Patriot Realm

In 1984, our family was adopted by a cat named Billy. He was a tiny little 8 week old kitten who entered our lives with a soft meow and impacted upon us with a great roar.

We had previously enjoyed the company of a gracious young Cornish Rex who, in human terms, was named Tripitaka. 

Tripi was a white Cornish Rex with huge ears and resembled the monk from the famed television series " Monkey " from Japan.

The family has long ago grown up. But the memory remains.

No, I don’t believe for a split second that suddenly, college students all over America really care about the plight of the Palestinians. I don’t believe this anymore than, a few years ago, people around the globe were suddenly concerned about the plight of Black Americans when they marched for BLM. Not a chance. Instead, this is just the latest manifestation of raging against the machine, of standing up to “the man.”

As expressed by Khymani James, one of the Columbia University anti-Israel protest leaders who is Black and identifies as trans, non-binary, and queer, just as, in the past, Haitian revolutionaries had to “kill their masters in order to gain their independence,” it’s the same with Hamas and the Palestinian people today. They, too, must kill their white supremacist masters.

And, he adds, “What is a Zionist? A white supremacist.”

That about sums it up.

More than anyone else in history, Karl Marx exemplified trying to fix the world while neglecting to clean one's own room first.

As I make my way through Paul Kengor’s wonderful book The Devil and Karl Marx, numerous things stand out about the father of communism. It’s not an exaggeration to say that it’s hard to imagine a more wretched human being than Karl Marx.

It was almost as if all of the worst traits of humanity were bundled into this one spiteful man, who then constructed a philosophy based on his own bitterness and self-loathing.

He was lazy but greedy, always begging for money from family and friends who feared for his happiness and sanity. Marx didn’t seem to notice or care. They were simply a means to an end for him. He was so self-centered one wonders if he was on the spectrum. His lechery and drunkenness are well chronicled. But what really struck me is that Marx was a total slob.

Each war seems to produce its own under-appreciated heroes who, for reasons that have nothing to do with their courage, competence or devotion to duty, are by-passed for promotion or otherwise demoted.

In the Boer War it was Breaker Morant, in WW2 it was Brig Arnold Potts and in more recent days Cpl Ben Roberts-Smith. In WW1 it was Brigadier General Elliott, otherwise known as “Pompey”. Elliott was one of the most direct and forceful brigade commanders in the Australian Army. 

Loved and admired by the troops he commanded because they knew that he would never ask them to perform tasks that he was not willing and able to carry out himself. He was an outspoken critic of the British Army higher command and of the Australian as well when they deserved it. His belligerence and refusal to kow-tow to British higher authority was the seed of his undoing. He clashed with Kitchener, Haig and Birdwood and the fact that he was usually proved right, probably carried more weight against him that his insubordination.

Pompey Elliott was born in an era when Australia seemed to have an endless supply of natural leaders, adventurous explorers and trail blazers, innovative business people and an inborn ethic that gave precedence to common sense.

Many years ago, a beloved mentor told me a story—a parable, if you will—about a wife who came home one afternoon to find her husband in bed with another woman. She screamed and fled the room, sobbing.

A few minutes later, her husband emerged, still buttoning his shirt, and asked her what was wrong.

“I saw you with that…that…woman!” she sputtered.

“What woman?” replied the husband, calmly tucking in his shirttails.

“That woman you were in bed with!”

“What are you talking about? There was no woman.”

At the time, I found the story mildly amusing. I understood that my mentor was trying to convey some deeper truth, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I was still young enough to believe no one would really lie that blatantly and transparently when the truth was plain to see.