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Pakistan: Give More Aid Or Risk Terrorism

From an approving Agence France-Presse:

World urged to act on Pakistan or risk militant rise

by Sami Zubeiri
August 20, 2010

ISLAMABAD (AFP) – UN chief Ban Ki-moon said Pakistan faces a "slow-motion tsunami" as the flood-ravaged nation stepped up pleas for massive global aid, warning that Islamist militants could exploit the crisis.

Ban told a UN emergency fundraising session in New York on Thursday that the world had a duty to act while millions are still without shelter and a fifth of the country — roughly the size of England — submerged by flood waters…

Pakistan and the United States have voiced growing fears that extremists may harness the discontent to further destabilise Pakistan’s embattled government, or that unhappiness with relief efforts could fan social unrest.

"I stand before you as the voice of 20 million Pakistanis devastated by the floods," Foreign Minister Shah Mehmood Qureshi told the meeting in New York.

"The massive upheaval caused by the floods and the economic losses suffered by the millions of Pakistanis must be addressed urgently. We cannot allow this catastrophe to become an opportunity for the terrorists."

The nuclear-armed nation of 167 million is a top US foreign policy priority due to concerns over Islamist extremism.

Doesn’t this sound more like a not so veiled threat than a plea?

But more importantly, are we supposed to forget that the local terrorists are past masters at co-opting donations for earthquakes and floods to fund their forces?

So isn’t there just as much of a risk of helping terrorism if we do send more aid?

In a poignant video message to the meeting, US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton urged generosity, saying: "This is a defining moment — not only for Pakistan, but for all of us."

Clinton raised US aid to 150 million dollars, while Britain said it planned to double its contribution to more than 99 million dollars.

Mrs. Clinton is famous for her generosity with US taxpayers’ money. Meanwhile, the fabulously rich Muslim countries of the Middle East do next to nothing.

Oh, and speaking of terrorist funding charities, we have this very timely reassurance via Reuters:

Pakistan to clamp down on Islamist militant charities

By Zeeshan Haider
August 20, 2010

ISLAMABAD (Reuters) – Pakistan said it will clamp down on charities linked to Islamist militants amid fears their involvement in flood relief, exploiting anger against the government, will undermine the fight against groups like the Taliban

It would not be the first time the government has announced restrictions against charities tied to militant groups.

No, oddly enough we hear this every time they have an emergency and demand more foreign aid. Which is practically a weekly occurrence.

Critics say any banned organizations often re-emerge under new names, with authorities uninterested in stopping their operations.

Why should they, as long as they get their cut? After all, the terrorists are often doing Pakistan’s bidding, anyway.

"The banned organizations are not allowed to visit flood-hit areas," Interior Minister Rehman Malik told Reuters. "We will arrest members of banned organizations collecting funds and will try them under the Anti-Terrorism Act."

Whew. And to think we had been worried about US taxpayer money being once again funneled to our enemies.

This article was posted by Steve on Friday, August 20th, 2010. Comments are currently closed.

4 Responses to “Pakistan: Give More Aid Or Risk Terrorism”

  1. Right of the People says:

    I’m surprised the Bamster has be silent so far about Pahk-estan.

    If the Hildabeast was serious about helping the people of Pahk-estan she would make a deal with the Saudis and the rest of the Moose-limb Middle East. The US will match every buck you put up one for one but they have to donate first.

    I guess we’d see how benevolent the Moose-limbs truly are.

  2. GetBackJack says:

    How many people know the British Foreign Office (the same crew that screwed Israel) created this thing called Pakistan whole cloth out of what used to be India? Show of hands …. (crickets) ….

    Just saying.

    Something really really really evil happened to world in 1947. 1948 birthed that change and we have never been the same since.

    The year is 1948.
    A pivotal year in American history. But hardly anyone knew it.
    A pivotal year in European, Slavic, Roman, and Asian history.
    But hardly anyone knew it.
    Central and South America, Africa, the Middle East. Australia. Point to a
    spot on a world atlas and pronounce it’s name.
    1948 is a pivotal year.
    Part of the world’s still recovering from the last war. The other part’s
    gearing up for another one.
    Everybody is up for distribution.
    In Detroit they’re gearing up to build the biggest fins you ever saw and
    gaining on the automotive Holy Grail – one horsepower per cubic inch. In
    Texas they’re punching out oil wells so fast they sometimes forget to hook
    the pipeline into the wellhead. The center of merchant and commercial
    activity, the wellspring of American finance, New Yorkers are settling in
    for expansion, peace and prosperity. Let the good times roll. Atlanta’s big
    plans are hatched for developing the city into a metropolitan cash-rich hub
    you’d consider Chicago, Kansas City, Cleveland, by selling kudzu infested
    land so damn cheap even Yankees will come South. And stay instead of
    burning the humid countryside down to the topsoil then laughing all the
    way home. Good ol’ Boys are gonna do the laughin’ this time when they
    build up the area’s transportation infrastructure to match or exceed any
    other in the country. Make somethin’ of this damn burg. 1948 is the start
    of a criminal enterprise so frequent in American history. The Georgia
    Department of Transportation. Legalized bureaucratic mafia. Other
    southern states struggle to catch up. At least look like they’re in the game.
    They’re rank amateurs.
    In San Francisco, a strange new breed of cat is being raised up, the seed
    of wild eyed, battle deranged seen everything, been everywhere military
    men and their dolls. The beatnik births the hippie, a rage against the
    machine personified. The Bay Area was such fertile ground for this sort of
    anti-establishment diurnal flowering it’s inevitable the very people who
    won the war will produce sons and daughters who will rebel against
    everything their parents fought and died for, proving once more you can’t
    wear the cut of another man’s clothes, nor can you learn another man’s
    lessons. 1948 is the bridge between a style of rebellion, like zoot suits, and
    the substance of rebellion; dropping out, turning on, disengaging. Living
    life instead of wrestling with it.
    The western water wars are back in a mean spirited fashion so cruel it
    makes the Los Angeles Water District pogroms seem like a Sunday school
    picnic. In the red rugged canyons and mesa of the Colorado Plateau,
    itinerant prospectors drag their families around from one uranium boom
    town to another, certain they’ll strike it rich up the next axle-breaking
    bone dry, dusty, dirty wash in a land so God-forsaken even the Anasazi fled
    from it. Uranium, that most precious commodity on earth, the fuel and
    raison d’tre of an entire era about to explode where the threat of war was
    far more profitable than war itself. Tap just one vein of oddly gray/green
    yellow cake, make it back alive to get the paperwork sorted out right and
    you’d be set for life. But you had to run a gauntlet of crooked government
    men, bad assed claim jumpers and a bewildering variety of regulations and
    legal corporate swindles before anything meaningful could happen. Levi
    Strauss made his fortune supplying miners. Most of the big money was
    made out west in 1948 by folks with insight or foresight to sell supplies
    and process claims and give directions to beat, broke, down on their luck
    war veterans trying to find some way to scratch a living out of an earth
    gravity imprisoned them on.
    Down in Phoenix, mobsters are buying up every inch of desert they can
    get their mitts on. Savagely beating old farmers ’til they sign over a deed.
    Scaring a rancher and his kids so bad they pull up stakes and flee at the
    first reasonable offer. Sinking their millions looted from Teamster pensions
    into desert real estate development, profits sucked off the backs of
    prostitutes and hoovered out of the souls of gamblers into state politics,
    every sort of immoral wicked enterprise the mob enjoys plowing it’s gelt
    into pile driving land and water and power development run riot. Phoenix –
    where hoods go to die in plaid pants and refrigerated air with marinara
    sauce drooled on their shirts, clutching their chests right about . . . there. A
    hundred and fifteen fucking degrees in the shade and they think its
    paradise. Go figure.
    Better them than real human beings.
    Over the horizon, Las Vegas is full of dreamers, flim flam men, con
    artists, hucksters, hoodlums, gunmen, crooks, criminals, desperados,
    thugs, hooligans, ruffians, cheats, swindlers, bandits, burglars, rowdies,
    embezzlers and thieves.
    And that’s just the Chamber of Commerce.
    Short sighted in a way history will only be able to describe as
    breathtaking, Las Vegas’ inner cabal, a pathetic clique of suet marbled old
    men holed up in the backroom of a Kansas City neighborhood grocery, is so
    arterially occluded in their thinking and small-minded Brooklynese
    cunning they can only imagine the petty bourgeoisie “Who? Me?” skimming
    of the take, like pimply underhanded choir boys stealing kisses in back of
    the Church. It will take serious goddamn criminals like real estate
    developers and leveraged buyout raiders and international corporations to
    make Vegas cough up the green in supertanker loads no mob button man
    could ever dream of. The criminal greed of the mob is nothing compared to
    the soul killing horror of land developers out west. And 1948 was the year
    they got dangerous.
    Out in Hollywood, movie studios are being invaded by a new breed, a
    literal alien invasion. They’re on a mission. A mission to shape America.
    These new arrivals, or some say, newly minted arrivals . . . . and there is no
    reliable history revealing where they came from, how they got there, who
    they represent, or whom they serve . . . . these swarms had a vision to
    shape America in a way no politician could picture. But their masters did.
    In a way no king or emperor had dared hope. Satan would be proud, indeed
    might very well be proud for all middle America knows in it’s ignorant
    shroud of innocence. Alestair Crowley, upon returning from his only visit
    to Hollwood described it as a ride through a sewer in a glass bottom boat.
    A disturbing assessment from the century’s preeminent warlock.
    Hollywood, pre-1948, had met the mob head on like cavemen romance
    cavewomen – with a club – and had absorbed it, amoebae-like into it’s
    passionate, lush, octopus embrace, had breathed on the mob the sweetly
    decaying exhalations of moral rot, and the mob succumbed. Digested by a
    cancer from within. Political money, like RKO, had tried to lasso the dream
    makers. And were boffoed by unseen forces representing the other end of
    the worm that came to town. The unsteady, reeling, pudding-like ethics of
    seismic Hollywood is a slippery deck in constant storm and firm footing is
    the most unstable of all. But during 1948 itself, a new cadre of operators
    arrived, like a swarm of biblical plagues. They came to eat. And Hollywood
    was their maitre’d buffet.
    1948, Winston Longstreet was in the middle of a successful 32-6-1
    career. Jack Kennedy was 31, fifteen years away from November 22.
    Aldous Huxley also died November 22, 1963, within hours of Jack and
    with LSD freak Timothy Leary at his bedside. Life is weird. Camelot caput,
    the light bulb in the image-maker’s projection booth snuffed out. During
    the ’30s, somebody found Pandora’s box, and 1948 was the year they
    cracked open the son of a bitch and let something out.
    The real story of 1948 takes place in Washington, District of Columbia,
    seat of the federal government of the Republic of these States of America
    united. An intense, behind the scenes secret battle that would modify the
    world and all it’s people even more than H.M. Naval Captain Mansfield
    Smith-Cummings, the first head of MI6, could have envisioned. For that
    matter, even more than wacky, deranged spy novelist William Tufnell Le
    Quex predicted at the opening of this century. The world was heading for a
    game of Armageddon-chicken played out in secrecy and silence. The
    nations would no longer tolerate open conflict so political criminals waged
    war in secret. A game of nerves, cunning and brinkmanship called a Cold
    War. A war waged primarily out of sight. America’s warriors in this hidden
    battle sprouted from the malarial swamps of Washington in 1948 as the
    Office of Strategic Services transmogrified itself into the Central
    Intelligence Agency, a cabinet level agency reporting directly to the
    Executive Branch, and their war cry in 1947, a year of gestation, was
    “Bigger Than State in ’48!”
    And so it came to pass. The budget, facilities, power and influence of the
    OSS, or, known in the right pub or country club as, Oh So Social, a war time
    gentleman’s club of moneyed, privileged, thus casually vicious Ivy League
    blueblood spies, outstripped in 1948 the State Department in every way
    except honorable history. The Executive Branch of the United States of
    America, the Presidency, now had its very own intelligence, counterintelligence,
    black-ops department. Not wanting to be left behind in a
    District wide power-struggle, each branch of the triune federal government
    developed it’s own secret agencies. Then each of their various
    bureaucracies developed their own intelligence and counter-intelligence
    departments, until the District was floundering in a sea of homegrown
    spies, operatives, bag men and simple hooligans. The President’s private
    service and dozens of heretofore unknown agencies masterminding secrets
    operating behind the impenetrable fortress of Need To Know, Plausible
    Deniablity and National Security. Soon, every facet and form of national
    government was infected with intelligence mentality and all the forms of
    governing irreparably polluted.
    The Alphabet Kids.
    The Agencies.
    The Company.
    The CIA.
    In 1948, Mao Tse D’ong is beginning to beat the living shit out of the
    Fifth Kou’min’tang. The People’s Liberation Army advanced two steps, gave
    back one. Unable to mount effective campaigns against determined guerilla
    tactics, half of China’s military, like Jack Nicholson, opted for Going South.
    The other half whipped across the China Sea onto a rocky tectonically
    unstable island named on maps as Formosa. The Senate and the House of
    Representatives ceased to supply Chang Kai Shek with arms, materiel’ and
    money for reasons no competent scholar can defend, even though Mao, a
    pudgy little gnome of a pedophile virgin-raping freak with hate pouring
    from every pore, represented everything evil and contrary to American
    and western interests. A course was decided upon to cut off America’s
    (hoped for) primary strategic partners and deep six an entire country to
    the hideous, murderous, brutal, wicked, depraved, foul schemes of a thing
    called communism. Asian style communism. An entirely different set of
    ethics when it comes to the question of the value of human life. Lenin and
    Stalin were amateurs at national internal genocide and racial
    extermination when compared to the bureaucratic efficiency of Chinese,
    whatever the word means. That story has its roots so deep in soil so
    complexly vile, entire libraries couldn’t begin to unravel its convoluted
    revisionist mysteries.
    Outside Washington’s Beltway where the natural laws of physics still
    apply, Americans just want to get on with their lives and having fun,
    getting ahead, being a family, running a little business. It’s hard to tell in
    1948 that the Executive branch of American governance is terminally at
    odds with the Legislative branch; or whether these two are actually bosom
    buddies doin’ a waltz for the cameras; in fifty year retrospect, it’s easy to
    see it clearly as a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.
    Still hard to determine who’s interests were being served in what way. A
    muddle and a maze.
    Policy, in 1948, was being made and executed . . . in secret.
    Taking a cue from soap product manufacturers and their daily romance
    television shows, the federal government begins to rule by yanking citizen
    emotions all over the landscape. A fake drama every day to keep things out
    of balance. Drag their emotions up and down the spectrum; what’s today’s
    terror? Then soothe it over with a nice story about White House pets.
    One show for the rubes. The other for serious players.
    You, bubba . . .are a rube.
    America is supposed to be a Republic enjoying a participatory
    Uh huh. If voting did any good, they’d have outlawed it by now.
    A representative whom you never meet, cannot get on the telephone,
    who does not return your mail with other than form letters; a
    representative with whom you cannot get an appointment, with whom you
    cannot discuss, on record, issues of substance and merit; a representative
    who cannot be nailed down when asked a simple yes or no question; a
    representative who may amend and modify his remarks in the official
    record after the fact to “what he really wanted to say”; a representative
    who is in a city 2,000 miles away from your sight; a representative whom
    you never meet personally and can never get to know on an intimate basis
    of actual understanding and relationship; a representative who merely
    smiles, gladhands, winks at the cameras and pumps your hand every few
    years as he shills for another term; a representative who is hidebound by
    national security statutes, a representative who cannot truthfully nor fully
    communicate to constituents because of national security restrictions, and
    who is kept himself from most of the primary bedrock as well . . . . that is
    not a representative. That is a page, a liege, or a lackey, maybe a
    mercenary. But that is not a representative.
    You cannot maintain a representative democracy when the people have
    no relationship with their representative.
    And secrecy begets tyranny.
    In secret you may act like one thing . . . while being something else
    altogether. Public shows. Private truths. Mass delusion is a most
    comfortable refuge.
    In 1948, there was a region of the world so remote, so mountainous, so
    choked with vines and undergrowth and snakes and bugs and rot and
    decay and rain and mud it wasn’t worth knowing about. A hilly up and
    down gullied jungle-infested spot on the maps called the Shan Mountains, a
    distant and unexplored region lying roughly astride the borders of Burma,
    Thailand and Laos. The southern borders of China. Soon to be the southern
    frontiers of the People’s Republic of China. A new politic. Another republic.
    A bedrock manifesto of communist apparatchik, written into Marx and
    Engels’ plans for conquest and practiced with a passionate fervor by
    Trotsky and Dherzinsky and the rest of Satan’s legion is, that to control the
    people, you must first change all the meanings of the words in their
    language. Known in legal circles as word of art, art of term. Convert a
    word into a term and legally you may then make the term convey any
    meaning you choose, utterly disregarding it’s original and commonplace,
    ordinary, every day meaning, even though spelled exactly like the original.
    Unhinge reality by insisting what people think they know for sure, ain’t so.
    In this evil practice, its pronounced Bob, spell it Chuck, and the term
    means wallpaper.
    A technique to turn the mind into jelly.
    Anton Mesmer would marvel at the hideous effectiveness of it.
    It is specifically designed to confuse. To derange. To unhinge. Irritate.
    Anger. Derail. Baffle, bewilder, and confound. In short, the average
    proletariat Joe is always making wrong moves, wrong decisions, saying the
    wrong thing at the wrong time because nothing means what it used to
    mean. Helter fucking skelter for real. Contraries of the Plains Indian tribes
    said hello when they meant goodbye. Washed with dirt and dried off with
    water. Laughed when they should mourn and ran in circles when it was
    time to sleep. Contraries were meant to symbolize man’s absurd backward
    nature. But in the communist word-of-art political chimera mind fuck,
    you’d carefully enunciate the pleasantry Good Morning and get arrested
    for having actually said Fuck The Regime, Comrade.
    Alice down the effing rabbit hole. Then they beat your kidneys to mush.
    And the Senate and the House cut off military and political support of
    Chang Kai Shek in 1948 in favor of the communists and their mind-fuck of
    an entire culture and people.
    The Agency, a national security enterprise reporting to the Executive,
    meaning, the President, could not stand by and let their boy Cha’ng get his
    ass whipped by a bunch of illiterate peasants financed by Moscow. Not
    when we, too, had plans for China. If the House and Senate voted to cut off
    funding and logistical support, then the Langley cowboys’d just have to get
    it done. More’n one way to skin a cat.
    Guns for drugs. Drugs for guns. An ancient trade.
    Somebody figured out the Shan Mountains were a perfect hideout for
    the Fifth Kou’min’tang, the equivalent of the Fifth U.S. Army. Heavy armor.
    Heavy weapons. Battle hardened troops with good chain of command.
    Organized, efficient, ready. But no gas.
    However, they could organize the peasants into opium farms. At the
    point of a gun barrel, yes, but it’s for their own good. Somebody at a giant
    European pharmaceutical company could figure how to convert traditional
    opium bricks (smelly, gooey, nasty) into powders easier to handle and
    distribute. That’d be Bayer A.G. That’d be Heroin No. 3, the white stuff.
    Somebody from America could come over and teach ’em how to grow the
    opium, turn it into convenient powders, package it, ship it, we’ll handle
    distribution and sales at this end.
    Hmmm. Need a strategically important, willing accomplice country for
    Vietnam. That’ll do.
    Saigon? Good port city. Willing, corruptible officials. Bring Heroin No. 3
    down out of the hills, ship to America, Europe, all over, sell drugs. Make
    astonishing profits. Reinvest into guns and ammunition and materiel’.
    Wage a war against Mao the House and Senate no longer finance.
    And not a lick of American taxpayer money spent on the deal.
    Pretty smart, huh? Several decades later, the same sort of international
    commercial profiteering funding foreign policy programs refused by
    Congress would nearly sink another Presidency. That time it was rockets,
    but same sort of deal.
    Communist China could not tolerate a steady supply of cash flowing up
    into the only Army capable of defeating them, so they whacked the supply
    line. Sun Tzu. Cut off the supplies and your enemy will crumble.
    And there you have the undeclared police action of Vietnam. At least
    one chapter in a very ugly book full of chapters.
    What a year.
    A hinge in history.
    Nobody knows a tenth of it.

    CITY, novel, Michael Geer 1998

  3. hushpuppy says:

    Can ya give me the URL where you got that? If it’s only a few chapters, I’d like to read the whole book. The writing style is more like Harlan Ellison with a bit of Kurt Vonnegut. Phenomenal!

  4. GetBackJack says:

    Got a PDF of it some years ago; never saw the book in print. It was …. fascinating. Apparently part of a trilogy that went into “what would happen if the secrets of the world suddenly became know?” CITY, the first novel dealt with a self=spawning vermicular virus that caused even hard wired databases to dump all their files onto the internet. White House, NSA, old Kremlin files, Democrats, Unions, Pol Pot, North Korea, ruthless corporations, you name it … suddenly started vomiting secrets out into the open.

    Hair raising stuff.

    I’ll see if I can’t pull together the PDF I got.

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