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Sunday, June 30, 2013

Foreign media portrayals of the conflict in Syria are dangerously inaccurate

The Independent   
PATRICK COCKBURN Sunday 30 June 2013

Foreign media portrayals of the conflict in Syria are dangerously inaccurate

World View: It is naive not to accept that both sides are capable of manipulating the facts to serve their own interests



Every time I come to Syria I am struck by how different the situation is on the ground from the way it is pictured in the outside world. The foreign media reporting of the Syrian conflict is surely as inaccurate and misleading as anything we have seen since the start of the First World War. I can't think of any other war or crisis I have covered in which propagandistic, biased or second-hand sources have been so readily accepted by journalists as providers of objective facts.
A result of these distortions is that politicians and casual newspaper or television viewers alike have never had a clear idea over the last two years of what is happening inside Syria. Worse, long-term plans are based on these misconceptions. A report on Syria published last week by the Brussels-based International Crisis Group says that "once confident of swift victory, the opposition's foreign allies shifted to a paradigm dangerously divorced from reality".
Slogans replace policies: the rebels are pictured as white hats and the government supporters as black hats; given more weapons, the opposition can supposedly win a decisive victory; put under enough military pressure, President Bashar al-Assad will agree to negotiations for which a pre-condition is capitulation by his side in the conflict. One of the many drawbacks of the demonising rhetoric indulged in by the incoming US National Security Adviser Susan Rice, and William Hague, is that it rules out serious negotiations and compromise with the powers-that-be in Damascus. And since Assad controls most of Syria, Rice and Hague have devised a recipe for endless war while pretending humanitarian concern for the Syrian people.
It is difficult to prove the truth or falsehood of any generalisation about Syria. But, going by my experience this month travelling in central Syria between Damascus, Homs and the Mediterranean coast, it is possible to show how far media reports differ markedly what is really happening. Only by understanding and dealing with the actual balance of forces on the ground can any progress be made towards a cessation of violence.
On Tuesday I travelled to Tal Kalakh, a town of 55,000 people just north of the border with Lebanon, which was once an opposition bastion. Three days previously, government troops had taken over the town and 39 Free Syrian Army (FSA) leaders had laid down their weapons. Talking to Syrian army commanders, an FSA defector and local people, it was evident there was no straight switch from war to peace. It was rather that there had been a series of truces and ceasefires arranged by leading citizens of Tal Kalakh over the previous year.
But at the very time I was in the town, Al Jazeera Arabic was reporting fighting there between the Syrian army and the opposition. Smoke was supposedly rising from Tal Kalakh as the rebels fought to defend their stronghold. Fortunately, this appears to have been fantasy and, during the several hours I was in the town, there was no shooting, no sign that fighting had taken place and no smoke.
Of course, all sides in a war pretend that no position is lost without a heroic defence against overwhelming numbers of the enemy. But obscured in the media's accounts of what happened in Tal Kalakh was an important point: the opposition in Syria is fluid in its allegiances. The US, Britain and the so-called 11-member "Friends of Syria", who met in Doha last weekend, are to arm non-Islamic fundamentalist rebels, but there is no great chasm between them and those not linked to al-Qa'ida. One fighter with the al-Qa'ida-affiliated al-Nusra Front was reported to have defected to a more moderate group because he could not do without cigarettes. The fundamentalists pay more and, given the total impoverishment of so many Syrian families, the rebels will always be able to win more recruits. "Money counts for more than ideology," a diplomat in Damascus told me.
While I was in Homs I had an example of why the rebel version of events is so frequently accepted by the foreign media in preference to that of the Syrian government. It may be biased towards the rebels, but often there is no government version of events, leaving a vacuum to be filled by the rebels. For instance, I had asked to go to a military hospital in the al-Waar district of Homs and was granted permission, but when I got there I was refused entrance. Now, soldiers wounded fighting the rebels are likely to be eloquent and convincing advocates for the government side (I had visited a military hospital in Damascus and spoken to injured soldiers there). But the government's obsessive secrecy means that the opposition will always run rings around it when it comes to making a convincing case.
Back in the Christian quarter of the Old City of Damascus, where I am staying, there was an explosion near my hotel on Thursday. I went to the scene and what occurred next shows that there can be no replacement for unbiased eyewitness reporting. State television was claiming that it was a suicide bomb, possibly directed at the Greek Orthodox Church or a Shia hospital that is even closer. Four people had been killed.
I could see a small indentation in the pavement which looked to me very much like the impact of a mortar bomb. There was little blood in the immediate vicinity, though there was about 10 yards away. While I was looking around, a second mortar bomb came down on top of a house, killing a woman.
The pro-opposition Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, so often used as a source by foreign journalists, later said that its own investigations showed the explosion to have been from a bomb left in the street. In fact, for once, it was possible to know definitively what had happened, because the Shia hospital has CCTV that showed the mortar bomb in the air just before it landed – outlined for a split-second against the white shirt of a passer-by who was killed by the blast. What had probably happened was part of the usual random shelling by mortars from rebels in the nearby district of Jobar.
In the middle of a ferocious civil war it is self-serving credulity on the part of journalists to assume that either side in the conflict, government or rebel, is not going to concoct or manipulate facts to serve its own interests. Yet much foreign media coverage is based on just such an assumption.
The plan of the CIA and the Friends of Syria to somehow seek an end to the war by increasing the flow of weapons is equally absurd. War will only produce more war. John Milton's sonnet, written during the English civil war in 1648 in praise of the Parliamentary General Sir Thomas Fairfax, who had just stormed Colchester, shows a much deeper understanding of what civil wars are really like than anything said by David Cameron or William Hague. He wrote:
For what can war but endless war still breed?
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand
Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed
While avarice and rapine share the land. 

Can we make ourselves happier?

Can we make ourselves happier?

Composite of a couple kissing, two kids whispering, runners on a beach, political activists, and a dinner table
Can we make ourselves happier? According to studies from all over the globe collated by the World Happiness Database in Rotterdam, we can. But the path to happiness may not be where we are looking for it.
Professor Ruut Veenhoven, Director of the Database and Emeritus professor of social conditions for human happiness at the Erasmus University in Rotterdam, says his own study found a slight negative correlation between the number of times people in a study spontaneously mentioned "goals" and their happiness.
"Though it is generally assumed that you need goals to lead a happy life, evidence is mixed. The reason seems to be that unhappy people are more aware of their goals, because they seek to change their life for the better."
But perhaps the most intriguing finding from an array of studies on file at the database is the lack of correlation between seeing meaning in life and being happy.

Top 10 happiest countries

Countries ranked in order of "satisfaction with life", according to the World Database of Happiness:
  1. Costa Rica
  2. Denmark
  3. Iceland
  4. Switzerland
  5. Norway
  6. Finland
  7. Mexico
  8. Sweden
  9. Canada
  10. Panama
"Surprisingly I found no correlation," says Professor Veenhoven. Studies suggest leading an active life is the strongest correlate with happiness.
"In order to have a happy life, a rewarding life, you need to be active. So involvement is more important to happiness than meaning in the sense of the why, why we are here."
But the best news on file at the World Happiness Database is that we can make ourselves happier, and not just through external changes like having more money.
"Research has shown that we can make ourselves happier because happiness does change over time," says Professor Veenhoven, "and these changes are not just a matter of better circumstances but of better dealing with life. Elderly people tend to be wiser, and for that reason, happier."
A couple kiss in front of police at a G8 summit protestA politically active romance might score double happiness points?
So what should we do to make ourselves happier?
Studies collated by the database say you tend to be happier if you:
  • Are in a long-term relationship
  • Are actively engaged in politics
  • Are active in work and in your free time
  • Go out for dinner
  • Have close friendships (though happiness does not increase with the number of friends you have)
And there are some surprising findings:
  • People who drink in moderation are happier than people who don't drink at all.
  • Men tend to be happier in a society where women enjoy greater equality.
  • Being considered good looking increases men's happiness more than it does women's.
  • You tend to be happier if you think you're good looking, rather than if you actually, objectively speaking, are.
  • Having children lowers your happiness levels, but your happiness increases when they grow up and leave home.
And be careful of that morning commute to work.
Pascale Harter visits the World Database of Happiness Studies in the Netherlands
A German study (by Frey and Stutzer published in 2004) found a strong link between time spent commuting and satisfaction with life. Those who spent an hour on their journey to work were found to be significantly less happy that those who did not commute.
And the study suggests that higher earnings from a job that involves commuting do not compensate for the time lost.
Professor Veenhoven and his colleagues have been trying to encourage people to do more of what makes them happy with a diary they can fill out online. So far it has attracted more than 20,000 users.
Pensioner Jana Koopman says it has changed her life, not just because it helped her identify what makes her happy, and prompted her to take up a painting class, but because it made her do less of what doesn't make her happy.

Happiness in the Magazine

"You can make everything clean and tomorrow it's dirty again, so why do it? Or don't do it too often. I like to read. So now I just pick up a book I want to read and leave all the other things."
Don't worry, though, if you can't put down your laptop and pick up a book or a paintbrush. We can't be happy all the time.
Research shows that sadness is useful. It acts as a red traffic light to curb negative behaviour.
According to studies on the database it's actually good for us all to be sad 10% of the time.
Professor Veenhoven and his colleagues have begun analysing the data collected in the online diary to conduct more happiness studies.
So far, analysis on self-confessed workaholics shows, perhaps unsurprisingly, that unwinding after work with exercise rather than a beer on the sofa makes for a happier life.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Confessions of a serial shagger

Confessions of a serial shagger

After two decades of seduction and self-loathing, Tom Shone relives his years as 'a tart, a slut, a tramp, a whore'
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/jun/29/tom-shone-confessions-serial-shagger
Weekend magazine cover 29 June 2013 Tom Shone article
'I was a particularly non-threatening predator'. Photograph: Mike Kemp/Getty Images/Rubberball
We met through mutual friends at an Italian restaurant in the Village. She was tall, with pale skin, short, dark hair and freckles – the first Californian with freckles I had met.
"Aren't you supposed to steer clear of romance in your first year?" she asked me on our first date.
"First year of what?"
"Sobriety."
"Oh, that."
Just two months earlier, I had brought the curtain down on a 20-year drinking career, during which time I had seen my life go from a Renoir painting to a Jackson Pollock to one of those small black cubes that Rothko painted in the months before he opened his wrists with a razor. She was 29 and worked for an insurance firm, running background checks on bankers. Naturally, I imagined myself on the receiving end of one of her investigations, all my guiltiest secrets flushed out of hiding.
"You Euros are a slippery lot," she told me. "The ones you get over here, anyway."
"Everyone's on the run from something – is that it?"
"Oh, everyone."
Everyone except Samantha. She didn't seem to be on the run from anything. I'd come across versions of her before: women with a sympathetic look in their eyes, who gave to charities or worked for them, who practised yoga or knitted. I had always fled them as a vampire flees the cross – they seemed forever on the point of offering me something good. Give me someone with an air of heedlessness, like fast-burning fuel, as if they wanted to be anywhere but right here, right now, in their body – a fantasist, in other words, like myself. That I could work with.
It snowed that winter, transforming the city into a 19th-century version of itself, all the roads and cars beneath a big white blanket, as if a horse and carriage could turn the corner at any moment. We holed up in her apartment on the Lower East Side, where I entertained her with stories from my rakish past. I told her about the time I seduced two guests at the same dinner party, walking home one, a Swedish girl whom I kissed goodnight and arranged to meet again, before returning to the dinner party, pleading inability to find a cab. There, I allowed myself to be talked into staying by the second girl, with whom I was soon making out in one of the cabs I had, just an hour previously, found so scarce.
Later that week, I went on a date with the first girl, the Swede, only to find her accusatory and angry: the girls had spoken. They were friends.
Samantha shrieked when I told her this. "What did you say?" she asked, saucer-eyed.
"What could I say? I told her I had a problem and I needed to see someone about it."
"You did not."
"I did."
"You sought psychiatric help."
"No, no, no, of course not. I was just trying to get rid of her. What did it matter what I said? I was never going to see her again."
I had never before told a woman all this. Telling Samantha now was a way of buying us some insurance, putting some distance between me and my past, but it was also my way of reflecting some of Sam's own transparency, for she offered up her secrets like so much loose change. Her father was someone in Hollywood, an executive, or used to be, but now he lived in a friend's pool annexe. "Kind of skidding about the bottom," as she put it. The last time they met, he had been drunk and taken a swing at her, cracking a tooth with his wristwatch; she showed me the chip in her incisor. "I don't see him now," she said.
My own parents had separated when I was six and divorced when I was 12, my father making way for a boyfriend whom I hated – a bearded ex-hippy with a stash of Penthouse under his bed and who used his fists to win arguments with my mum. I would lie awake at night, listening to them, nursing a pure, jet-black hatred for all things male, bearded and boorish. He used to pee into the toilet bowl with such torrential force that, to this day, I pee sitting down, if I can.
If I could have been gay, I would have been. Raised mostly by my mother and sister – the hippy didn't last too long – I was among the first year of boys at an all-girls grammar school in Brighton, where I instantly fell in with the school's one obviously gay boy and a gang of girls, all of them netball champs or hockey captains – beautiful, towering Amazonians every one. I was in love with all of them at one point or another. They took us in as honorary females, made us privy to their boy talk and occasionally sent us on recces to gather information on this or that crush: the mod with the buzz cut and fluorescent socks, the Adam Ant wannabe. Our own status as sexual objects was, needless to say, negligible to nonexistent. At a sleepover party to celebrate the end of A-levels, one of their mothers was outraged to find James and me sharing a room with the girls. "What, snogthem?" the netball player cried, to a small riot of laughter.
It came in very handy later, this time as a sexual double agent, flitting back and forth across the gender divide, collecting information, intelligence. We watched Terms Of Endearment, all of us the sofa, all of us in tears when Debra Winger tells her son Tommy she knows he loves her. We went to see An Officer And A Gentleman and American Gigolo at the cinema, the girls crushing on Richard Gere while I made furious mental notes. Must buy Armani. Must learn Swedish. Must start doing upside-down abdominal crunches. And navy whites. Maybe I would look good in navy whites?
One summer, the girls returned from a holiday in Turkey and I happened to notice their beach reading: a novel called Harriet by Jilly Cooper. Spotting the same book on my sister's shelf, I took it down to have a look: it seemed to confirm every worst fear I had about women. And then, when I finished it, just to make doubly sure, I ploughed through any Jilly Cooper book I could lay my hands on – Emily, Prudence, Octavia, Imogen, Emily – becoming an entranced student of Cooper's rollicking masochism, wherein nice girls with big knockers always fell for the wrong men, the cads with the cruel mouths, only to find happiness in the arms of some Burton-esque stallion in need of their soothing ministrations and moussaka. I felt as if I was getting the inside dope, if not on what girls really wanted, then on their fantasy lives.
"But it's not true," Sam said when I told her this. "I like nice men."
"I'm not sure I qualify as a nice guy any more."
"Oh c'mon. What harm did you do?"
"I slept around. A lot."
"They probably liked it."
"I never saw them again."
"They never saw you."
"I lied to them."
"How?"
"By pretending I was a nice guy."
"You are a nice guy."
"No, I'm not, Sam," I said, turning to face her. "I'm really not."
"I should be afraid of you?" she said. "It's OK. I really don't care, you know. We've all been in the wars. You're the one who's still carrying this around. You should try letting it go."
Could I be forgiven so easily? It didn't seem possible, but then neither did the way I was feeling. Quitting drinking can feel a little like landing in Narnia, or Oz. Everything comes at you with a peeled-eyeball intensity, in Technicolor, as if for the first time. Your first hangover-less morning. The first time you don't hate birdsong. First summer. First snowfall. First kiss. First love. First heartbreak. You do feel like a kid again: a 16-year-old kid inside a 37-year-old man-suit. A "pink cloud", they call it. It was supposed to end, an event for which I was braced, while also wondering whether it hadn't already and what I was now experiencing was simply the result of being in love with Sam.
"You didn't tell me you were in the newspaper! Call me when you get a chance. Love you. Bye!"
It was Sam, calling me from work, something she never did. My gut plummeted. Fuck. Her job investigating Euros no longer seemed so cute. She had access to all the big databases at work. What had she seen? There was my appearance in Julie Burchill's autobiography, cutting a dash at the Groucho Club in the early 90s: "You just knew that Tom was brilliant in bed because the minute the talk turned – as it invariably did – to matters of sport, Tom would yawn, down his vodkatini in one and say loudly, 'God! I hate sport! Especially football! Why would anyone bother once they'd left school?' And all the girls would turn into steaming vats of oestrogen and draw straws in the Ladies' Powder Room about who was going to go home with him that night. (Tom, in the first flush of extreme youth, was my prettiest boy protege ever: a drinking, thinking man's Daniel Day-Lewis.)"
A flattering cartoon that bears a striking resemblance, I now see, to one of Jilly Cooper's cads, but like a lot of Julie's cartoons, it contains some truth: the lack of guy-talk. There's a line in Russell Brand's My Booky Wook where he recounts his decision "to act gay to attract girls" that made me slap my forehead in recognition. That was me. A first-generation son of feminism, the son of a working mother, who cheered your successes and empathised with your woes, whose party piece was getting drunk and wearing your dresses, I was a particularly non-threatening predator, those school years undercover now paying off as I popped up on your side of the divide, talking books and boy bands, mocking machismo in all its forms. I in no way resembled the kind of arsehole who would have sex with you and then discard you "like wet Kleenex", as one girl described it when I tried to make amends and with whom I ended up sleeping again (by way of apology?).
I was a tart, a trollop, a slut, a tramp, a whore. Only the female words will do. All of the male words – ladies' man, stud, Don Juan, lothario, womaniser – conjured smooth George Clooney types who seemed to enjoy their work and bore no resemblance to the permanently lovelorn shambles I felt inside. My psyche was a thin papier-mache of cliche. I was in love with you until you were in love with me; then I broke up with you, at which point I was in love with you again, because now the whole thing qualified as tragic. Now requiring punishment, I would throw myself at the feet of the nearest unavailable woman, her rejection relighting the flame of victimhood and spurring me on to fresh conquests to ease the pain. Like all lies, it worked only because I believed it: on some level, I was looking for love, just like everyone else. Those weren't one-night stands; they wererelationships that went splat on day two, that's all. A lot of them.
So I did not recognise the smooth operator I found in the pages of Toby Young's How To Lose Friends & Alienate People, stealing a dark-haired beauty from under Toby's nose. "As soon as he saw Syrie, he got that predatory look in his eye that I'd seen a thousand times before… (It's the wool-uf, it's the wool-uf!) I knew from bitter experience that there was no point in competing with Shagger when he was in one of these moods. No one could match his concentration and willpower."
Shagger! How I hated that name, its air of public schoolishness, of comradely backslap – its maleness. Fortunately, only one person called me that. Unfortunately, that person was Toby, the boy born with a loudhailer in his mouth. On the eve of my departure for New York, a journalist from the New York Observer had called me up, saying he was writing a story about the resurgence of the word "shag".
"Why are you calling me?"
"Uh… Well... It's just that Toby Young said…"
"Toby? Toby said what?"
"Well, that you might be… the man to talk to about that."
"What?"
"Shagging."
"I think you've made a mistake. Tell Toby I said hello." I slammed down the phone.
Tom Shone'Shagger! How I hated that name, its air of public schoolishness, its maleness'
The story hadn't run. But Sam had found another, putting me on the arm of a well-known British author – nothing too X-rated, but by this point I was livid with alarm. That evening, we had our first proper row, my anger made worse by the sure knowledge of how unreasonable I was being.
"But you told me half of those stories yourself," she protested.
"Telling you is one thing, but having you snoop around is something else."
"I ran one search on you, is all."
"Just don't do it again."
"It's not even…"
"Just don't do that again, OK, Sam? Just leave it alone! Will you do that for me?"
My volume startled us both.
Sam went suddenly very still: the body language of a woman expert in the art of not getting hit.
I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Whatever illusions I still held about myself were in tatters. I was not this woman's protector, her white knight, her English gent come to deliver her from the clutches of abusive men. Instead, I stood in their shadow. She forgave me much quicker than I forgave myself. For her, it was a quick shower; for me a small weather system that moved into my thorax and stayed there. I had found the flaw in the relationship – shows of anger were as unacceptable to me as they were to her – and in the weeks to come I would probe it, like a finger returning to a wound you can't quite leave alone. Somehow, I knew there was more where that came from.
Not for nothing is Salman Rushdie's novel about New York called Fury. It is the electrical current juicing up the entire city, a fantastical place, shimmering in the distance like the Emerald City, but run on pure will, as most fantasies are. You feel it when the taxicabs take the speed bumps too fast, their suspension unable to stop the chassis from sending sparks flying. It is a great place for the wheels to come off completely and reality to come and hit you in the arse.
I'd come out here to work for a magazine, but my reputation had preceded me. Some of the magazine's female staffers still slept with me, but with the mixture of wariness and curiosity with which you might treat an exotic primate: a monkey prince. One time, after tumbling drunkenly into bed with one of the editorial assistants, a condom broke and the look of sheer panic on her face saddened me to the core. We never saw each other again. I preferred the blurry curvature of illusions, my own as much as theirs.
About a year after I arrived, some friends introduced me to another Brit, a girl who immediately caught my eye: a curvy brunette, just my type.
"I don't believe we've met," I cooed in my best Clifford the Dragon voice.
"Oh, we've met, Tom," she said stoutly.
"Really? I think I would have… Where would we have…?"
"The Idler party? My heel broke."
Then it came back to me. A party in Clerkenwell some time in the late 1990s. I'd bought her a pair of shoes the morning after. I'd just forgotten.
The first step to overcoming a problem is realising it exists. That's what they tell you. In my case, the problems came nested within one another, like Russian dolls. Put down the booze and the love stuff would sort itself out. That was about the level of my thinking. Alcohol juiced everything, the great simplifier. Should I go out? Yes. Should I make a beeline for that woman? Yes. Should I make a pass at her? Yes. Should I go home with her? Yesyesyes. Even past the point of meaning it, when the answer to all these questions is really no, but you've lost the ability to hear yourself. Every Saturday afternoon, when I got up, I would peel back the blinds and look out on to the street below, at all the happy couples, loaded with shopping bags, pushing baby strollers down the leafy street. I felt as baffled as a Martian. How did they do it, these earthlings? What was their secret?
If you're finding it too difficult, you really can leave. You know that, right?"
We were about eight months in. The honeymoon period was definitely over. My pink cloud had vaporised. I was not finding work and I was angry. Where had everybody gone? How could people find more use for me drunk than sober? Sam couldn't be around me when I was like this; she simply shut down, so in addition to feeling like the world's guiltiest man, I was now angry with her for abandoning me. As the standard-bearer of all that was fucked up and clueless when it came to relationships, I had been looking to her for lessons in how you did this – how you stayed in them. I hadn't been counting on her being as clueless and as frightened as me. In fact, her exit instincts were even sharper.
"Why would you say that?"
"I'm just saying that, if you want to leave, you can."
"I don't want to. Why do you have to bring a loaded gun to the conversation?"
I can't remember the first time I thought, "I have to get out of this." It was a whispering campaign that started up softly, until one day I turned around and it was an actual voice: an old familiar fiend, intent on mocking my happiness. "Not this one," I would mutter. "This one I love. You can't have her." And I threw myself into ever greater demonstrations of commitment – a trip to London to meet family, friends – that only frayed things further. A promise to see a couples counsellor whizzed by, unkept. Looking back, I can see that I did everything almost exactly wrong, increasing, rather than decreasing, the pressure I was under. By the end, the rivets were starting to come loose, so hard was I trying to stay put. We broke up three times before it stuck.
"My feelings for you are greater… than my ability to be in a relationship with you," I told her finally.
There was a pause, during which she took this in, then she nodded, as if trying it out. "That sounds right," she said.
I don't know where that sentence came from. There's a book I have since come to treasure by a German psychotherapist, Erich Fromm, called The Art Of Loving, in which he makes the point that love is not a noun, it is a verb; an action, like riding a bike. "Love isn't something natural. Rather, it requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith and the overcoming of narcissism. It isn't a feeling, it is a practice." It's the only thing that has come close to explaining how I felt in those last few months, how comprehensively overwhelmed I was.
We parted for the last time the next morning. I walked away on jellied legs, heavy with the certain knowledge that I would not do this again. I didn't have it in me. I was going to have to start again, top to bottom, all my habits junked, all my old ideas scrapped. I was a 37-year-old human male and I knew nothing about love.
As I write this, a sonogram of a three-month-old baby sits pinned to a board above my computer. My wife is at work. On my bookshelf sit the books Why We Love: The Nature And Chemistry Of Romantic Love, by Helen Fisher; Love And Addiction, by Stanton Peele; Love: A History, by Simon May; Falling In Love: Why We Choose The Lovers We Choose, by Ayala Malach Pines; and A General Theory Of Love, by Thomas Lewis. There's more. I've been busy in the years since Sam and I broke up, trying to solve the riddle of my seemingly constitutional inability to settle into something resembling shared happiness with another human being. It seemed an important thing to figure out.
Guilt is the only purely useless emotion, I've found – not just no use whatsoever, but actually the enemy. Here's another thing I've learned: when you fall in love with someone, MRI scans reveal a firework display in the caudate nuclei, a pair of shrimp-like structures located deep in the reptilian brain. This isn't where everyone thought love lived. For decades, everyone thought love was holed up in the limbic system – the place where infants recognise their mothers, and parents protect their families, and individuals feel loyal to their friends. No. It's deep in the selfish, self-seeking reptile brain, the same bit dealing with reward and achievement, which lights up like a slot machine when you make money, or win the lottery, or ace the final level of Grand Theft Auto.
Some researchers have reclassified it not as an emotion at all, but as a drive, like hunger. Romantic love, that is: Romeo-and-Juliet love, crazy-passionate-I-feel-like-I've-known-you-all-my-life-love, the kind celebrated in pop songs and movies as the holy grail of all human activity. The prize, no less, for being human.
On the subject of waking up next to a face you have seen a thousand times and trying to be as nice and kind to its owner as you can – the kind of love, in other words, most of us will actually attempt at some point in our lives – our culture maintains a deathly silence, broken only by the odd bit of Shakespearean verse: "So we grew together,/Like to a double cherry – seeming parted/But yet an union in partition –/Two lovely berries moulded on one stem."
Here are some of the things that didn't happen when I met my wife. It wasn't love at first sight (we both had moments of "meh"). My childhood and her childhood didn't sing each other's siren song (she has a great relationship with the men in her family). It wasn't a meeting of minds, or a melding of souls, or a beating of two hearts as one. (If anything, I was a little unsettled, as if sensing that the game might be up.) We didn't fall in love, we just walked slowly into it, and at around the nine-month mark I woke up one day and thought, "I do love her." That was my exact intonation when I told her. "I do love you." As if it were a piece of news we'd all been waiting on.
She is the love of my life, quite literally: the woman I have spent the most of my life loving – the most minutes, the most hours, the most days, the most time. Erich Fromm again: the man who waits for the right person to come along can be "compared to the man who wants to paint but who, instead, of learning the art, claims that he has just to wait for the right object, and that he will paint it beautifully when he finds it." I know for a fact I am not her perfect man. Living with me, she says, is "like living with a 14-year-old girl", although I don't play Taylor Swift that loudly.
Earlier this year, we had an argument over what to watch on TV. She got back from work early to find me already ensconced on the sofa.
"What's going on?"
"Super Bowl."
"What time is it on?"
"Ten minutes." Her eyes narrowed.
"Oh honey, I wanted to watched Titanic. You know I did."
"We just saw Titanic!"
"That was the 3D version. It was awful. They looked a million miles away from each other."
"Sweetheart. It's the Super Bowl. The Baltimore Ravens. I've been waiting all week to see those 49ers get spanked… Oh, don't pull that face."
I got my way in the end. We watched Titanic.
• © Tom Shone, 2013.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Five Eyes

The Financial Times online  June 26, 2013 7:31 pm

Snooping concerns are not paranoia


Agencies that have abused their power have a long way to go to regain the trust they now demand
The vital thing to understand is that the innocent have nothing to fear. It is important you understand this as reports of sweeping US and British intelligence surveillance programmes proliferate.
This is the argument of every democratic government as it seeks to justify a reduction of civil liberties. The innocent have nothing to fear; trust us – we’re the good guys.

But one does not need to join the hyperbole equating this surveillance with China or North Korea, or even to doubt the good intentions of the US National Security Agency or the UK’s GCHQ, to be left uneasy by such arguments. Even those who believe it helps prevent terrorist attacks ought to be wary of “the innocent have nothing to fear” line.
This argument only flies if one can trust the agencies gathering and using this information and, in the UK at least, this debate has flared up just as we are being given reason to question the most visible arm of UK security – the police service.
The innocent have nothing to fear. It would be interesting to hear the views of Duwayne Brooks on that. The main witness to the racist murder of Stephen Lawrence in 1993 – and a close friend of the victim – should not have had anything to fear. But this week we have learnt that, even as they were failing to nail the teenager’s killers, police officers were apparently gathering dirt to smear the friends and family of the murdered boy because they were criticising the police investigation. An officer went undercover among campaigners, because – obviously – anyone questioning the police must be out to undermine society. The home secretary has ordered an inquiry. The innocent have nothing to fear.
'Is that the NSA? Do you know where I've left my reading glasses'
This week, it also emerged that a libellous leaflet about McDonald’s, apparently distributed by green activists in 1986 and which led to a long and costly civil trial, had been written by an undercover officer spying on the environmentalists. Two activists were left to face the music. An inquiry is under way. The innocent have nothing to fear.
Two weeks ago a police officer was arrested in connection with an incident that forced the resignation of a minister. Andrew Mitchell quit the cabinet last yearafter leaked police logs suggested he called officers “plebs”. The evidence against him is now being questioned amid claims it was falsified. An inquiry is under way. The innocent have nothing to fear.
Last year, an inquiry found police officers systematically smeared the victims of the1989 Hillsborough football disaster to cover up for their own responsibility. An inquiry has been ordered into individual officers’ culpability. The innocent are dead.
These cases may be exceptions but there are rather a lot of them and only space prevents me listing more. And why stop with the police. Recall the “shoot to kill” era when sections of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the army and the intelligence services in Northern Ireland colluded with loyalist paramilitaries to murder republican activists and sympathisers. There have been, and continue to be, inquiries into this.
In politics, we have something known as the Wilson doctrine, banning the phone-tapping of MPs and peers. Why? Because it emerged that “rogue” elements in the intelligence service were indeed tapping MPs’ phones. Interestingly, politicians have concluded they are an exception to the “innocent have nothing to fear” doctrine.
The malign use of private data runs beyond security and police services into other civil authorities. One troubling aspect of a major health scandal is the secret psychiatric report commissioned into and used to discredit a whistleblower who raised valid doubts about the performance of a watchdog body.
In the US, history shows how the apparatus of the state is used against political opponents. Just as the FBI once turned its resources against Martin Luther King it is not hard for those in authority to convince themselves that the inconvenient or troublesome are actually more malevolent; deserving of scrutiny.
All these stories are different but the common thread is the misuse of power by the very agencies the innocent are being asked to entrust with ever more private information. Everyone has something they don’t want made public. It need not be illegal – it may just be embarrassing.
Public trust therefore requires transparency, open oversight and a clear definition of what constitutes a threat to society. The agencies of order should welcome us knowing more about their work – after all, the innocent have nothing to fear.



In Defence Of The Met

Don't blame me, I'm just a horse.
Once again the Metropolitan Police are in the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Over the next few days you’re going to read a lot of angry comments, accusing this city’s foremost public defenders of everything from victim blaming to closet racism to good old-fashioned straight-forward incompetence. We’ve written some of them ourselves.
But we at Londonist like to celebrate London, and everything in it — and, for all its flaws, the Met is the only* police force we’ve got. With that in mind, here are some very good reasons to forgive them everything.
  • Public consent is necessary if the police are to effectively fight crime. Scandals regarding police behaviour damage that consent. Therefore, by even thinking about this story, you are helping the criminals.
  • If you had to wear that hat, you’d be in a bad mood, too.
  • Without the police, those nice EDL people might have got beaten up by those violentanti-fascists. Poor lambs.
  • Someone breaks into your house and steals all your stuff. You’re not gonna call the fucking Guardian, are you?
  • The Met are the only thing standing between us and the tyranny of left-wingers inwheelchairs.
  • This latest mess relates to events from 20 years ago, and was the work of people who don’t even work there any more. Okay, the Met doesn’t seem sure exactly who those people were, and they haven’t really investigated. But why would they lie?  They’re the police.
  • A functional police service makes for really dull television. Would you rather have The Sweeney or Heart Beat? The Wire, or Dixon of Dock Green? No contest, is it?
  • Who are the real racists? The racists, or the people who call them racists? Think about it.
  • The police genuinely — and now we’re not being sarcastic — do a very difficult job. It’s physically and emotionally draining, they get shouted at and abused, they often have to put themselves in the way of danger to protect the rest of us, and no one feels much gratitude towards them for any of it. We don’t envy them this, and from the protection of our smug, media ivory tower, we can only be grateful that we don’t have to do any of these things ourselves. In that situation, who wouldn’t want to smear the odd victim, just to let off steam?
  • You try having the likes of Michael Howard, John Reid, and Theresa May as your boss, and see what it does to your sanity.
*Yes yes, we know, the City of London Police and the British Transport Police are also hard at work in this town. But you try reporting a burglary to one of them and see how far you get.
Photo by snaphappysal via the Londonist Flickrpool.


Can the state be trusted to do anything right?

Revelations of unacceptable snooping and the draconian treatment of whistleblowers are making a mockery of the government's quest for 'openness and transparency'

Leveson: Stephen lawrence officer 'was known to be corrupt'
Stephen Lawrence, who was murdered in 1993. This week, Peter Francis, a former Special Branch covert agent, told Channel 4’s 'Dispatches' that his job had been to infiltrate the grieving family and 'dig dirt' on Stephen’s best friend, Duwayne Brooks Photo: PA





With the Met, if you are innocent you have everything to worry about

Peter Francis's revelations show the need for a judicial inquiry – so the public can see how far our democracy has been eroded

Travel tips for Edward Snowden in Moscow

http://www.latimes.com/travel/deals/la-trb-travel-tips-for-edward-snowden-in-moscow-20130624,0,1757742.story?track=rss
Moscow: St. Basil's Cathedral
St. Basil's Cathedral, next to the Kremlin on Red Square, is a prime destination for tourists in Moscow. (Alexander Zemlianichenko / AP)


Germany blasts Britain over GCHQ's secret cable trawl

Minister questions legality of mass tapping of calls and internet and demands to know extent to which Germans were targeted

Cameron and Merkel


GCHQ taps fibre-optic cables for secret access to world's communications

Exclusive: British spy agency collects and stores vast quantities of global email messages, Facebook posts, internet histories and calls, and shares them with NSA, latest documents from Edward Snowden reveal

Access to the future 3
Secret document detailing GCHQ's ambition to 'master the internet'

G20 surveillance: why was Turkey targeted?

Gordon Brown had hailed 'strong and strengthening ties' with the country, which was – and is – an ally
... ... ...
The subject matter is the everyday talk of financial civil servants and central bankers. The apparent motive for the eavesdropping was to give British officials the slight negotiating edge of knowing what the Turks were thinking about financial reform before they showed their hand.
So why is GCHQ bugging them if the potential gains are so marginal? The answer seems to be because it can, both technically and legally.
In 1994, the Tory government managed to insert into the Intelligence Services Act a clause that allowed electronic surveillance "in the interests of the economic wellbeing of the United Kingdom in relation to the actions or intentions of persons outside the British islands".
The argument at the time was that national security also entailed economic security. The country would want to be prepared for sudden oil price shocks, for example.
But what was created was a capability without a constraint, and a new infinite list of foreign targets to eavesdrop on, no matter how marginal the advantage gained, as the 2009 Turkish GCHQ brief demonstrates.
Being a Nato ally seems to offer little protection against covert monitoring. The only boundary GCHQ appears to recognise is membership of Five Eyes, the tight coalition of western English-speaking states that share their signals intelligence: the US, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. When it comes to eavesdropping on a national of a "second party", as Five Eyes members are called, that government has to be informed.
Anyone outside that select group is potentially fair game. In fact, the question the Turkish G20 document leaves unanswered is: if GCHQ was actively contemplating wiretaps on mid-level treasury officials in the hope of capturing their thoughts on the regulatory architecture of global finance, who would it not spy on?


Edward Snowden: how the spy story of the age leaked out

The full story behind the scoop and why the whistleblower approached the Guardian
Link to video: NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden: 'I don't want to live in a society that does these sort of things'
As he pulled a small black suitcase and carried a selection of laptop bags over his shoulders, no one would have paid much attention to Ed Snowden as he arrived at Hong Kong International Airport. But Snowden was not your average tourist or businessman. In all, he was carrying four computers that enabled him to gain access to some of the US government's most highly-classified secrets.
Today, just over three weeks later, he is the world's most famous spy, whistleblower and fugitive, responsible for the biggest intelligence breach in recent US history. News organisations around the globe have described him as "America's Most Wanted". Members of Congress have denounced him as a "defector" whose actions amount to treason and have demanded he be punished to the fullest extent of the law.
His supporters argue that his actions have opened up a much-needed debate on the balance between security and privacy in the modern world.

So is he whistleblower or traitor? That debate is still raging.
Snowden, aged 29, had flown to Hong Kong from Hawaii, where he had been working for the defence contractor Booz Allen Hamilton at the National Security Agency, the biggest spy surveillance organisation in the world. Since Monday morning, he has gone underground. Hong Kong-based journalists, joined by the international press, have been hunting for him. At the height of the search, reporters recruited Twitter followers to see if they could successfully identify the lighting and other hotel furnishings shown in the video in which he went public. They did: the $330-a-night Mira Hotel, on Nathan Road, the busy main shopping drag in Kowloon district.
Knowing it was only a matter of time before he was found, Snowden checked out at lunchtime on Monday. It is thought he is now in a safe house.
What happens now? The US is on the verge of pressing criminal charges against him and that would lead to extradition proceedings, with a view to bringing him back to the US for trial and eventually jail.
If America is planning to jail for life Bradley Manning, who was behind the 2010 WikiLeaks release of tens of thousands of state department memos, what retribution lies in store for Snowden, who is guilty of leaking on a much bigger scale? The documents Manning released were merely "classified". Snowden's were not only "Top Secret", but circulation was extremely limited.
For an American, the traditional home for the kind of story Snowden was planning to reveal would have been the New York Times. But during extensive interviews last week with a Guardian team, he recalled how dismayed he had been to discover the Times had a great scoop in election year 2004 – that the Bush administration, post 9/11, allowed theNSA to snoop on US citizens without warrants – but had sat on it for a year before publishing.
Guardian reporter Glenn Greenwald speaks to reporters at his hotel in Hong Kong. See his interview with NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden here.Glenn Greenwald. Photograph: Vincent Yu/AP
Snowden said this was a turning point for him, confirming his belief that traditional media outlets could not be trusted. He looked around for alternative journalists, those who were both anti-establishment and at home with blogging and other social media. The member of this generation that he most trusted was the Guardian commentator Glenn Greenwald.
In January, Snowden reached out to a documentary filmmaker and journalist, Laura Poitras, and they began to correspond. In mid-February, he sent an email to Greenwald, who lives in Brazil, suggesting he might want to set up a method for receiving and sending encrypted emails. He even made a YouTube video for Greenwald, to take him step-by-step through the process of encryption. Greenwald did not know the identity of the person offering the leaks and was unsure if they were genuine. He took no action. In March, in New York, he received a call from Poitras, who convinced him that he needed to take this more seriously.
Greenwald and Snowden set up a secure communications system and the first of the documents arrived, dealing with the NSA's secret Prismprogramme, which gathers up information from the world's leading technology companies.
Greenwald flew to New York to talk to Guardian editors on 31 May; the next day, he and Poitras flew to Hong Kong. (I met the two for the first time in the New York office, accompanied them to Hong Kong and joined them in interviewing Snowden over the best part of a week, and writing articles based on the leaked documents and the interviews).
Neither Greenwald nor Poitras even knew what Snowden looked like. "He had some elaborate scheme to meet," Greenwald said. Snowden told him to go to a specific location on the third floor of the hotel and ask loudly for directions to a restaurant. Greenwald assumed Snowden was lurking in the background, listening in.
They went to a room that, Greenwald recalled, contained a large fake alligator. Snowden made himself known. He had told Greenwald that "I would know it was him because he would be carrying a Rubik's Cube".
Both Greenwald and Poitras were shocked the first time they saw the 29-year-old. Greenwald said:
I had expected a 60-year-old grizzled veteran, someone in the higher echelons of the intelligence service. I thought: 'This is going to be a wasted trip.'
After an hour of listening to Snowden, Greenwald changed his mind. "I completely believed him," he said.
The interviews were conducted in Snowden's room, which overlooked Kowloon Park. Snowden and the journalists, complete with camera equipment, crammed into the tiny space. He had been there for two weeks, having meals sent up. He did not have much with him: some clothes, a book, four computers, that Rubik's Cube. He was becoming worried about the costs and especially the chance that his credit cards would be blocked.
Even though he was well-versed in surveillance techniques, he would not have been hard to find – having signed in under his own name, using his own credit cards.
The interviews, combined with the leaked documents, provided the Guardian with four scoops in quick succession, from the court ordershowing that the US government had forced the telecoms giant Verizon to hand over the phone records of millions of Americans, to the previously undisclosed programme, Prism.
The Prism story was also published independently by the Washington Post after Poitras, a freelance journalist, had earlier approached the investigative reporter Barton Gellman, who took the story to the paper. Once on the ground in Hong Kong, however, Poitras began working with the Guardian team.
On Sunday, the story shifted from the leaks to the leaker. Snowden had from the start decided against anonymity and Poitras filmed him being interviewed by Greenwald for a video that would announce his outing.
Snowden's decision to go public has mystified many. Why come out? He had, he said, seen at first hand the impact on colleagues of leak inquiries involving anonymous sources and he did not want to put his colleagues through another ordeal.
Hong KongHong Kong> Photograph: Getty Images
So what are the options available to him now? In the interviews, he praised Hong Kong as a place with a strong tradition of free speech and a working judicial system, in spite of having been returned to Chinese sovereignty. But these courts, judging by examples of past extradition cases, tend to lean towards being helpful towards the US.
Snowden would likely argue he is not guilty of a crime and claim the charges are politically motivated.
He has been hailed as a hero by some and a criminal by others. He was denigrated in columns in the New York Times and Washington Post. The Post columnist Richard Cohen, though he has never met Snowden, wrote: "He is not paranoiac; he is merely narcissistic." In the New York Times,David Brooks offered up psychological analysis, writing:
Though thoughtful, morally engaged and deeply committed to his beliefs, he appears to be a product of one of the more unfortunate trends of the age: the atomization of society, the loosening of social bonds, the apparently growing share of young men in their 20s who are living technological existences in the fuzzy land between their childhood institutions and adult family commitments.
On Sunday night, Snowden gave the last of what had been almost a week's worth of interviews. It was his final night in that hotel room: the final night before his old life gave way to a new and uncertain one. He sat on his bed, arms folded, television news on without the sound, and spoke about the debate he had started, homing in on a comment Obama had made on Friday, in response to the leaks.
"You can't have 100% security and then also have 100% privacy and zero inconvenience," the president said. Society had to make choices, he added.
Snowden challenged this, saying the problem was that the Obama administration had denied society the chance to have that discussion. He disputed that there had to be a trade-off between security and privacy, describing the very idea of a trade-off as a fundamental assault on the US constitution.
In what were to be the last words of the interview, he quoted Benjamin Franklin: "Those who surrender freedom for security will not have, nor do they deserve, either one."
Snowden recited it slowly. For him, it had a special resonance.
He has gone underground for now. But this saga is far from over.

Revelations of cold war bugging and a botched attempt to examine Khrushchev's ship have caused scandal in the past

Top 10 commentaries on the NSA leaks and whistleblower Edward Snowden

Some call Snowden a hero; others label him a traitor. Here's our compilation of the best of the debate in the US media

Edward Snowden in Hong Kong
Edward Snowden in Hong Kong. Photograph: Bobby Yip/Reuters

David Brooks, the New York Times: 'The solitary leaker'

David Brooks
"But Big Brother is not the only danger facing the country. Another is the rising tide of distrust, the corrosive spread of cynicism, the fraying of the social fabric and the rise of people who are so individualistic in their outlook that they have no real understanding of how to knit others together and look after the common good. This is not a danger Snowden is addressing. In fact, he is making everything worse. For society to function well, there have to be basic levels of trust and cooperation, a respect for institutions and deference to common procedures. By deciding to unilaterally leak secret N.SA documents, Snowden has betrayed all of these things."

Jeffrey Toobin, the New Yorker: 'Edward Snowden is no hero'

Jeffrey Toobin
"For this, some, including my colleague John Cassidy, are hailing him as a hero and a whistleblower. He is neither. He is, rather, a grandiose narcissist who deserves to be in prison … These were legally authorized programs; in the case of Verizon Business's phone records, Snowden certainly knew this, because he leaked the very court order that approved the continuation of the project. So he wasn't blowing the whistle on anything illegal; he was exposing something that failed to meet his own standards of propriety. The question, of course, is whether the government can function when all of its employees (and contractors) can take it upon themselves to sabotage the programs they don't like. That's what Snowden has done."

Matt Miller, the Washington Post: 'Edward Snowden's grandiosity'

Matt Miller
"There are people I respect who say Snowden is a hero. I think they're dead wrong. Thinking about 'big data' is a little like imagining how things look to God (assuming God exists). God may love you personally, but she's a little too busy to worry about whether you get that raise you deserve. The National Security Agency (NSA) may have access to every bit and byte in the land, but the unfathomable river of information their algorithms must mine means no one's focusing on the text you sent to that guy in accounting."

Hector Villagra, Los Angeles Times: 'Washington's dark secrets'

Hector Villagra
"The debate we are now having about government surveillance – to ensure that the government is complying with publicly enacted laws and acting in a manner consistent with American values – has become possible only because of "unauthorized disclosures" to the media. Instead of calling for an investigation of whistle-blowers, we should be asking ask why government officials were not the ones to disclose freely how they interpreted and applied the Patriot Act."

Marcy Wheeler, emptywheeler: 'Edward Snowden is in distinguished company'

Marcy Wheeler
"What Snowden released on Section 215 – just a single 215 order to Verizon, without details on how this information is used – is far, far less than what DOJ and ODNI and Lisa Monaco pledged to try to release. Given that the collection is targeted on every single American indiscriminately, it won't tell the bad guys anything (except that they've been sucked into the same dragnet the rest of us have). And while it shows that FBI submits the order but the data gets delivered to NSA (which has some interesting implications), that's a source and method to game the law, not the source or method used to identify terrorists. So if Snowden committed treason, he did so doing far less than top members of our National Security establishment promised to do."

Conor Friedersdorf, the Atlantic: 'Choose one: secrecy and democracy are incompatible'

Conor Friedersdorf
"But I regard Snowden's leak as obviously on the side of revealing a secret illegitimately kept, for reasons I lay out at length here. I'd encourage Marshall to grapple with that. Here's an initial prompt: given that attempts to challenge NSA surveillance in court have been subverted, national-security officials have blatantly lied to Congress about its nature, and the author of the legal language supposedly justifying it swears it violated the Patriot Act, why should we act as if it's as legitimate as any other policy?"

Adam Cohen, Time magazine: 'Edward Snowden: a modern-day Daniel Ellsberg, except for one key difference'

Adam Cohen
"Ellsberg is also widely regarded as a hero today because history moved his way. There is general agreement now that it was high time we pulled out of Vietnam – and that there was little real damage to national security from the release of the Pentagon Papers. The more it appears that what the NSA has been doing is wrong, the more Snowden will look like a whistle-blower. History's verdict on Snowden will turn on whether he got the balance right: whether it turned out that we were more at risk of becoming a surveillance state than we were of terrorism."

Kevin Gosztola, FireDogLake: 'US media's contempt & inability to comprehend what it means to be a whistleblower

Kevin Gosztola
"Not only do they ignore or disregard the fact that the government has carved out national security exceptions to protect power from disclosures that Snowden made by ensuring that he can be prosecuted, jailed and effectively silenced no matter how he makes disclosures, but they cheerlead for zealous prosecution of these individuals for periods of time that exceed the length of time they would ever advocate for torturers, war criminals or those who commit felonies in violation of laws intended to protect individual rights and liberty in the United States. Which means that when people like Edward Snowden come forward, not only do they have to fear their own government but they also have to fear their country's media and the pundits who populate the airwaves because they fully understand they will become victims of news coverage that might as well be paid propaganda produced by senior officials inside the national security state."

Steven Bucci, USA Today: 'Edward Snowden broke the law'

Steven Bucci
"Individuals don't get to decide for themselves what should be classified. If an individual knowingly has given classified material to unauthorized person, it's a grave breach of trust and law … Mr Snowden decided it was fine to break the law, and he should be called to account for it. These leaks never occur without repercussions. One hopes that any damage to the nation's security does not cause loss of life. Some Americans may lionize Snowden, but there are terrorists who surely do."

Geoffrey R Stone, Huffington Post: 'Edward Snowden: hero or traitor?'

Geoffrey R Stone
"In the absence of such a procedure, what should Edward Snowden have done? Probably, he should have presented his concerns to senior, responsible members of Congress. But the one thing he most certainly should not have done is to decide on the basis of his own ill-informed, arrogant and amateurish judgment that he knows better than everyone else in government how best to serve the national interest. The rule of law matters, and no one gave Edward Snowden the authority to make that decision for the nation. His conduct was more than unacceptable; it was criminal."