Enjoy fast, free delivery, exclusive deals, and award-winning movies & TV shows with Prime
Try Prime
and start saving today with fast, free delivery
Amazon Prime includes:
Fast, FREE Delivery is available to Prime members. To join, select "Try Amazon Prime and start saving today with Fast, FREE Delivery" below the Add to Cart button.
Amazon Prime members enjoy:- Cardmembers earn 5% Back at Amazon.com with a Prime Credit Card.
- Unlimited Free Two-Day Delivery
- Streaming of thousands of movies and TV shows with limited ads on Prime Video.
- A Kindle book to borrow for free each month - with no due dates
- Listen to over 2 million songs and hundreds of playlists
- Unlimited photo storage with anywhere access
Important: Your credit card will NOT be charged when you start your free trial or if you cancel during the trial period. If you're happy with Amazon Prime, do nothing. At the end of the free trial, your membership will automatically upgrade to a monthly membership.
-34% $26.34$26.34
Ships from: Amazon Sold by: Premia Books US
$11.41$11.41
Ships from: Amazon Sold by: Gifts Amore
Download the free Kindle app and start reading Kindle books instantly on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
Read instantly on your browser with Kindle for Web.
Using your mobile phone camera - scan the code below and download the Kindle app.
OK
The Great War for Civilisation: The Conquest of the Middle East Hardcover – Deckle Edge, November 8, 2005
Purchase options and add-ons
Passionate in his concerns about the region and relentless in his pursuit of the truth, Fisk has been able to enter the world of the Middle East and the lives of its people as few other journalists have. The result is a work of stunning reportage. His unblinking eyewitness testimony to the horrors of war places him squarely in the tradition of the great frontline reporters of the Second World War. His searing descriptions of lives mangled in the chaos of battle and of the battles themselves are at once dreadful and heartrending.
This is also a book of lucid, incisive analysis. Reaching back into the long history of invasion, occupation and colonization in the region, Fisk sets forth this information in a way that makes clear how a history of injustice “has condemned the Middle East to war.” He lays open the role of the West in the seemingly endless strife and warfare in the region, traces the growth of the West’s involvement and influence there over the past one hundred years, and outlines the West’s record of support for some of the most ruthless leaders in the Middle East. He chronicles the ever-more-powerful military presence of the United States and tracks the consequent, increasingly virulent anti-Western–and particularly anti-American–sentiment among the region’s Muslim populations.
Fisk interweaves this history with his own vividly rendered experiences in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Algeria, Israel, Palestine and Lebanon–on the front lines; behind the scenes; in the streets of cities and villages; and inside military headquarters, the hideouts of guerrillas, the homes of ordinary citizens. Here, too, are indelible portraits of Osama bin Laden, Ayatollah Khomeini and Yassir Arafat, among others–all of whom he has met face-to-face–revelatory in their apprehension of the individuals and the ideologies they represent.
Finally, The Great War for Civilisation is the story of journalists in war: of their attempts to report the first, impartial drafts of history, to monitor the centers of power, to challenge authority (“especially . . . when governments and politicians take us to war”) and to battle an increasingly partisan worldwide media in their determination to report the truth.
Unflinching, provocative, brilliantly written–a work of major importance for today’s world.
- Print length1107 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf
- Publication dateNovember 8, 2005
- Dimensions6.69 x 2.34 x 9.5 inches
- ISBN-101400041511
- ISBN-13978-1400041510
The Amazon Book Review
Book recommendations, author interviews, editors' picks, and more. Read it now
Frequently bought together
Similar items that may ship from close to you
Editorial Reviews
From Publishers Weekly
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
–Brian Urquhart, New York Review of Books
“Combining a novelist’s talent for atmosphere with a scholar’s grasp of historical sweep, foreign correspondent Fisk has written one of the most dense and compelling accounts of recent Middle Eastern history yet . . . Fisk, who has lived in and reported on the Middle East since 1976, first for the (London) Times and now for the Independent, possesses deep knowledge of the broader history of the region . . . It is his capacity for visceral description--he has seen, or tracked down firsthand accounts of, all the major events of the past 25 years--that makes this volume unique . . . A stunning achievement.”
--Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The most comprehensive survey of 25 years of Middle Eastern conflict.”–Library Journal
“An epic account . . . a rich tapestry of the contemporary Middle East [and an] engagingly thorough tour of the region’s turmoil.”
–Newsweek International
“Fisk is a gifted writer and an accomplished storyteller, so those who have not read him before will enjoy [the]wealth of hard-won narrative detail accumulated over the decades of intrepid reporting.”
--The Economist
“A magisterial report from the shifting front lines of the Middle East. It deserves to be read by all those who are concerned with what is happening in Iraq today.”
–Boston Sunday Globe
“The book seals Robert Fisk’s place as a venerable, indispensable contributor to informed debate in and about the Middle East.”
–The Nation
About the Author
From The Washington Post
Fisk has thrown himself into the fiery pit time after time, often at grave personal risk -- Afghanistan at the beginning of the long struggle against the Soviets, the bloodbath of the 1980s Iran-Iraq War, the civil war in Algeria after 1991, the second Palestinian intifada since the fall of 2000. When he is not personally in the midst of conflict and destruction, he evokes them, as in his lengthy discussion of the Armenian deportations and massacres of World War I or (in a different register) his treatment of the shah of Iran's prisons and torture chambers.
However Fisk regards himself, he is at bottom a war correspondent, and the fabric of his book is woven largely from his battlefield reporting. Fisk's writing on war is vivid, graphic, intense and very personal. Readers will encounter no "collateral damage" here, only homes destroyed and bodies torn to shreds. At times, as one horror is heaped upon another, it all seems too much to absorb or bear.
That intensity is both the book's great strength and one of its principal weaknesses. After reading it, no one can hide from the immense human costs of the decisions made by generals and politicians, Middle Eastern or otherwise. But Fisk portrays the Middle East as a place of such unrelieved violence that the reader can hardly imagine that anyone has enjoyed a single ordinary day there over the past quarter-century. That picture is a serious distortion. Life in the region is far from easy, but in spite of endemic anxiety and frustration, most Middle Easterners, most of the time, are able to get on tolerably well. Fisk says little about more abstract, less violent issues such as economic stagnation, the complexities of political Islam or the status of women. This gap is not a weakness in itself -- Fisk is writing about different themes -- but readers need to be aware that, despite its staggering length, this book is not The Complete Middle East.
It may well be The Complete Robert Fisk, however. It is full of autobiographical reminiscences about the author's troubled but intense relationship with his father, Bill; indeed, that relationship provides the book's title. The elder Fisk had been awarded a campaign medal for his service in France in 1918, and the medal (which he bequeathed to his son) was inscribed with the motto "The Great War for Civilisation." The bitter irony of that motto is underscored by another gift, this one from the author's grandmother to his father -- a boy's novel, Tom Graham, V.C., which recounts the adventures of a young British soldier in Afghanistan in the late 19th century. For the author, both the medal and the novel symbolize the West's arrogant and destructive intrusion in the Middle East throughout the last century.
If this is a book about war, it is equally a book about the hypocrisy and indifference of those in power. Fisk is an angry man and more than a little self-righteous. No national leader comes off with a scrap of credit here; he regards the lot of them with contempt, if not loathing. Among the men in charge -- whether Arab, Iranian, Turkish, Israeli, British or American -- there are no heroes and precious few honorable people doing their inadequate best in difficult situations. Jimmy Carter is lucky to escape with condescension, King Hussein of Jordan with a bit better than that. Fisk is not fond of the media either (though he grants some exceptions); CNN and the New York Times are particular targets of his scorn for what he sees as their abject failure to challenge the lies, distortions and cover-ups of U.S. policymakers. Only among ordinary people, entangled in a web of forces beyond their control, does Fisk find a human mixture of courage, cowardice, charity and cruelty!
.
Given the present state of things in the Middle East, one is tempted to agree with him. The mendacity and bland pomposity of the suits and talking heads, both Western and Middle Eastern, are infuriating to anyone who has any direct knowledge of what is going on there. Again, however, there is a problem: Fisk excoriates politicians for the awful suffering they have imposed on the peoples of the Middle East, but he never seriously asks why they make the decisions they do or what real alternatives they might have. It is all very well to flog Western and Middle Eastern leaders for their ignorance, moral blindness, lust for power, etc. That might instill shame and guilt (though it rarely does), but it provides no serious principles or criteria that serious policymakers might use to develop something better.
In short, The Great War for Civilisation is a book of unquestionable importance, given Fisk's unmatched experience of war and its impact in the contemporary Middle East and his capacity to convey that experience in concrete, passionate language. Still, novices will find themselves both overwhelmed by the book's exhaustive detail and hard put to follow the author's leaps across countries and decades. The Great War for Civilisation is also a deeply troubling book; it may well confirm the conviction of many that the Middle East is incurably sunk in violence and depravity and that only a fool would imagine it could ever be redeemed. As tragic as the last three decades have been, there are different lessons to be learned -- one must hope so, at least.
Reviewed by Stephen Humphreys
Copyright 2006, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
“One of Our Brothers Had a Dream . . . ”
"They combine a mad love of country with an equally mad indifference to life, their own as well as others. They are cunning, unscrupulous, and inspired."—“Stephen Fisher” in Alfred Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent (1940)
I knew it would be like this. On 19 March 1997, outside the Spinghar Hotel in Jalalabad with its manicured lawns and pink roses, an Afghan holding a Kalashnikov rifle invited me to travel in a car out of town. The highway to Kabul that evening was no longer a road but a mass of rocks and crevasses above the roaring waters of a great river. A vast mountain chain towered above us. The Afghan smiled at me occasionally but did not talk. I knew what his smile was supposed to say. Trust me. But I didn’t. I smiled back the rictus of false friendship. Unless I saw a man I recognised—an Arab rather than an Afghan—I would watch this road for traps, checkpoints, gunmen who were there to no apparent purpose. Even inside the car, I could hear the river as it sloshed through gulleys and across wide shoals of grey stones and poured over the edge of cliffs. Trust Me steered the car carefully around the boulders and I admired the way his bare left foot eased the clutch of the vehicle up and down as a man might gently urge a horse to clamber over a rock.
A benevolent white dust covered the windscreen, and when the wipers cleared it the desolation took on a hard, unforgiving, dun-coloured uniformity. The track must have looked like this, I thought to myself, when Major-General William Elphinstone led his British army to disaster more than 150 years ago. The Afghans had annihilated one of the greatest armies of the British empire on this very stretch of road, and high above me were villages where old men still remembered the stories of great-grandfathers who had seen the English die in their thousands. The stones of Gandamak, they claim, were made black by the blood of the English dead. The year 1842 marked one of the greatest defeats of British arms. No wonder we preferred to forget the First Afghan War. But Afghans don’t forget. “Farangiano,” the driver shouted and pointed down into the gorge and grinned at me. “Foreigners.” “Angrezi.” “English.” “Jang.” “War.” Yes, I got the point. “Irlanda,” I replied in Arabic. “Ana min Irlanda.” I am from Ireland. Even if he understood me, it was a lie. Educated in Ireland I was, but in my pocket was a small black British passport in which His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs required in the name of Her Majesty that I should be allowed “to pass freely without let or hindrance” on this perilous journey. A teenage Taliban had looked at my passport at Jalalabad airport two days earlier, a boy soldier of maybe fourteen who held the document upside down, stared at it and clucked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval.
It had grown dark and we were climbing, overtaking trucks and rows of camels, the beasts turning their heads towards our lights in the gloom. We careered past them and I could see the condensation of their breath floating over the road. Their huge feet were picking out the rocks with infinite care and their eyes, when they caught the light, looked like dolls’ eyes. Two hours later, we stopped on a stony hillside and, after a few minutes, a pick-up truck came bouncing down the rough shale of the mountain.
An Arab in Afghan clothes came towards the car. I recognised him at once from our last meeting in a ruined village. “I am sorry, Mr. Robert, but I must give you the first search,” he said, prowling through my camera bag and newspapers. And so we set off up the track that Osama bin Laden built during his jihad against the Russian army in the early 1980s, a terrifying, slithering, two-hour odyssey along fearful ravines in rain and sleet, the windscreen misting as we climbed the cold mountain. “When you believe in jihad, it is easy,” he said, fighting with the steering wheel as stones scuttered from the tyres, tumbling down the precipice into the clouds below. From time to time, lights winked at us from far away in the darkness. “Our brothers are letting us know they see us,” he said.
After an hour, two armed Arabs—one with his face covered in a kuffiah scarf, eyes peering at us through spectacles, holding an anti-tank rocket-launcher over his right shoulder—came screaming from behind two rocks. “Stop! Stop!” As the brakes were jammed on, I almost hit my head on the windscreen. “Sorry, sorry,” the bespectacled man said, putting down his rocket-launcher. He pulled a metal detector from the pocket of his combat jacket, the red light flicking over my body in another search. The road grew worse as we continued, the jeep skidding backwards towards sheer cliffs, the headlights playing across the chasms on either side. “Toyota is good for jihad,” my driver said. I could only agree, noting that this was one advertising logo the Toyota company would probably forgo.
There was moonlight now and I could see clouds both below us in the ravines and above us, curling round mountaintops, our headlights shining on frozen waterfalls and ice-covered pools. Osama bin Laden knew how to build his wartime roads; many an ammunition truck and tank had ground its way up here during the titanic struggle against the Russian army. Now the man who led those guerrillas—the first Arab fighter in the battle against Moscow—was back again in the mountains he knew. There were more Arab checkpoints, more shrieked orders to halt. One very tall man in combat uniform and wearing shades carefully patted my shoulders, body, legs and looked into my face. Salaam aleikum, I said. Peace be upon you. Every Arab I had ever met replied Aleikum salaam to this greeting. But not this one. There was something cold about this man. Osama bin Laden had invited me to meet him in Afghanistan, but this was a warrior without the minimum courtesy. He was a machine, checking out another machine.
It had not always been this way. Indeed, the first time I met Osama bin Laden, the way could not have been easier. Back in December 1993, I had been covering an Islamic summit in the Sudanese capital of Khartoum when a Saudi journalist friend of mine, Jamal Kashoggi, walked up to me in the lobby of my hotel. Kashoggi, a tall, slightly portly man in a long white dishdash robe, led me by the shoulder outside the hotel. “There is someone I think you should meet,” he said. Kashoggi is a sincere believer—woe betide anyone who regards his round spectacles and roguish sense of humour as a sign of spiritual laxity—and I guessed at once to whom he was referring. Kashoggi had visited bin Laden in Afghanistan during his war against the Russian army. “He has never met a Western reporter before,” he announced. “This will be interesting.” Kashoggi was indulging in a little applied psychology. He wanted to know how bin Laden would respond to an infidel. So did I.
Bin Laden’s story was as instructive as it was epic. When the Soviet army invaded Afghanistan in 1979, the Saudi royal family—encouraged by the CIA—sought to provide the Afghans with an Arab legion, preferably led by a Saudi prince, who would lead a guerrilla force against the Russians. Not only would he disprove the popularly held and all too accurate belief that the Saudi leadership was effete and corrupt, he could re-establish the honourable tradition of the Gulf Arab warrior, heedless of his own life in defending the umma, the community of Islam. True to form, the Saudi princes declined this noble mission. Bin Laden, infuriated at both their cowardice and the humiliation of the Afghan Muslims at the hands of the Soviets, took their place and, with money and machinery from his own construction company, set off on his own personal jihad.
A billionaire businessman and himself a Saudi, albeit of humbler Yemeni descent, in the coming years he would be idolised by both Saudis and millions of other Arabs, the stuff of Arab schoolboy legend from the Gulf to the Mediterranean. Not since the British glorified Lawrence of Arabia had an adventurer been portrayed in so heroic, so influential a role. Egyptians, Saudis, Yemenis, Kuwaitis, Algerians, Syrians and Palestinians made their way to the Pakistani border city of Peshawar to fight alongside bin Laden. But when the Afghan mujahedin guerrillas and bin Laden’s Arab legion had driven the Soviets from Afghanistan, the Afghans turned upon each other with wolflike and tribal venom. Sickened by this perversion of Islam—original dissension within the umma led to the division of Sunni and Shia Muslims—bin Laden returned to Saudi Arabia.
But his journey of spiritual bitterness was not over. When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990, bin Laden once more offered his services to the Saudi royal family. They did not need to invite the United States to protect the place of the two holiest shrines of Islam, he argued. Mecca and Medina, the cities in which the Prophet Mohamed received and recited God’s message, should be defended only by Muslims. Bin Laden would lead his “Afghans,” his Arab mujahedin, against the Iraqi army inside Kuwait and drive them from the emirate. King Fahd of Saudi Arabia preferred to put his trust in the Americans. So as the U.S. 82nd Airborne Division arrived in the north-eastern Saudi city of Dhahran and deployed in the desert roughly 500 miles from the city of Medina—the place of the Prophet’s refuge and of the first Islamic society—bin Laden abandoned the corruption of the House of Saud to bestow his generosity on another “Islamic Republic”: Sudan.
Our journey north from Khartoum lay though a landscape of white desert and ancient, unexplored pyramids, dark, squat Pharaonic tombs smaller than those of Cheops, Chephren and Mycerinus at Giza. Though it was December, a sharp, superheated breeze moved across the desert, and when Kashoggi tired of the air conditioning and opened his window, it snapped at his Arab headdress. “The people like bin Laden here,” he said, in much the way that one might comment approvingly of a dinner host. “He’s got his business here and his construction company and the government likes him. He helps the poor.” I could understand all this. The Prophet Mohamed, orphaned at an early age, had been obsessed by the poor in seventh-century Arabia, and generosity to those who lived in poverty was one of the most attractive characteristics of Islam. Bin Laden’s progress from “holy” warrior to public benefactor might allow him to walk in the Prophet’s footsteps. He had just completed building a new road from the Khartoum–Port Sudan highway to the tiny desert village of Almatig in northern Sudan, using the same bulldozers he had employed to construct the guerrilla trails of Afghanistan; many of his labourers were the same fighters who had been his comrades in the battle against the Soviet Union. The U.S. State Department took a predictably less charitable view of bin Laden’s beneficence. It accused Sudan of being a “sponsor of international terrorism” and bin Laden himself of operating “terrorist training camps” in the Sudanese desert.
But when Kashoggi and I arrived in Almatig, there was Osama bin Laden in his gold-fringed robe, sitting beneath the canopy of a tent before a crowd of admiring villagers and guarded by the loyal Arab mujahedin who fought alongside him in Afghanistan. Bearded, silent figures—unarmed, but never more than a few yards from the man who recruited them, trained them and then dispatched them to destroy the Soviet army—they watched unsmiling as the Sudanese villagers lined up to thank the Saudi businessman who was about to complete the road linking their slums to Khartoum for the first time in history.
My first impression was of a shy man. With his high cheekbones, narrow eyes and long brown robe, he would avert his eyes when the village leaders addressed him. He seemed ill-at-ease with gratitude, incapable of responding with a full smile when children in miniature chadors danced in front of him and preachers admired his wisdom. “We have been waiting for this road through all the revolutions in Sudan,” a bearded sheikh announced. “We waited until we had given up on everybody—and then Osama bin Laden came along.” I noticed how bin Laden, head still bowed, peered up at the old man, acknowledging his age but unhappy that he should be sitting at ease in front of him, a young man relaxing before his elders. He was even more unhappy at the sight of a Westerner standing a few feet away from him, and from time to time he would turn his head to look at me, not with malevolence but with grave suspicion.
Kashoggi put his arms around him. Bin Laden kissed him on both cheeks, one Muslim to another, both acknowledging the common danger they had endured together in Afghanistan. Jamal Kashoggi must have brought the foreigner for a reason. That is what bin Laden was thinking. For as Kashoggi spoke, bin Laden looked over his shoulder at me, occasionally nodding. “Robert, I want to introduce you to Sheikh Osama,” Kashoggi half-shouted through children’s songs. Bin Laden was a tall man and he realised that this was an advantage when he shook hands with the English reporter. Salaam aleikum. His hands were firm, not strong, but, yes, he looked like a mountain man. The eyes searched your face. He was lean and had long fingers and a smile which—while it could never be described as kind—did not suggest villainy. He said we might talk, at the back of the tent where we could avoid the shouting of the children.
Looking back now, knowing what we know, understanding the monstrous beast-figure he would become in the collective imagination of the world, I search for some clue, the tiniest piece of evidence, that this man could inspire an act that would change the world for ever—or, more to the point, allow an American president to persuade his people that the world was changed for ever. Certainly his formal denial of “terrorism” gave no hint. The Egyptian press was claiming that bin Laden had brought hundreds of his Arab fighters with him to Sudan, while the Western embassy circuit in Khartoum was suggesting that some of the Arab “Afghans” whom this Saudi entrepreneur had flown to Sudan were now busy training for further jihad wars in Algeria, Tunisia and Egypt. Bin Laden was well aware of this. “The rubbish of the media and embassies,” he called it. “I am a construction engineer and an agriculturalist. If I had training camps here in Sudan, I couldn’t possibly do this job.”
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf (November 8, 2005)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 1107 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1400041511
- ISBN-13 : 978-1400041510
- Item Weight : 3.39 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.69 x 2.34 x 9.5 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #256,360 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #239 in Terrorism (Books)
- #328 in Middle Eastern Politics
- #804 in Middle East History
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Discover more of the author’s books, see similar authors, read author blogs and more
Customer reviews
Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness.
Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonReviews with images
-
Top reviews
Top reviews from the United States
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
Fisk's book begins with his trip to Afghanistan in 1996. After being led from checkpoint to checkpoint, Fisk is presented to none other than Osama bin Laden himself. He holds a cordial interview with him while bin Laden goes on about his latest criticism of the West as Fisk faithfully takes note of his posture, tone, and least to say, his words; the most chilling of which makes one's hair rise: "One of our brothers had a dream..." Fisk's book is essentially about his travels along the Middle Eastern countries and occasionally taps open the history book. His book is revealing and written with excellence and empathy. As he traveled to Afghanistan to cover the war, with the Soviets in 1979, not 2001, he captures the brutality of the Afghan rebels who mercilessly slaughter Soviet teachers, hanging them from telephone wires. Yet it was not all conquest and satellite states for the Soviet Union as Fisk notes, "a modern educational system in which girls as well as boys would go to school, at which young women did not have to wear the veil, in which science and literature would be taught alongside Islam...."It had been trying to create a secular, equal society in the villages around Jalalabad" (page 58).
The next several chapters spans and chronographs the Iranian revolution and its subsequent struggles in fending off the invasion by Saddam Hussein's Iraq, which was unconditionally supported by the West. Fisk documents the brutal torture methods employed by the United States' second greatest ally in the Middle East on its domestic population and how the US turned a blind eye against the atrocities. Of course, the author has no kind words to spare for the West's adored "Butcher of Baghdad", constantly and rightly so, castigating him and reminding us of his victims. The Islamic "tribunals" set up by Iran are also extensively mentioned with the US, bizarrely enough, condemning Iran. Yet the United States has no words of regret when it came to downing an Iranian passenger jet during the Iran-Iraq war despite the fact evidence proved an otherwise intentional attack.
Perhaps Fisk's most emotionally driven part of the book is Chapter 10, entitled "The First Holocaust", known much better as the Armenian Genocide. Being an Armenian myself I was surprised to find an entire chapter solely devoted to the near elimination of the Armenian people in 1915, when the Ottoman Turkish government sought to cleanse its minority problem by systematic rape, mass murder, and deportations through the scorching deserts of Syria. Fisk's fervent arguments are seen most pronounced in this chapter as he lambastes the world media which often refers to the event with simple euphemisms: "tragedy", "massacres", and "deportations". He documents how even many Jewish leaders, notably Shimon Peres, refuse to acknowledge the plight of the Armenians as a Genocide. He condemns the present day Turkish government for giving its ridiculous excuses and for denying its own past and goes further to condemn those countries who refuses to do it because of their close relations with the NATO member. Fisk asks us what would happen if world leaders would similarly use those terms to describe the Jewish Holocaust and refer it to a disputed event...of course we all know what would happen if they did.
Of course no Middle Eastern book can be written without mentioning the Palestine-Israel conflict. Three chapters are devoted and while Fisk acknowledges the brutality of the Palestinian suicide bombers he turns and asks why Israel's actions often go uncritcized by the media and by world leaders. He does an exceptional job in not only this section but the entire book by naming for us the once nameless, the victims who weren't famous partisan leaders or known diplomats but those who were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. By doing this, he allows us to at least place some sympathy so that those who perished in a cell in Iraq's torture pens do not remain a statistic; only to be cited endlessly twenty years later as a rational for war. He doesn't allow us to forget Israel's indiscrimante military raids which lead to the deaths of thousands and notes the number of UN resolutions it has violated, including building illegal settlements across the West Bank and Gaza. He recognizes the violence committed by the Palestinians but also forces us to take a look and scrutinize Israel's questionable ethics in dealing with the Palestinians.
Fisk's book also contains no praise for the George W. Bush administration, especially its botched invasions of not only Iraq but also Afghanistan. He records the US's reckless trampling of Iraq against its former ally, Saddam and the subsequent looting that took place after Saddam fell as the administration obliviously pointed to it as an example of new found liberty. His work chronicles the Middle East from the 20th century and its frequent interventions by the French, British, and Americans whom constantly change the region's political landscape each time it reconfigures itself to be incongruent with their interests. It is poigant, shocking at times, and he does not spare us from the bloody carnage that has been wrought upon the area for decades and which will most probably continue to do as years pass by as we idlely watch it change all over again.
Fisk, like all good journalists (however many left), does not accept this. He does not accept the notion that an Israeli life, or an American life, or a European life is worth any more or less than a Palestinian, Iraqi or Iranian. He does not accept the notion that there are "worthy" and "unworthy". All death is horrific, whether it is a little Israeli victim of a suicide bomber in Jerusalem or a Palestinian boy in Gaza. As he has argued, war is filled with perpetrators and victims. The monumental book that Fisk has written will get accolades or hate based on this very fact: Fisk will point out where the West errs, where it is criminal and murderous -- and it errs oh so often.
What makes this book so fantastic is that it is not simply another study of the Middle East history. Fisk does not give us an aerial view of the Middle East in the all too typical apathetic, academic style. He brings Middle East history to life by literally having lived it. He has been present in most of the events. He is in Afghanistan watching the unraveling of an empire and the beginning of international "Jihad" (sponsored by CIA); he was there to witness the effects of chemical attacks on Iranian youths during the Iran-Iraq war (chemical weapons given to the Iraqis by the Americans and Germans); Fisk is present in Lebanon and could describe vividly the end result of the infamous Sabra and Shatila massacre (overseen by the Israelis, see the film "Waltz with Bashir"); he held an Israeli victim of a suicide bomber in his own hands. Fisk has seen as much in one life time as most could bare to handle in 10.
The end result is that we see a great humanization of the victims. We see the vast array of people in Fisk's story not as merely numbers or ethnicity, but as human beings. At the same time, the horrors become all the more evident. More than once I had to put the book down to collect myself before reading further. Whether it was the brutality of the Baathist regime in Iraq (then supported by America) or the death and slaughter brought about by the endless number of wars, Fisk does not spare any detail. He recounts it all or gives first-hand accounts of those who witnessed it. This is an important contribution as much as the detail and knowledge of the Holocaust is important if we are to understand the full gravity of what is going on. The very fact that a single death could be as brutal or savage as described by Fisk made me not want to ever pick up a gun again.
It is important that Westerners, particularly us Americans, read this book. Fisk brilliantly points out where our errors have been and how so many of the monsters that we face today are creatures of our own making. It is important that we understand the end results of so many years of occupation and brutality. If only so that we in the future can correct it.
This is a brilliant book, a sober and haunting read. I recommend it for anyone wishing to learn about the Muslim world!
Dear departed Mr. Fisk,
Thank you for being a bearer of truth who doesn't focus on passing the "breakfast test" because to see piles of dismembered bodies as a representation of war is an alignment to a reality we need to understand, no matter what or when we're eating.
With your passing, many wonder, who will carry the torch? Who can still be held accountable, not to a government, but to revealing the corruption that impacts us all?
How will we know the truth, when money is power and exposure?
Unfortunately, this book will one day be banned and that's the "free" society we live in. Just like all the news is censored (not just biased, CENSORED), so is our ability to know the truth.
Thank you for passing all this on through thick and thin, through getting beat up and being torn down as you lay in your grave.
You are a true warrior of the utmost standard we all say we align with, but don't know how to handle the reality of. Thank you.
Top reviews from other countries
So many things stand forgotten in history:
The French massacre of Algerians in 1961 in Paris.
The first holocaust of Armenians in the 20th century.
Brutal invasion of Israel into Lebanon in 1982.
The bullying of NATO members by US politicians to not stray from US's official path.
How lobbyists influence US Politicians.
How armaments companies benefit from war.
How survivors of holocaust use the same technique of warfare they were once subjected to, upon other refugees.
How lobbyists make media show only one side of history.
How journalists with a conscience have their work redacted.
This is heavy in history but written like a prose.
This read will haunt you.
There are no heroes in history, only victors.
A must read by a generation lest we forget and repeat.
I am so buying the rest of his work.