The horrendous ISIS attack on Paris once again raises the question of American responsibility for the immense mess in the Greater Middle East, from Libya to Pakistan, out of which emerged the radical Islamism that has by now become a global threat. There is an underlying historical question here. After World War II, the United States became an imperial power. Was this position in the world deliberately sought, or did it happen willy-nilly (perhaps as happened with the British Empire, supposedly acquired in “a fit of absentmindedness”)?
Then there are questions concerning much more recent developments, which are now hot partisan issues in American politics.Who is more to blame: George W. Bush, under whom imperial power became reckless, or Barack Obama, under whom it became dominated by the overriding principle of using it as little as possible? This is not the place to delve into this morass of analytic and moral questions, not least because I’m unsure how to answer them (my political antipathies, more than my sympathies, are quite non-partisan). One fact seems to be quite clear: The exercise of imperial power has considerable costs—and the American public is less and less ready to shoulder them.
As I was troubled by these questions in recent days, I remembered three incidences in my past, one in childhood and two much later. There is no moral equivalence between the three, but they are nevertheless connected, in the geography of the soul, let us say. (I have mentioned two of these experiences before, in a childhood memoir published in 2008, in German only. I retell them here, in the probably safe assumption that few readers of my blog have heard of them, let alone read them.)
My mother was Italian. Most of my childhood summers were spent with her family in Italy, very happy times away from school and other serious concerns in Vienna. We stayed several times in Alto Adige, the southern part of the Austrian province of Tirol, which Italy annexed after World War I and where it pursued a policy of Italianization, including the suppression of the German language.
That policy was not very successful. My Italian childhood occurred in the Fascist period, during which Mussolini invaded Ethiopia (which the Italians called Abessinia) and made it into yet another colony in Africa. Italy already had three other colonies in Africa, but this, the largest one, was to be the “jewel in the crown.” On the basis of this expansion the king of Italy was now also crowned as Emperor of Abessinia. He was a very short man, especially if seen together with his very tall queen; his comical stature was compensated by a very tall helmet with a high plume on top—and now the title of “Re Imperatore.” The incident I remember took place in the town of Brunico (Bruneck in German). The local regiment of Alpini, the Italian mountain troops (who also wore a more modest plume on their hats), were marching off to Ethiopia. They were singing a marching song that was very popular then. The first verse went as follows: “Black faces of Abessinia, rejoice—we bring you our Duce and our King!” (The second verse, which could serve as evidence that the Fascist regime, prior to its fatal alliance with Nazi Germany, was then not yet racist, went like this: “Black girl of Abessinia, rejoice—now you are a slave, we will make you a Roman!”)
Most, not all, of the others in the street watching the parade raised the right arm in the Fascist salute. I was there, with my mother and another woman, who must have been from Vienna because she spoke in German. She said: “Look at these poor Tirolian boys. They must go out in order to die in Africa!”
Several decades later, I was no longer a young boy in Italy, but a still youngish professor in America. I was attending a conference at the University of Puerto Rico. I was staying with a faculty couple on a Sunday that fell during the conference and had no program. I suppose the day was left free so visitors could explore the island. We were having breakfast on the terrace, enjoying the early morning breeze before the onset of heat. My hosts were discussing what we could do during the day. They suggested that we should drive across the island. There was supposed to be a very good new restaurant on the other side from San Juan. We could have lunch there and I could see some sights on the way. We set off in a leisurely way (most activities in Puerto Rico are leisurely). Halfway across the island we hit a traffic jam, an unusual sight on a Sunday morning. It was a funeral. A very Latin American scene: The procession was led by a priest, preceded by a man carrying a large crucifix and accompanied by children singing mournful hymns. The casket was mounted on a truck, surrounded by loudly weeping women and a small group of other mourners. Bystanders crossed themselves, men took off their hats. The casket was covered with an American flag. Someone explained to us that the deceased was a soldier from the town who had been killed in Vietnam. All this under a blazing sun and a blue Caribbean sky.
And I had to think of the poor Tirolian boys going out to die in Africa.
As I write this, another memory pops up (an affliction of old men). Some years after the funeral in Puerto Rico, I was in India (lecturing again—what else?). It was also a Sunday, in Bangalore. I went with my hosts to morning prayer in the main Anglican church (now part of the United Church of South India). The congregation was almost all Indians, just a few whites. The Indians were barefoot. My hosts explained that this not a sign of religious reverence, but rather an indication that they felt at home (one takes shoes off in one’s own house, but I cannot vouch for this interpretation). The sermon and indeed the entire service was in Kannada, the local language. The church had been on the British “military lines.” At the time of my visit there was a statue of Queen Victoria in front (perhaps it has been taken down since, with the rise of Hindu nationalism). We looked around the church after the service. There were many tablets on the walls, all from the time of the British Raj, commemorating the death of soldiers stationed in Bangalore, both officers and enlisted men. Most had died of disease, some in battles going back all the way to the Indian Mutiny in the nineteenth century. I was struck by how young the memorialized men were.
One more time my mind goes back to my Italian childhood (needless to say, this has nothing to do with Mussolini or anything political). The Fascist anthem began as follows: “Giovinezza, giovinezza, primavera di bellezza!”/ “Youth, youth, springtime of beauty!” So often does imperial power lead to the loss of young soldiers dying far from home.