Thursday, 25 April 2019


Argentina’s decade of doom rolled out throbbing with rage, seething with passion, lashing out in a fury of revenge, and boiling over into a never-ending nightmare.

Illustration: Alfredo Sabat, La Nación.
“Hate is a factor in the struggle; unyielding hatred for the enemy which pushes a human being his natural limitations, turning him into an effective violent, selecting, cold killing machine. Our soldiers have to be thus. Without hate, people cannot triumph over a brutal enemy.”
Che Guevara

“These things happened at a time we find hard to acknowledge. Life was worth nothing, and I suspect the killers weren’t worth much more. The killers on the one side, and on the other. Two Evils? It’s all the same to me. Let each one call it what they will but, in the meantime it would be worth asking oneself how to judge he who murders a little girl in the name of social revolution, or he who kidnaps, tortures and kills in the name of the State.”
Jorge Luis Borges


Buenos Aires, September 23, 1973

Primavera. A nourishing overnight drizzle softened the cricks of a brief, brutal winter. At first light the clouds parted, and the heavens shimmered in azure.
In the barrio of Flores, thirteen burly men milled around a Torino sedan parked by a modest house. Some paced the sidewalk, eyes darting left and right, others scanned the windows, the streets, and cars passing them by. The small battalion, whose boss shifted quarters with deliberate irregularity was the most practiced in the country.
When the bells of the Basilica began to toll, a bodyguard slid into the driver’s seat and the Torino’s powerful engine roared to life. 
Hidden inside the house next door, three men watched without blinking as the driver slammed the door.
 Sierra cocked a nine-millimiter Browning. “I got the driver.”  
 “I’ll start with the gorillas,” growled Víctor, aiming an Ithaca rifle at the bodyguards.  
“I’ll back you when I’m done with the Fat Cat.” Oscar trained his FAL rifle on the front door of the target’s home.
“He’s all yours.” Víctor’s voice was drowned by the pealing bells.
The fat cat was José Rucci a tough, clever negotiator who prospered with the powerful steelworkers’ union and took the second most important job in the country—labor boss.The previous year had been tumultuous for Rucci while he managed Juan Perón’s political comeback. 
After two decades in exile Perón returned to Argentina, seeking another presidency. Thanks to Rucci’s tireless work, Perón won the general election with a notable majority and became the first constitutional president in fifteen years. The military despots were forced out, two million jubilant fans braved the rain and flooded the airport, and Rucci stood on the tarmac holding a large umbrella for the towering Perón.
Upstairs on the terrace, Rucci finished editing aspeech he would deliver onthe evening news. He kissed his wife goodbye, opened the door, nodded at his men, and walked towards the idling Torino.  
        Oscar squeezed the trigger.
        The first bullet shattered Rucci’s neck. His body hit a wall and crumpled on the sidewalk.
The bodyguards were quickly cut down by a deluge of bullets. While the men bled in the street, relentless fire turned Rucci´s body into pulp.
        The driver slid out of the Torino, his face covered in blood and glass. Using the heavy chassis as a shield, he crawled along the pavement, towards a school. At the metal gates, he drew a final breath and screamed, “Open up, my brother! I’m dying.” 
        When the first shots rang out, excited children pressed their noses to the windows while terrified teachers scrambled to protect them. The school caretaker raced to the gates and locked them. At the sight of the dying man, he could not contain his grief.
         “I can’t!” He sobbed.
         On the street, the driver gasped once and lay still. 
 Oscar, Sierra and Víctor scampered over the neighbors’ roofs confident as tomcats and split towards their own vehicles.
 Oscar sauntered along the street and slipped into the passenger seat of a compact car.His driver, Bravo, peered at him with a glint of mischief in the eye. 
“I have been wondering—” Bravo had little knowledge of the guts of the operation.
Why we called it Traviata?” Oscar frowned.
        Bravo whizzed around a corner and jammed the brakes. An ambulance screamed past them. 
Oscar watched the ambulance for a beat. “Our deal with Perón was that Montoneros would help him win the election in return for Cabinet posts. From his mansion in Spain, Perón hailed us as his marvelous youthbut as soon as he got back on the throne, he rolled his eyes towards Rucci and kicked us in the ass.”
         Bravo drove sedately while police cars roared by. “Instead of thanking us for helping with the campaign, Rucci and the right-wing faction try to push us off the stage.”
         Oscar chuckled. “You know the Traviata cookies advertised as having twenty-three holes punched through them?”  
         “My children love them.”
         “Rucci´s body is a treat for our great leader, courtesy of his marvelous youth.”
 There was chaos in Flores after the killing of its revered resident, José Rucci. Television, radio and print journalists flooded the streets, hungry for information. Tape recorders whirred, cameras clicked, witnesses lied. No one saw anything, but word on the street was that a tempest would rage upon them from which not even the survivors might emerge.
 Investigators quickly unraveled part of the story, and a relieved police chief held a press conference. The house next door to the Rucci family, he told reporters, was under renovations. When police swarmed the place, they found the owner tied to a chair, beaten, dehydrated, at the point of collapse. In a tremulous voice, the elderly woman told police about the three nice men at her door wearing overalls and hefting brushes and paint cans. She felt it was too soon for the painters to arrive, but they were good looking and polite, and she felt compelled to open the door. As soon as she did, they slapped her, bound her to a chair and locked her in her room.
Investigators found shell casings, footprints and cigarette butts, and several cans of paint and brushes strewn behind a large plastic curtain which hung from the ceiling. On the way to the hospital, a surviving bodyguard whispered that they had checked the neighbor’s house inside out, with the owner’s permission, and found nothing suspicious.
“The marksmen,” growled the police chief, “knew exactly when to strike”.
          Fear and rage whipped through the halls of the presidential palace, Casa Rosada. Gossip proliferated about the assassins and speculation grew about who they might be.
          Perón knew. At the news of the killing he screamed, “Rucci was like a son to me. Those terrorists have cut me off at the knees!” Minutes later he summoned his cabinet and ordered them to deploy the paramilitary force, Triple A, and eliminate Montoneros.
          Argentina’s Dirty War had begun.
  Early next morning, while the authorities scoured the city for Rucci’s assassins, Oscar slung a satchel over his shoulder and drove to a bungalow tucked in a suburban cul-de-sac.
  Huddling in the foliage of centenary trees, two sentinels watched the man with the satchel approaching.Sierra leaned on a tree trunk, snoring softly. 
  His colleague, Charlie, peered anxiously through the branches and murmured, “There he is.”Charlie’s gravelly voice woke his comrade with a start. 
 Sierra craned his neck and had a look. “A man to remember.”
         Charlie watched the muscular man bouncing up the path. “He’s not that impressive.”
          Sierra chortled. Till you get in his crosshairs.” 
           “What is he up to?”
           “You talk too much.” Sierra leaned back and closed his eyes.
           “I am guarding the lair of the supreme commander. Isn’t that proof of my loyalty?”
            “Loyalty,” Sierra groaned and sat up. “You haven’t even started. You need to neutralize two police officers before you get your stripes. The man you say is not that special just turned Perón’s right hand man into minced meat.”
           Charlie opened his eyes wide. “He—”
   Sierra sat back and closed his eyes. “You are looking at a cell commander, and don’t you forget it.”
  Inside the bungalow, the windows were blacked out.Two chairs and a table stacked with U.S. dollar bills were its only decor. Seated at the table, a man counted the money. At the rapping on the door—two knocks, a pause, one knock—hegrabbed a pistol, tiptoed to the door and opened it wide enough for Oscar to slip through. 
  Oscar entered the navel of Montonero covert operations. Pumped with a deep sense of accomplishment he prowled around the table, peering at the stacks of crumpled dollar bills. He sat down and fixed a respectful gaze upon the money man.
          Over a scant six years, the supreme commander Alpha, adevout Catholic and top student transformed a group of reckless, mutinous Marxist men into Montoneros, a cold and efficient killing machine just as Che Guevara ordered in 1967, the year of his death.
          Without preamble Alpha said, “What is your greatest fear?” His dark eyes glittered while he gathered the money with rubber bands.
 Oscar fired back, “The cage. Years back, my father drove me to the wild animal reserve in Formosa. The locals had caught a puma ravaging their livestock, and there it was, wounded, pacing around in a cage. The cat stopped and staredat me,and I saw despair in those amber eyes.” 
         Oscar sprang from the chair and paced the floor. “Despite the heat, I shivered. My father wanted to take me to a doctor, but I refused. What I needed was the key to the cage.”
Alpha stacked several bundles of bills and set them apart. “With successful ops like Traviatawe destabilize Perón’s government and infuriate the armed forces.” 
He motioned for Oscar to sit down. “First we draw them into our embrace. Then we disarm and destroy them.”
“Montoneros is the only option for the people.”
“And that is the key, Commander.” Alpha handed Oscar the money. “As soon as we have set up a democracy with rights and freedoms for all, the anguish of captivity will end.” 
Oscar stood rod straight. “I am honored.” 
He stuffed the bills in the satchel. 
“We shall strike like lightning, without fear or regret.”
        Alpha saluted, military style. “Congratulations, Commander.” 
        Oscar saluted his comrade with Che Guevara´s slogan: “Hasta la victoria siempre.”
 Smiling he sauntered out of the bungalow, stole a glance at the sentinels in the trees, and got into his car, an old Valiant his father used to drive. He shoved the satchel beneath the passenger seat and drove away. 
Are you proud, Marcus? Oscar felt his father’s spirit in the squeak of the leather seat, in the purr of the engine as it revved into third gear. It wasn’t a fast car, but it contained the spirit of the man he loved most, and the memories of a time lost forever. 
Oscar heard his father’s voice whispering, I am Marcus; his mother softly prompting, Listen to Marcus. Long ago, when he lived at home and his name was David, his parents’ shared philosophy left an imprint, a fraternal feeling as though he were growing up with an older brother.
While he drove, Oscar’s eyes roamed the streets and sidewalks, but his thoughts strayed to happier times when Marcus drove him to school. This old bucket will keep going long after I’m gone.
Marcus Kurak was a thoughtful, quiet man prone to contemplation before formulating an opinion. When his son was suspected of militant activities, Marcus became a target. Oscar recalled a night resplendent with stars when he and Marcus walked the dog Karl to the park, discussing the state of the nation. Your mother and I do not understand, but we accept that you are doing what you think is right.
Oscar apologized for his long absences. How much do they know? he wondered at the time. He was careful not to reveal his political activities, but he need not worry. The Kuraks—like thousands of parents with militant children—chose to respect whatever secrets their offspring might hold.
Remember your Eurípides, son. A state has no worse foe than a tyrant. Extremes are dangerous. Whatever is good and real and true will be found somewhere near the center.
Oscar hugged his father and hurried to meet Bravo at the end of the park. 
Walking home with the dog, Marcus was attacked and beaten. He never knew his son was a rising star in the feared Montonero organization. Upon hearing of the attack, Alpha summoned Oscar to a safe house and locked him inside, under tight watch. That night, Oscar pounded the walls, kicked the doors and screamed, Forgive me, Marcus
Oscar flung a chair at the window, but it was shuttered on the outside. He raged until he couldn’t go on. Finally, he collapsed on the bare floor and cried. The gorillas were after me, Marcus. They came for me!
His jailers were unmoved. Their orders were clear: under no circumstances was Oscar to go near his father’s deathbed where the government hoods would be waiting.
Oscar’s thoughts strayed as he drove. He swerved to avoid an indecisive dog, palms clammy on the steering wheel of the old Valiant. Angry with himself he slowed down and growled, “Focus, man. Focus.”
He eased the old Valiant down the cobbled streets of the oldest neighborhood in the city until he found a parking spot. Once upon a time, San Telmo had been a refuge for sailors and dockworkers, until a yellow fever epidemic forced thousands to move away from the water’s edge. When the middle class moved back, the neighborhood became an enclave for artists and collectors. 
Oscar blended with the shoppers and visitors wandering the streets. He admired the antiques in the store windows, gazed at the shabby façades of the colonial buildings, keeping an eye out for police. My Mamma would love browsing the little boutiques; she would inspect every ornament and icon … except she has not left her room since Marcus— 
Oscar stopped by a dignified colonial building. He scanned the street, entered the lobby and checked the back exit. With its dark alley—a priority for quick getaways—the building was perfect. As cell commander, he was the safe house keyholder, but it was up to Alpha and the Command to make the arrangements with friends and supporters who might be away for extended periods of time, or with militants in exile after a major operation. Their identities were closely guarded.
Oscar took the narrow steps down into the lobby and stood listening for unusual sounds. There was no elevator. After a beat, he hurried upstairs. We have to go down to go up, he chuckled as he skipped up the marble staircase, taking two steps at a time. 
Built on an old river bed, Buenos Aires had been sinking for more than one hundred years. As a result, the lobbies of some buildings in the downtown core had sunk below the sidewalk level, and anyone entering unawares would tumble down the steps head first. The cell members often quipped that the old building comes with its own security.
Upstairs, the spacious two-bedroom apartment was appointed with heavy curtains and comfortable furniture.Bookshelves buckled under the weight of thick almanacs, directories and guides. A large-scale city map with notations in red covered an entire wall. A worn couch stood near the French windows and a long table with six chairs graced the dining area. It was a lived-in place, a base of operations. 
         He propped the satchel on the table. Traviata marksmen Sierra and Víctor rushed to welcome him. “Commander,” they exclaimed in unison while they shook his hand. Sierra and Víctor often spoke as one.
 Oscar unzipped the satchel and waved a stack of bills. A knock prompted Sierra to leap to the door and wait, holding his breath. The knock came again, in the correct sequence. He opened up and Romeo, the cell’s scout, recruiter and coach walked in and shook Oscar’s hand energetically. “We are honored to celebrate your new command.” Romeo often spoke for everyone.
Bravo stepped in after him and pumped Oscar’s hand. “Commander. You make me proud.”
In the kitchen, Víctor uncorked a bottle of wine. Sierra poured the wine into mismatched glasses and muttered, “Remind comrade Romeo to get the signal right. Always.”
Víctor rolled his eyes and nodded. “No exceptions.”
        Oscar raised his glass and smiled at his comrades. “Tonight, we celebrate the birth of cell Evita. We have declared war on the government and on the armed forces. Exercise discipline and vigilance at all times.”
Bravo tipped her glass to him. “We shall destroy the government without fear or regret.”
        Sierra nodded. “We will annihilate the fascists and the oligarchs, no matter the cost.”        
        Oscar saluted his operatives. “Until victory always.” 
Operación Traviata kicked off the predicted tempest with a torrent of kidnappings, bombings and killings until word on the street was, A body every five hours, a bomb every three.

Wednesday, 24 April 2019


Robert Mueller’s report presents a picture of serial corruption in the Trump government.

Those of us who grew up in the Banana Republics are accustomed to widespread rot. We are shocked, devastated, but not surprised.

My college days in Argentina were dreadful.

I recall the process of falling apart: the in-your-face corruption, the erosion of values and loss of respect for our institutions.

When we lose our grip on values and ideals the result is rage, fuelled by the knowledge that we are spiralling out of control.

In Argentina, 1970s students across the nation staged a revolution of the mind quickly assimilated by a variety of militant groups. 

The groups eventually became Montoneros, a left-wing militia which sought to destroy the few stalwarts we had left.

Argentina's dirty war was appalling, and it brought serious long-term consequences.

It left 17,000 dead, or maimed for life.

I admire the prevention work of the RCMP, the savvy voices of journalists and writers like @StewGlobal, @JessMarinDavis and @OmarMosleh, the report, "Extremism and Hate" about to be released by the Organization for the Prevention of Violence and the Modern Terrorism course at University of Alberta, taught by John McCoy.

With people and organizations like the above, Argentina’s dirty war might have been avoided.

Monday, 25 March 2019


A peek behind intolerance

My novel, OUTRAGE is a work of fiction based on true events. It deals with the effects of extreme action on peoples’ lives. The story is set in Argentina, circa 1970s, when educated, well-to-do middle-class students, fed up with the various dictatorships, unleashed a tsunami of terror in the name of democracy. I hoped never to see such delusion again, but ... extremism rages in the US, the UK, several European countries, and in Canada. My hope is that this old story helps to turn someone’s views around, raise questions in another’s mind, alert someone else that what looks like a ‘good cause’ may not be. 

I read the report by . It is detailed, excellent. I have been following the work of the RCMP for some time, sadly aware that, if we had an organization like this in the 1970s, today there would not be 25,000 dead, injured or maimed for life in Argentina.

Today we think of extremists as muslims, as people from other cultures, but the truth is that the enemy is within. In Argentina the attack came from home. Domestic terror is the enemy today, and we are not ready to deal with it.

In my experience the active ingredient in any form of extremism is hate. That which Che Guevara promoted in the 1960s and which took root so successfully in Latin America’s youth. He wrote in 1967:

 “Hate is a factor in the struggle. Unyielding hatred for the enemy which pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, turning him into an effective, violent, selective, cold killing machine. Our soldiers have to be thus. Without hate, people cannot triumph over a brutal enemy."

To help with prevention, here are some views on intolerance, a mild feeling which can develop into hate.

I live with the Rednecks. I grew up thinking they were big and red and nasty, but it turns out the stereotype is wrong. Many rednecks are nice people. They are smart, generous, compassionate, caring. 

And sometimes they are not.

My friend shuns me, but only in public. One-on-One she is brilliant, friendly, fun.

As soon as there is someone else around, she changes. It feels that she must distance herself from me; needs to remind the others that she and I are only acquaintances, and that we were not created equal.

How does she do this? I call it, The Interview. First she shifts in her chair, then says, “OK, OK, let’s see now ...”. She tells me my name, she tells me where I’m from, she lists events in my life, things I have told her in confidence, as though she’d met me ten minutes ago and wasn’t sure who I was. While she hangs me out to dry, her friends balk and mutter in embarrassment.

At times she mocks me. She suggests ever so sweetly that she picked me up somewhere, she’s not sure why. There is regret in the sweetness, as though she wants her friends to know that she has been stuck with me ever since.

I have told her it bothers me, and she laughs. Like a hyena. And she does it again.

What more can I say to her? She would deny any accusation. She would not understand what I’m talking about. She can never admit to it.

I know this woman. I know her family. She is a good person and I can’t but conclude her problem is in the programming. 

While she was being educated, somehow the concept of sub-continents stuck. Sub: under, below, beneath, less than, not quite, at a lower point ... you know what I mean.

I believe she does not accept that part of her education. She refuses to be a racist, so she becomes my good friend. In public, though, the programming is activated, it makes her uncomfortable, and she resents me for it -- so she mocks, rejects, distances herself from me.

It’s a vicious circle. 

That’s how racism works in some people. These are nice folks: educated, wise, generous, compassionate and yet ...

Quepos, Costa Rica - Pino loves napping with Lolly (in green)
I travelled to Latin America with a another friend. She is a sweet, caring person. Yet she could not connect with the locals, only with other tourists. She would not talk to the locals unless through me. Whenever it came time to pay, she would react as though a wolf pack surrounded her. I saw fear, persecution, distrust in her eyes.

Puerto Viejo - Costa Rica’s Caribbean side is beautiful.
I would wager she’d go out, heart thumping, to help a local in need. She’d be scared, but she would force herself to do it simply because it is the right thing.

I believe the problem is in something like a chip with old, useless recordings. Whenever an issue arises, the old recordings are activated, triggering fear and distrust in what I know is a perfectly good person.

Campesinos. A verdant park with waterfalls and  hanging bridges.
For example, she was chatting with a foreign backpacker who said he’d been targeted when he was getting off the ferryboat. He'd noticed a man on the boat talking urgently on the phone and staring at him. When the tourist got off the boat, three men approached and said they had a car, that they could share a ride. It would cost less for everyone, he said. The tourist refused.

My friend immediately agreed that it’s better to say, “No thanks," and take the bus. 

agree. I would feel threatened as well. But I suggested that the man on the boat might be a friend helping the others with their share-a-ride business. What about that idea? 

My friend and the other tourist did not give my suggestion a think. Their minds were made up.

Is it racism? I don’t think so.

I think the problem is in the chip.

What to do? How to update the chip?

TRUTH, JUSTICE What happened?

Like junkies, we look up to the ruling class for meaning, but we can never get enough. Hungry for more, we cling to what makes us feel good. What we really need is to fill the void in our starving souls.

Admiral Massera, Lt. Gen Videla, Brig. Agosti - 
Argentine junta - March, 1976

Today, our elected despots are behaving badly, and the result is anger, uncertainty, jittery markets, investments in peril, projects cancelled.

Che Guevara, Fidel Castro, Camilo Cienfuegos.

Justin Trudeau shuts down discussion about SNCLavalin corruption, and then says the dialogue is wide open. At the neighbour’s things are not much better. The Mueller report has been delivered, and the government is saying it should never have happened.

In my banana republic days, when a despot disappointed the public, a coup d’état would usually follow.

But in these long-standing democracies, people are disappointed -- there’s suicide, doubt, faith in the system lost ... . The consequences of corruption are long term. Corruption accumulates in the roots, preventing growth.

Doubt kills growth.

We should have a pesticide called “Doubt".

Thursday, 22 November 2018


In the season of giving thanks for the bounty. With frayed nerves and economies booming, we expect a tsunami of accusations to and from the various factions of governments. 

Within the cracks lie the terrorists being repatriated, the women and kids held in Syria, and the dire consequences that their return to the country will mean. A tiff in the BC legislature keeps us with an ear to the frozen ground, and Alberta is in a rage over the federal government’s efforts to curtail its oil income.

Raqqa, Syria 2018
The neighbours to the south - not that we have any to the north - are on the verge of a rant regarding what went on with Russia during the 2016 election, and what goes on with the Saudi prince who’s allowed, like a terrorist, to kill anyone anytime anywhere.

The airwaves sizzle.

But, what is the truth?

Posted Twitter by Kyle Matthews, Exec Dir. MIGS Institute,
Concordia University

Was the Saudi prince involved in the killing of Jamal Khashoggi? Are the Canadian terrorists coming back to comfort and nurturing and compassion?

Truth is possibly the most used word today. Between fake news, alternative realities, lies and witch hunts we are no longer sure what is what. We long for truth but cannot get it no matter how hard we try.

Terrorist Nilda Garré, former federal minister of defense, Argentina

Argentina never acknowledged the terror attacks of the 1970s as crimes against humanity. The terrorists who survived the death squads of 1976 were never brought to justice and many got jobs in the  government, press and business. I hope this will not happen in Canada.

Hope in lieu of Truth. Interesting times.

Wednesday, 31 October 2018


It is the feeling I get only seven days before the US midterms when people are slinging dirt at each other for no reason. At times, I just have to stay away from social media and MSM or I shall explode.

Día de los Muertos in Mexico. Photo BBC

This week there was an effort to discredit Mr. Integrity - Robert Mueller - and his investigation. The fanatics sound desperate. Cooler heads prevailed and the mud-slingers got nowhere.

Not the case with the Squirrell Hill synagogue shooting, though. It takes me back to the seventies when people were shot at random, for no reason, on a whim, for political effect by people so completely brainwashed by hate rhetoric they did not know right from wrong. In those days in Buenos Aires, everyone was a target.

Are the shooters, the killers mentally ill? No. They are cold-blooded killers, and they should be sentenced accordingly.

There was a shooting of two black people at a store as well. It did not get much publicity, but it happened, and it was a hate crime as well.

As for the murderous, terrorist-driven caravan coming to the US border, the troops posted there are supposed to show how great the danger has become.

Hate is the common thread here. The stuff Che Guevara wrote about in 1970, the feelings he awakened in Argentina’s youth so long ago still rankle  and burn. Without hate we cannot triumph over a brutal enemy.

Where does it end? It ends with leadership, with unity, with acceptance of each other, understanding of time and place.

Hate is not a weapon. It’s a disease. 

Thursday, 25 October 2018


We expats of the Banana Republics have lived with home-grown terrorists, and many of us have left our countries, cultures, everything we knew, to get away from them. We know it’s no use saying, “Oh, but he was mentally ill ...” We know a terrorist when we see one. 

What these terrorists seem to have in common are feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, rage, frustration -- what Che Guevara called 'hate’.

Hate is a factor in the struggle, Che wrote in 1967, the year of his death, unyielding hatred for the enemy which pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, turning him into an effective, violent, selective, cold killing machine. Our soldiers have to be thus. Without hate we cannot triumph over a brutal enemy.

At this time, home-grown terror is on our minds every day, and every week, in the US and Canada. Most recently a number of homemade pipe bombs were delivered to key Democrats in the US, and we are still spinning over the killings on Danforth Avenue in Toronto on July 22.

Hopelessness and rage - not mental illness - is the cause here. And governments are expected to respond and to reduce the attacks. But when the rhetoric rises and the pundits chatter, and nothing is done, the result is yet another attack.

Las Vegas massacre.

For the general public, they key is to stay vigilant, and keep informed. Here is the link to John R. Schindler’s False Flag Terrorism:Myth and Reality on . It’s sensible and detached and neutral and just right. It is also posted by the author on Twitter: twitter @20committee .

These acts of terror are saying, "Attention. I want attention!"

So, listen for a change. Listen, learn and take action.