"O cordão sanitário" - Serge Halimi

Há décadas que a força eleitoral da extrema-direita serve de apólice de seguro aos liberais de esquerda e de direita: qualquer burrico moderado pode ser o primeiro na linha de chegada desde que se oponha a uma formação política inadmissível, irrespeitável, irrespirável. Nas eleições presidenciais francesas de 2002, o resultado de Jean-Marie Le Pen estagnou entre as duas voltas, passando de 16,8% para 17,8%. Ao mesmo tempo, o do seu rival Jacques Chirac subiu em flecha, de 19,8% para 82,2% dos votos expressos. A mesma operação permitiu a Emmanuel Macron vencer as eleições em 2017, apesar de o fazer com uma margem menos espectacular.

Os liberais contam voltar a fazer contra a esquerda o que conseguiram fazer contra a extrema-direita. Estão por isso a tentar construir, contra o crescimento eventual daquela, um muro dos valores que a torne, por sua vez, suspeita. Procuram desta forma obrigar os que já não suportam mais as políticas do poder a, apesar de tudo, acomodarem-se a elas, de tal modo os seus mais fortes opositores seriam ignóbeis.

Por pura obra do acaso, a calúnia contra uma esquerda que se teria tornado anti-semita está a surgir ao mesmo tempo em França, no Reino Unido e nos Estados Unidos. Uma vez definido o alvo, basta encontrar uma opinião desastrada, excessiva ou abjecta na página do Facebook, ou na conta do Twitter, de um dos membros da corrente política que se quer desonrar (o Partido Trabalhista britânico tem mais de 500 mil membros). A seguir a comunicação social serve de retransmissora da mensagem. Também se pode tentar destruir um adversário imputando- lhe uma fantasia anti-semita que lhe é estranha – do tipo: a democracia, o jornalismo e a finança estão ao serviço dos judeus – assim que este adversário formule uma crítica à oligarquia, à comunicação social ou da banca.

E aí vamos nós. «Se [Jeremy] Corbyn se instalasse em Downing Street, poder-se-ia dizer que, pela primeira vez desde Hitler, um anti-semita governa um país europeu», assegura o académico Alain Finkielkraut. A situação é igualmente ameaçadora nos Estados Unidos pois, segundo o presidente Donald Trump, com a eleição para o Congresso de vários parlamentares de esquerda, «o Partido Democrata tornou-se um partido anti-israelita, antijudeu». «Os democratas detestam o povo judeu», acrescenta ele. Bernard-Henri Lévy, por seu lado, acaba de comparar o deputado e jornalista francês François Ruffin tanto a Lucien Rebatet, autor do panfleto anti-semita Les Décombres (Os Escombros), como a Xavier Vallat, comissário-geral para as questões judaicas durante o regime de Vichy, e a Robert Brasillach, colaborador fuzilado quando chegou a Libertação. O fantasista preferido da comunicação social teria mesmo encontrado em François Ruffin uma «filiação consciente ou dissimulada com a prosa do Gringoire», um semanário que destilava ódio anti-semita e que, com uma das suas campanhas de difamação mais famosas, levou ao suicídio um ministro da Frente Popular.

Judeus foram assassinados em França e nos Estados Unidos por anti-semitas. Um drama desta dimensão não deveria servir de arma de arremesso ideológico a Trump, nem ao governo israelita, nem a intelectuais falsários. A construir um cordão sanitário, que seja um que nos proteja antes daqueles que imputam aos seus adversários uma infâmia de que, sabem bem, eles estão inocentes.

Daqui

"I Am Part of the Resistance, Inside the Trump Administration" - o artigo falado no mundo

The Times today is taking the rare step of publishing an anonymous Op-Ed essay. We have done so at the request of the author, a senior official in the Trump administration whose identity is known to us and whose job would be jeopardized by its disclosure. We believe publishing this essay anonymously is the only way to deliver an important perspective to our readers.

Livro recomendado: "A Travessia"

Samar Yazbek

"The Tower" - Andrew O´Hagan

An investigation about the Grenfell fire

Following the fire at Grenfell Tower, Anthony Wilks investigates the culture of Kensington and Chelsea Council and where it came from.

"Confronting Journalism’s Misogynistic Trolls" - Hannah Storm

Female journalists are more likely than their male counterparts to be subject to social media harassment and digital abuse. But despite real efforts to improve gender equality in the industry, one of the biggest threats women in the media face continues to be viewed as a secondary concern.

“Harcèlement en ligne des journalistes : quand les trolls lancent l’assaut”

Dans son nouveau rapport, Reporters sans frontières (RSF) révèle l’ampleur d’une nouvelle menace qui pèse sur les journalistes : le cyberharcèlement perpétré massivement par des armées de trolls, individus isolés ou mercenaires à la solde d’Etats autoritaires.

Assim vai a Europa: "Matteo Salvini is threatening me mafia-style. But I’m not afraid" - Roberto Saviani

Italy’s minister of the interior is questioning whether I should have police protection. I’m just one of his long list of enemies

"Protection or Plunder?"

A U.S. journalist Took Thousands of ISIS Files Out of Iraq, Reigniting a Bitter Dispute Over the Theft of Iraqi History

Dia Mundial da Liberdade de Imprensa

On World Press Freedom Day 2018, I call on governments to strengthen press freedom, and to protect journalists. Promoting a free press is standing up for our right to truth. - António Guterres

"RSF Index 2018: Hatred of journalism threatens democracies"

The 2018 World Press Freedom Index, compiled by Reporters Without Borders (RSF), reflects growing animosity towards journalists. Hostility towards the media, openly encouraged by political leaders, and the efforts of authoritarian regimes to export their vision of journalism pose a threat to democracies.

"“I don’t remember who I am”: diary of detained journalist facing deportation from Russia" - Ali Feruz

For people held in immigration detention, life can quickly turn into despair.

Ali Feruz is a correspondent for the Russian independent newspaper Novaya Gazeta who is currently facing deportation to Uzbekistan, where he was born — and where, according to friends and colleagues, he faces torture at the hands of the security services and possibly death. In August, Moscow City Court stopped deportation proceedings until Feruz’s case is examined by the European Court of Human Rights, and Feruz has now spent six months in deportation prison outside Moscow waiting for the decision.

Reporters without borders - "WORLDWIDE ROUND-UP OF JOURNALISTS KILLED, DETAINED, HELD HOSTAGE, OR MISSING IN 2017"

Balanço

"A Estrada" - Adriano Miranda

Sei que durante muito tempo sentia medo. Até à noite em que acordei ao som do tiro de caçadeira. Na rua, e em frente ao portão de ferro, escrito a tinta branca e letras grandes, ameaçavam o meu avô: “Porco comunista, vais morrer”

Julho de 1975. O pátio era enorme. Alinhadas a régua e esquadro, as modestas casas térreas desenhavam um rectângulo. Duas portas. Uma para um corredor apertado. Outra para a liberdade das dunas de areia. Pequenas, tinham cozinha e quarto. A casa de banho era ao fundo, só uma, para 13 casas. E uma bomba para tirar água. Era ali, que famílias de pobres trabalhadores passavam as férias. Para mim, era uma festa. Um ritual. Um mês na praia. Prevenia as doenças de Inverno e esquecia os deveres da escola. Brincava até o sono vencer. Os amigos eram todos os anos os mesmos. O João, engenhocas, o Paulo, traquina, o Jorge, calmo, e o Francisco, a referência, não fosse ele o mais velho. Era tão boa a praia. Os banhos com a digestão feita, os gelados ao domingo, as mãos sujas dos matrecos, o bronzeador e a bandeira verde. E os livros.

Depois de almoçar deitava-me no colchão duro da cama de ferro e lia. E foi naquele pátio de gente honrada que um livro me marcou. A Cabana do PaiTomás, de Harriet Beecher Stowe. Tal era a brutalidade do patrão e o sofrimento do escravo, que várias vezes soluçava até que desisti. Nunca consegui terminar as 170 páginas. Foi uma etapa da minha infância. Talvez a linha de partida da minha consciência.

Comecei a interrogar a vida. Porque havia pobres e ricos. Porque não éramos todos felizes. E se o meu pai me ajudava a compreender melhor o mundo, Jorge Amado, com Os Capitães da Areia, colocou-me na estrada que ainda hoje acredito que é a que nos leva ao melhor destino. Ávido, comia as palavras de Pedro Bala e Gato. Depressa terminei. E no mesmo dia voltei à página 1. Até ao fim. Novamente.

O Gamelas era um homem forte. Guarda-redes de andebol. Trabalhador. Um amigo. Naquele dia de sol, foi ele que me fritou o bife, as batatas fritas e o ovo estrelado. Foi ele que me levou à praia. E foi ele também que um dia me salvou de eu morrer afogado. Eu não sabia da minha mãe nem do meu pai. Mas a vida continuava feliz no pátio. Só aos amigos se confiam os filhos. Chegou a noite e a minha mãe e o meu pai continuavam sem aparecer. Chegou o meu avô. Levou-me. Sem grandes palavras. Soube depois que a antiga vivenda de um industrial, que admirava Álvaro Cunhal e que a alugara ao Partido, tinha sido atacada, apedrejada e incendiada. A minha mãe e o meu pai estavam lá. Na vivenda.

Colado ao vidro de trás da carrinha do meu avô, descemos a avenida muito devagar. A bonita vivenda de azulejos únicos e candeeiros de loiça estava quase toda destruída. O passeio desapareceu. Arrancado. As pedras foram lançadas contra as janelas e paredes. As janelas desapareceram. As paredes estavam todas picadas da força das pedras. A mancha negra do cocktail Molotov deixava imaginar o pior. Continuei sem saber da minha mãe e do meu pai.

Agosto de 2017. Num colchão melhor mas numa cama de ferro, combato o calor da serra algarvia. Deixo-me levar pela escrita de Miguel Carvalho em QuandoPortugal Ardeu. Passaram 42 anos. Para mim, não. Estou novamente na carrinha do meu avô a descer a avenida. E Miguel Carvalho leva-me a descobrir outras avenidas. Avenidas e quelhos que eu desconhecia. Todo o terror da direita portuguesa. Os atentados. Os assassinatos. Os negócios. As mentiras. As bombas. Os tiros. A CIA. A impunidade. O branqueamento. Sinto o meu pai e a minha mãe. Tento imaginar as pedradas. A raiva que vinha de fora e a fibra que vinha de dentro. As cabeças partidas. O carro que incendiaram. O soldado que morreu. Já não me lembro como foi o nosso reencontro depois de descer a avenida. Pouco importa. Sei que durante muito tempo sentia medo. Até à noite em que acordei ao som do tiro de caçadeira. Na rua, e em frente ao portão de ferro, escrito a tinta branca e letras grandes, ameaçavam o meu avô: “Porco comunista, vais morrer.”

Tinha oito anos. Percorri a estrada. Sem medo. Fui crescendo. O pátio desapareceu. A vivenda continua na avenida. Carrego o fardo das interrogações. Podia ter sido colega do Milhazes em Moscovo, dirigente, deputado ou outra coisa qualquer. Nunca quis nada. Só um mundo para todos. Mas não existe. Um mundo para todos. Há que continuar pela estrada.

No dia dos meus 50 anos recebi um abraço e um embrulho. Desembrulho e o papel rasgado faz antever O Fim do Homem Soviético, de Svetlana Aleksievitch. Está desde então na minha mesa-de-cabeceira. Um ano. O tempo que o estou a ler. Devagar. Rouba o sono. E ao lado, Forte de Peniche-Memória, Resistência e Luta. Devagar. Faz chorar. Fico com insónias.

A estrada continua.

Adriano Miranda

"PANAMA PAPERS WINS PULITZER PRIZE"

Columbia University announced today that the Panama Papers investigation has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Explanatory Reporting.

"How technology disrupted the truth" - Katharine Viner

Social media has swallowed the news – threatening the funding of public-interest reporting and ushering in an era when everyone has their own facts. But the consequences go far beyond journalism

"In a post-truth election, clicks trump facts" - Mathew Jordan

One thing about the 2016 presidential race is undeniable: Donald Trump has lied or misled at an unprecedented level. Over 70 percent of his statements, according to Politifact, are “mostly false,” “false” or “pants on fire false.” (Hillary Clinton is at 26 percent.)

"Los nietos de la Revolución aspiran a una vida normal, sin utopía ni frustraciones" - Yoani Sánchez

Este será un viaje por al menos tres etapas que ha vivido mi nación. Tres instantes en que los jóvenes amasaron esperanzas, recibieron frustraciones y emplearon su ingenio para sortear los obstáculos del camino. Sin esa energía renovadora y esa capacidad para desafiar lo establecido, muy probablemente hoy estaríamos mucho más hundidos en la falta de derechos, en la vigilancia y el control.

John Reed

The Last Days With John Reed - A Letter from Louise Bryant:

Dear Max:

I knew you would want details and a story for the Liberator — but I did not have either the strength or the courage. As it is — I will be able to write only a very incoherent letter and you may take from it what you wish. Jack’s death and my strenuous underground trip to Russia and the weeks of terror in the typhus hospital have quite broken me. At the funeral I suffered a very severe heart attack which by the merest scratch I survived. Specialists have agreed that I have strained my heart because of the long days and nights I watched beside Jack’s bed and that it is enlarged and may not get ever well again. They do not agree, however, on the time it will take for another attack. I write to you all these stupid things because I have to face them myself and because it must be part of the letter. The American and German doctors give me a year or even two, the Russians only month. I have to take stimulants and I am not in a bit of pain. I think I have better recuperative powers than they believe — but, anyway, it is a small matter. I once promised Jack that I would put all his works in order in case of his death. I will come home if I get stronger and do so.

All that I write now seems part of a dream. I am in no pain at all and I find it impossible to believe that Jack is dead or that he will not come in this very room any moment.

Jack was ill twenty days. Only two nights, when he was calmer, did I even lie down. Spotted typhus is beyond description, the patient wastes to nothing under your eyes.

But I must go back to tell you how I found Jack after my illegal journey across the world. I had to skirt Finland, sail twelve days in the Arctic ocean, hide in a fisherman’s shack four days to avoid the police with a Finnish officer and a German, both under sentence of death in their own countries. When I did reach Soviet territory I was at the opposite end of Russia from Jack. When I reached Moscow he was in Baku at the Oriental Congress. Civil war raged in the Ukraine. A military wire reached him and he came back in an armored train. On the morning of September 15th he ran shouting into my room. A month later he was dead.

We had only one week together before he went to bed, and we were terribly happy to find each other. I found him older and sadder and grown strangely gentle and aesthetic. His clothes were just rags. He was so impressed with the suffering around him that he would take nothing for himself. I felt shocked and almost unable to reach the peak of fervor he had attained.

The effects of the terrible experience in the Finnish gaol were all too apparent. He told me of his cell, dark and cold and wet. Almost three months of solitary confinement and only raw fish to eat. Sometimes he was delirious and imagined me dead. Sometimes he expected to die himself, so he wrote on books and everywhere a little verse:
Thinking and dreaming

Day and night and day
Yet cannot think one bitter thought away —
That we have lost each other
You and I...

But walking in the park, under the white birch trees and talking through brief, happy nights, death and separation seemed very far away.

We visited together Lenin, Trotsky, Kaminev, Enver Pasha, Bela Kun, we saw the Ballet and Prince Igor and the new and old galleries.

He was consumed with a desire to go home. I felt how tired and ill he was — how near a breakdown and tried to persuade him to rest. The Russians told me that he often worked twenty hours a day. Early in his sickness I asked him to promise me that he would rest before going home since it only meant going to prison. I felt prison would be too much for him. I remember he looked at me in a strange way and said, “My dear little Honey, I would do anything I could for you, but don’t ask me to be a coward.’ I had not meant it so. I felt so hurt that I burst into tears and said he could go and I would go with him anywhere by the next train, to any death or any suffering. He smiled so happily then. And all the days that followed he held me tightly by the hand. I could not leave him because he would shout for me. I have a feeling now that I have no right to be alive.

Of the illness I can scarcely write — there was so much pain. I only want you all to know how he fought for his life. He would have died days before but for the fight he made. The old peasant nurses used to slip out to the Chapel and pray for him and burn a candle for his life. Even they were touched and they seem men die in agony every hour.

He was never delirious in the hideous way most typhus patients are. He always knew me and his mind was full of poems and stories and beautiful thoughts. He would say, “You know how it is when you go to Venice. You ask people — Is this Venice? -just for the pleasure of hearing the reply.” He would tell me that the water he drank was full of little songs. And he related, like a child, wonderful experiences we had together and in which we were very brave.

Five days before he died his right side was paralyzed. After that he could not speak. And so we watched through days and nights and days hoping against all hope. Even when he died I did not believe it. I must have been there hours afterwards still talking to him and holding his hands.

And then there cam a time when the body lay in state with all military honor, in the Labor temple, guarded by fourteen soldiers from the red Army. Many times I went there and saw the soldiers standing stiffly, their bayonets gleaming under the lights and the red star of Communism on their military caps.

Jack lay in a long silver coffin banked with flowers and streaming banners. Once the soldiers uncovered it for me so I might touch the white forehead with my lips for the last time.

On the day of the funeral we gathered in the great hall where he lay. I have very few impressions of that day. It was cold and the sky dark, snow fell as we began to march. I was conscious of how people cried and how the banners floated and how the wailing heart-breaking Revolutionary funeral hymn, played by a military band, went on forever and ever.

The Russians let me take my grief in my own way, since they felt I had thrown all my caution to the winds in going to the hospital. On that day I felt very proud and even strong. I wished to walk according to the Russian custom, quite by myself after the hearse. And in the red Square I tried to stand facing the speakers with a brave face. But I was not brave at all and fell on the ground and could not speak or cry.

I do not remember the speeches. I remember more the broken notes of the speakers’ voices. I was aware that after a long time they ceased and the banners began to dip back and forth in salute. I heard the first shovel of earth go rolling down and then something snapped in my brain. After an eternity I woke up in my own bed. Emma Goldman was standing there and Berkman, and two doctors and a tall young officer from the red Army. They were whispering and I went to sleep again.

But I have been in Red Square since then — since that day all those people came to bury in all honor our dear Jack Reed. I have been there in the busy afternoon when all Russia hurries by, horses and sleighs and bells and peasants carrying bundles, soldiers singing on their way to the front. Once some of the soldiers came over to the grave. They took off their hats and spoke reverently. “what a good fellow he was!” said one. “he came all the way across the world for us.” “he was one of ours” In another moment they shouldered their guns and went on again.

I have been there under the stars with a great longing to lie down beside the frozen flowers and the metallic wreaths and not wake up. How easy it would be!

I send greeting to all old friends.

Good luck to all of you.

Louise

John Reed Internet Archive

John Reed

Assim vai a Europa! - "The crushing of independent press in Hungary"

October 8, 2016 will go down in Hungarian history as the day when the ideals of the 1956 revolution (when Népszabadság was established) were finally betrayed by Hungary's autocratic government.

"How The New York Times and the American public managed to ignore the Holocaust"

While many Americans assume that the Holocaust was a well-kept secret until the concentration camps were liberated, anyone with a New York Times subscription could have read about the atrocities during the Second World War. Regrettably, though, the persecution and murder of Jews was frequently buried by the ‘paper of record’. Of more than 23,000 front-page articles between 1939 and 1945, just 26 were about the Holocaust. This powerful documentary from the US director Emily Harrold recounts how and why the genocide of Jews was neglected and euphemised by the Times, and by extension, the American people.

Daqui