Saturday, September 10, 2011

A Concise History of the Rise and Fall of the Environmental Establishment How Green Became the Color of Money By JEFFREY ST. CLAIR

FRIDAY, APRIL 22, 2011

018 A Concise History of the Rise and Fall of the Environmental Establishment How Green Became the Color of Money By JEFFREY ST. CLAIR


Panda Porn
Back in the good old days, a corporation with an unappetizing relationship to the natural world would often try to burnish their image by luring an executive or top staffer from an environmental group onto their board or into their public relations department, where they could offer testimonials to the toxic firm's newfound reverence for Mother Earth.
But times have changed.
Now it's the environmental groups who seem to be on a shopping spree for corporate executives. For a ripe example of this repellent trend let us turn to the World Wildlife Fund. In December of 2002, WWF introduced Linda Coady, then a senior executive at Weyerhaeuser Co, as vice-president of the World Wildlife Fund's newly created Pacific regional office..
Weyerhaeuser is the great behemoth of the timber industry, which has rampaged through the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest leaving ruin and extinction in its wake. Weyerhaeuser has operated in Canada for many years, but in the late 1990s the company dramatically accelerated the pace of its clearcutting in British Columbia—in part, because it had largely liquidated its vast holdings in Washington and partly to flee the constraints of US environmental laws and lawsuits.
Before advancing to Weyerhaeuser, Coady sharpened her teeth at Macmillan-Bloedel, aka Mac-Blo. Macmillan Bloedel made billions by clearcutting all but the tiniest sliver of Vancouver Island before being bought out by Weyerhaeuser. (That sliver was spared only after 900 people got arrested for blocking logging roads in 1993. Needlesstosay, no World Wildlife Fund execs soiled their Gore-Tex rain jackets in those stormy protests.)
Neither company has ever shown the least regard for the rights of the First Nations of Canada, who lay claim to much of the remaining coastal forests of British Columbia. And the Canadian government has chosen to allow the timber companies to clearcut those lands before the claims have been settled. Indeed, Weyerhaeuser was sued by the Haida Nation for illegally clearcutting their land in the Queen Charlotte Islands, which they call Haida Gwaii.
"They've come and wiped out one resource after another," Guujaaw, chief of the Haida in British Columbia, told me. He notes that Weyerhaeuser logs the old growth and ships it straight to its mills in Washington State. The Haida get no money and no jobs. "We've been watching the logging barges leaving for years and years," said Guujaaw. "And we have seen practically nothing for Haida."
The moss-draped forests of British Columbia are even more vulnerable than those of Washington, Oregon and Alaska. There are few environmental laws to restrain the appetite of the timber companies and the environmental movement itself is understaffed and overwhelmed. Now, defenders of Canadian ancient forests must contend with a conservation group run by a timber executive.
The result of this mismatch shows up starkly on the ground, where the clearcuts ramble farther than the eye can see and the salmon, bears and birds of the deep forest are vanishing at a heartbreaking rate. At the top of the list is the northern spotted owl, the very symbol of the ancient forests of the Pacific Northwest. In the US, the owl is afforded a minimum level of protection under the Endangered Species Act.
But in Canada the reclusive raptor enjoys not even the pretense of such a safe harbor; its nesting and foraging habitat-200 to 800 year-old stands of Douglas-fir and Sitka spruce-are leveled without quarter or regret. As a result, scientists expect that the bird will soon go extinct, perhaps within the next decade.
"It feels like we are taking care of the dodo," said Ken Macquisten, a veterinarian and managing director of the Grouse Mountain Refuge for Endangered Wildlife. "We have gone from managing owl populations to managing individual birds."
With a Weyerhaeuser honcho running the biggest conservation group in the region, the prospects for the owl-and nearly every other creature that calls the deep forest home-seem bleak indeed.
Of course, it's hard to work up too much of a froth about this latest merger of clearcutters and self-advertised nature defenders. After all, the World Wildlife Fund functions more like a corporate enterprise than a public interest group. It practices retail environmentalism and has made millions upon millions hawking its panda logo, a brand as zealously marketed as Nike's "swoosh". But, of course, it's done almost nothing to save the panda, penned in by rampant deforestation and poaching, except peddle pictures to trophy wives and innocent third graders. Call it panda porn.
But the panda cash machine isn't the group's only source of money. The World Wildlife Fund also rakes in millions from corporations, including Alcoa, Citigroup, the Bank of America, Kodak, J.P. Morgan, the Bank of Tokyo, Philip Morris, Waste Management and DuPont. They even offer an annual conservation award funded by and named after the late oil baron J. Paul Getty. It hawks its own credit card and showcases its own online boutique. As a result, WWF's budget has swelled to over $100 million a year and it’s not looking back.
Where does all the money go? Most of it goes to pay for plush offices, robust salaries, and a tireless direct mail operation to raise even more money. In 2002, WWF's CEO, the icy Kathryn S. Fuller, pulled in a cool $250,000 a year, including benefits. This is the remorseless logic of modern environmentalism, in which non-profits are more obsessed with fundraising than the corporations that they are supposed to be battling. Indeed, the relentless cash hunt leads them serenely right into corporate boardrooms, hands out, mouth gagged.
Remember it was WWF that outraged many environmentalists and human rights activists by giving an award to Shell Oil, the company that stood mute as its partners in the murderous junta of generals that ran Nigerian lynched Ken Saro-Wiwa and 8 other environmentalists fighting Shell's foul operations on Ogoni land in the Niger River delta.
This self-induced moral blindness is par for the course. The World Wildlife Fund is one of those outfits that believes capitalism is good for the environment. It has backed nearly every trade bill to come down the pike, from NAFTA to GATT. WWF has also sidled up to some very unsavory government agencies advancing the same neo-liberal agenda across the Third World, including US AID.
The World Wildlife Fund is so paranoid about its image that it sued-and won-to force the World Wrestling Federation to change its name, lest it sully its "WWF" trademark. Of course, if you really care about the environment your money would probably be better spent by watching some World Wrestling extravaganza on pay-per-view rather than investing in a membership to WWF. At least, the wrestling provides some laughs. Your contribution to WWF will fatten the salary of a timber executive such as Linda Coady parading around in the guise of an environmentalist. It gives cross-dressing a bad name.
When the Haida launched their battle against Weyerhaeuser and its rich army of lobbyists and lawyers, Guujaaw observed: "You cannot buy the lifestyle we have with money."
It's a lesson that the environmental groups like World Wildlife Fund should take to heart before they discover that they've become little more than the well-paid zombies of the corporations they have gotten into bed with. But don’t hold your breath.
To be continued.

Jeffrey St. Clair is the author of Been Brown So Long It Looked Like Green to Me: the Politics of Nature and Grand Theft Pentagon. His newest book, Born Under a Bad Sky, is published by AK Press / CounterPunch books. He can be reached at: sitka@comcast.net.
This essay is excerpted from the forthcoming book GreenScare: the New War on Environmentalism by Jeffrey St. Clair and Joshua Frank.

For Our World: a poem written on 9/11 by Mattie Stepanek

For Our World, a poem written on 9/11 by Mattie Stepanek
in CONSCIOUSNESS


For Our World

We need to stop.
Just stop.
Stop for a moment.
Before anybody
Says or does anything
That may hurt anyone else.
We need to be silent.
Just silent.
Silent for a moment.
Before we forever lose
The blessing of songs
That grow in our hearts.
We need to notice.
Just notice.
Notice for a moment.
Before the future slips away
Into ashes and dust of humility.
Stop, be silent, and notice.
In so many ways, we are the same.
Our differences are unique treasures.
We have, we are, a mosaic of gifts
To nurture, to offer, to accept.
We need to be.
Just be.
Be for a moment.
Kind and gentle, innocent and trusting,
Like children and lambs,
Never judging or vengeful
Like the judging and vengeful.
And now, let us pray,
Differently, yet together,
Before there is no earth, no life,
No chance for peace.

September 11, 2001

© Matthew Joseph Thaddeus Stepanek 1990 -2004
from Hope Through Heartsongs, Hyperion, 2002

Mattie Stepanek was 11 years old when he wrote this poem on the day of 9-11.
Sadly he passed away in 2004 after a long battle with Dysautonomic Mitochondrial Myopathy.
You can learn more about his brief, amazing, inspiring life at his website:

Thursday, September 8, 2011

The patriot's prayer

Since the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003, over 300 journalists have been killed, more than in any other war.

Heavenly Father, we pray that you will send your angels to protect those independent journalists who cover and report on the atrocities of war. They are targets of the U.S. military, because they are dangerous truth seekers, unafraid to speak truth to power; unafraid to report the war crimes that are invariably committed when the U.S. decides it needs to go to war to protect or expand the financial / power / political agendas of this nation's elites. It is these people, who would accumulate capital for the mere sake of capital's accumulation, who gain from war, and no other class of people does. Father we know that in WWII, 50% of the casualties were civilians; in Vietnam, 70%; in the Iraq Invasion, 90%. Father, we weep for these lives of your beloved children. Give us strength, Dear God, to become instruments of your peace. Give us the courage to march, even unto death, to put an end to the wars waged by the most savage nation on earth, our own country. Give us this courage, and shield the civilians, this we ask, Oh Lord, in the Name of Your Son Jesus Christ, who suffered death that we all might live, if it be Thy will. AMEN.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

going to court tomorrow (again)!

The Lutheran Church of the Atonement, Barrington, IL has had 4 senior pastors: Arthur Knudsen who was sent to answer the call from the original five founding families - the Willits, the Bowens, and I can't remember the others, in 1963. In 1964, the church cornerstone was lain, and one of Barrington's two most unique architectural structures constructed (the other being the home built in the tree in North Barrington) - the Lutheran Church of the Sat Down Upon (or Ark), as I called it.

The most stunning thing to me has been that of the three white, American male senior pastors, two have been so unfit for the post - one, Marcus Gravdahl was fired for sexually harassing congregants and subordinates, and for not paying his Federal Income Taxes for 8 years running.

An assistant pastor, Pastor Randy, was fired for non-performance of the duties assigned to him by the senior pastor. Randy felt that his ministry was a 40-hour per week gigue to the youths only.

Pastor Said Ailabouni was assigned to be Marcus Gravdahl's assistant, but, as events transpired, within six months Said was the senior pastor, and served brilliantly for 15 years. He left Atonement to accept an ELCA offer to be pastor to the pastors of the ELCA in the Middle East and Africa - being a Palestinian (born in Nazareth) and an Arabic speaker, it was a natural fit, but his decision to accept was prompted in no small part because he did not want to have to deal with firing Pastor Randy.

That job fell on the shoulders of Don Wink, who came with a mandate to straighten up the Randy situation, and start a third service featuring contemporary Christian music. My bother-in-law, Michael, the man of all seasons and many talents was the leader of the bands for 10 years. My sister sang, and my son still drums witn one of the three praise band teams! Three Praise Band Teams, all with about 10 players.

In March of 2007, I e-mailed Pastor Don to take me off the church membership rolls. This he did not do (non-feasance). Hi non-feasance directly resulted in his subsequently denying me access to Sunday worship services (I sang too high, and talked with the praise team setting up), including Easter Sunday, of this year. He subcontracted the job of kicking my sweet ass out on Easter Sunday to Pastor Paul, and I left with no harsh words, telling Pastor Paul that I held him no animosity. I have always abided by Don's wishes. Pastor Paul duly reported to my mother that he had been told by Pastor Don that I would not be permitted to attend Easter Worship (I would served as an usher at St. Anne Roman Catholic Church in town later that morning - wondering what it is that they don't know about me that let's them let me volunteer to be of service?)

My mother told Pastor Paul, "That's not fair."

And for this reason, I did not want Pastor Don to officiate the celebration of her life. I called my dad to ask him to not ask Pastor Don - "already asked, this can't be changed, things are moving too fast," said dad, 96 hours in advance of the memorial service.

I called pastor Don to ask that he not officiate, "The family already asked me," he said.

ALL RIGHT ... NOW, I am pissed. I called my sister, "Gay, could you please ask dad to reconsider having another pastor officiate mom's celebration?" "We already ask ...

And I hung up, exhausted, having slept 3 of the last 72 hours, updated F/B sent e-mails to 500+ people, having put together my thoughts for what the service should be, as well as the obituary ... or at least rough working drafts of the same, and I broke down weeping.

I dialed 9-1-1 and the Grayslake EMT delivered me to Condell Meorial Hospital (one of the worst in the area) emergency room, where, in front of a shrink, and hooked to an IV, I threatened to kill Pastor Don.

A while later a social worker interviewed me, and asked if I still wanted to kill pastor don. I had changed my mind, "No," I said, "I want to kill his family."

Enter the psych ward --- ROFLMFAO!!

Staying 11 days -- missing mom's wake, the memorial (which I would not ave attended with jagoff officiating).

Later, I see my personal physician, and the conversation about Wink the Twink arises, and I tell Jim, "Why in the world would I ever want to return to Atonment? NO ONE, not one member of my family, nor one of the congregants, some of whom I have known for 47 years ever complained to Pastor Don about his whimsical discrimination against me (a 60-year old, mentally ill, totally disabled, Muslim)!"

"I'll talk to Don tomorrow," says Jim.

And two days later, the Cook County Sheriff police hits me up with an order of protection ordering me to stay at least 500 feet away from Wink the Twink, and his family.

But, at least, NOW, I know where he lives (was too lazy to look it up).

And so, will have to come within 500 feet of him tomorrow, BECAUSE the stupid ball buster filed the fucking order.

Am fairly delighted with the prospect!

issued two prayer requests at my new home church, asking them to pray for Don for insight and understanding.

But, I forgot what a wimply coward he has turned out to be!

And so, THAT is why I pray for him for courage!

I wonder what prayers he is praying for me?

Monday, September 5, 2011

From Kathleen Harris, one of God's Holy Warriors

Wishing You...Peace, Love and Joy . . . Always and Forever August 30, 2011

As has probably been mentioned by someone or other, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (aka PTSD) can be a bit like unknowingly entering and blithely traversing a psychic mine field.

Let's see if I can make that a bit more vivid.

It may have to do with the time space continuum in a way. If I come off sounding like I am trying to describe a Magritte surrealist painting to a person who is only familiar with Andy Warhol's creations, I apologize. If that is necessary. To me, a PTSD-affected spiritual landscape is one that has become fraught with subterranean camouflaged pot holes, automobile-swallowing ditches and incendiary devices. And perhaps there are also some pathways that seem like they should be familiar or that used to have clear sign posts now seem to lead to unsuspected destinations and undesirable locations.

Now.

Uh-oh. Have I already lost you?

Or maybe you would rather not continue on the journey with me. If so, I understand.

No harm, no foul.

But these images have been lurking in my consciousness lately, and just tonight I realized why.

The pot holes, mine fields, and deceptive pathways minus familiar sign posts are triggered by the anniversaries of traumatic events or time periods. Even if I go out of my way not to be in touch with the fact that the anniversaries are coming up or upon me, my psyche never forgets. So it's just that the end of August and the beginning of September are times when a lot of exciting and/or traumatic things happened to me.

The even stranger thing is that there are not necessarily uniform ways of experiencing whatever comes up from the underground or appears along a pathway. And the image of mine fields may give you the impression that there is a stark flat plain stretching in all directions when actually there also might be dark forests, or even jungles . . . and/or the mysteries of a deep and wide open ocean.

Often the PTSD episode triggers become evident when I find myself awake all night for one or more nights in a row or several over a short period of time. At first I may tell myself that there is no reason not to be able to sleep, but I am always trying to fool myself when I say that. It is more likely that sleep is elusive because there is no desire to enter into the level of consciousness that leaves me open to the dream state.

Or maybe something from the nocturnal musings of the days leading up to the sleepless nights has already broadcast warnings about the approach to the mine field. Be that as it may, once I really do get back connected with the date, I am forced to confront the reality. Addressing that reality head on does not necessarily help much, however.

That reminds me of the old Air Force saying that begins a lot of war stories. The stories start with: "There I was . . . flying along fat dumb and happy. . . " The story continues with whatever was horrendous, terrifying, difficult and/or shocking, but somehow the storyteller survives.

I guess one of the reasons that things are traumatic is that they come out of nowhere and are so shocking and disturbing that you really can't get your mind around them.

Ever.

I agree with the sentiment expressed by Robin Williams when he said:

"Reality . . . what a concept!"

Even though it may be that some sort of past reality intrudes on contemporary life, the PTSD episode always seems to be more powerful than whatever is going on in the present. Or maybe it's just that whatever the present reality is cannot quite compete with the past "reality." And the traumatic memories can be so vivid that they can tend to make the present reality seem to fade away into the background.

Or even to disappear.

And even more than that sometimes the imagination interjects itself into the memories and the present reality so that there are stacked levels of elements surrounding and enhancing memories, musings, illusions and allegories.

Probably not much of that is really making any of this any clearer, is it?

When I am able to talk to friends who were involved in the trauma I find it helpful, but I also realize then that none of us experienced what happened in the same way. What happened affected and continues to affect (or doesn't continue to affect) each one of us in various ways.

Of course.

How could it be otherwise? Each of us is a distinct individual with a variety of distinct personalities and experiences.

Our lives intersected with one another for that particular time or times and we came to those points from different places and went our separate ways to reconnect with one another again possibly one on one . . . or with several of us or with some of us. Or never again with most or even all of us. At least not yet. or maybe not ever on this terrestrial plane.

As a case in point, not long ago I saw some Armed Forces Television Network dramatizations concerning two soldiers who were wounded in the recent past. They both suffered from PTSD. One was given a chance to talk about the trauma with professional counselors from the earliest time of his physical recovery. The other soldier did not have a chance to communicate with anyone about what had happened to him until a long while after he was released back into civilian life. Each was able to get help, but the latter suffered more and for a longer length of time. Go figure!

Seeing the segments aimed at encouraging military members who have been affected by PTSD to seek help as soon as possible was encouraging since so many veterans are being added to the roles.

And I recently saw the movie "Random Harvest" again, too. (Have you ever watched it? Greer Garson and Ronald Coleman are marvelous in the story about the effects of battle fatigue on a British soldier in WW I.) So even though the term PTSD had not been coined back in the early 20th century, I was reminded that people have been suffering with the condition from way back. (No doubt as long as man's inhumanity to men has been extant.)

There are ways to put the memories to rest and to keep the ghosts at bay.

But actually sometimes I look forward to being with my dearly departed once more. They are all loving and kindly spirits even if they are just as I have imagined them. Or remembered them.

There are times that seem overloaded with intertwining layers of memories because there were different traumatic experiences that happened at the same time of the year -- or even on certain particular dates of multiple years, so that somehow the PTSD trash compactor has smooshed them all together and it's difficult to discern which presenting traumatic memories come from where. Or when.

There also might be organic or atmospheric or astronomical (or other) factors involved in the fertilizing compost heaped up in my psyche. And too much digging around into all that would not be really helpful anyway, no doubt.

But the traumas are not necessarily all negative. Sometimes great joys can trigger recurring disturbances, too. Both positive and negative emotions can be draining, energizing or enervating. Not sure I can always choose which one of those at any particular time.

Because certainly to begin with . . . in my earliest memories the joys of getting to go back to school every Tuesday after Labor Day were fraught with excitement. And tension. And anticipation. So onto those layers of emotional memories were added the adult traumatic adventures that happened to have occurred around the same time.

For instance last year when over 200 of the members of our high school class got together for the first time in ten, twenty, thirty or forty years (or all of the above, or even more or less often), there was a special kind of traumatic experience.

In a good way.

But it reminded me of the other groups of friends I had gone through stuff with when I was on active duty in the Air Force. And when I was at Seminary. And when I was serving churches.

Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera. (As the King of Siam was quoted as saying in "The King and I.")

Know what I mean?

Well, even if you don't, by writing this I seem to have diffused the most powerful psychic mines in my way tonight, and I seem to have recovered the sign posts on some of the obscured pathways.

So thanks for hanging in there with me as I wandered around trying to explain it all to you.

That was a big help!

And God bless us, every one.

As ever -- Kathy



Be Blessed

"Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."

Matthew 5:3-9