Big Politically
Correct Brother
Every time I go on his show, my radio pal Hugh Hewitt
asks me why congressional Republicans aren’t doing more to insist that the GOP
suicide note known as “the immigration deal” include a requirement for a border
fence. I don’t like to tell Hugh that, if they ever get around to building the
fence, it won’t be to keep the foreigners out but to keep you guys in.
I jest, but only
very slightly and only because the government doesn’t build much of anything
these days — except for that vast complex five times the size of the Capitol
the NSA is throwing up in Utah to house everybody’s data on everything
everyone’s ever done with anyone ever.
A few weeks after
9/11, when government was hastily retooling its 1970s hijacking procedures for
the new century, I wrote a column for the National Post of
Canada and various other publications that, if you’re so interested, is
preserved in my anthology The Face of the Tiger. It began by noting the
observation of President Bush’s transportation secretary, Norman Mineta, that
if “a 70-year-old white woman from Vero Beach, Florida” and “a Muslim young
man” were in line to board a flight, he hoped there would be no difference in
the scrutiny to which each would be subjected. The TSA was then barely a
twinkle in Norm’s eye, and in that long-ago primitive era it would have seemed
absurd to people that one day in America it would be entirely routine for
wheelchair-bound nonagenarians to remove leg braces before boarding a plane or
for kindergartners to stand patiently as three middle-aged latex-gloved
officials poke around their genitals. Back then, the idea that everybody
is a suspect still seemed slightly crazy. As I wrote in my column, “I’d
love to see Norm get his own cop show:
“Captain Mineta,
the witness says the serial rapist’s about 5′10″ with a thin mustache and a
scar down his right cheek.”
“Okay, Sergeant,
I want you to pull everyone in.”
“Pardon me?”
“Everyone.
Men, women, children. We’ll start in the Bronx and work our way through to
Staten Island. What matters here is that we not appear to be looking for people
who appear to look like the appearance of the people we’re looking for. There
are eight million stories in the Naked City, and I want to hear all of them.”
A decade on, it
would be asking too much for the new Norm to be confined to the airport
terminal. There are 300 million stories in the Naked Republic, and the NSA
hears all of them, 24/7. Even in the wake of a four-figure death toll, with the
burial pit still smoking, the formal, visible state could not be honest about
the very particular threat it faced, and so in the shadows the unseen state
grew remorselessly, the blades of the harvester whirring endlessly but, don’t
worry, only for “metadata.” As I wrote in November 2001, “The bigger you
make the government, the more you entrust to it, the more powers you give it to
nose around the citizenry’s bank accounts, and phone calls, and e-mails, and
favorite Internet porn sites, the more you’ll enfeeble it with the siren song
of the soft target. The Mounties will no longer get their man, they’ll get you
instead. Frankly, it’s a lot easier.” As the IRS scandal reminds us, you have to
have a touchingly naïve view of government to believe that the 99.9999 percent
of “metadata” entirely irrelevant to terrorism will not be put to some use,
sooner or later.