It also clarifies the bizarre and singular marriage between the Left and Islamism. Glazov writes that the “common denominator” between two such improbable bedfellows — the one ostensibly promoting gender equality, freedom of speech, and a pluralistic society, and the other predicated on gender apartheid, theocratic coercion, and conformity to Sharia law — is a belief in redemptive violence. As Glazov points out, “Ground Zero must be engendered everywhere so that the earthly paradise can be built on its ashes.” For the Left, the goal is the socialist Arcadia; for Islam, the universal caliphate. What exists must therefore be annihilated so that something presumably better can be erected on the debris.
This is why so many on the secular Left — Noam Chomsky, Susan Sontag, Ward Churchill, William Blum, Robert Jensen, Edward Said, Peter Dale Scott, Naomi Klein, Jean Baudrillard, George Galloway, Ramsey Clark, Michael Moore, and innumerable others — exulted in the carnage of 9/11, as did their fundamentalist counterparts in the Islamic world, like the Palestinians who danced in the street and handed out candies to celebrate the great event. For the members of the anti-American Left, their papers and speeches were the candies they distributed to mark this sublime and long-awaited triumph.
Yet another important common denominator, Glazov explains, between the Western Left and Islamism is their shared hatred for the state of Israel, the only true, democratic nation in the Middle East and the West’s forward position in the war against an undeviating adversary. The Left abominates Israel as a mini-America, that is, as a colonial occupier of third world innocents, and as a symbol of all the things it loathes: “modernity, freedom, corporate capitalism and globalization — all things reviled by Muslim fundamentalists.” It has thus allied itself with militant Islam on the principle that “my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” It has not assimilated Jonathan Rosenblum’s wise reformulation, “Sometimes, my enemy’s enemy is my enemy” — as it will discover in the course of time should it ever come close to accomplishing its aims.
For what the Left has failed to realize is that, from the perspective of their new confederates, it is a wholly expendable commodity that will be mercilessly eliminated or dhimmified once “victory” is achieved. In the political nuptials it has eagerly contracted and continues to consecrate with its Islamic spouse, the Left has assumed the role of the female partner in a traditional phallocratic relationship in which it will be brutally suppressed, infibulated, confined, burka’d, and, should it prove wayward, duly honor-killed. The Left consists, in the witty formulation of National Post columnist Barbara Kay, of “useful jihidiots” who serve a cause which, when the time is right, will turn and devour it to the very bone and marrow of its living substance.
This is indeed, at first blush, a profound enigma, involving the supple elusiveness of self-knowledge and conscious awareness, in effect, the dark epistemology of willed ignorance. How can political believers be oblivious to the stubborn facts staring them in the face? How can they justify their loathing of their own society which has furnished them with every advantage and their dedication to the undeniably cannibal regimes of this world? The answer is deceptively obvious. Because the believer, Glazov writes, “seeks to nurture his self-identification as a victim and to lose himself inside a totalitarian collective whole, he must deny the truth about the object of his worship.” And, of course, he must also “purge the sense of shame [he] feel[s] over [his] own affluence and privilege.”
The utopian prepossession which has seized upon the mind of the political believer is, according to Glazov, a “longing for the fairy-tale world of innocent childhood [which] she projects … onto the adversarial society she idolizes.” What the political faither (as we might call her, on the model of the conspiratorial truther) is unable to accept is the complex, refractory, and defective grown-up world in which she is condemned to live — a debased world represented in her mind by Western and especially American society. The faither cannot grasp that no society is or will ever be perfect and that America, for all its glaring faults, is far superior to the leveling autocracies that would supplant it. Convinced that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, members of the political faith cannot see that not only is this not the case, but that there is far more of it on this side of the fence.
Maturity requires us to choose not between the imperfect and the perfect, but between the imperfect and the disastrous. But projection is a powerful instrument of the political infatuate whose resentment and disaffection leads him or her to embrace the disastrous as revenge upon the imperfect. At the same time, disaster is painted over as a remedial paradigm and a pristine alternative to the real. And what this produces, in Glazov’s diagnosis, is “an instinct for destruction.” Under the spell of their sabbatical delusions, faithers are determined to remake the societies they live in, whatever the price in human suffering.
This is the essence of Glazov’s argument. “The political faith,” he writes, “rejects the basic reality of the human condition — that human beings are flawed and driven by self-interest — and rests on the erroneous assumption that humanity is malleable and can be reshaped into a more perfect form.” Nothing must stand in the way of the single-minded pursuit of this millennial delirium in which the end justifies the means, though the barbarous inhumanity of the means makes it unlikely that the end will ever be attained or is even worth attaining. One must break eggs to make an omelette, goes the totalitarian cliché, but what one invariably gets is a heap of broken eggs and a nagging question. Where is the omelette?
For many of us, it is hard to imagine the mischief and hurt that the denizens of la-la-land can do until, that is, one follows their political itineraries and studies their various screeds — which read as a curious hybrid of the venomous and the romantic. The peculiar quality of this material is frankly disturbing — one pages at one’s peril — and the quantity is unstanchably intimidating. Here too, then, is the value of Glazov’s book. He does much of the investigative spadework for us.
When people fall in love with an idea, with a vast, resonating abstraction, others better get out of the way. Or, as in the case of Jamie Glazov and his intellectual peers and precursors, prepare to disarm them.