Terrorism and Family Ties Call for New Forms of Policing

That two pairs of brothers succeeded in most recent western-based acts of terrorism would not have surprised Oscar Handlin. In The Uprooted: The Epic Story of the Great Migrations That Made the American People, he observes that the nuclear family — which had not been preeminent in the previous world of interrelated but subtly separable networks of business, religion, clan, and recreation — emerges, in a new milieu where all these ties are severed, as the most durable social unit. This survival forces it to over-function. A wife might once have been able to chat with grandmothers, sisters, aunts, mother, mother-in-law, neighbors about domestic matters: separation from clan and country forces her to engage these topics with her husband. He, in turn, no longer has uncles, father, grandfathers, cousins, neighbors on whom he can rely, for conversation, for job referrals, for temporary asset transfers.

What he has left, in a patrilocal culture, is his brothers. Sisters leave home upon marriage, but brothers don’t move far from the nest. In the old countries, where people married without leaving the neighborhood or village, this didn’t impact the women as dramatically as it does in western countries. To a large extent, it is trust in brothers, uncles, and cousins (everyone rejects their parents in adolescence) that maintains what little social and economic durability a young man in a foreign country can use.

This explains how intelligence services missed the maturation of these murder plans. When terrorism becomes a family activity, the usual warning opportunities vanish. Most importantly, by eschewing a search for allies, family-based terrorism escapes the risk of failed or frightened allies who drop that dime. Secondly, they do not need a neutral semi-public meeting place, not even a separate safe house. Think of the 9/11 terror cells: a key requirement was the ability to avoid all broken windows policing. Think about why US intelligence quit watching Tamerlane Tsarnaev and French intelligence quit following the Quoereses: in both instances, as planning became more intensive, the terrorists left public view. Clearly they were focusing on family relationships, and sentimentalist assumptions in western culture concluded that they must have given up terrorist ideas and activities.

Eating home-cooked meals and having children has usually been associated with hope for personal longevity, not martyrdom. This tautology no longer applies to every “person of interest”. It would take personal information about each individual to understand why, but clearly, for quite a few, domestic bliss holds a poor candle compared to the bright lights of reconquering a despoiled homeland and regaining or improving the social standing one’s parents threw away by emigrating.

It could well be that while they live in western nations, these young men suffer intense humiliation with each instance of belittlement visited on the women and children they love. It could well be that some of these young men firmly believe that only terrorism will open the door to better social status for their sons and daughters, their faith, their language. If so, as with union militancy in our own US decades of economic turmoil, violence becomes not a rejection of family love, but an affirmation of it. I hate that thought, and do not advance it. But history cannot be denied, and this is what union terrorists once said.

I have often thought the the US has such a high divorce rate because of the way our voluntary emigrants turned their back on wider family ties. To this I now add a potential second form of blowback: socially marginalized families maintain enough trust to build complex plans for terrorism without dropping hints or leaving clues in the public square.

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Insults and Violence: A Scholar’s Analysis

The wife and I have been glued to the television this week, indeed this month, watching what were once civilizations degenerate into adolescent self-promotion networks. All I can say is that when Wayne LaPierre attempts to cloak extremisms of weaponry in Second Amendment altar cloths, he makes much less progress than do the insult-slingers who have monopolized our attention for an entire month, in the name of a sadly-embarrassed First Amendment. I neither agree nor disagree with the content of the movie called “The Interview,” nor with the little bit of Charlie Hebdo available to me. What pains me is that these two purveyors of insult and iconoclasm have been mistaken for art, for journalism.

Still, shoddy stuff gets published, printed, projected all the time, and as an ordained minister, there is no question that insult and iconoclasm push my buttons. Imagine, then, my relief, to discover, on C-Span, a scholar who dives into the cold, hard framework of communal identity-building to categorize various forms of insult that play a role in the process. Karina Korostelina comes from the Crimean Ukraine but now holds forth at George Mason University, in the field of International Relations. IR was my field before ministry, but never did I approach her analytic prowess.

So here’s the link to her 90-minute seminar at the Kennan Center at the Woodrow Wilson School. Her examples don’t mean that much to me, because she feels for the former Soviet Union in a way I have never tried to approach through study or friendship. Her questioners include challengers who disagree with her characterizations of certain disputes, which shows that they do not challenge her fundamental framework. She puts insult into six categories according to the needs of the insulter, and cautions — correctly in my view — that insult forms, shapes and can direct a dynamic relationship between two parties, groups, nations. In some cases, she says, insults can substitute for violence, but in too many, insults escalate –deliberately — the pace of impending violence. Her talk was taped on 17 December 2014, and refers to the Sony film, “The Interview,” which was, in that week, being suppressed by its corporate sponsors. But somewhere in the suburbs of Paris, the assaults on Charlie Hebdo and the kosher supermarket were taking final form. Her book, her work, could not be more topical, more vital.

So, in the spirit of David Brooks, and other folks venturing cautiously to say, “Je ne suis pas Charlie” — and hastening to add that insults should not be capital crimes — I commend this scholar to you. Her new book appears to be coming soon, and she includes, in a portion of the book covered only briefly in the question-and-answer, a first attempt to distinguish between satire and insult. Being an academic tome, this book costs $50+ on Amazon. I hope that by calling attention to her work — not endorsing every word, but by offering her clear, comprehensive framework as a starting point — we can knock down its price and lift up our public conversation.

Happy New Year. Let’s see if we can correct its errant launch.

Scarier Than Ebola, Worse than Guns

During the couple of weeks that my wife’s body was building up bacteria from a urinary tract infection, we almost had to turn off our regular news shows because all they could talk about was THE EBOLA THREAT.

What was THE EBOLA THREAT? As I’ve written before, it had nothing whatsoever to do with our personal prospects for dying. The only people who contracted it in this country were health care workers who had the misfortune to fall victim to some small flaw in their Personal Protective Environment (PPEs– the space suits) and thereby come into brief contact with the virus.

But what about the one person who did die of ebola in this country? Thomas Eric Duncan came here from an affected nation to fulfill a long-held dream of marriage and family reunification. When his symptoms appeared, he did what he was supposed to do: isolated himself from his family, and then, as his fever rose, went to the hospital, and told them he had just come from Liberia. And what did they do? They gave him some antibiotics and sent him home, with a fever of 103 degrees.

This kept coming back to me as my wife and I struggled home from our first emergency department visit two weekends ago. She, too, had a fever — very rare for her — and she, too, was given antibiotics and sent home. They had watched her for hours for concussion, but she refuted every possible symptom, every hour on the hour. She flexed her feet, pushed back their palms. Most humorously, although she could not correctly tell them what year it was, she could tell them whose names she had checked on her absentee ballot earlier that week. Perhaps the medical staff do not believe Progressive Democrats need to be able to walk, because when they threw us out at 3 a.m., exhausted and frightened, my wife declined to put even one foot on the floor. What was the person thinking who wheeled her out to the car and pretty much lifted her in?

And a few hours later, naturally, she fell again. Well, even if you’re not dizzy from an advanced infection, if you have Huntington’s Disease, falling is something you can plan on. This weekend was different primarily because she could not get herself back up. So we had to call the ambulance, for a second time in 24 hours.

When we arrived, the nurses and doctors greeted us without surprise. They confused us by asking enthusiastically if we had arrived in response to the neurosurgeon’s phone call. What phone call? Come to find out, that when the morning staff came in, they reviewed her brain scans and discovered a pinpoint brain bleed. As we arrived, they were preparing a room to operate on the same brain that a few hours ago someone had ferried back to our 1998 Corolla.

So what really killed Thomas Eric Duncan, depriving his fiancee and their son of the family life of which they long had dreamed? Was it really ebola? Or did he, as my own wife almost did, succumb to hospital error?

This is when it’s great to live in a small place like Burlington, Vermont. The doctors have time to back each other up and catch mistakes. The nurses — like the one who was the first to detect the infection, while doing the unglamorous task of emptying a bedpan — have our doctors’ full respect. Now that we’re home, the visiting nurse evaluator, even the state benefits adjuster, are all familiar to us and with us. All of them wonder why she was dismissed with only one live-in caregiver when the instructions clearly said she required two person transfers. But we’re managing. We had a few scary hours, but the networks overlap and all is well.

This is rare. For too many Americans, there is no safety net at all. Crappy insurance, or none at all, keeps people from seeking medical care until their diagnosis is acute. Probably one thing has led to another, as in our case, so medical teams might catch two tricky things and still miss that third one.

According to the most recent statistics available, as many as 400,000 Americans die each year of hospital errors — both omission and commission, as we say in the religion business. 17,227 die of falls, 129,476 of cardiovascular disease, 36,000 of the flu and its complications. My wife in that Sunday dawn two weeks ago dodged a passel of bullets that drop all too many Americans (not to mention our guests) out of what should be the normal courses of happy lives.

As things calm down here at home, I finally got an hour to sit down and clean out my old phone messages. There, indeed, was the one from the neurosurgeon. A doctor who had the time and institutional support — the political climate — to start his morning by checking whether the overnight crew had missed anything important. Neurosurgeons aren’t cheap. But to everyone who loses a loved one to hospital error — to the grieving family of Thomas Eric Duncan — doctor money is a very small price to pay.

Deep Gym

Huntington’s Disease belongs to a group known as “neuro-degenerative” — meaning parts of the brain are dying — and it belongs, as well, to a group called “movement disorders.” Most people, if they know anything about HD at all, know its strange involuntary motions. Long before the chorea (known to earlier eras as St. Vitus’s Dance). The neuro-degenerative part begins long before that, and aggravates tendencies to anxiety and depression. As it progresses, it eats into executive and administrative functions — often leaving intellect fairly intact. With the decline of speech, locked-in syndrome is looking more and more like a possibility. But as my wife and I close in on her thirteenth year since diagnosis (February 2002), we’ve learned that this disease, like any other, has enemies in the cluster of habits and practices known as physical self-care, mental stimulation, and spiritual discipline.

In particular — now that there is a medication (from Europe, not Big Pharma) — that can help calm the chorea, we make daily, sometimes minute-by-minute use of our lifetimes of sports, yoga, strength-training, and just going out for walks. Deep Gym, let’s call it. Deep Gym started for me as a child, when my mom would get my father off to work, clean up the breakfast dishes, march into the living room and break out her Bonnie Pruden exercise records. There we would all be on the floor, looking at the fold-out book of stretches, sit-ups, push-ups and who knows what else. She took us to the Y for swimming lessons, and my dad drove us into the mountains on weekends for long hikes. In school I was a klutz at games and sports, but healthy activity played a happy part in our family culture. Through the years, I added some light yoga from an old hippie paperback, and kept up occasional visits to the local gyms or Y. Sometimes the repetition bores, because my muscles would prefer a bit more adventure. And then something hurts and I relish the muscular wisdom of Deep Gym.

For my wife, athletics centered her social and spatial life. Basketball, softball, boating, hammers and saws, long walks for watching birds. For a long time, as her disease started cutting into peak activities, she simply scaled down. Bicycles too tippy? Old Spokes Home will make a tricycle. Kayaking too risky? Easy enough to switch to a flat-bottomed row boat. Boating and rolling not possible? Time for a good long walk — or a short one, to the bluff above Lake Champlain, two blocks away. Like mine, her muscles love reaching into their Deep Gym however they can.

Last week, she started falling inexplicably. It turned out not to be Huntington’s Disease, but a urinary tract infection that made her dizzy. (Warning to Boomers — the burning sensation doesn’t happen as often, so the infection might not announce itself until you’re really sick). Once the antibiotics stabilized her chemistry, HD still complicates her recovery. Especially when tired, her muscles and limbs seem to have forgotten such simple tasks as rolling, bending, lifting. For the moment, she has to use a wheelchair, just to be safe in the house. And she’s staying int the house, until her strength and coordination get back to normal.

We’re on our own this weekend. She weighs 129, I weigh 124, so when she slides off a target platform — a seat or bed — I need her to participate in self-levitation. Yesterday, she couldn’t do it. We had to call the fire department for a lift. (This is expensive, and they already took us to the hospital twice last weekend.) Today, when she slid down, we calmed ourselves and I showed her that it would help me if she would do a “squat thrust.” I marveled to have remembered the term. And then I marveled even more, as she watched me demonstrate it once or twice, and then — she followed suit. Deep Gym to the rescue.

Tomorrow, we begin five days of intensive physical and occupational therapy, with who knows how much more to follow. Tiring, but exhilarating. Because I choose to be her main caregiver, it often reminds us of dancing.

Someday, you or someone you love, might find yourself/themselves facing one of the movement disorders — Parkinson’s,, MS, ALS, HD, etc. Perhaps you/they will have a neuro-degenerative. So let our experience encourage you. Keep working on that Deep Gym treasure chest — and someday, it will show up to work for you.

Sometimes Her Huntington’s Disease Shuts Down My Ability to Write

My brain is full of thoughts I’d like to develop into blog posts. Likewise, a fellow historian honored me with a request to provide him with a critical reading of a paper before he presents it next week before our colleagues in Collegium. My sister-in-law-once-removed has just published a book that’s sitting beside my favorite chair…

But last week an unrelated fever weakened my wife and sent her spinning into a series of falls that resulted in a small brain bleed. It stabilized quickly, but we’re settled into a rehab hospital for what looks like two weeks of rehab. Already we’ve had to buy a new bed (it’s been an expensive month for furniture: her falls broke a couple of chairs, too) and she will probably be using a walker again, likely for good. We’ve been  cuddled into a single hospital bed, drawing strength from closeness and love.

But I’m lucky. My inability to focus on writing doesn’t mean my whole world has shrunk. I get to walk around the hospital without supervision — which she does not — and can even jump in my car every afternoon to go home and visit our cat, ferry things back and forth as needed daily. I still luxuriate in the second floor claw foot tub she will never even see again. Caregiving is never as bad as being the person who needs it.

A Fast Fix for the US Government Revolving Door

Just in case you’ve been too busy to look at the 1790 US Census — signed by Thomas Jefferson! — here’s synopsis I’ll be using to make my point. (Citation: Haines, Michael. “Fertility and Mortality in the United States”. EH.Net Encyclopedia, edited by Robert Whaples. March 19, 2008. URL http://eh.net/encyclopedia/fertility-and-mortality-in-the-united-states/)

One fact jumps out: Life expectancy as late as 1850 was less than forty years old, even for white Americans.

What does this mean? The Constitution’s minimum ages for office are shamefully out of keeping with today’s life expectancy. James Madison and his team feared hot-headed youth at the reins of power, just as they feared hot-headed mobs choosing the US Senate or a hot-headed President launching a war. Elevated minimum ages were also a subtle means of imposing a wealth requirement, because what killed a lot of young adult males was accidents involved in making a living. Hunting accidents that turned into gangrene. Blade-related accidents that turned into tetanus. Bad water and unpreserved food that took out the digestive tract. Folks with servants and slaves to run these risks didn’t just have the chance to get an education when young, they had a chance to eat, drink, and make merry during their young adult years without chopping off a foot the next day or succumbing to a buddy’s missed aim in the field.

What does this mean for our era? People are using Congress as a stepping stone to lucrative careers in lobbying, contracting, and at the upper reaches of financial and educational money mills. And the Presidency! Either we’re going to have to execute them on their last day in office, or plan to have nothing but dynasties from now on.

So here’s my simple plan. Never mind the US Senate, which has become such a millionaires’ club (not that being a millionaire is that big these days). Let’s take all branches of government and require everyone at the federal level to have reached 55 years of age before they can be considered for public service. US Supreme Court and the rest of the federal bench, everyone in the Congress, and above all else, the White House.

This doesn’t just mean the public officials will have had to have a long-term track record, but their children will have had to do something besides getting in line to continue the family industry. This might give what’s left of local media a way to re-energize themselves, because most of what a member of Congress will have done will now be researchable when they run. By definition, members of Congress will have several generations of work and personal record on which run, which will greatly temper their ability to proclaim strong ideals and party loyalty. But if we’ve learned anything from the Bush and other dynasties (Michael Powell comes to mind), employing the immediate family of office-holders and party-leaders constitutes a back-door form of bribery. Here is where local and national media need to develop thick skin and investigate not just the candidate’s money, but everyone on which their family has deep confidence.

Up here in Vermont, we have this situation more or less by accident, because our small population means we have few top-of-ballot offices and therefore, anyone who wants them has to have spent a long time earning them. The one person who tried to buy one of them — Richard Tarrant, who ran for the US Senate against Bernie Sanders when Jim Jeffords retired — has entered electoral lore as the candidate who spent money per vote in a losing effort.

And how did he lose against the fifteenth-poorest member of the Senate? He faced someone who had shaken every hand in the state, repeatedly for several decades. And before that, every hand in the state’s population center, again for most of a decade. Everyone knows him. We don’t like everything about him, but he has no secrets that deeply affect how we feel about him. Even now, when someone is running an ad pointing out that his wife got a golden parachute to leave her job at Burlington College, most of us know how much it was.

Huntington’s Disease and Herculaneum

When I wrote fondly last week about my joy at playing house, did I mention that it sits on a volcano? Like all volcanoes, this one troubles and frightens in various ways, but not all the time, and not in any pattern. Maybe it’s more like living near several volcanoes, each with its own separate pattern. You might have seen one of those documentaries about the various Iceland volcanoes. One blows straight up in the air, one kind of seeps, another threatens to spew forth enough heat to bury the nearby towns and farms with mud from rapid melting of its usually beautiful glacier. Each of those unpronounceable names has particular characteristics, each of which signals a clear and separate scenario to volcanologists.

The name of our volcano is Huntington’s Disease. It lives in my wife like a parasite, often resting, but always on the lookout for some way to kidnap her body and turn it against us. When we married, I told the minister to announce that our marriage has three participants, because she fights the disease with as much detachment as I do. It has not become her new being, even though it changes her shapes and talents in irreversible ways.

Three weekends ago, as I dug out one of the tougher tree roots, my mind flashed an image — as it does in so many stray moments — of the flash-fried corpses discovered so recently at Herculaneum, at the foot of Mt. Vesuvius. When the lava engulfed them, it perfectly preserved the poses in which they sought comfort. If a shout should come from my open living room window, and I arrived too late to forestall the fall, the choking incident, whatever it would be that would cut short her life, my tree stump would be like one of those Herculaneum bodies: caught mid-task for ages to come.|

Other times, the volcano that looms is Kilauea, the constantly oozing lava that slowly crunches over Hawaii’s trees and roads and houses. My wife just slows down, does less. Fighting the disease is so constant, and although it takes over the brain, it controls the entire body. After a long, ambitious day, she’s likely to spend the next one looking as if she were walking under water. Maybe only sleeping.

But the one that scares me the most is Mt. Pinatubo. Perhaps you remember those films from the Philippines, no more than about twenty years ago. There were warning signals and evacuations, saving thousands of lives. But then, when the mountain erupted, spewing ash into a tropical rainstorm that would have been a disaster all on its own, mud spattered down everywhere. Lahars — lava-mixed mud — rolled down in large rivers, while lava-mixed rain coated the countryside as if in some overdone theatrical: whiteface on the people, the cattle, the pets, the cars and trucks and squalid little bags that held their lives.

What will our lahar-rain look like? Maybe she’ll swallow too much liquid into her lungs and be strangled by that vicious pneumonia. Maybe she’ll fall and suffer one of the major disabilities that beset us women of sixty and over. If these things happen, she will still be my wife, but our cute little home will be shattered. My caregiving-based funding will end when she enters the hospital or residential care. My ties to the community are tenuous, because I spend so much time at home, but residential care or hospitalization will completely uproot me. I’ll look like one of those tree stumps whose roots lie cut around them.

Huntington’s Disease has no cure, and after all the excitement about finding its genetic marker, the subsequent decade has revealed that the gene requires activators the doctors don’t understand. There are some correlative factors that seem important, but no one knows why. My wife is the youngest — one of the risk factors — and her father was somewhat older when she was born — which is now factoring into several neurological syndromes. On the other hand, it appears that in her family the activators have delayed the onset of symptoms past the point they would have been predicted by just the genetic marker.

Maybe you don’t care about this, because no one in your family has this disease. But it’s the only hereditary member of a cluster that might well rumble into your life — Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, maybe even ALS or MS. More and more, our research communities are cross-fertilizing each other. Yes, ALS is still the worst, and fully deserving of all that ice-bucket money you might have heard about. But would you spare a thought for us, living here in this cluster of volcanoes, and donate for research into Huntington’s Disease? We need brain scans to identify the sectors of each HD brain as it wins and loses particular regional battles. My wife, for instance, has phenomenal intellectual capacity, but impulse control and anxiety attacks slice into our lives almost daily.

Next Saturday, September 27, 2014, our humble little Vermont chapter of the Huntington’s Disease Society of America, will walk to raise funds. Our chapter has expenses — a paid convener — and dreams, such as a local residential facility, so caregivers can maintain rooted lives when our loved ones are no longer at home. Please click on our website and make a donation:

http://www.hdsa.org/team-hope-2012/lets-get-started/map/burlington-vt.html

And thank you.