow. With the bullet out and little or no muscle damage, I should be able to travel – not happily, but able. “Where’s Khalid?”

“I had him taken to his mother’s house.” It’s a sign of how badly my arm hurt that I didn’t ask whom he had found to take Khalid home. We were here alone, or so I thought. “You sound like a chicken, an obscene chicken.” Jack had my vest and the top of my kurta down. It’s a good thing the kurta is more like pajamas than skin tight jeans and a tank top, my normal working outfit – although the tank top would have made things easier. He was cleaning the wound with some brown stuff that stung.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re not the one who’s shot,” I said, the laugh I couldn’t hold in making my arm shake and hurt. “Easy with that cleaning action, that hurts. Damn, that’s going to scar,” I said looking over at the horizontal crevice in my arm.

“What happen to the kid who was so proud of her war wounds?” he asked drawing up the morphine.

“I was younger, a lot younger – and not too terribly bright. Oh goody, drugs. Beam me up Scotty.”

“You’re nuts you know that?”

“Yes, but that’s why you love me,” I said feeling the warm glow of the morphine spreading through my system.

“Yes it is,” he said so quietly I wasn’t sure if I heard him, or it was the morphine.

“Bonnie is going to kill me,” I said as I nodded off. The last thing I remember is putting my head on his chest, and his arms closing around me.

“Catherine? Sparky. Wake up baby.” I heard Jack from far away, but I didn’t want to wake up, I was very comfortable where I was thank you. His lap was nice and warm. I burrowed my head into his comforting chest.

“What?”

I heard him chuckle. “You always have been grumpy when you wake up,” he said, as he checked the bandage on my arm.

He put his hand on my neck to hold me up and put the canteen to my mouth. “Drink up. You lost a fair amount of blood. You need to get your fluid level back up before we head out.”

This was nuts. The feel of his hand on the back of my neck and his face and those succulent, sexy lips in close proximity, were turning me on – big time. I was filthy and dressed in the clothing of a man with a dirtied face and a fake scar on my throat – not exactly every guy’s wet dream. “How long was I out? My rifle?”

“Just an hour. Your rifle is right here. We can start out of here in another hour or so. How do you feel?” He was running his hand down my back to my bum, slowly. Uh oh.

“Better. Fine. Good. Yes, I’m good.” Except for the fact I was having trouble breathing, and the desire to reach out and pull his mouth to mine was overwhelming. He took the water and left to check the window and I felt bereft and cold sitting on the floor.

“Jesus you’re shivering. Here let me rub your back and your legs.”

“O.K.” I said. My teeth were chattering, but I really think it had more to do with the 230 pounds of hot male three inches away from me than the bullet wound. He had removed the scarf from around his neck; his shirt was open enough for me to see his hairy, muscled chest underneath, and the black curls pushing against the cloth as he tried to get some relief from the heat. My nails itched and curved into my palms to keep from running my hands under his shirt and sinking my fingers into that massive chest.

“Is the friction working? Are you getting warmer?”

“Oh aye, your hands rubbing all over my body are making me definitely warmer,” I said with emphasis on warmer.

He stopped and looked at me as though I had lost my mind. I wasn’t too sure he was wrong, but if he didn’t have me soon, I was going to implode. “I’m scared shitless and you’re getting turned on?”

In spite of my appearance, and our tenuous location, I indeed was hot, and wet in all the right places. The fellows with guns could come barreling in the door at any time if we had been followed or found. “Aye, I’m afraid that’s it sir,” I said with a little mock salute and grin. I think a large part of my lack of inhibition was due to the morphine, but lust was pounding me with an onslaught of need. Even though I knew intellectually that a part of my urgency and desire was from a primordial urge to affirm life after death, it did not lessen the desideratum. I had not been able to put that kiss on the ledge, and Billy’s revelations, out of my mind for the past week. I wanted to feel Jack’s mouth on me again. I wanted to know if it would be the same - a cosmic explosion. I looked down to eyeball the sizeable erection pushing against his trousers. “It would appear I’m not the only one.” I looked at him, and raised my eyebrow in invitation. His eyes fell to where my shirt had fallen open after he treated my arm. The tops of my breasts were showing, and my nipples were pushing against the fabric wrapped tightly around my chest in fine points of delicious pain.

Sitting in a squat next to me, he closed his eyes, and went so still I thought he’d passed out. Then he reached for me, and pulled me to him with an urgency and hunger that matched my own. I was tearing at his kurta trousers trying to get them down, as he was pushing up the top of my identical outfit. Jack took his knife from the scabbard on his leg and cut the breast binder off me with one slice through the course material. His mouth latched onto my breast like it was his last meal, and my hips arched up off the floor. I had to get his shirt up. I had to feel his skin against mine. I couldn’t get the damn thing off over his head because his hands were busy elsewhere so I ripped it down the front. He pulled his mouth away from my very aroused nipple and I groaned as he took my mouth in a carnal kiss that melted my insides. His thumb was rubbing back and forth over my nipple, then he took it between his fingers and squeezed. The liquid fire went right to my groin. “Down. Get. Your. Pants. Down.” I was tugging and pulling without much success, but I got my hand far enough past the waistband to discover he was commando – my lust meter went up another notch. I ran my hand over that luscious derrière that I had been fantasizing about for days; his skin was sizzling and smooth to touch.

“Oh sailor,” I laughed, “good call”. He was biting my neck and shoulder, nips and kisses. “I hate to sound like a character from “Young Frankenstein”, but don’t mess up my makeup. I walk out that door not looking like a chap and we could be in trouble. Ooooh god, oh yes do that,” as he moved his talented tongue and teeth to my nipples. I was on the razor’s edge here, my entire body was feverish. I felt like every nerve ending was exposed and on fire. “Now. I want you in me now. Please.” I felt desperate. I felt the need clawing at me like an addict's craving as I put my hands on his face and brought it up to mine. I was so wet between my thighs I was afraid if I didn’t get my trousers off, I would slide out of my skin.

“Your arm.”

“Shit Jack, I can’t even feel my arm. Forget my arm, get my trousers down!” I had been shoving at the waistband, but it was tough enough getting into this rig with two hands. My bhugg had fallen off when we started, and my hair tumbled out, but I could put that back on my head easily enough. I wanted my trousers off, now! The heat was building, so out of control and so fast I felt like I was going up in flames. The danger of being discovered was fuel to the fire, adding to the inferno, building the heat.

“I don’t have a condom,” he said into my mouth, with a moan that sounded like despair.

“I don’t care!” I figured I had used them with Hassan, and before that I hadn’t had sex for eight years, so I’m clean.

“It’s been five years since I’ve had sex, and I had a clean bill of health from a physical two months ago,” he said like he was giving me his statistics. His breathing was as erratic as mine as he managed to get the trousers down, and continued ravaging my mouth with his tongue as he pulled my thong down my legs.

I pushed him back to look into his face. “Five years! How can that be? How can a man like you not have sex for five years?”

“A man like me?”

“Oh please, use a mirror.” He trailed his hand down to settle in the hot moist folds between my legs, and I forgot what I was saying. He inserted two fingers into my wet heat. “Oh god. Oh shit. Oh Jack. Get me up from here. I’m not lying down on this filthy floor for a nap, much less having sex on it.” He lifted me in his arms, and slid me down his front, then backed me into the wall while stealing my breath with his mouth. I kicked my trousers the rest of the way free to puddle on the rug. Hot. Hot. I was so hot I thought I would burn to a cinder before I could find release. My blood was burning a trail through me and the fluid flooding my mound was superheated.

“I..” he began.

“Tell me later. Tell me later.” I said, as I crawled up his front, and locked my legs together behind his back. I could feel his erection, hot and pulsing on the bundle of nerves at my center. I almost climaxed right then. My nipples were pressed into the soft hair of his chest, and his feverish skin.

“Oh god you’re so wet. If I enter you now, I won’t last ten seconds. Be. Still.” He lowered his head to my breast again holding my bum with one hand and brought me to another level of heat with the wicked machinations of his tongue and teeth. He replaced his mouth with his palm and moved to the other breast. The roar of my heart beating was so loud in my ears I was sure he could hear it.

I moved my wet, burning mound slowly up and down over the soft skin of his penis, velvet over marble, and heard him moan with need. “God damn it Jack. If you don’t put yourself inside me this instant I will shoot you. I’m not fucking kidding.”

He moved his head up. I could feel him trembling with the effort to restrain himself. “I have to be balls deep in you. Oh god. I’m about to explode. Give me your eyes. Look at me. I want you to see that it’s me.” He buried himself to the hilt inside me with a single powerful thrust. I held his face in my hands, looking into his emerald eyes that were searing through me with emotion so intense it magnetized the air between us. He grasped my bum with his hands, pulling me tight against him, holding us both still. I could feel his fingers pressing into me with an unyielding hold. His wicked, delicious tongue was holding my mouth captive. The heat liquefied me. The feel of his erection inside me, pushing against the walls of my channel, filling me, growing longer and thicker was delightfully excruciating, taking me higher and winding me tighter to a state of suspense and anticipation beyond anything I could imagine. The rest of the world fell away and there was only the two of us and the raging firestorm that threaten to consume us. When I could stand it no longer, I lifted my hips to slide up the steel length of him. He dug his fingers into my hips and began moving me to match the gut-wrenching pace he set. My back was slamming up against the cool mud wall, the rough texture abrading my back where it was exposed. I was sandwiched between the chilled wall behind me and the scorching heat of Jack in front. I could feel the sweat dripping from both of us. I smelled the dirt from the walls, the garbage in the alley through the window, the scent of our combined arousal, and the overwhelming male smell of Jack – no aftershave, no perfume, just all Jack. I fisted my hands in his silky black hair; my head arched back, overwhelmed with the reaction of my body. I had to pull up and sink my teeth into his shoulder so as not to scream with the climax that tore violently through my body. I tasted the salt from his sweat. The orgasm didn’t stop, it went on and on, until one flooded into the next. I felt the sensations begin in my center, spread through my groin, seize Jack’s velvety length, and shoot to my head and through my toes. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control it. I was lost. The only things keeping me on earth were Jack’s hands, and the feel of him inside me. “Hold on baby, hold on,” he said, squeezing me tighter to him.

“Come with me baby, come apart for me.” The sounds of him plunging into me, the heat we were generating, his mouth on mine miming the actions below, all conspired to send me off the edge again, this time taking him with me. I felt it when he exploded into me. I could feel the hot gush as he surged into me, and the guttural, feral, sound he made when he came. We made love like we were starving – for each other.

I could not move. We were plastered together on the wall, Jack’s head buried in my neck, clinging desperately to each other as we experienced the lessening quakes of our orgasms. I was urgently trying to pull air into my lungs and I heard the same gasping sounds from Jack. I tightened my hold on him. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow,” he said as he gently kissed me, using his eyes to say a million words we were both afraid of right now.

On the trail two hours later, I couldn’t help but wonder - if what Billy said was true, how did Jack feel about the unusual circumstances of the culmination of years of unrequited desire – not exactly wine, silk sheets, and the Ritz, eh? Oh yes, that last dose of morphine was kicking in.

More Awards!

2009-03-26T07:13:00.001-07:00

I love presents!

Ian sent me these lovely awards and I placed a short list of deserving nominees below - all my lovely readers are deserving. On the right, the Premio Sardos Award. It is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.

On the left ( just directions nothing political) the Must Read Award: "some blogs that I just have to read each day or at least each day that I log on; like a morning coffee they have become part of my morning ritual." That quote from the giver of the award.

excerts from various chapters at the beginning

2008-07-14T09:06:00.000-07:00

DATA PAGES

Excerpt from “Valley of the Kasbahs”

This is a work of fiction. The names of anyone who could arrange to have me vetted by the Secret Police, the CIA, or the Happy Homemakers of America have had their names, eye colour, and street addresses changed.

Chapter VII
Visiting some friends in the Ville Nouvelle (the new city), we rounded the corner three blocks away to flag a Petite Taxi and spotted the fattest cat with the biggest balls in all of Fez. You have to understand, all of Fez is overrun with cats, they are everywhere – like the monkeys in India, but much less aggressive I must say. The Prophet liked cats, so…they are on the streets, in the restaurants, haunting the garbage cans on the corners of apartment complexes and in the homes. They stake out territory like their much larger relatives to the south. The Riad has two cats, a mother and her large and tetchy son. They are well fed and it shows; and the mother cat guards her territory with all the attentiveness of a mother lioness. This is prime territory and she knows it. You see the cats on the streets, and in the fish market some doing fairly well, not so well, and some with their ribs sticking out, and the ones at the Central Market in better, but not prime shape. But never have I seen a cat in all of Fez like this chap. There he sat fat and sassy, licking his chops – literally, in the doorway of the live chicken shop. Now, our question was this, did this big orange tom get so sleek eating the eggs that dropped through the cages or was he there to pick off the weakest of the herd? It was a phenomenon, and a portent of the day to come.

We flagged our tiny red taxi from the flock swinging to the east, and as I settled myself in the back seat my gaze met the laughing black eyes of the driver in the rear view mirror, as he said, “Ah, cowboy!”

Oh man, first the taxi driver who waxed ad nauseum about Scotland and football (still a mystery as we are not usually known for our football prowess), now this yokel (cute as he was, and he was) mistakes my very proper, battered, beaten, and broken in, climbing hat for a bloody Stetson! It was a good laugh for everyone as he continued on, nodding and saying, “Oh yes, “Dallas.”” Inwardly I moaned. Bonnie was laughing, the tears rolling down her cheeks. I’ll get her back later. Trust me.

We arrived at Bab Bou Jeloud (the Blue Gate). The gateway into what one must wax eloquent about as to mystery, and winding cobbled streets of stone enclosed within walls that soar five and seven stories above you. The old Medina of Fes is situated in a bowl shaped valley, the river Oued Fes running through the middle of the city. At times the walkways close in so closely that you must walk single file. No street in the Fez Medina is wide enough to permit an automobile of even the most compact size, a few Vespas have made their way in, but the main mode of heavy transport is still by donkey, the occasional mule, and the muscled back bent to weight.

Passing under the arch, the shops at the entrance of the Blue Gate are larger, with hawkers out front to bring you in through the narrow dark twisting hallways – that open suddenly onto a sparkling vastness that soars some six to ten meters overhead with arches leading like catacombs onto some endless underground construction of rooms never-ending and full of exotic treasure – or tourist counterfeit.

Morocco is a land of stunning architecture - the horseshoe arch reaching for the skies, the ribbed vault, the street facade, the square minaret, the great domed space – all steeped in centuries of history and culture, and soaked in deep rich colours of bright reds, a thousand shades of bronze and gold, and all the spectrum of orange, and blues in shades that defy you to name them all. There are feasts for the eyes and soul - intricate designs laid in tile, bright patterned rugs thrown on the sand, hanging on the wall, on the floors of palaces, homes, shops, or decorating a tent; sidewalk cafes crowded with men in robes and varying stages of western dress arguing, discussing, drinking endless cups of coffee or tea; acrid cigarette smoke making your eyes squint and your nose twitch, beautiful women with smoky eyes that hold the secrets their mothers passed to them, the prayer call at four a.m. ringing through the city – a sound of reverence, a wish to live life in the hand of Allah; the noisy bazaars, the great haggling in a polyglot of languages; dust, dust, dust, beautiful horses, spitting camels; the countless number of languages you hear – within a given day! There are skies that go from one side of the horizon to the other until you are dizzy looking up. The sun, the sun, the sun; did I mention the sand? Demanding your attention is the majesty of the desert birds as they ride the thermals coming off the dunes, and the music of the dunes- dunes sing, did you know that? They make musical notes, different deserts create different chords. The chunky food, the delicious flat bread, the air of the desert so dry that just talking works to rob your body of needed moisture, humidity so low that the sweat dries from your body before it has time to run down your face leaving only the salt tracks are only a sample of the experiences to be had. The sea that jealously enfolds the western border, lavishing the shore with bounty, and in times past – the Barbary Pirates stirs the imagination.

The Song Of Scheherazade drifts over this land in an endless replay of history, which is still so alive here. The veil between what was then, and what is now, is thin here. Movement in this part of the world flows like silk, and time nudges you instead of the hard push you feel in the West. The entire country is inundated with romance – mysterious, tempting, and just out of reach.
******************************************

Chapter VIII

With Bonnie gone it was back to work for me.

*********************
Bubba Jackson was just what you would think from his name, a good ole’ boy from south Alabama. The most harm he had ever done another human being was on the high school football field as a defensive lineman. He was twenty-years-old and had been in the Marine Corp for two years now; he joined up right after high school graduation. He had listened to President Bush talk about the “war on terror” and his granddaddy talk about defeating the Nazis in “the big one” and decided he could make his contribution to keeping his country safe by joining the Marines.

“Bubba why are you doin’ this? You can go to work for Daddy at the mill. He said so. You can work for Daddy and we can get married.”

“Jenny, I ain’t gona take charity from your daddy or anyone else. I can look after myself, and after I get promoted I can look after you too,” said Bubba.

“But...but what if you get killed?” As she looked at him with nothing but love, the tears were falling from her sky blue eyes, and tearing out his heart. “What will I do Bubba? What about me?”

“Jenny I ain’t t gona get myself killed. Why would I do that? I have you to come home to. I love you. You know that.” He took her into his arms. They were a good fit. They had been friends since grammar school, and dating since the beginning of high school. They were perfect for each other. Everyone said so. They were King and Queen of Homecoming last year, went to the same church, and their families all knew each other and got along real good. But he was not taking a job from Jenny’s daddy; he would be under Dan Kennedy’s thumb the rest of his days. Besides in a little quiet place in his heart Bubba wanted to see the world. It was not a popular view where he was from. Man of his background – it was getting above yourself. As the conversation with Jenny played through his mind, he shrugged off the tinge of guilt and concentrated on the present.

He was a corporal now and proud of those stripes. His CO was a man he admired and trusted, and his best friend was his bunkmate. He didn’t want to hurt nobody but these people had needed liberating, and now they needed – well he just wasn’t sure what they needed. The whole damn country was exploding, Bubba figured his job was to follow orders, and leave the thinking to somebody who knew how.

He entered the back of the dark house, pistol out and ready. He heard rifles firing out front and made for the hallway to give support. The bastard jumped him from behind and cut the sling that held his Mossburg 12 gauge. He reached down to his right leg, and pulled his knife from the scabbard. He outweighed his attacker by a good thirty pounds but the bastard had a hammerlock on him, and was trying to stick him. Bubba felt himself starting to black out so he took a bead on the nearest wall and rammed his attacker’s back to the wall. It took three hits before the little guy loosen his grip enough for Bubba to shake him off, and pull the knife from his hand. He could hear the firing out front now had intensified and someone was coming down the stairs from the roof. It couldn’t be one of his patrol, they didn’t have anyone on the roof. Bubba was too far away to reach his gun. He couldn’t let loose of this guy, he had no way to secure him in time. He had to get to his gun and rifle before whoever was coming down those stairs spotted him.

Using every bit of his strength he secured the guy and put his knife to his throat. The tango was looking right into Bubba’s eyes. He didn’t look like a fanatic, he didn’t look angry, he didn’t look like a killer. He was the same age and looked as scared as Bubba felt. The noise from outside and upstairs was closing in, no choice. As he pressed the knife through the guy’s trachea, which was a good deal more difficult than he had imagined, the tango began to kick and cried out softly, “No mister. No mister. Please. Please mister.” Blood sprayed to cover the wall and the front of his uniform. Bubba knew he would hear those words the rest of his life as he pushed the knife through, the words stopped, he dropped the body, and lunged for his rifle.

 CHAPTER IX
It had been another three months, almost four since that evening on the beach. Hassan had apparently settled his demons and doubts about seeing me again, as he was calling me every week. I was not so sure; my doubts kept recalling the feel of him pulling away when the sun had risen, and I had an itch in the back of my mind as to what he was doing in Saudi Arabia. It put our differences right up front. How can we get past that? But I had agreed to meet him in Positano in a week for four days. The Amalfi Coast, the sea, shopping – how bad can it be?

Meanwhile, I was waist deep in my new book, and needed to get on with it. My agent tends to get the vapors when a deadline is approaching.

…he spotted her as she came into the station. God she was gorgeous, everything he liked in a woman – tall, small hips, a spectacular ass, nicely rounded on top, and whoa howdy to that mop of curly chestnut hair that topped off the package and fell halfway down her back. She walked like a jungle cat, or an invitation - one that every man who saw her wanted to accept. That woman was a heartbreak waiting to happen. His jeans got tight as he reacted to the sight of her, and he adjusted his, uh, equipment. She’s the enemy bub, he said to himself. But she didn’t look like the enemy; she looked like satin sheets, candlelight, and hot sweaty sex. He imagined running his hands from her ankles up under that tight pencil skirt to her thighs and beyond. No panty line. Hmmmm, that meant a thong. Oh yeah. Then he’d lift that cashmere sweater up over her head, run his hands through that silky hair, and have himself a feast on those bouncing tits, while she wrapped her long, shapely legs around his waist, and made breathy sounds of pleasure. And then - she would pull her Glock and blow his head off most likely; but it just might be worth it. Reality check, she’s an assassin, and a good one. Not on your team Johnny boy. He rubbed the front of his jeans, grimacing. Yep, need to get that under control. It was a good thing he was to hand her off to Kim once she got on the train. He had a meeting in Maryland. Control said his team was getting a new sniper to replace Sam Boots who was laid up after surgery on his leg. Good thing, man, he thought, he had never had such a strong reaction to a woman. Kissing her might be better than breathing. Then he laughed to himself as he thought, Could be my last breath.

Scarlett didn’t see John Steed tailing her, but she knew someone was, she’d had that itchy feeling on the back of her neck since she came into the station. What now? Or who, and why? She’d been deep undercover for the past five years, on assignments in Turkey and areas of North Africa, and she knew her cover identity was secure. As one of the agency’s best snipers, and the only woman, she was uniquely qualified to take out certain tangos that no one else could get close to, but she was tired of working alone. She was on her way to Maryland to be debriefed and glad of it. Some down time would be appreciated. She couldn’t remember the last real vacation she’d had, and sex? Ha! She remembered what it was like enough to know she missed it. A nice uncomplicated affair would be in order.

Oh mercy! Where did that come from? I’m writing a blow ‘em up story here, not sex or romance. I’m a Tom Clancey wantabe, not bloody Christine Feehan! Normally when a character shows up unbidden, it’s a good thing; but that assassin was supposed to be male. And what’s with my reaction? My breasts were full and aching, my nipples so hard I could cut glass, and that was definitive moisture soaking my own black thong! I felt edgy and flushed. O.K. Um huh, I needed a run – hard and fast. Well I needed something hard and fast, and a run was going to have to do it. Whew.

I made my way out of the Oudayas, not as easy or as fast as you would think since I must stop and say hello and exchange handshakes and kisses with all the shop owners and anyone I run into on the street. The posh side of Rabat is called Souissi. Here is where the majority of the embassies are located, the mansions and expensive restaurants, as well as the Mega Mall. Yes indeed, complete with bowling alley and ice skating rink. The only ice skating rink in North Africa – where they have a curling team! My gym, Moving, which also houses the hammam (necessary for life now) I use and a beauty salon, is in Soussi.

There I was, thirty minutes later, on the treadmill and running for all I’m worth – face shiny, with sweat pouring off my chin, getting more and more red in the face, so not-attractive. My trusty and loved iPod blasting away in my ears with Springsteen and Guns ‘n Roses cheering me on. I found myself ogling, I mean really there’s no other name for it, the handsome chap on my left who was also running hell bent for leather (too many John Wayne movies). Looking out to the front, I noticed that cute guy I had noted earlier at the weights, who has a way about him, a handsome thing as well, who was on the floor now, snapping out pushups as easily as handing out business cards, with the sweat glistening off his taut biceps and his flat abdomen; then the young trainer started doing his “I’m a real athlete” stretches, right in front of my treadmill. Up and down, up and down he goes, stretching those inner thighs. The upshot here is that I was having sexual fantasies about strangers, and grinning like a fool! My only hope was that they either thought I was really enjoying my music tracks or I’m simply nutty, which is a concern of mine as it might be true. As I found myself percolating testosterone and endorphins, I’m thinking that sex in Italy might be a really good idea.

“If the eye does not see it, the heart does not suffer.” Moroccan proverb

One of the greatest inventions of the twentieth, or was it the twenty-first century is the IPod. I hate to exercise. I hate it. I don’t like getting all sweaty. I don’t like having my hair a mess, and my makeup fading away in the red flush of my face once my heart rate is up. I think an exercise program should consist of sex for cardiovascular, lifting glasses filled with champagne for upper arms, walks along the Seine in three inch heels for legs, and bending over to put on sexy underwear for lower body. But noooo, you have to run, lift, and sweat. Ug. But I do it, oh yes I do. Vanity is a powerful motivator. I’m sorry, but the health benefits are just a side effect for me no matter what I say to other people. I am however inordinately fond of that endorphins surge I get beginning about fifteen minutes into a hard run. I have solved many a conundrum while in that state – I get more ideas and resolutions for my writing at that time than any other. The music blaring in my ears at high volume from the IPod makes the pain and the time wonderful tolerable. A little Bonnie Rait, some Bruce Springsteen, Creedence Clearwater, a touch of Elvis, add Guns ‘n Roses with Big Maybelle, Black Eyed Peas, Christina Aguilera, the Eagles and I’m good to go.

So there I was, slugging away on the treadmill in the last ten minutes of my run, when I looked into the mirrors in front of me and saw behind me, leaning one hip against the door, with his arms crossed on his chest, and an appraising half-grin on his face – the sheik himself. Ali, the bad boy from Riyadh. What was he doing here? Where was Hassan? I continued to run. I was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had thrown me, but my mind was running a mile a minute and not with pleasant thoughts.

Just as Ali started in through the door, Hassan came up behind him and pulled him back. I saw them talk and gesture at each other angrily for a minute, Ali took one more look inside at me, said something to Hassan that made Hassan’s face close down and look very dangerous – then Ali walked away. I had a bad feeling about this.

Hassan came inside to stand in front of me, resting his arms on the front panel of the treadmill. I kept running. “What is he doing here?” I ask, taking the earphones out and laying the IPod in the pocket of the small shelf at the front of the treadmill.

“I am sorry. I had no idea he would come up here. I was supposed to meet him in Positano this morning but I was called to another meeting and had to cancel. I told him I would call him back.”

“What’s going on here Hassan? What are you really doing in Saudi Arabia? Why are you having meetings on holiday, and what makes that bastard think he can stand and watch me like a hungry tiger?” I was getting angry. I kept running hoping it would be of assistance in controlling my temper. I knew there was more to this; I could feel it, and I didn’t like what I was feeling.

“Obviously there are things I haven’t told you, but I didn’t know you did I? I should think with your background you would understand that,” he said giving me a look that said he knew something I was not going to be happy about.

He could not know about my past. The people who know about me can be counted on my hand, and the others are all dead. So what was he talking about? I stopped the track from moving. “What. Are. You. Talking about?” I was not about to give anything away. He was fishing, he didn’t know anything.

“You know I work for the King. You know that means I work in the government, and I have to assume, knowing you, that you have figured out I’m not in the agriculture department,” he said raising one eyebrow. “I work in the Department of the Secret Police, the Direction de surveillance de Territoires.” He ignored my sharp intake of breath and continued. “It wasn’t a choice. It was an appointment that my father and my father-in-law secured for me, and that the King offered me personally. I couldn’t turn it down.” He reached for my hand but I pulled it away and took the towel hanging on the rail to wipe my face, thinking about the Moroccan Secret Police and just what involvement there could mean. Was the meeting in the park that day as innocent as I had believed? Did he even have a son? Was this some kind of set up? I didn’t have a good feeling. I looked at his face, into his eyes and saw the fear move behind his steady gaze – that I would not listen, that I would not trust him, believe him? His emotions were spilling over and I was swamped with his fear and the fact that he was hiding something more.

“All right, let’s have it. What are you doing now?” I stood facing him, the front on the treadmill separating us, refusing to touch him.

“I can’t tell you.”

Quick as a flash I threw the towel at him and turned to walk out. I was thinking how I could get back to Morocco as quick as possible and do a little checking of my own. He was around the treadmill and standing on the track in front of me before I could descend, blocking me with his body. God he was fast. “Get out of my way. You lied to me, and whatever you think you know about my past, you’re wrong.” I tried to push around him but he held my arms firmly and backed me into the front stand of the treadmill.

“I did not lie to you. I did not tell you everything, but I did not lie.” He dropped one hand from my arm to rub it across his forehead. “I had to run a security check on you. If I had not done it, someone else would have the moment they found out we are involved – and we are involved. It’s not so much what I found out, as what I did not find. Your background is just a bit too clean and boring to be real.” He looked into my eyes like he expected me to tell him why. That was not going to happen.

“Just how many people have you shared this little tid bit of information with?” I was gritting my teeth and trying to control my anger. I felt betrayed. Not for one moment had I thought he was a danger. I was out of practice obviously.

“Catherine be reasonable. You are a foreigner living in Morocco. You are British, but you carry an American passport. You are a writer and you have a blog that originates in Morocco. Of course there is a file on you. You would know that, you would expect it.” He reached for my face and I batted his hand away. I wanted to stay mad. I didn’t want to look into those dark chocolate eyes and get lost. I couldn’t let him kiss me or I knew I was in trouble.

“What do you think is going on? I am a writer Hassan. Like many people before 9/11, I had duel citizenship; afterwards it was simpler to choose one. It’s that simple. Nothing nefarious, and my past is just that boring.”

“I don’t believe you.” He put his arm around me to block my exit. “And I don’t care. I don’t think you are here to harm Morocco in any way, and Morocco is what I care about. I am not some fundamentalist trying to expel the infidels from all Muslim lands or destroy the country of America. My job is to guard the welfare of Morocco.”

“I will ask you again, what are you really doing in Saudi Arabia, and what is that asshole Ali doing here?” I pushed his arms off me and stood toe-to-toe demanding an answer.

“I can’t tell you.”

And then I saw it. I looked, really looked, into his eyes. It was there; this was a man with an intimate knowledge of violence. What was wrong with me? How could I not have seen this? Shit. Shit. Shit! That was what came from giving into emotion, or I could admit to myself, that’s what came of eight years of abstinence. How blind could I be?

“Where did you train?” I ask, gritting my teeth until my jaw quivered.

He looked at me and sighed; his shoulders slumped a bit in defeat as he said, “The King sent me to Paris, to work with Direction Generale de la Securite’ Exterieure before I took up my post.”

“The French intelligence agency. And?”

“And Quantico.”

“Get out of my way,” I said feeling the anger through the tears that were threatening to break through. I’m done with that life. I’m out. How can it haunt me now? Damn. “Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Way.”

“No. You aren’t leaving without hearing me out. We are going to talk and we are going to work this out. You are not leaving me,” as he spoke he grabbed me in his arms and turned my face up to his. “You are not leaving me.” His kiss was hard and desperate. I tasted anger and passion tinged with fear.

I struggled and tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. I stomped his instep with my foot, and lifted my leg to ram my knee in his groin. He sidestepped my leg, and increased the strength of his hold on me, never moving his lips from mine. I kicked his shin, and managed to pull out of his embrace, and back far enough to ball my fist and throw a solid right hook at his jaw. I felt it connect and my knuckles felt like they had hit cement. He started with surprise and put his hand to his jaw to rub it. “Nice punch. Where did you train?”

“Get away from me you stupid fuck! What are you, twelve? You think this is some goddamn James Bond movie? What do you think will happen when the Moroccan Secret Police find out about your relationship with me? I have an American passport. I’m an infidel. You bastard! You should have told me. Hell, you should have never approached me. You were suspicious of my background check? Then why continue? What do you want from me? What is this really about? Did you set that meeting up on purpose to find out why I’m in Morocco?” I was so furious, and so scared that I had to clinch my fist to keep from hitting him again. I couldn’t stop shivering. I could not look at him, but I couldn’t block the smell of him. He smelled so – like surf on a wild beach, like sex on a sultry night. Shit! Shit. Shit! Hitting him seemed the only option.

I pulled my arm back again, and he grabbed my fist in his hand and pulled my arm to my side. “Stop it. Stop it now.” If you won’t talk to me then I have to think of some other way to get through to you.” He held my arms firmly at my sides and trapped my legs between his so that I couldn’t kick him. There was no give in him anywhere. How had I thought he was some sweet romantic without any connection to the life I had left behind? Because I wanted him to be, that’s how. I knew it.

He bent his head to mine and when I turned my face away, he took his free arm and grasped my chin in his hand and turned my face to his. His eyes looked saddened, but the danger was still there. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“You are always looking for reasons to leave me.” He pressed his lips gently to mine, and feathered soft kisses over my lips and my face. When he came back to my lips, I opened for him, my anger slipping away from me in the fire of desire.

I began to pace – it’s what I do. After fifty or so turns about the room I knew I needed to hit something – Ken always said I had more testosterone than was good for me. I slipped on my shorts and a tee shirt with my trainers; fortunately I had brought two pair, and headed for the gym where I had seen a punching bag hanging in the corner.

Fortunately for my knuckles I found wraps next to the bag. After wrapping my hands, I laid into the bag with all the frustration and anger the day had brought. Why, oh why did I seem to always attract men who killed and were in danger every day of their lives of being killed? More to the point, what did it say about me that these were the only men I was attracted to in any sort of way – physical or emotional? Could I not get the hots for an accountant? That would be good. Or the chap who owns Sak’s? What was I going to do? What could I do? I was going to walk away. I could not do this again. I had nothing left to give. My emotions were locked up good and tight and that is where they were going to stay.

The past played through my mind for the billon-th time as I slammed my fists into the bag.

It was hot, hot like when taking off your skin would feel a relief. Hot like opening the door to a baking oven would be a cool breeze. Sweat was trapped inside the laced up hiking boots so that my toes were squishing with each step and when I stopped it felt like my feet would swell and pop out through the seams of the boots. My feet were burning. My chest was lashed down inside the flak vest, which was velcroed over the long sleeved shirt that was keeping my lily-white skin from producing blisters the size of bananas up and down my arms. My waist-length hair, braided and stuffed inside my Indiana-Jones-style hat, matted down with sweat and dirt, was now the consistency of super glue. The sky offered no relief, the sun was so bright at midday the vast expanse was no longer blue but white.
As we headed uphill, again, I could see the backs of Jeff, David, John, and Karim like stair steps going up to the next ridge. They looked like mounds of moving dirt or rock. All my pretty Navy boys dirtied up for Afghanistan- no dress whites here. As far as that went, none of us had I.D. of any sort since we weren’t officially there.
Behind me, Ken, Chris, Michael, Jefferson, and Jack were spread out along the track like loose pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Those would be extremely well armed pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They bristled with weapons like lethal hedgehogs. They all carried the HG-3 rifle, the weapon of choice for SEAL teams, due in equal parts to its versatility, dependability, and lethal delivery of firepower. In addition Ken, who more resembled a walking armory than a neighborly hedgehog, never left home without his Ithaca-37 shotgun; used in Viet Nam as riot guns with 18-inch barrels or trench guns with 20-inch barrels, they had wood stocks and forearms and parkerized metal parts. The -37 had plenty of firepower in a small package, with a disconnector mode that allowed one trigger pull to discharge a full magazine as fast as the forearm can be cycled. He swore that weapon had more tricks than Houdini at his best. Jeff, on point, carried the long barreled version of the -37, and gave solemn oath he could knock sand fleas off the ravines of the Hindu Kush by sheer speed of fire. He was also carrying his new M24 Sniper Weapon System. Let’s not go into the list of claims he was making about what he could do with that new weapon. I mean you couldn’t actually see the top of Everest from where we were.
Each of the team carried the Browning M 1935 pistol, the same sidearm favored by the British SAS, and known for its high capacity “zig-zag” magazine – very useful in a firefight. The chaps were, in addition, armed with an assortment of knives, grenades, and I am sure Karim had an AIM 92 stinger slung on his back. I could say this with some certainty as I had seen David packing the launcher under his supervision. We were headed deep into the Hindu Kush to evac out some of our local intelligence sources who had been compromised. They were in danger and we owed them. The information they had provided had aided us on several missions and saved our lives on a couple. We owed them.
The plan was for the covert SEAL team to get in, gather our people, and take them out to Pakistan by way of the Khyber Pass. Now let me think, just how many times had things gone according to plan? They needed me to interpret, and I knew the terrain better than anyone else on the team.
The dirt on my face was so thick I could have as easily peeled it off as wash it, with runnels of sweat running down from my eyebrows and temples and dripping off my chin. I could feel the dirt in my ears every time I turned my head or when the wind blew directly at me. The dirt up my nose was caked and kept blocking my nostrils, really very attractive. I had to keep blowing my nose on the kerchief I had stuffed in my sleeve just to keep even. I think the worst was the dirt in my teeth, it got in my back teeth and I just couldn’t seem to rinse it out no matter how much water I ran through there. There was a constant gritty taste in my mouth like chewing on sand. There was not a bodily crack or crevice that had not been invaded by the gritty, ground-rock, smell of shit, dirt. I was all one-color head to foot - dirt
My feet felt as though I had been hiking barefoot through broken glass, and then had taken a walk over hot coals. Sharp rocks, round rocks, wet rocks, flat rocks, boulders, pebbles, muddy rocks, rocks shot through with pink marble sparking in the sun, and rocks that shifted without warning under my feet or hands as I grabbed for support. The soles of my feet and the palms of my hands were so bruised that flexing them was painful. I had reached for a handhold earlier that day and grabbed a thorny plant just on the outcropping. As I couldn’t let go lest I slide sixty-two meters off the side of the ridge, the bloody thing bit right through my palm-gloves and tore the cuticles on the nail beds of my right hand. The thorns had left some kind of stinging agent in my skin so it felt as though they were still in there.

“Hold up Sparky. Let me look at that.” Ken came up behind me and took the injured hand, removing the glove to have a look. “Next stream we come to, you stick that hand in the water until it’s numb.”

“Yes lover, I mean Commander,” I said reaching up to bring his face down from his 6’3” height to mine for a deep kiss.

“You know,” I said, wincing as I pulled my right glove back into position, “we could’ve cut three days off this bloody trudge through the third stage of Dante’s Hell if you had let me speak to the Elder in that last village. Instead I have to get everything second-hand. After days of listening to nothing but the fucking Tower of Babel - every villager speaking his own bloody dialect from the Pakistan border into the Kush - we finally find someone who speaks an understandable dialect of Pashto, and you won’t let me talk to him! Why else bring me on this pleasure hike?”

Ken leaned up against the side of the mountain, adjusting his pack as a back cushion, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles, then offered me his canteen. “You mean other than the screaming, foot stomping, and threats you made to pull rank back in Paris? And just what do you think would’ve happened if that village elder had figured out you’re a woman, and I use the term loosely.” he said, softening the words with a grin. “I personally don’t want to level a village of friendlies over a cul-tu-ral nu-an-ce. We did just fine with you whispering in my ear, which I rather enjoyed.”
“I beg your fucking pardon. Look at me! I’m lashed down and covered up so that I look like a dirty stick with a gun. And I wasn’t pulling rank. I was merely pointing out, you-need-me. I’m the one who’s been coordinating Intel with MI-5 and the NSA for this Team for the past four years. Face it, sailor, without me you would have been at the mercy of Military Intelligence - and I use the term as an oxymoron. Besides, you Navy boys get all disoriented once you’re out of line-of-sight with the water. Who would get you home if not me?”
“Smartass. With that prissy accent and colorful vernacular, you sound like a Jane Austen character on SEAL hell week. Drink up and hit the trail.” he said patting me on my bum.
This was the third week on this track; ducking enemy patrols, tribal bandits, and bad weather. Food just was not worth the effort; everything tasted like dirt, and smelled like shit or day old vomit. The only thing that tasted good was water. Ah water - nectar, ambrosia, heaven in a canteen! Even warm with the acrid taste of the purification tablets it was delicious. I felt parched from the inside out. The heat, all the gear we had to wear, the constant glare from the sun off the rocks, the relentless climbing, the altitude, all conspired to drain every drop of moisture from me. I was luckier than the men as I had spent much of my childhood on the other side of these mountains, my body could accommodate the local parasites, and I could safely drink from the icy mountain streams. Whenever we happened on one, I would lower my entire face into the water and take it in through my pores.
“Hit the deck! Hit the deck! Bogies at two o’clock. Hit the deck!”
All the air exploded out of my lungs as Ken landed all 240 of his well-muscled pounds, enhanced with a seventy-pound pack, squarely atop me. When I finally could inhale, I got a mouthful of dirt and blood from where my lip was now bleeding. All I could see was the square foot of dirt an inch in front of my face, and I thought I would never be able to breathe properly again. The noise was deafening, and it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. I had no bloody idea where the “bad guys” were or where our guys were. My world had been reduced to trying to exhale and inhale without aspirating half of Afghanistan into my lungs; for me the enemy was suffocation.
There’s really nothing quite like the sound of gunfire in close proximity, like having someone repeatedly clap bricks over your ears. It isn’t so much about the sound after someone tosses the first grenade within thirty-five feet or so; your hearing is reduced to a loud buzzing noise and the disorientation is the problem. Ken was shouting to someone, but I could not make it out and then he was dragging me. I tried to stand up, to help, and he pushed me down again.
“Get down baby. The fire is coming from that ridge.” He was pointing up and to the right of our position, but all I could see was the glare of the sun off the rocks.
I had hit my head on a rock. As I was lifting my left hand up to my head, Ken shoved me over up against the boulder we were heading toward for cover. It was so loud, there was gunfire coming it seemed from everywhere. I couldn’t maneuver the strap to get my pack off; my hand was so sore from the thorns I had grabbed earlier. I was pulling and tugging at the buckle, but Ken was pulling on my shoulders, shaking me.
“Look at me. Look at me. Can you hear me?”
I grabbed his arm. I was trying to say, “Yes.” I was trying to be calm and help, but all I could do was taste dirt and blood. I settled for nodding my head like a puppet while spitting mud and blood to clear my mouth. All my teeth felt loose.
Ken kept talking and grabbing the straps of my pack and pulling it down as he pulled my arms out, shoving me further into the crevice in the boulder. “I have to go help Jefferson. He’s pinned down. You’re all right here.”
He pushed me in to where I was pinioned in the crack of the boulder and shoved my pack in front of me. He took his HK G-3 rifle and tossed it over his left shoulder on the strap. He took his Ithaca 37 shotgun, his baby, and pushed it toward me. “Take this, you know how to use it. Brace it on the rock behind you.”
He took my face in his hands, held me steady, looking directly into my eyes, and took all the time that ever existed to shout slowly, “You’ll be fine. I’m just going right over there and get Jefferson. I’ll be right back.” He pointed so I could see the circle of rocks where Jefferson was caught in a hail of bullets coming from the ridge. Then he turned me slightly to the left, so I could see the position of the others. “You can see me from here. You stay put, you hear me? I love you. Stay put!”

And he smiled, his blinding white teeth flashing against his dark skin, and he kissed me on my filthy, bloody, forehead. I calmed right down. I knew that voice, I trusted that voice, and I had been listening to that voice since I was fourteen. I could do anything as long as he was there. He was my life, and I loved him more than breathing.
“No, you take the 37.” I said pulling my pistol from my leg holster. “I have my Browning. I can’t take the recoil from that damn monster.”
Now I was grinning, how nuts is that? People were shooting at us, throwing grenades at us, and somewhere off that ridge to the west a RPG-18 portable anti-tank rocket launcher was lobbing shots that were blowing up boulders the size of my bedroom at home into pebbles the size of dimes, but there was nowhere in the world I wanted to be other than with Ken, my husband – he was my love, he was my life.
SEAL Team-A made the phrase “best of the best” redundant. Ken, who had helped form the original Teams in the 1960’s, had been commissioned by an order from a joint committee of five from the Pentagon and the NSA, to form a secret and highly specialized SEAL team that would work outside the Navy-Pentagon network. They would carry out covert missions combating what was becoming a worldwide war with terrorism -by infiltration, assassination, the obtaining of intelligence, and whatever presented itself as needed doing in the evolving situation. Those missions were to be dictated by a group whose identity was buried deep within the bowels of the NSA. There would be no reports to Senate committees or reviews by the Intelligence bureaucracy. Seal Team A was setup to run, then cut loose from the line of review, the budget on automatic renewal, buried within a tangle of dead-ends and redirections to subcommittees within the NSA and the Pentagon. There was no trail leading back to the origins of the Team, no paperwork on current activities.
All members of the Team had deep cover identities, and were on detached duty for various United States embassies throughout the world. Their records had been wiped clean and consequently the men as they actually lived did not exist on paper. Because of my unique connection with the NSA, I didn’t exist either; it was a perfect match. I was assigned as the unit’s Intel officer, and when needed – medic.

. As I looked into his eyes, I grinned back at him.
He had never let me down, he had never let anything bad happen to me, and he was indestructible. I could do whatever he told me to do.
“Go. Go. I’m good.” I pushed him away and shoved the Ithaca at him. He bent his head to mine and left me with a gentle kiss.
I saw the blast, or do I remember the blast? I just don’t know, I can never get that clear in my mind’s eye. There was glare coming off the top of the rocks where Jefferson and Ken had taken cover.
I shoved my pack out of the way scraping my hip pulling myself out of the niche in the boulder, and then I ran flat out to the enclave of rocks. It looked like some kid bent on graffiti had taken buckets of bright red paint and thrown them up against the rocks. How could there be so much blood?
It was the longest still moment I ever can remember. There was gunfire. I remember hearing it, but from far away. Nothing was moving, the air was still. I could hear the air flowing in and out of my chest. I saw a Honey Buzzard flying over just in my line-of-sight. I was thinking how nice to see someone from home, they breed in Northern Scotland, and then migrate through Africa on their seasonal passage. What was he doing 4000 meters up in the Hindu Kush? He was flying so slowly, the pattern on his under wing looked like an Aztec rendering, and he made that piping sound peculiar to the breed.

And bam! A wave of now rolled over me, like spinning in an out of control car and then all of a sudden it stops. I was there in present time. I could hear the guys, behind me now, shouting. I could feel the weight of my gun in my hand hanging at my side, I could still hear sporadic gunfire, and then the smell enveloped me. It sucked me in; it filled my nose, my mouth, my ears, my stomach twisted, my colon tightened, and my skin was coated with it - burnt flesh, cooked blood. It wasn’t an odor that entered just my nose. It came in through all my senses.
I saw it. It was red, black, pulsating, yellow, and brown, seeping into the dirt. It was torn flesh, and Jefferson’s head and neck flayed open like something in one of those butcher’s display cases in the meat district in New York City. The blood bright red as it touched the air, black as it seeped into the dirt. There was so much red.
Their eyes were open. You know in the movies, the eyes are closed, but both Jefferson and Ken had their eyes wide open - like they saw the claymore at the last minute and thought they could make it out.

I heard it. It screamed in anguish, loss and pain.

I touched it. It was hot as it pulsed through my fingers, and then ice cold as it stopped moving at all. My gun fell from my hand with a thud to the dirt, and I fell to my knees. I tried to stop the blood gushing, pulsing, and then seeping from the hole in Ken’s stomach. I pushed on it with my hands. I was afraid to look at his face. I just kept talking to him, like he had talked to me that time when I was sixteen, and he took me climbing and I cut my leg. I was so scared of all the blood. His face was a dusky blue when they pulled my hands away, and the blood had partially dried and stuck to me and to Ken. It cracked and crackled when I scrapped it off.
I tasted it. It tasted like metal forced hard into my mouth, like a sharp mercury taste that clenches your gut, gags you, and causes your stomach to retch and rebel. Like Christmas morning turned to murder.
The smell was shit, and blood on fire, and death. There was no taking it in, resolving it into components of an experience and sorting it out. It was a hot iron shoved into my brain. The event exploded and branded itself whole into my senses. And he was gone, gone from my bed, gone from my life. Gone. I was alone, because the next shot fired went into my abdomen and through my womb killing our three-month-old son who I didn’t know I was carrying.

I didn’t dare love anyone that much again. I couldn’t take the loss. I almost died from the pain then, as my heart and my soul were torn out of my body. Every day was a walk through hell. I lay in bed for weeks and felt myself bleeding through my skin. I walked around in the world, bleeding. He was my life. I lost him. I lost our son. It was better to be alone than to ever, ever, feel that much pain again. I would not survive it. I would not fall in love with another man. I would not need him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. That small quiet voice in the back of my head whispered, you could if it were the right man.

I hit the bag until my knuckles were bleeding and I couldn’t see for the tears. I sat on the floor and cried until there was nothing left.

This is the sex....or part of it anyway...

2008-07-14T08:59:00.000-07:00

We spent the afternoon drinking wine, and talking about nothing of consequence, watching the tourists, and the sea.

“Shall we take the shorter but steep path? Or the longer but easier route?” he ask looking up the hill toward the path to the villa.

“Shorter and steep, then I can skip the gym today.” Steep was the word all right, even with the ocean breeze at our backs I was getting heated and dusty. It was lovely looking down on the town spread out and covering the hills as we climbed. I could smell the scent of the sea and the mossy odor of the hillside. As we neared the top I looked out and saw what I think was Capri, or those little islands just this side of the shoreline. There were a few of the locals traversing the steps as well, and Hassan stopped to speak to those he knew, introducing me. I could hear the sounds of cars, away and on the other side of the hill, and the rough sounds of the motors from the large tourists’ boats drifted up the hill. The sky spread above us in a showcase of blue that was dazzling.

“You’re doing it again,” I said turning to him as he was coming up the steps behind me. I couldn’t help smiling. When a man admires your body so blatantly, you have to be pleased.
“But Che’rie, you have such a fabulous derriere, I can’t help myself,” he said showing no repentance whatsoever.

“Be that as it may, having someone at my back makes me nervous. You come up here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Really? You’re spoiling my fun you know.”

“Perhaps we can think of something else to entertain you, “ I said. I meant it to be funny, but it came out as a seductive invitation judging by the look in his eyes as he took my hand.

“I’m sure we can,” he said in that husky, deep voice I was beginning to realize meant he was in heat. He took me in his arms and danced his lips over mine, then teased with his tongue until I opened to him. He tasted like sunshine and wine, and his kisses made my knees weak. He tugged gently but insistently on my lower lip with his teeth, his tongue swept through my mouth with a hunger that caused me to burn inside, and press my body against him. I could feel the very hard physical evidence of his desire, and the wetness between my thighs in response. His face bore the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and the roughness left the skin of my face and neck slightly abraded and tingling. I ran my fingers through his marvelous hair. He clutched me to him until there was no room for a breath between us, ravaging my mouth until I was pulsing with desire. I wanted to be inside his skin, take a peek inside his head to see if he was as bewildered with passion as I. He suckled my tongue and fisted the hair at the nape of my neck to facilitate his mouth moving over my neck – nipping with his teeth and stroking with his tongue. I pushed him away in fear that I would try to have my way with him there on the steps. “You can’t do that here. I can’t breathe.”

“I can not help myself,” he said as he went back to nuzzling my neck. I could smell the intoxicating scent of the Tweed he wore, and feel the sun on my skin. The sea breeze softly caressed us as we tasted each other.

“Be that as it may…” I said taking his hand and pulling him up the steps. Oh, so much trouble. I was in so much trouble. Just sex. Just have sex and get out. I could do that right? What did that chap in Hamlet say? “To thine own self be true.” Highly overrated, the entire self-examination route was highly overrated. What did Socrates know anyway – just an old Greek guy wandering around without shoes.

When we arrived at the villa we were both a bit out of breath and dusty. We took our shoes off at the door, as Thomas, who was waiting for us at the entrance, insisted we not track sand onto the silk rugs in the foyer.

“I have to have a bath. I’m sticky and hot,” I said going up the stairs. The staircase is one of those intricate wrought iron affairs with the steps made of the same stone as that in the entryway, it was set in a sensuous curve to the upstairs.

He stopped my progress by pushing me gently against the banister and crowding me with his much larger body. “I can help you with that you know.” He placed his arms to either side of me, resting his hands on the wrought iron behind me, essentially trapping me there.

His voice was smooth, like fine whiskey, and the close up view of his sculpted lips was making me nuts. I wanted to trace them with my fingers, my tongue, and then press against them with my lips and push through them with my tongue and drive him to the edge of reason. “Oh really? And how’s that work?” I ask raising one eyebrow in my best imitation of Mr. Spock. When I was fourteen I sat in front of my mirror for hours practicing because I thought the eyebrow thing was so cool. Perhaps not the best use of my time, but now I was glad I had put in the effort.

“You said yourself that the hammam has spoiled you, and you can’t bathe yourself anymore.” He was running a track of flames up my arm with the pad of his finger while he spoke. “I could be your bath attendant.” He brought his lips down on that spot on my neck behind my ear and began stroking it with his tongue in small circles that sent bolts of electricity through my breast pressed up against his chest. His hands moved lower down my back, stroking and massaging. I lost my breath as all the air left my lungs in a single gust. I couldn’t speak. I felt my nipples pushing against the lace of my bra, and my body was aching between my legs. I pushed him back so that I could get my breath.

“And how would that work exactly,” I ask. I was smiling. This was fun. Intense, but fun. I’d missed this verbal foreplay.

He held up his right hand, palm out, to me. “I give you my oath that I shall remain fully clothed the entire time you are in the bath,” he said raising both his eyebrows up and down in a mock lewd gesture.

“Why oh why do I think there is a catch in there somewhere?”

“Catch? What is a catch?”

“Some unspoken meaning, a trickery by words.”

“No. No catch,” he said grinning ear to ear and pulling me toward the bathroom in his suite.

“Oh my giddy aunt! This is huge, and you have a Jacuzzi.” The bathroom was as large as my very large room down the hall, tiled in the shades of blue of the sea below us, with seashells and stunning coral pieces for detail.

“The room is constructed so that when you close these glass doors you can fill the room with steam, and there is a marble shelf just there,” he said pointing as he took me on a tour of the bathroom suite, “ that is used for oil massages after the bath, “ he was trying not to grin but was cataclysmically unsuccessful. He pointed to a leather ottoman beside the huge bathtub that mirrored the Jacuzzi set in a curving eight pattern. “Just sit there while I set the temperature and close the doors.” I was watching him move about, getting everything just so. My eyes kept being pulled to the large bulge in his trousers and his great butt. Obviously we are both obsessed with the backside of the other. What does that mean? As he moved, his shirt pulled tight across his broad back and outlined the muscles of his arms. I let out a silent moan. Gods he was in great shape. How old is he I wondered? I had thought forties, but looking at him now I don’t know, maybe younger? In any case it was a great view. I heard the knock at the bedroom door and volunteered to answer it. “No, you sit. I want you to get all the oxygen you will need…… for your bath,” he said and wiggled his eyebrows again making me laugh.

He returned with a silver tray loaded with Pierrer, Pellegrino, wine, and small sandwiches. “Thomas is very efficient,” he said in reply to my amused look. He set the tray on the marble shelf running along the far wall, lifted a silver circle that revealed an ice bucket built into the shelf and placed the water there. I’m thinking now one could be lost in this room for some time eh?

Steam was rapidly filling the room and heating it up. Hassan stepped past me kissing me on top of my head, handing me a glass of wine, and turned on the faucets to fill the pool size tub with water.

“I don’t use soap, do you have some cleansing lotion or the brown stuff they use in the hammam?” I ask, looking up at him as I sipped my wine and curled my toes in the luxurious rug.

“Yes there is some ghasoul in this jar,” he said pointing out a small turquoise urn on the shelf by the bath. “Is that how you keep your skin so incredibly soft? It’s like silk,” he said his eyes turning dark as he ran his hands down my arms, looking at me with desire evident in his face.

“I think that credit belongs to the ladies in the hammam, they do, whatever they do, it works very well the brown stuff, the oil, the masque – it’s all part of it yes?” Breathe. Now I was chatting like a magpie trying to get my body, which was spinning out of control every time his gaze raked over me, under some kind of self-discipline. Was I really going to do this? It had been a long, long, time. What if I couldn’t remember how? On a less euphoric plane I was sighing inside as I could feel my well-straightened hair begin to curl out of control. Inshallah. The sexual tension in the room was hotter and more opaque than the steam billowing around us.

He came toward me through the clouds of steam. “Stand up.” There was command in his voice that I couldn’t, didn’t want, to resist. I put down my wine glass and slowly stood. Oh dear, no one, well no man, had seen me naked in eight years. Was everything holding together, holding up, I wondered? He unbuttoned my shirt, and slid it inch by inch down my arms, dropping it on the floor. His sharp intake of breath as he moved to cup my breasts in his hands caused me to lean toward him. I have always thought my D-cup breasts more trouble than they’re worth, but apparently he did not share that view.

"God you are beautiful," he said as he used both hands to caress my breasts, his thumbs fondled my nipples through my bra. He bent down and suckled right through the lacey material. I took his head into my hands, running my fingers through his hair and pulled him to me to take more of me in his mouth as my back arched. All I could think was don’t stop! He placed gentle kisses over my chest and up my neck and took my mouth for his own as he slowly unclasp my bra. “I love this sexy underwear.” He pulled it slowly from my body and his eyes took in every inch of me in a look filled with ardor. The need pooled low and heavy between my hips. My thinking was becoming as murky as the steam surrounding us, and all I could do was feel his hands and mouth on me, and I wanted more – now. My skin was vibrating with need, and so sensitive I felt I might shatter.

“Your nipples are so pink and the skin around them is pale like a rose petal,” he said looking at them with intense interest, kissing, and caressing as he spoke. His hands were moving oh so slowly and touching me like you would a fine piece of art.

“Is that unusual in some way,” I said gasping for air as his thumbs and mouth continued the amorous torture of my nipples. Like I care. Just don’t stop. And only a Moroccan could say the things he was saying without appearing ridiculous

“Moroccan women are brunettes and their nipples are brown and dark. With your red curls, pale skin and pink nipples you look like Venus rising from the sea.”

He lowered his mouth and rolled my nipple with his tongue, and teased with his teeth. When he suckled my naked breast I went up in flames. I could feel the wetness between my thighs coating me, bathing me in and out, in invitation for his touch. That place inside me that was uniquely feminine, where I had suppressed desire for so long, had burst open and heat flamed over my body. Heat, desire, need. I could feel the edgy lust, like an itch you can’t reach for relief, engulfing me. The coiled energy was building fast and tight needing release – exquisite agony. I pulled him to my breast and pushed my hips toward him aching for relief.

He continued to caress my breasts as he laid kisses from the underside up to my lips. I heard myself breathe a moan full of craving and impatience into his mouth. As he moved to unzip my jeans I put my hands down to help. My skin felt too tight, I was unsettled, I ached, and I wanted relief now. I could not get out of my clothes fast enough. I wanted to feel his hands and his mouth all over me. He slapped my bum with his hand, “No, this is for me to do. You must wait. It has taken me almost one year to get you naked. I intend to take my time.”

“I don’t think I can,” I said, feeling the effects of his touch on my body – my skin was so responsive I could feel the steam passing over my nipples and wrapping around my hips as he, with agonizing slowness, pulled my jeans down. My breasts hurt with the tingling, fullness, and desire for his mouth. I dug my nails, kept mercifully short for typing, dig into my palms as I clinched both my teeth and my firsts. As he caressed my hips and legs I felt if he didn’t take me now I would explode with desperation. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders. I don’t know if I was trying to move him, or to keep myself from falling over.

“Yes you can,” he said as he tossed my pants in the corner and ran his hands up one leg at a time, slowly, to cup the soaking mound between my legs. “Mon Dieu you are so ready for me my rose petal. How long my darling? How long has it been?” he kept his hand there, pressing against the lacy thong where it passed through my legs, and moving his fingers wickedly through the lace, as he trailed kisses up to my neck and stood, aligning his body with mine, massaging my butt with his other hand.

I held onto his shoulders with both hands. I was being consumed in fire and heat. My blood felt thick and hot like slow flowing lava. I was dragging the air into my lungs with effort. I could feel the sheen of sweat covering me. Everywhere he touched me was a spark of electricity pulsing through me. I ached. “Years, oh gods it’s been years.”

“Too long, too long my rose petal,” he whispered the words against my lips. I could feel his flinty erection pressing against my stomach and I lowered my hand to touch him. I traced the bulge in his trousers and he moaned, let out a growl, and pulled back. “No. This time is for you. I gave my oath remember?” He looked into my eyes, smiling while the same need filled his eyes. I felt like the spider’s prey trapped in the web.

“I release you!” I said laughing with desperation and pulling him to me. I kissed him with all the pent up passion of the last cold, unfulfilled, eight years. I drove my tongue into his hot, welcoming mouth and I pulled on his lips with my teeth and danced with his tongue. I railed my nails down his back through the shirt from his shoulders to his waist.

He sank to his knees and traced the scars on my leg, my abdomen, my breast, and my back, with his fingers and his mouth, sending lighting bolts to that place of passion within me, dormant for too long. “So many scars on your lovely skin. What happened to you?”

“Long story for another time. Really, another time!” I said in desperation. I did not want to get into the stories of my past, not now. I wanted to feel him inside of me. I wanted him to drag me to the floor and take me – pound into me until I couldn’t remember my name or his.

Everything in me that's female responded to his touch, inflamed and longing. I watched him as he gently and oh too slowly guided my thong down my legs, following it with slow open-mouthed kisses. I lifted my feet, one at a time and he tossed the scrap of lace to the pile of my clothing on the floor, and moved his hand to the thatch of red curls covering the mound between my legs, and I cried out. I had to hold myself upright by grasping desperately to his shoulders. I thought I would come right then before he ever touched me. I was trembling head to toe, wound tight as a watch spring.

“I wondered,” he said coaxing me open with his fingers, running them back and forth over the folds covered with the wetness of my desire. “I wondered if the hair in your secret place was as red as the hair on your head. I thought about it on many nights in the dark when I was alone.”

He pushed his finger into my wetness and heat, and I moaned and dug my nails into him. “Oh Shiva, please Hassan, please. I can’t stand anymore.” I felt like I would disintegrate into my individual atomic components. I closed my eyes and saw bright colored flashes. I was dizzy with desire.

Instead of answering, he dug his hand into my hip and pulled me toward him, replacing his fingers with his tongue, and I screamed. I could feel the liquid gushing in response coating his tongue as he flicked and stabbed into me. His tongue was relentless. I put my hands in his hair and pulled him to me, riding his mouth, craving relief. I felt it coming; the waves of climax rushing over me and taking me out of my body. Again and again as he continue to suckle and push his fingers into me. Fisting my hands in his hair, I held on for dear life. I let myself go, higher and higher, a roller coaster with no speed brake as I exploded into a million pieces. With a last cry I fell into him, not able to stand anymore, and not able to stand. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. I felt like fainting. I felt like jumping for joy. I felt like I wanted the feeling again, and again.

Hassan gently picked me up in his arms, pulling me close to his chest, kissing me softly, and stepped fully clothed into the tub. He sat down and settled me on his lap in the hot water with the clouds of steam billowing around us. The tub was so large we could have invited in the neighbors.

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you. Oh gods thank you, albeit I think you have killed me,” I said tracing his face with my fingers. "Your turn. Take off your clothes. I want to see you. I want to feel you. I want my hands on you."

“You want me to break my oath?”

“Yes, oh mercy yes!” I moved my hand down between us to get a grip on the sizable hard-on that was pushing into the curve of my bottom. As he moaned, I turned over and locked my fingers together behind his neck and pulled myself up and down over his body in a slow sensuous slide, my naked limbs rubbing over every part of him, my eyes locked with his. I felt him engorge and grow larger, his heat pushing against the material of his trousers. His skin was so hot I expected the bath water to boil and steam. I saw his jaw tense as he gritted his teeth in response.
.
He took my face into his hands. “You are driving me mad with your body. You are so responsive, so alive and beautiful. You are a sorcie’re, a witch. You western-woman. You have no submission in you do you?”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that. I think you had me at your mercy there a few minutes ago, but we of the west believe in fair play,” I said running my nails up and down the sides of his rock-hard erection. I watched his face as he grimaced and growled, then cupped my bottom with both his hands pulling me up to his face for another kiss that made my toes curl and my body cry out for him.

He rose in a flood of water, out of the tub, taking me with him. He moved past me to pull the drain and turn on the shower. “Stand there and keep your hands to yourself or I’m going to turn you over my knee!” He reached for the container of bathing mud.

“Hmm,” I said putting my finger to my chin, “that could be fun.”

“You just keep laughing. When I am done here, I am going to wipe that grin off your face and replace it with pleading.” He applied the bathing mixture over my back, and turned me toward him to cover my chest and breast.

“I’m willing to do the begging right now if you will take your trousers off,” I said reaching for him.

He slapped my hand gently aside, and continued to apply the mud in slow circles around my breast and onto my stomach. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”

“Hassan that sounds like a scene from “The Departed”. You aren’t going to cuff me are you? I promise to be good.” Listening to him growl, I was laughing so hard I was shaking. I can think of very few things better for the psyche of a woman than to have a handsome man lusting for you so badly he growls. His hands sliding over my body in the slick mud was making my hips pulse and my breasts were points of exquisite pain, heavy and full.

I looked over my shoulder at him. “You seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time applying that stuff to my bottom you pervert.”

“Leave me alone, I am enjoying myself,” he said laughing.
He placed me under the hot stream of water and kissed me until I saw stars, as he rinsed me off. Then his mouth wandered down to my breast, and those wicked fingers between my legs. I forgot my name as I came again, in a thundering climax that left me reeling. He snagged a towel from off the wall, wrapped me snugly, then picked me up and walked into the bedroom with his wet clothes leaving a trail of water over the floor and rugs, and tossed me onto the bed.

I lay against the pillows looking at his muscled chest through the soaked shirt. The wet material outlined him in stark detail and his erection was encased and defined by the soaked material of his trousers. Gods he was breathtaking. He began to unbutton his shirt, but gave it up, ripping it off and popping buttons on to the floor. I was getting aroused all over again watching him undress. His trousers fell to release the thick length of his erection, springing out from his body with a single drop of fluid on the velvet head. Oh he was big. I am not. I began to have some reservations about this. It had been eight years, what if I had closed up, grown another hymen, or something equally weird?

He stood looking down at me. “What? What is the matter? A cloud passed over your face.” He crawled slowly onto the bed and took me into his strong arms, encircling my legs with his.

“You’ll laugh, and I’m embarrassed,” I said ducking my head as I felt the blush rising from my throat to cover my face in scarlet.

“Rose petal what is it? Your face is the shade of your hair! What could be so bad?” He turned my face up to his.

“Well I… I mean it’s silly I… That is…. Oh fuck!” I saw him start, he had never heard me curse before – boy was he in for a surprise. “It’s just that you are very well endowed, and I have always been rather small, and it’s been a very long time since I had sex. It threw me for a minute that’s all.”

He buried his head in my hair and I could feel him, jerking, trying not to laugh. I hit his arm and tried to squirm away from him.

“I’m not some squirrelly virgin or anything, but still…” Oh gods this was turning into a humiliation.

He brought his face to mine and looked at me for a long moment with those gorgeous eyes – how does a man get thick, curly eyelashes like that? He put his lips to mine and kissed me until my desire was so intense as to be unbearable. He worked his hand down my body in slow, small, circular caresses until he was again running his fingers through the curls between my thighs. I felt the rush of moisture as my body responded to him. He whispered in my ear, “I think we shall be all right. Trust me rose petal.” He traced his way down my neck with little bites and kisses that were electrifying my body, shooting flames of longing and craving for more through me. He spent a leisurely time at my breasts, nipping and sucking, as his fingers rubbed the hot fluid from my passage over the folds at the entrance. I lifted my hips with every caress, feeling the urgency building again, the need, the emptiness, the wanting.

He rose up on his elbows to look down at me. “You are so beautiful. I cannot have more time.” He reached across me to the bedside table and took a condom from the drawer rolling it onto his rigid shaft, then pushed my legs apart and set himself between them, his hand around his erection as he guided it to my entrance. I had never had sex that involved a condom and I watched the procedure in some fascination. He entered just inside the folds of my moist heat, and stopped as he bathed in the fluid that now coated me. I grabbed for his shoulders and dug in with my nails, calling his name in desperation, and pulling him to me. He pushed through in one long, hard thrust and I felt him in my womb. I came off the bed, the orgasm taking me by surprise and ripping through my body until all I could feel was him.

“Oh god, oh che'ri you are killing me. You’re so tight, so wet, so hot inside.” He rammed into me, his erection hard and urgent. I could feel the walls of my vaginal canal grabbing and milking him with the force of my climax, making him moan and increase the pace of his thrust. We were both covered in sweat and gasping for air. His smooth chest was pressed against my breast, my nipples searing a path across his skin.

“My blood feels as if it is boiling. You are so lovely. Your skin is on fire for me.” His hand fisted in my hair as he pounded into me, holding me close, so that his every thrust through my slick folds stimulated the bundle of nerves at my center. I was winding tighter and tighter as I felt the sensual storm breaking over me and reaching the peak. I felt like I had walked into a class five hurricane lashing the North Sea. His fingers dug into my hips holding me to him, controlling the pace, and increasing it until I felt my groin turn to butter. I became acutely aware of the firestorm of my climax tearing through my body as Hassan erupted into me and I came again, and again, until we both lay exhausted. He was holding onto me, his head on my neck, both of us straining for air. He moved, and I felt the jolt of small quakes and aftershocks passing through me, grabbing his shaft and squeezing him, he moaned and pulled me closer. We were so close together I couldn’t tell where I ended. I could feel his heartbeat through my chest as my own pounded in my ears. I could smell the roses on the table, and the sea breeze coming through the windows. The silky smoothness of the yellow Frette sheets on my back was damp with our sweat.

“What did you do to me? I have never experienced anything like that. Sacre’ment! You are a witch, woman,” he said raining kisses on my face, neck, and breast as his hands ran over my body finding every curve, every shadow.

“I have missed sex! I really like sex, and this was great sex." I could not stop grinning ear to ear like an idiot. He made love like you would expect – elegantly.

"That you enjoy sex my dear woman is self evident," he said smiling down at me. “You smell so good all the time,” he said burying his head in my neck, “and you are so soft. You are the softest woman I have ever known. I can’t get enough of kissing you, touching you. It is amazing to me – your.. enjoyment of sex. You make love with such abandon.”

“Enjoyment is a mild word, “ I said still feeling the soft aftershocks of our lovemaking as I ran my fingers up and down his back.

He played with my hair and wrapped one thick strand around his fingers. “My wife, as you know, was an Egyptian, she was circumcised as a girl. I’m afraid, as much as I tried, sex was never enjoyable for her. You, on the other hand, take wild joy in the act. It is very intoxicating to a man to have this reaction to his endeavors.”

*******************************************************************************

the unseen cost of the war in iraq

2008-01-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

International Herald Tribune
Iraq veterans leave a trail of death and heartbreak in U.S.
By Deborah Sontag and Lizette Alvarez
Sunday, January 13, 2008

Late one night in the summer of 2005, Matthew Sepi, 20, an Iraq combat veteran, headed out to a convenience store in the seedy Las Vegas neighborhood where he had settled after leaving the U.S. Army.

By day, the area, littered with malt liquor cans, looks depressed but not menacing. By night, it becomes, in the words of a local homicide detective, "like Falluja."

Sepi did not like to venture outside too late. But, plagued by nightmares about an Iraqi civilian killed by his unit, he said he often needed alcohol to fall asleep. And so it was that night, when, seized by a gut feeling of lurking danger, he slid a trench coat over his slight frame - and tucked an assault rifle inside it.

"Matthew knew he shouldn't be taking his AK-47 to the 7-Eleven," Detective Laura Andersen said, "but he was scared to death in that neighborhood, he was military trained and, in his mind, he needed the weapon to protect himself."

As Sepi started home, two gang members, both large and both armed, stepped out of the darkness. Sepi later said that he spied the butt of a gun, heard a boom, saw a flash and "just snapped."

In the end, one gang member lay dead, bleeding on the pavement. The other was wounded. And Sepi fled, "breaking contact" with the enemy, as he described it. With his rifle raised, he crept home, loaded 180 rounds of ammunition into his car and drove until police lights flashed behind him.

"Who did I take fire from?" he asked. The diminutive young man said he had been ambushed and then instinctively "engaged the targets."

He shook. He also cried.

"I felt very bad for him," Andersen said.

Nonetheless, Sepi was booked, and a local newspaper soon reported: "Iraq veteran arrested in killing."

Town by town across the United States, headlines have been telling similar stories. Lakewood, Washington: "Family Blames Iraq After Son Kills Wife." Pierre, South Dakota: "Soldier Charged With Murder Testifies About Postwar Stress." Colorado Springs: "Iraq War Vets Suspected in Two Slayings, Crime Ring."

Individually, these are stories of local crimes, gut-wrenching postscripts to the war for the military men, their victims and their communities. Taken together, they paint the patchwork picture of a quiet phenomenon, tracing a cross-country trail of death and heartbreak.

The New York Times found 121 cases in which veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan committed a killing in the United States, or were charged with one, after their return from war. In many of those cases, combat trauma and the stress of deployment - along with alcohol abuse, family discord and other attendant problems - appear to have set the stage for a tragedy that was part destruction, part self-destruction.

Three-quarters of these veterans were still in the military at the time of the killing. More than half the killings involved guns, and the rest were stabbings, beatings, strangulations and bathtub drownings. Twenty-five offenders faced charges for murder, manslaughter or homicide for fatal car crashes resulting from drunken, reckless or suicidal driving.

The Pentagon does not keep track of such killings, most of which are prosecuted not by the military justice system but by civilian courts in state after state. Neither does the U.S. Justice Department.

To compile and analyze its list, The Times conducted a search of local news reports, examined police, court and military records and interviewed the defendants, their lawyers and families, the victims' families, and military and law enforcement officials.

This reporting most likely uncovered only the minimum number of such cases, given that not all killings, especially in big cities and on military bases, are reported publicly or in detail. Also, it was often not possible to determine the deployment history of other service members arrested on homicide charges.

The Times used the same methods to research homicides involving all active-duty military personnel and new veterans for the six years before and after the present wartime period began with the invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001.

This showed an 89 percent increase during the present wartime period, from 184 to 349 cases, about three-quarters of which involved Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans. The increase occurred even though there have been fewer troops stationed in the United States in the last six years and the homicide rate in America has been, on average, lower.

The Pentagon was given The Times's roster of homicides. It declined to comment because, according to a spokesman, Lieutenant Colonel Les Melnyk, the Department of Defense could not duplicate the newspaper's research. Further, Melnyk questioned the validity of comparing prewar and wartime numbers based on news media reports, saying that the current increase might be explained by "an increase in awareness of military service by reporters since 9/11." He also questioned the value of "lumping together different crimes such as involuntary manslaughter with first-degree homicide."

Given that many veterans rebound successfully from their war experiences and some flourish as a result of them, veterans groups have long deplored the attention paid to the minority of soldiers who fail to readjust to civilian life.

In some of the cases involving veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, the fact that the suspect went to war bears no apparent relationship to the crime committed or to the prosecution and punishment. But in many of the cases, the deployment of the service member invariably becomes a factor of some sort as the legal system, families and communities grapple to make sense of the crimes.

This is especially stark where a previously law-abiding young man - there is one woman among the 121 - appears to have committed a random act of violence. And The Times's analysis showed that the overwhelming majority of these young men, unlike most civilian homicide offenders, had no criminal history.

"When they've been in combat, you have to suspect immediately that combat has had some effect, especially with people who haven't shown these tendencies in the past," said Robert Jay Lifton, a lecturer in psychiatry at Harvard Medical School/Cambridge Health Alliance who used to run "rap groups" for Vietnam veterans and fought to earn recognition for what became known as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.

Few of these 121 war veterans received more than a cursory mental health screening at the end of their deployments, according to interviews with the veterans, lawyers, relatives and prosecutors. Many displayed symptoms of combat trauma after their return, those interviews show, but they were not evaluated for or given a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder until after they were arrested for homicides.

What seems clear is that experiences on the streets of Baghdad and Falluja shadowed these men back to places like Longview, Texas, and Edwardsville, Illinois.

"He came back different" is the shared refrain of the defendants' family members, who mention irritability, detachment, volatility, sleeplessness, excessive drinking or drug use, and keeping a gun at hand.

The nature of the counterinsurgency war in Iraq, where there is no traditional front line, has amplified the stresses of combat, and multiple tours of duty - a third of the troops involved in Iraq and Afghanistan have deployed more than once - ratchet up those stresses.

In earlier eras, various labels attached to the psychological injuries of war: soldier's heart, shell shock, Vietnam disorder. Today the focus is on PTSD, but military health care officials are seeing a spectrum of psychological issues, with an estimated half of the returning National Guard members, 38 percent of soldiers and 31 percent of marines reporting mental health problems, according to a Pentagon task force.

Decades of studies on the problems of Vietnam veterans have established links between combat trauma and higher rates of unemployment, homelessness, gun ownership, child abuse, domestic violence, substance abuse - and criminality. On a less scientific level, such links have long been known.

"The connection between war and crime is unfortunately very ancient," said Dr. Jonathan Shay, a psychiatrist for the Department of Veterans Affairs in Boston and the author of two books that examine combat trauma through the lens of classical texts.

Unlike it did in the Vietnam War, the current military has made a concerted effort, through screenings and research, to gauge the mental health needs of returning veterans. But gauging and addressing needs are different, and a Pentagon task force last year described the military mental health system as overburdened, "woefully" understaffed, inadequately financed and undermined by the stigma attached to PTSD.

Of the 13 combat veterans in The Times database who committed murder-suicides, only two, as best as it can be determined, had psychological problems diagnosed by the military health care system after returning from war.

"The real tragedy in these veterans' case is that, where PTSD is a factor, it is highly treatable," said Lawrence Sherman, director of the Jerry Lee Center of Criminology at the University of Pennsylvania. "And when people are exposed to serious trauma and don't get it treated, it is a serious risk factor for violence."

At various times, the question of whether the military shares some blame for these killings gets posed. In some cases, the military sent service members with pre-existing problems - known histories of mental illness, drug abuse or domestic abuse - into combat only to find those problems exacerbated by the stresses of war.

In other cases, they quickly discharged returning veterans with psychological or substance abuse problems, after which they committed homicides.

The army has recently developed a course called "Battlemind Training," intended to help soldiers make the psychological transition back into civilian society. "In combat, the enemy is the target," the course material says. "Back home, there are no enemies."

This can be a difficult lesson to learn. Many soldiers and marines find themselves at war with their spouses, their children, their fellow service members, the world at large and ultimately themselves when they come home.

"Based on my experience, most of these veterans feel just terrible that they've caused this senseless harm," Shay said. "Most veterans don't want to hurt other people."

Matthew Sepi withdrew into himself on his return from Iraq. After a year of combat, Sepi returned to Fort Carson, Colorado, where life seemed dull and regimented. The soldiers did not discuss their war experiences or their postwar emotions. Instead, they partied, Sepi said, and the drinking got him and others in trouble. Arrested for under-age driving under the influence, he was ordered to complete drug and alcohol education and counseling. Shortly after that, he decided to leave the army.

Feeling lost after his discharge "with a few little medals," he ended up moving to Las Vegas.

Listening to Sepi recount the story of a death that he regretted in Iraq while grappling with a death that he regretted in Las Vegas, Nancy Lemcke, Sepi's public defender, grew determined to get him help. "It was just so shocking, and his emotions were so raw, and he was so messed up," Lemcke said.

She found compassion for him among the law enforcement officials handling the case. The investigation backed up Sepi's story of self-defense, although it was never determined who fired first. It made an impression on the police that he was considerably outweighed - his 130 pounds against a 210-pound man and a 197-pound woman. And it helped Sepi that - according to the police - Kevin Ratcliff, 36, who was shot and wounded by Sepi, belonged to the Crips street gang and was a convicted felon; Sharon Jackson, 47, who was killed, belonged to NC, the Naked City gang, and an autopsy found alcohol, cocaine and methamphetamines in her blood.

Lemcke pressed the Department of Veterans Affairs to find treatment programs for Sepi. This allowed an unusual deal with the local district attorney's office: in exchange for the successful completion of treatment for substance abuse and PTSD, the charges against Sepi would be dropped.

Free to start life over, Sepi stepped tentatively back into society. Once in a while, he said, a loud noise still starts his heart racing and he breaks into a cold sweat, ready for action. But he knows now how to calm himself, he said, he no longer owns guns, and he is sober and sobered by what he has done.

"That night," he said, of the hot summer night in Las Vegas when he was arrested for killing, "if I could erase it, I would. Killing is part of war, but back home. . . ."

Research was contributed by Alain Delaqueriere, Amy Finnerty, Teddy Kider, Andrew Lehren, Renwick McLean, Jenny Nordberg and Margot Williams.
Notes:
International Herald Tribune Copyright © 2008 The International Herald Tribune | www.iht.com

2007-12-25T03:20:00.000-08:00

2007-12-25T03:16:00.000-08:00

brilliant

2007-10-10T01:53:00.001-07:00

October 10, 2007
Physics of Hard Drives Wins Nobel
By DENNIS OVERBYE

Two physicists who discovered how to manipulate the magnetic and electrical properties of thin layers of atoms to store vast amounts of data on tiny disks, making iPods and other wonders of modern life possible, were chosen as winners of the Nobel Prize in Physics yesterday.

Albert Fert, of the Université Paris-Sud in Orsay, France, and Peter Grünberg, of the Institute of Solid State Research at the Jülich Research Center in Germany, will share the $1.5 million prize awarded by the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences.

They will receive the money in a ceremony in Stockholm on Dec. 10.

Dr. Fert, 69, and Dr. Grünberg, 68, each working independently in 1988, discovered an effect known as giant magnetoresistance, in which tiny changes in a magnetic field can produce huge changes in electrical resistance.

The effect is at the heart of modern gadgets that record data, music or snippets of video as a dense magnetic patchwork of zeros and ones, which is then scanned by a small head and converted to electrical signals.

“The MP3 and iPod industry would not have existed without this discovery,” Börje Johansson, a member of the Royal Swedish Academy, said, according to The Associated Press. “You would not have an iPod without this effect.”

In remarks broadcast over a speakerphone at the academy in Stockholm, Dr. Fert said: “I am so happy for my family, for my co-workers. And I am also very happy to share this with a friend.”

Experts said the discovery was one of the first triumphs of the new field of nanotechnology, the science of building and manipulating assemblies of atoms only a nanometer (a billionth of a meter) in size.

The scanning heads in today’s gizmos consist of alternating layers only a few atoms thick of a magnetic metal, like iron, and a nonmagnetic metal, like chromium. At that small size, the strange rules of quantum mechanics come into play and novel properties emerge.

The Nobel citation said Dr. Fert and Dr. Grünberg’s work also heralded the advent of a new, even smaller and denser type of memory storage called spintronics, in which information is stored and processed by manipulating the spins of electrons.

Engineers have been recording information magnetically and reading it out electrically since the dawn of the computer age, but as they have endeavored to pack more and more data onto their machines, they have been forced to use smaller and fainter magnetic inscriptions and thus more and more sensitive readout devices.

It has long been known that magnetic fields can affect the electrical resistance of magnetic materials like iron. Current flows more easily along field lines than across them. The effect was useful for sensing magnetic fields, and in heads that read magnetic disks. But it amounted to only a small change in resistance, and physicists did not think there were many prospects for improvement.

So it was a surprise in 1988 when groups led by Dr. Fert at the Laboratoire de Physique des Solides and by Dr. Grünberg found that super-slim sandwiches of iron and chromium showed enhanced sensitivity to magnetic fields — “giant magnetoresistance,” as Dr. Fert called it. The name stuck.

The reason for the effect has to do with what physicists call the spin of electrons. When the magnetic layers of the sandwich have their fields pointing in the same direction, electrons whose spin points along that direction can migrate freely through the sandwich, but electrons that point in another direction get scattered.

If, however, one of the magnetic layers is perturbed, by, say, reading a small signal, it can flip its direction so that its field runs opposite to the other one. In that case, no matter which way an electron points, it will be scattered and hindered from moving through the layers, greatly increasing the electrical resistance of the sandwich.

As Phillip Schewe, of the American Institute of Physics, explained, “You’ve leveraged a weak bit of magnetism into a robust bit of electricity.”

Subsequently, Stuart Parkin, now of I.B.M., came up with an easier way to produce the sandwiches on an industrial scale. The first commercial devices using giant magnetoresistance effect were produced in 1997.

Dr. Grünberg was born in Pilsen in what is now the Czech Republic and obtained his Ph.D. from the Darmstadt University of Technology in Germany in 1969. He has been asked many times over the years when he was going to win the big prize, and so was not surprised to win the Nobel, according to The A.P.

He said he was looking forward to being able to pursue his research without applying for grants for “every tiny bit.”

Dr. Fert was born in Carcassonne, France, and received his Ph.D. at the Université Paris-Sud in 1970. He told The A.P. that it was impossible to predict where modern physics is going to go.

“These days when I go to my grocer and see him type on a computer, I say, ‘Wow, he’s using something I put together in my mind,’” Dr. Fert said.

Copyright 2007 The New York Times Company
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2007-09-25T03:53:00.001-07:00

September 24, 2007
Buy a Laptop for a Child, Get Another Laptop Free
By STEVE LOHR

One Laptop Per Child, an ambitious project to bring computing to the developing world’s children, has considerable momentum. Years of work by engineers and scientists have paid off in a pioneering low-cost machine that is light, rugged and surprisingly versatile. The early reviews have been glowing, and mass production is set to start next month.

Orders, however, are slow. “I have to some degree underestimated the difference between shaking the hand of a head of state and having a check written,” said Nicholas Negroponte, chairman of the nonprofit project. “And yes, it has been a disappointment.”

But Mr. Negroponte, the founding director of the M.I.T. Media Laboratory, views the problem as a temporary one in the long-term pursuit of using technology as a new channel of learning and self-expression for children worldwide.

And he is reaching out to the public to try to give the laptop campaign a boost. The marketing program, to be announced today, is called “Give 1 Get 1,” in which Americans and Canadians can buy two laptops for $399.

One of the machines will be given to a child in a developing nation, and the other one will be shipped to the purchaser by Christmas. The donated computer is a tax-deductible charitable contribution. The program will run for two weeks, with orders accepted from Nov. 12 to Nov. 26.

Just what Americans will do with the slender green-and-white laptops is uncertain. Some people may donate them to local schools or youth organizations, said Walter Bender, president of the laptop project, while others will keep them for their own family or their own use.

The machines have high-resolution screens, cameras and peer-to-peer technology so the laptops can communicate wirelessly with one another. The machine runs on free, open source software. “Everything in the machine is open to the hacker, so people can poke at it, change it and make it their own,” said Mr. Bender, a computer researcher. “Part of what we’re doing here is broadening the community of users, broadening the base of ideas and contributions, and that will be tremendously valuable.”

The machine, called the XO Laptop, was not engineered with affluent children in mind. It was intended to be inexpensive, with costs eventually approaching $100 a machine, and sturdy enough to withstand harsh conditions in rural villages. It is also extremely energy efficient, with power consumption that is 10 percent or less of a conventional laptop computer.

Staff members of the laptop project were concerned that American children might try the pared-down machines and find them lacking compared to their Apple, Hewlett-Packard or Dell laptops. Then, in this era of immediate global communications, they might post their criticisms on Web sites and blogs read around the world, damaging the reputation of the XO Laptop, the project staff worried.

So the laptop project sponsored focus-group research with American children, ages 7 to 11, at the end of August. The results were reassuringly positive. The focus-group subjects liked the fact that the machine was intended specifically for children, and appreciated features like the machine-to-machine wireless communication. “Completely beastly” was the verdict of one boy. Another environmentally conscious youngster noted that the laptop “prevents global warming.”

Still, the “Give 1 Get 1” initiative is mainly about the giving. “The real reason is to get this thing started,” Mr. Negroponte said.

He said that if, for example, donations reached $40 million, that would mean 100,000 laptops could be distributed free in the developing world. The idea, he said, would be to give perhaps 5,000 machines to 20 countries to try out and get started.

“It could trigger a lot of things,” Mr. Negroponte said.

Late last year, Mr. Negroponte said he had hoped for orders for three million laptops, but those pledges have fallen short. Orders of a million each from populous Nigeria and Brazil did not materialize.

Still, the project has had successes. Peru, for example, will buy and distribute 250,000 of the laptops over the next year — many of them allocated for remote rural areas. Mexico and Uruguay, Mr. Negroponte noted, have made firm commitments. In a sponsorship program, the government of Italy has agreed to purchase 50,000 laptops for distribution in Ethiopia.

Each country will have different ideas about how to use the machines. Alan Kay, a computer researcher and adviser to the laptop project, said he expects one popular use will be to load textbooks at 25 cents or so each on the laptops, which has a high-resolution screen for easy reading.

“It’s probably going to be mundane in the early stages,” said Mr. Kay, who heads a nonprofit education group, whose learning software will be on the XO Laptop. “I’m an optimist that this will eventually work out,” Mr. Kay said.

Copyright 2007 The New York Times Company
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2007-09-24T03:57:00.000-07:00

September 23, 2007
Secret US air force team to perfect plan for Iran strike
Sarah Baxter, Washington

Also from Sarah Baxter: Israelis seized nuclear material in Syrian raid | Snatched: Israeli commandos ‘nuclear’ raid | Israelis 'blew apart Syrian nuclear cache' | Alan Greenspan: "Blair was clearly an aide to Brown"

THE United States Air Force has set up a highly confidential strategic planning group tasked with “fighting the next war” as tensions rise with Iran.

Project Checkmate, a successor to the group that planned the 1991 Gulf War’s air campaign, was quietly reestablished at the Pentagon in June.

It reports directly to General Michael Moseley, the US Air Force chief, and consists of 20-30 top air force officers and defence and cyberspace experts with ready access to the White House, the CIA and other intelligence agencies.

Detailed contingency planning for a possible attack on Iran has been carried out for more than two years by Centcom (US central command), according to defence sources.

Checkmate’s job is to add a dash of brilliance to Air Force thinking by countering the military’s tendency to “fight the last war” and by providing innovative strategies for warfighting and assessing future needs for air, space and cyberwarfare.

It is led by Brigadier-General Lawrence “Stutz” Stutzriem, who is considered one of the brightest air force generals. He is assisted by Dr Lani Kass, a former Israeli military officer and expert on cyberwarfare.

The failure of United Nations sanctions to curtail Iran’s nuclear ambitions, which Tehran claims are peaceful, is giving rise to an intense debate about the likelihood of military strikes.

Bernard Kouchner, the French foreign minister, said last week that it was “necessary to prepare for the worst . . . and the worst is war”. He later qualified his remarks, saying he wanted to avoid that outcome.

France has joined America in pushing for a tough third sanctions resolution against Iran at the UN security council but is meeting strong resistance from China and Russia. Britain has been doing its best to bridge the gap, but it is increasingly likely that new sanctions will be implemented by a US-led “coalition of the willing”.

Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who arrives in New York for the United Nations general assembly today, has been forced to abandon plans to visit ground zero, where the World Trade Center stood until the September 11 attacks of 2001. Politicians from President George W Bush to Senator Hillary Clinton, the Democratic frontrunner in the 2008 race for the White House, were outraged by the prospect of a visit to New York’s most venerated site by a “state sponsor” of terrorism.

Bush still hopes to isolate Iran diplomatically, but believes the regime is moving steadily closer to obtaining nuclear weapons while the security council bickers.

The US president faces strong opposition to military action, however, within his own joint chiefs of staff. “None of them think it is a good idea, but they will do it if they are told to,” said a senior defence source.

General John Abizaid, the former Centcom commander, said last week: “Every effort should be made to stop Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons, but failing that, the world could live with a nuclear-armed Iran.”

Critics fear Abizaid has lost sight of Iran’s potential to arm militant groups such as Hezbollah with nuclear weapons. “You can deter Iran, but there is no strategy against nuclear terrorism,” said the retired air force Lieutenant General Thomas McInerney of the Iran policy committee.

“There is no question that we can take out Iran. The problem is the follow-on, the velvet revolution that needs to be created so the Iranian people know it’s not aimed at them, but at the Iranian regime.”

Checkmate’s freethinking mission is “to provide planning inputs to warfighters that are strategically, operationally and tactically sound, logistically supportable and politically feasible”. Its remit is not specific to one country, according to defence sources, but its forward planning is thought relevant to any future air war against Iranian nuclear and military sites. It is also looking at possible threats from China and North Korea.

Checkmate was formed in the 1970s to counter Soviet threats but fell into disuse in the 1980s. It was revived under Colonel John Warden and was responsible for drawing up plans for the crushing air blitz against Saddam Hussein at the opening of the first Gulf war.

Warden told The Sunday Times: “When Saddam invaded Kuwait, we had access to unlimited numbers of people with expertise, including all the intelligence agencies, and were able to be significantly more agile than Centcom.”

He believes that Checkmate’s role is to develop the necessary expertise so that “if somebody says Iran, it says: ‘here is what you need to think about’. Here are the objectives, here are the risks, here is what it will cost, here are the numbers of planes we will lose, here is how the war is going to end and here is what the peace will look like”.

Warden added: “The Centcoms of this world are executional – they don’t have the staff, the expertise or the responsibility to do the thinking that is needed before a country makes the decision to go to war. War planning is not just about bombs, airplanes and sailing boats.”

AWARDS!

2007-09-10T03:24:00.000-07:00

This blog was named Blog of the Week by Top Blog Magazine

The Politics of God

2007-08-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

August 19, 2007

The Politics of God

By MARK LILLA

I. “The Will of God Will Prevail”

The twilight of the idols has been postponed. For more than two centuries, from the American and French Revolutions to the collapse of Soviet Communism, world politics revolved around eminently political problems. War and revolution, class and social justice, race and national identity — these were the questions that divided us. Today, we have progressed to the point where our problems again resemble those of the 16th century, as we find ourselves entangled in conflicts over competing revelations, dogmatic purity and divine duty. We in the West are disturbed and confused. Though we have our own fundamentalists, we find it incomprehensible that theological ideas still stir up messianic passions, leaving societies in ruin. We had assumed this was no longer possible, that human beings had learned to separate religious questions from political ones, that fanaticism was dead. We were wrong.

An example: In May of last year, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran sent an open letter to President George W. Bush that was translated and published in newspapers around the world. Its theme was contemporary politics and its language that of divine revelation. After rehearsing a litany of grievances against American foreign policies, real and imagined, Ahmadinejad wrote, “If Prophet Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Ishmael, Joseph or Jesus Christ (peace be upon him) were with us today, how would they have judged such behavior?” This was not a rhetorical question. “I have been told that Your Excellency follows the teachings of Jesus (peace be upon him) and believes in the divine promise of the rule of the righteous on Earth,” Ahmadinejad continued, reminding his fellow believer that “according to divine verses, we have all been called upon to worship one God and follow the teachings of divine Prophets.” There follows a kind of altar call, in which the American president is invited to bring his actions into line with these verses. And then comes a threatening prophecy: “Liberalism and Western-style democracy have not been able to help realize the ideals of humanity. Today, these two concepts have failed. Those with insight can already hear the sounds of the shattering and fall of the ideology and thoughts of the liberal democratic systems. . . . Whether we like it or not, the world is gravitating towards faith in the Almighty and justice and the will of God will prevail over all things.”

This is the language of political theology, and for millennia it was the only tongue human beings had for expressing their thoughts about political life. It is primordial, but also contemporary: countless millions still pursue the age-old quest to bring the whole of human life under God’s authority, and they have their reasons. To understand them we need only interpret the language of political theology — yet that is what we find hardest to do. Reading a letter like Ahmadinejad’s, we fall mute, like explorers coming upon an ancient inscription written in hieroglyphics.

The problem is ours, not his. A little more than two centuries ago we began to believe that the West was on a one-way track toward modern secular democracy and that other societies, once placed on that track, would inevitably follow. Though this has not happened, we still maintain our implicit faith in a modernizing process and blame delays on extenuating circumstances like poverty or colonialism. This assumption shapes the way we see political theology, especially in its Islamic form — as an atavism requiring psychological or sociological analysis but not serious intellectual engagement. Islamists, even if they are learned professionals, appear to us primarily as frustrated, irrational representatives of frustrated, irrational societies, nothing more. We live, so to speak, on the other shore. When we observe those on the opposite bank, we are puzzled, since we have only a distant memory of what it was like to think as they do. We all face the same questions of political existence, yet their way of answering them has become alien to us. On one shore, political institutions are conceived in terms of divine authority and spiritual redemption; on the other they are not. And that, as Robert Frost might have put it, makes all the difference.

Understanding this difference is the most urgent intellectual and political task of the present time. But where to begin? The case of contemporary Islam is on everyone’s mind, yet is so suffused with anger and ignorance as to be paralyzing. All we hear are alien sounds, motivating unspeakable acts. If we ever hope to crack the grammar and syntax of political theology, it seems we will have to begin with ourselves. The history of political theology in the West is an instructive story, and it did not end with the birth of modern science, or the Enlightenment, or the American and French Revolutions, or any other definitive historical moment. Political theology was a presence in Western intellectual life well into the 20th century, by which time it had shed the mind-set of the Middle Ages and found modern reasons for seeking political inspiration in the Bible. At first, this modern political theology expressed a seemingly enlightened outlook and was welcomed by those who wished liberal democracy well. But in the aftermath of the First World War it took an apocalyptic turn, and “new men” eager to embrace the future began generating theological justifications for the most repugnant — and godless — ideologies of the age, Nazism and Communism.

It is an unnerving tale, one that raises profound questions about the fragility of our modern outlook. Even the most stable and successful democracies, with the most high-minded and civilized believers, have proved vulnerable to political messianism and its theological justification. If we can understand how that was possible in the advanced West, if we can hear political theology speaking in a more recognizable tongue, represented by people in familiar dress with familiar names, perhaps then we can remind ourselves how the world looks from its perspective. This would be a small step toward measuring the challenge we face and deciding how to respond.

II. The Great Separation

Why is there political theology? The question echoes throughout the history of Western thought, beginning in Greek and Roman antiquity and continuing down to our day. Many theories have been proposed, especially by those suspicious of the religious impulse. Yet few recognize the rationality of political theology or enter into its logic. Theology is, after all, a set of reasons people give themselves for the way things are and the way they ought to be. So let us try to imagine how those reasons might involve God and have implications for politics.

Imagine human beings who first become aware of themselves in a world not of their own making. Their world has unknown origins and behaves in a regular fashion, so they wonder why that is. They know that the things they themselves fashion behave in a predictable manner because they conceive and construct them with some end in mind. They stretch the bow, the arrow flies; that is why they were made. So, by analogy, it is not difficult for them to assume that the cosmic order was constructed for a purpose, reflecting its maker’s will. By following this analogy, they begin to have ideas about that maker, about his intentions and therefore about his personality.

In taking these few short steps, the human mind finds itself confronted with a picture, a theological image in which God, man and world form a divine nexus. Believers have reasons for thinking that they live in this nexus, just as they have reasons for assuming that it offers guidance for political life. But how that guidance is to be understood, and whether believers think it is authoritative, will depend on how they imagine God. If God is thought to be passive, a silent force like the sky, nothing in particular may follow. He is a hypothesis we can do without. But if we take seriously the thought that God is a person with intentions, and that the cosmic order is a result of those intentions, then a great deal can follow. The intentions of such a God reveal something man cannot fully know on his own. This revelation then becomes the source of his authority, over nature and over us, and we have no choice but to obey him and see that his plans are carried out on earth. That is where political theology comes in.

One powerful attraction of political theology, in any form, is its comprehensiveness. It offers a way of thinking about the conduct of human affairs and connects those thoughts to loftier ones about the existence of God, the structure of the cosmos, the nature of the soul, the origin of all things and the end of time. For more than a millennium, the West took inspiration from the Christian image of a triune God ruling over a created cosmos and guiding men by means of revelation, inner conviction and the natural order. It was a magnificent picture that allowed a magnificent and powerful civilization to flower. But the picture was always difficult to translate theologically into political form: God the Father had given commandments; a Redeemer arrived, reinterpreting them, then departed; and now the Holy Spirit remained as a ghostly divine presence. It was not at all clear what political lessons were to be drawn from all this. Were Christians supposed to withdraw from a corrupted world that was abandoned by the Redeemer? Were they called upon to rule the earthly city with both church and state, inspired by the Holy Spirit? Or were they expected to build a New Jerusalem that would hasten the Messiah’s return?

Throughout the Middle Ages, Christians argued over these questions. The City of Man was set against the City of God, public citizenship against private piety, the divine right of kings against the right of resistance, church authority against radical antinomianism, canon law against mystical insight, inquisitor against martyr, secular sword against ecclesiastical miter, prince against emperor, emperor against pope, pope against church councils. In the late Middle Ages, the sense of crisis was palpable, and even the Roman Church recognized that reforms were in order. But by the 16th century, thanks to Martin Luther and John Calvin, there was no unified Christendom to reform, just a variety of churches and sects, most allied with absolute secular rulers eager to assert their independence. In the Wars of Religion that followed, doctrinal differences fueled political ambitions and vice versa, in a deadly, vicious cycle that lasted a century and a half. Christians addled by apocalyptic dreams hunted and killed Christians with a maniacal fury they had once reserved for Muslims, Jews and heretics. It was madness.

The English philosopher Thomas Hobbes tried to find a way out of this labyrinth. Traditionally, political theology had interpreted a set of revealed divine commands and applied them to social life. In his great treatise “Leviathan” (1651), Hobbes simply ignored the substance of those commands and talked instead about how and why human beings believed God revealed them. He did the most revolutionary thing a thinker can ever do — he changed the subject, from God and his commands to man and his beliefs. If we do that, Hobbes reasoned, we can begin to understand why religious convictions so often lead to political conflicts and then perhaps find a way to contain the potential for violence.

The contemporary crisis in Western Christendom created an audience for Hobbes and his ideas. In the midst of religious war, his view that the human mind was too weak and beset by passions to have any reliable knowledge of the divine seemed common-sensical. It also made sense to assume that when man speaks about God he is really referring to his own experience, which is all he knows. And what most characterizes his experience? According to Hobbes, fear. Man’s natural state is to be overwhelmed with anxiety, “his heart all the day long gnawed on by fear of death, poverty, or other calamity.” He “has no repose, nor pause of his anxiety, but in sleep.” It is no wonder that human beings fashion idols to protect themselves from what they most fear, attributing divine powers even, as Hobbes wrote, to “men, women, a bird, a crocodile, a calf, a dog, a snake, an onion, a leek.” Pitiful, but understandable.

And the debilitating dynamics of belief don’t end there. For once we imagine an all-powerful God to protect us, chances are we’ll begin to fear him too. What if he gets angry? How can we appease him? Hobbes reasoned that these new religious fears were what created a market for priests and prophets claiming to understand God’s obscure demands. It was a raucous market in Hobbes’s time, with stalls for Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Lutherans, Calvinists, Anabaptists, Quakers, Ranters, Muggletonians, Fifth Monarchy Men and countless others, each with his own path to salvation and blueprint for Christian society. They disagreed with one another, and because their very souls were at stake, they fought. Which led to wars; which led to more fear; which made people more religious; which. . . .

Fresh from the Wars of Religion, Hobbes’s readers knew all about fear. Their lives had become, as he put it, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” And when he announced that a new political philosophy could release them from fear, they listened. Hobbes planted a seed, a thought that it might be possible to build legitimate political institutions without grounding them on divine revelation. He knew it was impossible to refute belief in divine revelation; the most one can hope to do is cast suspicion on prophets claiming to speak about politics in God’s name. The new political thinking would no longer concern itself with God’s politics; it would concentrate on men as believers in God and try to keep them from harming one another. It would set its sights lower than Christian political theology had, but secure what mattered most, which was peace.

Hobbes was neither a liberal nor a democrat. He thought that consolidating power in the hands of one man was the only way to relieve citizens of their mutual fears. But over the next few centuries, Western thinkers like John Locke, who adopted his approach, began to imagine a new kind of political order in which power would be limited, divided and widely shared; in which those in power at one moment would relinquish it peacefully at another, without fear of retribution; in which public law would govern relations among citizens and institutions; in which many different religions would be allowed to flourish, free from state interference; and in which individuals would have inalienable rights to protect them from government and their fellows. This liberal-democratic order is the only one we in the West recognize as legitimate today, and we owe it primarily to Hobbes. In order to escape the destructive passions of messianic faith, political theology centered on God was replaced by political philosophy centered on man. This was the Great Separation.

III. The Inner Light

It is a familiar story, and seems to conclude with a happy ending. But in truth the Great Separation was never a fait accompli, even in Western Europe, where it was first conceived. Old-style Christian political theology had an afterlife in the West, and only after the Second World War did it cease to be a political force. In the 19th and early 20th centuries a different challenge to the Great Separation arose from another quarter. It came from a wholly new kind of political theology heavily indebted to philosophy and styling itself both modern and liberal. I am speaking of the “liberal theology” movement that arose in Germany not long after the French Revolution, first among Protestant theologians, then among Jewish reformers. These thinkers, who abhorred theocracy, also rebelled against Hobbes’s vision, favoring instead a political future in which religion — properly chastened and intellectually reformed — would play an absolutely central role.

And the questions they posed were good ones. While granting that ignorance and fear had bred pointless wars among Christian sects and nations, they asked: Were those the only reasons that, for a millennium and a half, an entire civilization had looked to Jesus Christ as its savior? Or that suffering Jews of the Diaspora remained loyal to the Torah? Could ignorance and fear explain the beauty of Christian liturgical music or the sublimity of the Gothic cathedrals? Could they explain why all other civilizations, past and present, founded their political institutions in accordance with the divine nexus of God, man and world? Surely there was more to religious man than was dreamed of in Hobbes’s philosophy.

That certainly was the view of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who did more than anyone to develop an alternative to Hobbes. Rousseau wrote no treatise on religion, which was probably a wise thing, since when he inserted a few pages on religious themes into his masterpiece, “Ãmile” (1762), it caused the book to be burned and Rousseau to spend the rest of his life on the run. This short section of “Ãmile,” which he called “The Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar,” has so deeply shaped contemporary views of religion that it takes some effort to understand why Rousseau was persecuted for writing it. It is the most beautiful and convincing defense of man’s religious instincts ever to flow from a modern pen — and that, apparently, was the problem. Rousseau spoke of religion in terms of human needs, not divine truths, and had his Savoyard vicar declare, “I believe all particular religions are good when one serves God usefully in them.” For that, he was hounded by pious Christians.

Rousseau had a Hobbes problem, too: he shared the Englishman’s criticisms of theocracy, fanaticism and the clergy, but he was a friend of religion. While Hobbes beat the drums of ignorance and fear, Rousseau sang the praises of conscience, of charity, of fellow feeling, of virtue, of pious wonder in the face of God’s creation. Human beings, he thought, have a natural goodness they express in their religion. That is the theme of the “Profession of Faith,” which tells the parable of a young vicar who loses his faith and then his moral compass once confronted with the hypocrisy of his co-religionists. He is able to restore his equilibrium only when he finds a new kind of faith in God by looking within, to his own “inner light” (lumière intérieure). The point of Rousseau’s story is less to display the crimes of organized churches than to show that man yearns for religion because he is fundamentally a moral creature. There is much we cannot know about God, and for centuries the pretense of having understood him caused much damage to Christendom. But, for Rousseau, we need to believe something about him if we are to orient ourselves in the world.

Among modern thinkers, Rousseau was the first to declare that there is no shame in saying that faith in God is humanly necessary. Religion has its roots in needs that are rational and moral, even noble; once we see that, we can start satisfying them rationally, morally and nobly. In the abstract, this thought did not contradict the principles of the Great Separation, which gave reasons for protecting the private exercise of religion. But it did raise doubts about whether the new political thinking could really do without reference to the nexus of God, man and world. If Rousseau was right about our moral needs, a rigid separation between political and theological principles might not be psychologically sustainable. When a question is important, we want an answer to it: as the Savoyard vicar remarks, “The mind decides in one way or another, despite itself, and prefers being mistaken to believing in nothing.” Rousseau had grave doubts about whether human beings could be happy or good if they did not understand how their actions related to something higher. Religion is simply too entwined with our moral experience ever to be disentangled from it, and morality is inseparable from politics.

IV. Rousseau’s Children

By the early 19th century, two schools of thought about religion and politics had grown up in the West. Let us call them the children of Hobbes and the children of Rousseau. For the children of Hobbes, a decent political life could not be realized by Christian political theology, which bred violence and stifled human development. The only way to control the passions flowing from religion to politics, and back again, was to detach political life from them completely. This had to happen within Western institutions, but first it had to happen within Western minds. A reorientation would have to take place, turning human attention away from the eternal and transcendent, toward the here and now. The old habit of looking to God for political guidance would have to be broken, and new habits developed. For Hobbes, the first step toward achieving that end was to get people thinking about — and suspicious about — the sources of faith.

Though there was great reluctance to adopt Hobbes’s most radical views on religion, in the English-speaking world the intellectual principles of the Great Separation began to take hold in the 18th century. Debate would continue over where exactly to place the line between religious and political institutions, but arguments about the legitimacy of theocracy petered out in all but the most forsaken corners of the public square. There was no longer serious controversy about the relation between the political order and the divine nexus; it ceased to be a question. No one in modern Britain or the United States argued for a bicameral legislature on the basis of divine revelation.

The children of Rousseau followed a different line of argument. Medieval political theology was not salvageable, but neither could human beings ignore questions of eternity and transcendence when thinking about the good life. When we speculate about God, man and world in the correct way, we express our noblest moral sentiments; without such reflection we despair and eventually harm ourselves and others. That is the lesson of the Savoyard vicar.

In the aftermath of the French Revolution, the Terror and Napoleon’s conquests, Rousseau’s children found a receptive audience in continental Europe. The recent wars had had nothing to do with political theology or religious fanaticism of the old variety; if anything, people reasoned, it was the radical atheism of the French Enlightenment that turned men into beasts and bred a new species of political fanatic. Germans were especially drawn to this view, and a wave of romanticism brought with it great nostalgia for the religious “world we have lost.” It even touched sober philosophers like Immanuel Kant and G. W. F. Hegel. Kant adored “Ãmile” and went somewhat further than Rousseau had, not only accepting the moral need for rational faith but arguing that Christianity, properly reformed, would represent the “true universal Church” and embody the very “idea” of religion. Hegel went further still, attributing to religion an almost vitalistic power to forge the social bond and encourage sacrifice for the public good. Religion, and religion alone, is the original source of a people’s shared spirit, which Hegel called its Volksgeist.

These ideas had an enormous impact on German religious thought in the 19th century, and through it on Protestantism and Judaism throughout the West. This was the century of “liberal theology,” a term that requires explanation. In modern Britain and the United States, it was assumed that the intellectual, and then institutional, separation of Christianity and modern politics had been mutually beneficial — that the modern state had benefited by being absolved from pronouncing on doctrinal matters, and that Christianity had benefited by being freed from state interference. No such consensus existed in Germany, where the assumption was that religion needed to be publicly encouraged, not reined in, if it was to contribute to society. It would have to be rationally reformed, of course: the Bible would have to be interpreted in light of recent historical findings, belief in miracles abandoned, the clergy educated along modern lines and doctrine adapted to a softer age. But once these reforms were in place, enlightened politics and enlightened religion would join hands.

Protestant liberal theologians soon began to dream of a third way between Christian orthodoxy and the Great Separation. They had unshaken faith in the moral core of Christianity, however distorted it may have been by the forces of history, and unshaken faith in the cultural and political progress that Christianity had brought to the world. Christianity had given birth to the values of individuality, moral universalism, reason and progress on which German life was now based. There could be no contradiction between religion and state, or even tension. The modern state had only to give Protestantism its due in public life, and Protestant theology would reciprocate by recognizing its political responsibilities. If both parties met their obligations, then, as the philosopher F. W. J. Schelling put it, “the destiny of Christianity will be decided in Germany.”

Among Jewish liberal thinkers, there was a different sort of hope, that of acceptance as equal citizens. After the French Revolution, a fitful process of Jewish emancipation began in Europe, and German Jews were more quickly integrated into modern cultural life than in any other European country — a fateful development. For it was precisely at this moment that German Protestants were becoming convinced that reformed Christianity represented their national Volksgeist. While the liberal Jewish thinkers were attracted to modern enlightened faith, they were also driven by the apologetic need to justify Judaism’s contribution to German society. They could not appeal to the principles of the Great Separation and simply demand to be left alone. They had to argue that Judaism and Protestantism were two forms of the same rational moral faith, and that they could share a political theology. As the Jewish philosopher and liberal reformer Hermann Cohen once put it, “In all intellectual questions of religion we think and feel ourselves in a Protestant spirit.”

V. Courting the Apocalypse

This was the house that liberal theology built, and throughout the 19th century it looked secure. It wasn’t, and for reasons worth pondering. Liberal theology had begun in hope that the moral truths of biblical faith might be intellectually reconciled with, and not just accommodated to, the realities of modern political life. Yet the liberal deity turned out to be a stillborn God, unable to inspire genuine conviction among a younger generation seeking ultimate truth. For what did the new Protestantism offer the soul of one seeking union with his creator? It prescribed a catechism of moral commonplaces and historical optimism about bourgeois life, spiced with deep pessimism about the possibility of altering that life. It preached good citizenship and national pride, economic good sense and the proper length of a gentleman’s beard. But it was too ashamed to proclaim the message found on every page of the Gospels: that you must change your life. And what did the new Judaism bring to a young Jew seeking a connection with the traditional faith of his people? It taught him to appreciate the ethical message at the core of all biblical faith and passed over in genteel silence the fearsome God of the prophets, his covenant with the Jewish people and the demanding laws he gave them. Above all, it taught a young Jew that his first obligation was to seek common ground with Christianity and find acceptance in the one nation, Germany, whose highest cultural ideals matched those of Judaism, properly understood. To the decisive questions — “Why be a Christian?” and “Why be a Jew?” — liberal theology offered no answer at all.

By the turn of the 20th century, the liberal house was tottering, and after the First World War it collapsed. It was not just the barbarity of trench warfare, the senseless slaughter, the sight of burned-out towns and maimed soldiers that made a theology extolling “modern civilization” contemptible. It was that so many liberal theologians had hastened the insane rush to war, confident that God’s hand was guiding history. In August 1914, Adolf von Harnack, the most respected liberal Protestant scholar of the age, helped Kaiser Wilhelm II draft an address to the nation laying out German military aims. Others signed an infamous pro-war petition defending the sacredness of German militarism. Astonishingly, even Hermann Cohen joined the chorus, writing an open letter to American Jews asking for support, on the grounds that “next to his fatherland, every Western Jew must recognize, revere and love Germany as the motherland of his modern religiosity.” Young Protestant and Jewish thinkers were outraged when they saw what their revered teachers had done, and they began to look elsewhere.

But they did not turn to Hobbes, or to Rousseau. They craved a more robust faith, based on a new revelation that would shake the foundations of the whole modern order. It was a thirst for redemption. Ever since the liberal theologians had revived the idea of biblical politics, the stage had been set for just this sort of development. When faith in redemption through bourgeois propriety and cultural accommodation withered after the Great War, the most daring thinkers of the day transformed it into hope for a messianic apocalypse — one that would again place the Jewish people, or the individual Christian believer, or the German nation, or the world proletariat in direct relation with the divine.

Young Weimar Jews were particularly drawn to these messianic currents through the writings of Martin Buber, who later became a proponent of interfaith understanding but as a young Zionist promoted a crude chauvinistic nationalism. In an early essay he called for a “Masada of the spirit” and proclaimed: “If I had to choose for my people between a comfortable, unproductive happiness . . . and a beautiful death in a final effort at life, I would have to choose the latter. For this final effort would create something divine, if only for a moment, but the other something all too human.” Language like this, with strong and discomforting contemporary echoes for us, drew deeply from the well of biblical messianism. Yet Buber was an amateur compared with the Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch, who used the Bible to extol the utopia then under construction in the Soviet Union. Though an atheist Jew, Bloch saw a connection between messianic hope and revolutionary violence, which he admired from a distance. He celebrated Thomas MÃ¼ntzer, the 16th-century Protestant pastor who led bloody peasant uprisings and was eventually beheaded; he also praised the brutal Soviet leaders, famously declaring “ubi Lenin, ibi Jerusalem” — wherever Lenin is, there is Jerusalem.

But it was among young Weimar Protestants that the new messianic spirit proved most consequential. They were led by the greatest theologian of the day, Karl Barth, who wanted to restore the drama of religious decision to Christianity and rejected any accommodation of the Gospel to modern sensibilities. When Hitler came to power, Barth acquitted himself well, leading resistance against the Nazi takeover of the Protestant churches before he was forced into exile in 1935. But others, who employed the same messianic rhetoric Barth did, chose the Nazis instead. A notorious example was Emanuel Hirsch, a respected Lutheran theologian and translator of Kierkegaard, who welcomed the Nazi seizure of power for bringing Germany into “the circle of the white ruling peoples, to which God has entrusted the responsibility for the history of humanity.” Another was Friedrich Gogarten, one of Barth’s closest collaborators, who sided with the Nazis in the summer of 1933 (a decision he later regretted). In the 1920s, Gogarten rejoiced at the collapse of bourgeois Europe, declaring that “we are glad for the decline, since no one enjoys living among corpses,” and called for a new religion that “attacks culture as culture . . . that attacks the whole world.” When the brownshirts began marching and torching books, he got his wish. After Hitler completed his takeover, Gogarten wrote that “precisely because we are today once again under the total claim of the state, it is again possible, humanly speaking, to proclaim the Christ of the Bible and his reign over us.”

All of which served to confirm Hobbes’s iron law: Messianic theology eventually breeds messianic politics. The idea of redemption is among the most powerful forces shaping human existence in all those societies touched by the biblical tradition. It has inspired people to endure suffering, overcome suffering and inflict suffering on others. It has offered hope and inspiration in times of darkness; it has also added to the darkness by arousing unrealistic expectations and justifying those who spill blood to satisfy them. All the biblical religions cultivate the idea of redemption, and all fear its power to inflame minds and deafen them to the voice of reason. In the writings of these Weimar figures, we encounter what those orthodox traditions always dreaded: the translation of religious notions of apocalypse and redemption into a justification of political messianism, now under frightening modern conditions. It was as if nothing had changed since the 17th century, when Thomas Hobbes first sat down to write his “Leviathan.”

VI. Miracles

The revival of political theology in the modern West is a humbling story. It reminds us that this way of thinking is not the preserve of any one culture or religion, nor does it belong solely to the past. It is an age-old habit of mind that can be reacquired by anyone who begins looking to the divine nexus of God, man and world to reveal the legitimate political order. This story also reminds us how political theology can be adapted to circumstances and reassert itself, even in the face of seemingly irresistible forces like modernization, secularization and democratization. Rousseau was on to something: we seem to be theotropic creatures, yearning to connect our mundane lives, in some way, to the beyond. That urge can be suppressed, new habits learned, but the challenge of political theology will never fully disappear so long as the urge to connect survives.

So we are heirs to the Great Separation only if we wish to be, if we make a conscious effort to separate basic principles of political legitimacy from divine revelation. Yet more is required still. Since the challenge of political theology is enduring, we need to remain aware of its logic and the threat it poses. This means vigilance, but even more it means self-awareness. We must never forget that there was nothing historically inevitable about our Great Separation, that it was and remains an experiment. In Europe, the political ambiguities of one religion, Christianity, happened to set off a political crisis that might have been avoided but wasn’t, triggering the Wars of Religion; the resulting carnage made European thinkers more receptive to Hobbes’s heretical ideas about religious psychology and the political implications he drew from them; and over time those political ideas were liberalized. Even then, it was only after the Second World War that the principles of modern liberal democracy became fully rooted in continental Europe.

As for the American experience, it is utterly exceptional: there is no other fully developed industrial society with a population so committed to its faiths (and such exotic ones), while being equally committed to the Great Separation. Our political rhetoric, which owes much to the Protestant sectarians of the 17th century, vibrates with messianic energy, and it is only thanks to a strong constitutional structure and various lucky breaks that political theology has never seriously challenged the basic legitimacy of our institutions. Americans have potentially explosive religious differences over abortion, prayer in schools, censorship, euthanasia, biological research and countless other issues, yet they generally settle them within the bounds of the Constitution. It’s a miracle.

And miracles can’t be willed. For all the good Hobbes did in shifting our political focus from God to man, he left the impression that the challenge of political theology would vanish once the cycle of fear was broken and human beings established authority over their own affairs. We still make this assumption when speaking of the “social causes” of fundamentalism and political messianism, as if the amelioration of material conditions or the shifting of borders would automatically trigger a Great Separation. Nothing in our history or contemporary experience confirms this belief, yet somehow we can’t let it go. We have learned Hobbes’s lesson too well, and failed to heed Rousseau’s. And so we find ourselves in an intellectual bind when we encounter genuine political theology today: either we assume that modernization and secularization will eventually extinguish it, or we treat it as an incomprehensible existential threat, using familiar terms like fascism to describe it as best we can. Neither response takes us a step closer to understanding the world we now live in.

It is a world in which millions of people, particularly in the Muslim orbit, believe that God has revealed a law governing the whole of human affairs. This belief shapes the politics of important Muslim nations, and it also shapes the attitudes of vast numbers of believers who find themselves living in Western countries — and non-Western democracies like Turkey and Indonesia — founded on the alien principles of the Great Separation. These are the most significant points of friction, internationally and domestically. And we cannot really address them if we do not first recognize the intellectual chasm between us: although it is possible to translate Ahmadinejad’s letter to Bush from Farsi into English, its intellectual assumptions cannot be translated into those of the Great Separation. We can try to learn his language in order to create sensible policies, but agreement on basic principles won’t be possible. And we must learn to live with that.

Similarly, we must somehow find a way to accept the fact that, given the immigration policies Western nations have pursued over the last half-century, they now are hosts to millions of Muslims who have great difficulty fitting into societies that do not recognize any political claims based on their divine revelation. Like Orthodox Jewish law, the Muslim Shariah is meant to cover the whole of life, not some arbitrarily demarcated private sphere, and its legal system has few theological resources for establishing the independence of politics from detailed divine commands. It is an unfortunate situation, but we have made our bed, Muslims and non-Muslims alike. Accommodation and mutual respect can help, as can clear rules governing areas of tension, like the status of women, parents’ rights over their children, speech offensive to religious sensibilities, speech inciting violence, standards of dress in public institutions and the like. Western countries have adopted different strategies for coping, some forbidding religious symbols like the head scarf in schools, others permitting them. But we need to recognize that coping is the order of the day, not defending high principle, and that our expectations should remain low. So long as a sizable population believes in the truth of a comprehensive political theology, its full reconciliation with modern liberal democracy cannot be expected.

VII. The Opposite Shore

This is not welcome news. For more than two centuries, promoters of modernization have taken it for granted that science, technology, urbanization and education would eventually “disenchant” the charmed world of believers, and that with time people would either abandon their traditional faiths or transform them in politically anodyne ways. They point to continental Europe, where belief in God has been in steady decline over the last 50 years, and suggest that, with time, Muslims everywhere will undergo a similar transformation. Those predictions may eventually prove right. But Europe’s rapid secularization is historically unique and, as we have just seen, relatively recent. Political theology is highly adaptive and can present to even educated minds a more compelling vision of the future than the prospect of secular modernity. It takes as little for a highly trained medical doctor to fashion a car bomb today as it took for advanced thinkers to fashion biblically inspired justifications of fascist and communist totalitarianism in Weimar Germany. When the urge to connect is strong, passions are high and fantasies are vivid, the trinkets of our modern lives are impotent amulets against political intoxication.

Realizing this, a number of Muslim thinkers around the world have taken to promoting a “liberal” Islam. What they mean is an Islam more adapted to the demands of modern life, kinder in its treatment of women and children, more tolerant of other faiths, more open to dissent. These are brave people who have often suffered for their efforts, in prison or exile, as did their predecessors in the 19th century, of which there were many. But now as then, their efforts have been swept away by deeper theological currents they cannot master and perhaps do not even understand. The history of Protestant and Jewish liberal theology reveals the problem: the more a biblical faith is trimmed to fit the demands of the moment, the fewer reasons it gives believers for holding on to that faith in troubled times, when self-appointed guardians of theological purity offer more radical hope. Worse still, when such a faith is used to bestow theological sanctification on a single form of political life — even an attractive one like liberal democracy — the more it will be seen as collaborating with injustice when that political system fails. The dynamics of political theology seem to dictate that when liberalizing reformers try to conform to the present, they inspire a countervailing and far more passionate longing for redemption in the messianic future. That is what happened in Weimar Germany and is happening again in contemporary Islam.

The complacent liberalism and revolutionary messianism we’ve encountered are not the only theological options. There is another kind of transformation possible in biblical faiths, and that is the renewal of traditional political theology from within. If liberalizers are apologists for religion at the court of modern life, renovators stand firmly within their faith and reinterpret political theology so believers can adapt without feeling themselves to be apostates. Luther and Calvin were renovators in this sense, not liberalizers. They called Christians back to the fundamentals of their faith, but in a way that made it easier, not harder, to enjoy the fruits of temporal existence. They found theological reasons to reject the ideal of celibacy, and its frequent violation by priests, and thus returned the clergy to ordinary family life. They then found theological reasons to reject otherworldly monasticism and the all-too-worldly imperialism of Rome, offering biblical reasons that Christians should be loyal citizens of the state they live in. And they did this, not by speaking the apologetic language of toleration and progress, but by rewriting the language of Christian political theology and demanding that Christians be faithful to it.

Today, a few voices are calling for just this kind of renewal of Islamic political theology. Some, like Khaled Abou El Fadl, a law professor at the University of California, Los Angeles, challenge the authority of today’s puritans, who make categorical judgments based on a literal reading of scattered Koranic verses. In Abou El Fadl’s view, traditional Islamic law can still be applied to present-day situations because it brings a subtle interpretation of the whole text to bear on particular problems in varied circumstances. Others, like the Swiss-born cleric and professor Tariq Ramadan, are public figures whose writings show Western Muslims that their political theology, properly interpreted, offers guidance for living with confidence in their faith and gaining acceptance in what he calls an alien “abode.” To read their works is to be reminded what a risky venture renewal is. It can invite believers to participate more fully and wisely in the political present, as the Protestant Reformation eventually did; it can also foster dreams of returning to a more primitive faith, through violence if necessary, as happened in the Wars of Religion.

Perhaps for this reason, Abou El Fadl and especially Ramadan have become objects of intense and sometimes harsh scrutiny by Western intellectuals. We prefer speaking with the Islamic liberalizers because they share our language: they accept the intellectual presuppositions of the Great Separation and simply want maximum room given for religious and cultural expression. They do not practice political theology. But the prospects of enduring political change through renewal are probably much greater than through liberalization. By speaking from within the community of the faithful, renovators give believers compelling theological reasons for accepting new ways as authentic reinterpretations of the faith. Figures like Abou El Fadl and Ramadan speak a strange tongue, even when promoting changes we find worthy; their reasons are not our reasons. But if we cannot expect mass conversion to the principles of the Great Separation — and we cannot — we had better learn to welcome transformations in Muslim political theology that ease coexistence. The best should not be the enemy of the good.

In the end, though, what happens on the opposite shore will not be up to us. We have little reason to expect societies in the grip of a powerful political theology to follow our unusual path, which was opened up by a unique crisis within Christian civilization. This does not mean that those societies necessarily lack the wherewithal to create a decent and workable political order; it does mean that they will have to find the theological resources within their own traditions to make it happen.

Our challenge is different. We have made a choice that is at once simpler and harder: we have chosen to limit our politics to protecting individuals from the worst harms they can inflict on one another, to securing fundamental liberties and providing for their basic welfare, while leaving their spiritual destinies in their own hands. We have wagered that it is wiser to beware the forces unleashed by the Bible’s messianic promise than to try exploiting them for the public good. We have chosen to keep our politics unilluminated by divine revelation. All we have is our own lucidity, which we must train on a world where faith still inflames the minds of men.

Mark Lilla is professor of the humanities at Columbia University. This essay is adapted from his book “The Stillborn God: Religion, Politics and the Modern West,” which will be published next month.

DATA ON RHYME

2007-07-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

DATA: RING AROUND O’ ROSIE

“This nursery rhyme began about 1347 and derives from the not-so-delightful Black Plague, which killed over twenty-five million people in the fourteenth century. The "ring around a rosie" refers to the round, red rash that is the first symptom of the disease. The practice of carrying flowers and placing them around the infected person for protection is described in the phrase, "a pocket full of posies." "Ashes" is a corruption or imitation of the sneezing sounds made by the infected person. Finally, "we all fall down" describes the many dead resulting from the disease.”

For the "plague" explanation of "Ring Around the Rosie" to be true, we have to believe that children were reciting this nursery rhyme continuously for over five centuries, yet not one person in that five hundred year span found it popular enough to merit writing it down. (How anyone could credibly assert that a rhyme which didn't appear in print until 1881 actually "began about 1347" is a mystery. If the rhyme were really this old, then "Ring Around the Rosie" antedates even Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and therefore we would have examples of this rhyme in Middle English as well as Modern English forms.)”

The more likely explanation is to be found in the religious ban on dancing among many Protestants in the nineteenth century, in Britain as well as here in North America. Adolescents found a way around the dancing ban with what was called in the United States the "play-party." Play-parties consisted of ring games which differed from square dances only in their name and their lack of musical accompaniment. They were hugely popular, and younger children got into the act, too. Some modern nursery games, particularly those which involve rings of children, derive from these play-party games. "Little Sally Saucer" (or "Sally Waters") is one of them, and "Ring Around the Rosie" seems to be another. The rings referred to in the rhymes are literally the rings formed by the playing children. "Ashes, ashes" probably comes from something like "Husha, husha" (another common variant) which refers to stopping the ring and falling silent. And the falling down refers to the jumble of bodies in that ring when they let go of each other and throw themselves into the circle.

As John Lennon once explained:

We've learned over the years that if we wanted we could write anything that just felt good or sounded good and it didn't necessarily have to have any particular meaning to us. As odd as it seemed to us, reviewers would take it upon themselves to interject their own meanings on our lyrics. Sometimes we sit and read other people's interpretations of our lyrics and think, 'Hey, that's pretty good.' If we liked it, we would keep our mouths shut and just accept the credit as if it was what we meant all along.

Butler, William S. and L. Douglas Keeney. Secret Messages.
New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001. ISBN 0-684-86998-5 (p. 114-115).