Wednesday, March 24, 2021

RSN: FOCUS: Yes, Blame Christian Fundamentalism for the Atlanta Murders

 

 

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24 March 21

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FOCUS: Yes, Blame Christian Fundamentalism for the Atlanta Murders
Crabapple First Baptist Church, where the Atlanta shooting suspect Robert Aaron Long was an active member, in Milton, Ga., on March 17, 2021. (photo: Nicole Craine/The New York Times)
Judith Levine, The Intercept
Levine writes: "The shooter’s church denounces misogyny, but its dogma says desire is a sickness."

hy did Robert Aaron Long kill six Asian women, in three Atlanta-area massage parlors, as well as two other people who happened to be on the premises?

Many have answered: Because they were Asian women. And in the Western imaginary — in films, jokes, porn, and immigration history — the racist stereotype is of the Asian woman as sexually voracious yet docile and submissive, exotic and inscrutable yet sympathetic to the white man’s burdens and stresses, which she can smooth away with her strong but delicate hands and mouth. She’s the model-minority yellow peril of sex.

If you are Long, a stringently devout white Christian evangelical, she is, most saliently, Satan’s model helpmeet, shaped to seduce men into sin. Weakened in body and soul by “sex addiction,” in his telling, he was easy prey. He could not resist the succubi — aka his own desire — so he was compelled to commit one mortal sin to prevent another: murder to defeat fornication.

Long’s church, the Crabapple First Baptist Church, in Milton, Georgia, doesn’t buy the addiction defense. “The women that he solicited for sexual acts are not responsible for his perverse sexual desires nor do they bear any blame in these murders,” reads a statement the church released after Long’s arrest. “These actions are the result of a sinful heart and depraved mind for which Aaron is completely responsible.” In a Q&A, it adds: “We repudiate any and all forms of misogyny and racism.”

Well, not quite. Crabapple is affiliated with the Founders Ministries, a rightward-pushing caucus of the Southern Baptist Convention, which condemns the idea of white fragility as “racist” and preaches masculine dominion over women. Much quoted is the New Testament book 1 Corinthians: “The head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God.” In other words, Long’s church repudiates all forms of misogyny and racism except the forms repudiated by feminists and movements for racial equality.

While outwardly decrying abuse, extreme religiosity may breed it. In a sample of first-year students at a southern U.S. university, researchers found “significant relationships between religiosity and victims of child sexual abuse by both relatives and non-relatives. Persons sexually abused by a relative were much more likely to be affiliated with fundamental Protestant religions.” A 2006 study of religiosity among Australian men incarcerated for serious sex offenses discovered that those who maintained religious involvement from childhood to adulthood had more sexual offense convictions, more victims, and younger victims than other groups, including atheists. Among Jewish men in an Israeli prison, “religious Jews … were more likely to be in for sex crimes,” according to other research.

Sex, of course, is a moral issue. But the relationship between religion and sexual morality, or between religious morality and sexual deviance, is a confounded one. Evangelical pastors who condemn homosexuality or abortion as abominations against God may point to a physical disease such as AIDS or Covid-19 as God’s retribution. So sometimes they hold sexual sin responsible for the sickness: The wages of homosexuality is HIV. And sometimes the sin is the sickness: homosexuality.

Either way, the conflation is not unique to Christians. Beginning at the turn of the 20th century, Western science has “medicalized” social deviance, redefining drunkenness as alcoholism or sex acts between men as the problematic “abnormality” of homosexuality — turning “badness to sickness,” as Peter Conrad and Joseph W. Schneider put it in 1980. Treatment may replace punishment, or treatment can become a form of social control and punishment. When secular moralists exonerate a behavior — say, remove homosexuality from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, commonly called the “bible” of psychiatry — Christian practitioners often take up the slack. “Gay conversion therapy,” a “cure” for queerness, is now plied almost exclusively by religious counselors and psychologists, including HopeQuest, the evangelical treatment facility Long checked into.

Criminality used to be considered a congenital disease to which certain races and ethnicities were prone. The holdover from that ideology is “sex offending,” a psychopathology whose only symptom is having committed a sexual offense. The legal mandates that convicted “sex offenders” attend treatment, sometimes for years, even though they’re considered incurable echoes Calvinist Protestantism, which requires a life of moral discipline despite the fact that God has preordained who goes to heaven and who is damned to hell.

Sex and pornography “addictions” similarly slip between morality and medicine and are similarly circular and vague. In spite of a proliferation of literature on the subject, there’s no recognized diagnosis for sex addiction and no measure of how much porn, sex, or dating app use is excessive. Although every treatment program describes itself as “evidence-based,” unlike opioid addiction there’s no empirical evidence that these syndromes even exist. But if you feel your porn consumption is out of control, you experience the distress that qualifies as a symptom of psychological illness. Sex addiction might be spectral, but a lot of people think they have it.

And, logically, those most likely to self-diagnose their behavior as sick are those who feel that pornography viewing and nonmarital sex are sicknesses of the spirit. “Religiosity and moral disapproval of pornography use were robust predictors of perceived addiction to Internet pornography while being unrelated to actual levels of use among pornography,” psychologist Joshua B. Grubbs and colleagues found in two studies; their article is titled “Transgression as Addiction.” The level of pornography use among white evangelicals is comparatively low, but their misery about it is far greater than the misery of other users, according to University of Oklahoma sociologist Samuel Perry, who collaborated on a survey of porn in the lives of Christians of different denominations.

Proven or not, there is no end of treatment available to the self-diagnosed sex addict both inside and outside the evangelical world. Since therapist, author, and psycho-entrepreneur Patrick J. Carnes popularized the notion in the early 1980s, it’s been embraced by a recovery industry perpetually augmenting the list of things and activities you can be addicted to, and thus treated for. Today, Carnes’s International Institute for Trauma and Addiction Professionals offers training programs, recommendations, webinars, publications, and certifications. IITAP’s Certified Sex Addiction Therapist course costs $5,910; it’s a bit less for “early birds.”

Even if a provider does not advertise as “Christ-centered,” virtually all recovery treatment contains a tinge of religiosity. That’s because the field is dominated by the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step model, the first steps of which involve turning your “will and life over to the care of God.” It was many years after AA’s founding in 1938 that some disgruntled atheist added, “as we understand God.”

We’ll probably never know how many hours Long spent on Pornhub or how often he paid for sex. But he believed he had a sex monkey on his back that he couldn’t shake. After his parents, also active members of Crabapple church, kicked him out of their home for watching porn, he moved into the “12-step-based” Maverick Recovery in Roswell, one of hundreds of “sober houses” operating more or less unregulated in Georgia. There he drove his roommates crazy with biblical exegesis and self-flagellation. Back from a trip to a spa, “[Long] would say, ‘I’ve done it again’ and it just ate away at him. He felt absolutely merciless remorse,” a roommate told the New York Times. Long was gripped by a “religious mania,” the roommate said.

When he could not remain abstinent, he checked himself into HopeQuest, “a family of ministries,” and “the Christian rehab center where people use God to help writer new chapters called Hope and Freedom.” HopeQuest, on 18 acres in Woodstock, Georgia, offers a three-month residential program, transitional housing and outpatient counseling, support groups, training, and consulting. The residency costs $15,000, according to one reviewer, who also describes the grungy accommodations and bad food. On the same review site, the center responds that everyone gets financial support. Along with insurance and subsidies solicited by its fundraiser, HopeQuest has a generous donor on high: “God gave us” the houses, the woods, the program — everything — as CEO Troy Haas tells it in a video.

At HopeQuest, pornography is a pathogen (40 to 50 percent of the clients are in for porn addiction), sin is illness, and worship is essential medicine. “I’d had sexual sin throughout my life, having been exposed to pornography at the age of 6,” says a former client and staff member in a video on the website. He could be saying, “I’d had hepatitis all my life, having been exposed to the virus at the age of 6.” The line between faith and science has disappeared.

For masseuses trying to make a living without losing their lives, the grace bestowed by the Crabapple First Baptist Church is little protection. There’s scant hope of returning to obscurity either, and not just because a mad shooter brought the world to peep through their curtains. They were already targeted for unemployment — er, “rescue” — by Street Grace, a “faith-based” anti-trafficking organization. In 2020, the group identified 165 “illicit massage businesses” in Georgia, most of them clustered around Atlanta, and deployed surveillance cameras and online reviews to estimate demand and income. Along with maps and graphs, Street Grace’s report on the “industry” includes five pages of recommended licensing, operational codes, and enforcement, as well as samples of some of the more draconian state regulations of massage businesses. The organization describes its goal as “the eradication of the commercial sexual exploitation of children,” but there’s no evidence that any of these establishments exploits minors. The youngest spa worker among Long’s victims was 44, the oldest 74.

As for Long, although his church has expelled him, he’ll find plenty of spiritual guidance behind bars. In “God in Captivity: The Rise of Faith-Based Prison Ministries in the Age of Mass Incarceration,” author Tanya Erzen estimates that “nondenominational Protestant Christians make up more than 85 percent of the volunteers who enter the prison” in many states, particularly in the South, as political opposition and funding cuts decimate secular rehabilitative and educational programs for the incarcerated. Locked up in a violent, racist institution, with nothing but homophobic, misogynist, and radically sectarian religion for succor, Long will not be cured of his sickness unto death — the death, that is, of Soon Chung Park, Hyun Jung Grant, Suncha Kim, Yong Yue, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, Delaina Ashley Yaun, and Paul Andre Michels.

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RSN: FOCUS: How Kyrsten Sinema Went From Lefty Activist to Proud Neoliberal Democrat

 

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24 March 21


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FOCUS: How Kyrsten Sinema Went From Lefty Activist to Proud Neoliberal Democrat
Sen. Kyrsten Sinema questions witnesses during a hearing on Capitol Hill in 2019. (photo: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)
Branko Marcetic, Jacobin
Marcetic writes: "The story of Senator Kyrsten Sinema - a former Green Party-aligned activist who happily rejected a minimum wage hike recently and is now one the most right-wing Democrats in the Senate - is about how a desperate thirst for power can debase even the most idealistic progressive."


he halls of Congress are filled with individuals who at some point abandoned almost everything they once believed in. More often than not, it’s a cushy, post-political corporate job or lobbying position that might have led them to give up on whatever led them to enter politics in the first place. Rarer is the person who’s done it out of pure, unbridled political ambition.

Such appears to be the case with Kyrsten Sinema, the Democratic senator from Arizona who recently went viral after cheerfully voting against a $15 minimum wage hike that would have helped reduce poverty for millions of children and working parents. Unlike fellow congressional spike strip Joe Manchin, Sinema doesn’t have a conflict of interest that might explain her vote; according to disclosures, her only extracurricular activity is a $25,000 a year adjunct teaching job at a local university. Nor has Sinema, who consistently ranks among the least wealthy members of Congress, appeared to pair her journey up the political ladder with a windfall in her own personal fortune.

So what is it that led Sinema to do a complete 180 on almost every position she ever took on almost any issue, from war to inequality to government spending? The answer is that she shifted right little by little, at each moment when her political ascent demanded it, a death by a thousand compromises that has turned Sinema into a right-wing Democrat who makes a virtue of defying not just the party’s Left but even its center.

Sinema Vérité

The powerful story of Sinema’s early life has been core to her political identity, however much the latter has shifted. Born into a middle-class household in Tucson in 1976, she was soon plunged into bitter poverty when the recession that closed out that decade put her father out of a job. He filed for bankruptcy while their home went into foreclosure, and Sinema, her brother, and her soon-to-be-divorced mother moved to Florida, finding themselves broke, homeless, and relying on food stamps and the charity of her stepfather’s Mormon church to survive.

As Sinema would often tell audiences, the family lived for years in a converted gas station, with no running water or electricity. What ultimately helped her escape these dire conditions was education. After finishing high school as valedictorian, she graduated college and became a social worker in a heavily immigrant- and refugee-populated part of Phoenix. A master’s in social work followed, as well as a law degree, which saw her work as a “defense attorney who represents murderers,” as she put it — a quote that would later haunt her.

In her early political years, this narrative arc helped explain her commitment to fighting for those on society’s margins. In later years, she would add a bootstrapping moral to the story, a sign of the work ethic that, with a little bit of help, can get anyone to the top in America. Over time, the role of government support in the story would be gradually de-emphasized in its retelling.

But to start with, she channeled her concern for the poor and downtrodden into political activism. An idealistic young Sinema worked on Ralph Nader’s 2000 Green Party bid, which she saw as the start of a decades-long movement for change. Using Arizona’s public financing law (“I don’t believe in accepting money in exchange for votes. That’s bribery.”), she ran as an independent for Phoenix City Council and later the state House, pointing to the lopsided distribution of wealth that left poor immigrant families with no safety net, and calling for better education, comprehensive health care coverage, and improved childcare and mental health coverage. She spent 2003 protesting the Iraq War back when doing so was (literallyviolently unpopular, protesting outside a campaign stop in Tucson for Sen. Joe Lieberman’s presidential run.

“He’s a shame to Democrats,” Sinema said of Lieberman at the time. “I don’t even know why he’s running. He seems to want to get Republicans voting for him. What kind of strategy is that?”

Sinema’s first political compromise arguably came in 2004, when she ran again for the state House, this time as a registered Democrat in a heavily Democratic district in central Phoenix. “My political stance has never changed,” she insisted. “The party’s platform is right in line with my beliefs.”

This was doubtful to say the least. Less than two years earlier, Sinema had written into the Arizona Republic railing against NAFTA, the World Bank, and WTO, and warning that “until the average American realizes that capitalism damages her livelihood while augmenting the livelihoods of the wealthy, the Almighty Dollar will continue to rule.” Less than three years later, she would describe herself as a “Prada socialist.”

But if it was a compromise, it was minor. And Sinema used the seat she won for undoubtedly progressive causes. She opposed abortion restrictions; fought for extending the rights of straight married couples to gay ones; led a successful effort to kill a ban on affirmative action; spoke out against drug testing of welfare beneficiaries and cuts and regressive changes to Medicaid; and spearheaded the fight to kill a measure banning same-sex marriage. She did what few lawmakers did at the time, certainly in Arizona, and talked about mass incarceration, attending a prison reform rally in 2008 where she declared that “individuals deserve to have a start again.”

As she had said years earlier about her political career: “We need people to push in from the edges.”

Sinema was particularly outspoken when it came to immigrant rights and the plight of the undocumented. She opposed sanctions on employers who hired undocumented workers, harshly criticized attempts to coerce immigrants to speak English, tried to change a law that would have been used to charge immigrants themselves as coconspirators when being smuggled, and attacked a bill that made people prove they were legal residents before they could get government benefits.

She consistently spoke out against the push to further militarize and police the border and immigrant communities, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with protesters demonstrating against harsher immigration laws. And she clashed with anti-immigrant groups, going to the border and observing armed border watchers, while feuding with the Minutemen militia, for which she paid for with what the Associated Press described as “sexually threatening emails.”

Some of Sinema’s early high-profile bills recalled her Green Party roots, such as legislation outlawing horse-tripping in rodeos and idling by certain vehicles, and bills encouraging recycling and discouraging plastic bag use. She put forward another bill to let local governments set up ranked-choice voting, and spearheaded a petition drive to ban discrimination against LGBTQ people.

Particularly successful was Sinema’s bill to divest the state’s retirement funds from companies supporting the genocide in Darfur, which cleared both the state House and Senate unanimously before being signed into law, albeit somewhat watered down to pass constitutional muster. Sinema worked with local activists and religious groups and used her profile to bring attention to the issue. It later took a prime spot in her 2009 book about reaching across the aisle to get things done.

Something that doesn’t pop up in Sinema’s book? The words “minimum wage.” Though Sinema sponsored several bills modestly hiking the wage from the then federal floor of $5.15, she was largely invisible in the most high-profile and viable fight to raise it: the battle to pass the Proposition 202 ballot measure in 2006, which raised the floor by $1.60 and allowed for cost-of-living increases in later years.

At the time, Sinema was heavily involved in the equally worthy goal of fighting a separate ballot measure to limit marriage and its benefits to same-sex couples. She headed the committee against the measure, and was frequently quoted in the press when reporting covered it, as well as for a separate measure that aimed to punish undocumented immigrants. Yet even though the wage hike was described at the time as a “Democratic cause célèbre” and won the endorsement of her hometown newspaper, I can find no record from the time of Sinema saying anything about Proposition 202, which went on to win voters’ approval by a two-to-one margin.

Despite her earlier criticisms of capitalism and how unfairly wealth was shared, Sinema, during this period, overwhelmingly made headlines for the issues of immigration and LGBTQ rights, while pocketbook issues took a backseat. Perhaps it was, as the Republic suggested, the fact that her district of many affluent families and single professionals also had sizeable LGBTQ and Latino populations. But as Sinema herself later acknowledged, this isn’t an either/or proposition.

“Gay people are just as concerned about the economy and health care as straight people,” as she later told an audience.

Fork in the Road

Sinema’s coalition-building skills would be put to the test over the course of 2009 and 2010, when a combination of the housing crash and a series of imprudent tax cuts left Arizona with among the worst budget deficits in the country — one the conservative legislature was determined to use to make massive spending cuts.

Three years after calling for politicians to “push in from the edges,” Sinema seemed to have bent to conventional wisdom. When then Arizona governor Janet Napolitano opened 2008 with a state of the state speech warning against budget cuts and proposing relatively ambitious ideas, like a state health insurance program for kids, Sinema commented that it would “be difficult to get some of these ideas through the legislature,” particularly her health proposals.

The battle over the state’s budget shortfall seems, in hindsight, to have been a watershed in Sinema’s political journey. On the one hand, there was little she could do: She was just one progressive member in a conservative legislature controlled by hardline Republicans, set in stone by her party’s failure to make any gains in the 2008 election. Worse, the Obama administration’s strategically baffling decision to nominate Janet Napolitano as secretary of homeland security, and her equally baffling decision to accept, took the last pivotal bit of state government power — the governor’s veto — out of Democratic hands, giving Republicans total control, with Tea Party icon Jan Brewer at the head.

On the other hand, budget crisis or no, Sinema had clearly decided by that point the time was ripe for a rebrand. Eight months after ascending to party leadership in the House, Sinema’s book on coalition-building hit the shelves, renouncing her early years as a “bomb thrower” in the legislature, and urging those politically involved, whether in the streets or the halls of power, to avoid demonizing those on the other side and to “find areas of common ground.” This, despite Sinema’s political claim to fame at the time being her successful opposition campaign against a same-sex marriage ban, and being only a year out from successfully leading a grassroots fight against an affirmative action ban — suggesting there were certain things she wasn’t willing to meet in the middle on.

Austerity apparently wasn’t one of them. Early on, even as she got Republicans on board with a resolution to consider ideas other than spending cuts, she voted with the rest of the House Appropriations Committee to rule tax increases out as a solution, despite herself acknowledging years of irresponsible tax cuts had led the state to disaster. For months, raising revenue subsequently stayed off the table for both sides, even as some Republicans admitted they’d been flooded with emails from people willing to pay a little more in property taxes to save vital programs.

Despite significant grassroots opposition to the GOP’s planned spending cuts — including an overflow audience at a middle school pleading with lawmakers not to cut education and children’s programs — Sinema insisted that “we will have to make tough choices” and aimed instead to “ease” the severity of the GOP’s cuts. When, in February 2009, Brewer asked state agencies for brutal cuts beyond what had already been requested, and Senate Democrats countered with a proposal that that made no further cuts, Sinema undermined them, telling the press she disagreed there was nowhere else to cut. When Senate Democrats proposed $500 million in long-term borrowing, Sinema, who had earlier supported such measures, pooh-poohed it, saying it just “continues out the debt for a really long time.”

This attempt at coalition-building failed. Republicans closed Sinema and other Democrats, not to mention the public, out of the budget discussions. Draconian cuts passed through committees and legislative chambers on party-line votes. For her troubles, the state GOP chairman would later have Sinema investigated over what turned out to be a nothingburger; despite the talk of not demonizing the other side, Sinema and House Democrats eventually reverted to firmly opposing the GOP cuts and attacking Republicans and Brewer in the press. Brewer would eventually pass several brutal cutbacks, even outright repealing a state kindergarten program whose expansion had, ironically, been one of Napolitano’s most important legacies.

Even though she soon abandoned it, Sinema’s flirtation with austerity signaled a lasting shift. Once Obama’s health care reform was unveiled, Sinema repeatedly joined Brewer’s budget-driven pushback against the bill’s expansion of Medicaid. In a couple of years, Sinema would be loudly professing her kinship with various hardline Republicans to the press, shocking progressives when she said of state senate president Russell Pearce — the anti-immigrant extremist responsible for Arizona’s infamous “papers please” law, and who was literally friends with a neo-Nazi — that she “love[d] him” and would “love to see him run for Congress.”

Sinema later declined to support a historic (and successful) campaign by state progressives to recall Pearce, explaining that he was her “boss.” Little surprise that observers suspected she was cravenly positioning for a congressional run.

Sinema Novo

In early 2012, Sinema abruptly quit the legislature to run for the US Congress. In contrast to her earlier career, the district whose seat she was gunning for was politically like a Neapolitan ice cream: roughly evenly divided between Democrats, Republicans, and independents. Her campaign for the newly drawn district would usher in the final stage of her political transformation.

First, she had to get through a vicious three-way Democratic primary. Vowing to “stand up to the powerful in Washington,” Sinema sounded some appealing but vague populist notes: she talked about her youthful poverty, promised to focus on creating jobs, supporting education, and helping families hang onto their homes, and said that “someone needs to speak up for us, for the forgotten middle class and the powerless in our society.” The needs of families, she said, “are more important than insider tax deals for corporations.” She also took care to note her bipartisan credentials, and at one point declared she’d be open to lowering corporate taxes.

Sinema received a slew of early high-profile endorsements, from EMILY’s List and the Human Rights Campaign to the state AFL-CIO and other unions. Fending off attacks on her previous antiwar organizing and fearmongering that her progressive history would be a liability in the general election, she won the nomination, and faced more of the same in the general.

While the GOP worked to paint her as an oddball extremist, Sinema attacked her opponent as a Tea Party radical who would cut education. She pitched herself as someone fed up with a dysfunctional Washington who could work with Republicans to create jobs, whether through infrastructure investment and pro-business tax incentives, or by cutting tax breaks for offshoring firms and raising taxes on the rich. It netted her a 4-point win, thanks to strong showings in Democratic areas and through sweeping the most competitive ones.

Upon entering Congress, Sinema wasted no time before moving sharply right. Less than a month in, she joined the United Solutions Caucus and signed onto a letter calling for bipartisan proposals to secure the country’s fiscal health, including “reforming” Social Security and Medicare, cutting corporate tax rates and regulations, and reducing government spending. She soon became a member of a series of similarly conservative, business-friendly congressional groups: the Blue Dog Coalition (then at its low point in terms of numbers and influence), No Labels, New Democrats, and Third Way, the Wall Street-funded neoliberal organization, of which she became honorary House cochair in 2015 (and did so again as a senator in 2019).

Sinema was instantly elevated to the coveted House Financial Services Committee — exceedingly rare for a freshman. Alluding to her childhood homelessness, she promised to “work to rebuild Arizona’s middle class” and “move our economy forward.”

“That is what prompted me to run for office, to be the voice of the forgotten middle and working class,” she had said upon winning her election. “The rich and powerful have a voice — trust me, I get badgered by their lobbyists all the time and I’m good at saying ‘no.’ It’s the rest of us who are now not getting heard because of the special interests.”

But that ability to say “no,” it turns out, was wildly overstated. Sinema largely spent the next five years on the committee carrying water for the financial services industry, whose presence in Arizona happened to be concentrated in Sinema’s newly won district. As activist and now Arizona state House member Pamela Powers Hannley pointed out at the time, one of Sinema’s earliest actions of significance on the committee was to approve a partial rollback of the Dodd-Frank financial reform law, one literally written by Citibank and backed by the Chamber of Commerce, to allow them to trade certain derivatives and still get a taxpayer bailout if it all went wrong. She then made up one of the seventy Democrats to vote for it in the House.

Later that year, Sinema again struck a blow for the forgotten men and women of Wall Street against the power of Big Retirees, lending her vote to the successful House passage of the Retail Investor Protection Act, another Chamber-backed provision, this one meant to head off a rule preventing firms from giving retirees’ bad financial advice that happened to benefit their own bottom line. The bill was opposed not just by progressives, one of whom called it a “backdoor attempt to undermine investor protection,” but by the Obama administration, which repeatedly threatened to veto it. (By 2015, however, Sinema appeared to have firmly changed her mind on the measure).

Maybe the coup de grace came in 2018, when in the middle of her Senate campaign, Sinema became one of just thirty-three House Democrats to vote for the infamous Crapo banking bill, sponsored by right-wing Idaho Republican Mike Crapo. Written at the behest of “community banks” like, again, Citigroup, the bill was in effect a sprawling repeal of the Democrats’ own prized accomplishment, Dodd-Frank, that relaxed regulations on up to thirty-eight of the country’s biggest banks and weakened consumer protections, including against discrimination. Aptly, it had been nearly ten years after Wall Street had first crashed the world’s economy due to lax oversight by the time the bill cleared the House, and was so toxic numerous purple- and red-state Democrats voted against it. But not Sinema.

Always pointing to the needs of small businesses, farmers, community banks, even consumers, Sinema waged a one-woman war on regulations, cosponsoring, introducing, and voting for a slew of bills to repeal or delay them. Sometimes these efforts were expansive, covering all areas of government. Some tried to rein in the SEC. Some took aim at the EPA. Or there was her Fostering Innovation Act, which aimed to extend the period under which companies would be exempted from an Enron scandal–inspired rule to make public accountants check their books to head off fraud.

Far from giving voice to the voiceless against the din of the powerful, Sinema worked to do exactly the opposite. In 2015, she was one of a mere four Democrats to vote to give banks, businesses, and credit unions an advisory role on regulations at the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB). Later that year, she signed on to a letter urging the CFPB to delay enforcement of a rule meant to make loan terms and purchase agreements more comprehensible to homebuyers; she requested that the rule go into effect only after the busiest home-buying time of the year was finished, which the agency did.

Even as she touted her own experiences with homelessness and poverty, Sinema repeatedly introduced a bill to loosen regulations on mobile home loans, letting predatory lenders slap their usually lower-income buyers with bigger fees and penalties, and charge them interest rates higher than their already extortionately high rates, measures that eventually passed in the Crapo bill. As she later told a local chamber of commerce in Tempe, in one instance, she had been inspired in her anti-regulatory endeavors by a tip from the president of the local branch of First International Bank.

In 2017, just one year before Sinema embarked on her Senate run, Americans for Financial Reform found she had voted for twelve of the nineteen bills that made it to a floor vote that year that “served the interests or wishes of Wall Street and the financial industry at the expense of the public interest” — one of the worst rates among House Democrats.

The industry loves her back. Sinema is as warmly received now at Chamber of Commerce events as she once was at antiwar rallies or prison reform protests. She’s won the Chamber’s Spirit of Enterprise award seven years in a row, an honor given to those select lawmakers who get at least a 70 percent score from the body. With a lifetime rating from the Chamber of 82 percent as of 2019, Sinema in fact has a better score than all but nine Democrats in all of Congress, which is why she’s one of the few Democrats to ever get the Chamber’s endorsement.

It’s probably not a coincidence that, as she’s proven herself a reliable foot soldier for the financial services industry in Congress, their generosity toward her has only increased. According to figures from the National Institute on Money in Politics, after receiving only $28,346 from securities and investment firms in 2012, that number climbed to $89,050 in 2014, then to $181,258 two years later, and over $890,000 two years after that.

“I spend a lot of time fundraising,” Sinema had told Chris Hayes in 2012. And sure enough, from her first year in Congress, when she rivaled Nancy Pelosi in money raised, to just before announcing her Senate bid, Sinema has been one of the most prolific fundraisers in the House.

Where once she dismissed taking private donations as literal “bribery,” she now began taking piles of money from health insurers, tech companies, private equity firms, and more. Americans for Financial Reform puts the total amount of her contributions from the wider finance sector for 2017–2018 alone at over $2.7 million, placing her in the top ten among all of Congress for the sector.

The Butterfly Emerges

But Sinema’s work on behalf of Wall Street is only one example of the way she turned away from almost everything she once believed in.

After starting her career attacking the way wealth was distributed in the country, Sinema now backed repealing the estate tax, something that, at the time, would have benefited the country’s top 0.2 percent wealthiest estates. Echoing the Republicans she partnered with to get it through the House, Sinema misleadingly pointed to small businesses and family farms as her reason for voting.

After starting out decrying the plight of the undocumented and defending an Iraqi refugee in court, she now talked about a “tough but fair path to citizenship” and securing the border, and voted to send more manpower and resources toward that goal. In one particularly controversial vote, she backed the Republican-led and Trump-endorsed push to subject Iraqi and Syrian refugees to vetting that was even more onerous than the already thorough, grueling process.

After making her first splash as an antiwar activist who called warmonger Joe Lieberman a “shame” to her party, Sinema wound up putting her decision on whether or not to vote for war in Syria up to an online poll, and voted for a series of gargantuan defense budgets, including one that authorized the military to train and equip “moderate” rebels in the country, who predictably turned out to be not so moderate. As she explained after that vote, her state was home to more than 150,000 defense sector and related jobs — though that doesn’t explain her later, outrage-inducing vote against the Iran deal in 2015.

After winning awards from environmental groups early on and getting press for environmental habits like reusing sandwich bags, Sinema has ended up with a 76 percent lifetime rating from the League of Conservation Voters, markedly low for a Democrat: the second lowest for the party in the current Senate after Joe Manchin, and lower than just five serving House Democrats. Among other things, Sinema cosponsored a $61 million cut from the EPA budget, and voted for various regulatory delays and rollbacks, including ones repealing Obama’s Clean Water Rule and blocking his Clean Power Plan.

And like many party centrists who cling to Obamacare when opposing more far-reaching reforms while helping to dismantle it when no one’s looking, Sinema has repeatedly joined with Republicans to pick apart the law, despite being handpicked by Obama in 2009 to help him fight for it. She joined the GOP to vote for delaying the individual mandate at the heart of the law (twice), to allow insurance companies to keep offering plans that didn’t meet the law’s new standards, to repeal the law’s tax on health insurers (a bill she introduced), to enlarge the size of firms who could count as small employers, and to repeal the medical device tax.

The last, she was finally able to do under Trump, and was personally singled out for thanks by the president of the Arizona Bioindustry Association. All this, despite being personally invited to the White House all the way back in 2010 to watch Obama sign the bill into law.

As with many politicians, it’s hard to discern if Sinema’s actions are driven by political considerations or genuine love of the game. On one hand, her district is only one-third Democrat, no doubt impacting the way she votes and the issues she champions. On the other, she turned down an offer in 2014 to switch to a more liberal, Democrat-heavy seat.

Come a Long Way

Sinema is now in the US Senate, seemingly a vindication of her political strategy to abandon everything she ever believed in and do the bidding of the country’s rich and powerful. Having entered politics to wage a decades-long campaign to affect “real political change,” somewhere along the way, that effort became a decades-long campaign to get Kyrsten Sinema elected to higher and higher office.

The result of that has been not just Sinema’s rise up the Democratic ranks, but a perpetual rightward slide that has made her one of the party’s most conservative members, even as its centrists, and her own state, are moving in a more progressive direction. The puzzling state of affairs is perhaps no better symbolized by Sinema’s gleeful vote weeks ago against the $15 minimum wage, a policy supported by a majority of Republicans, and which won more votes in Florida than Trump.

Far from simply antagonizing the Left, Sinema does all the things that most infuriate the Democratic Party’s squishy center: she went after Obamacare, didn’t bother to campaign with Hillary Clinton a week before the 2016 election, voted in line with Trump half the time, and wouldn’t even back her own Democratic counterpart in the Senate when he ran for reelection. Years back, groups like MoveOn threatened to primary Sinema for her rebellions. Once she became the first Democrat since 1988 to win a Senate race in Arizona, those voices seemed to go silent.

Her supporters, perhaps even Sinema herself, might argue that she’s playing the long game. Maybe she doesn’t really mean any of it and every favor for Wall Street, every vote to let polluters off the hook or give corporations more power over the lives of ordinary people is part of a finely tuned act to stay in her seat and keep someone much worse out.

Perhaps that’s true. But like the debate over whether Trump ever really believed the things he said and did or was merely playing along for points, at some point, it ceases to matter anymore.

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Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe sets in-person election date

 

Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe sets in-person election date



Jessica Hill Cape Cod Times
Published Mar 24, 2021 

MASHPEE — The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe has set a new date for its general election after a Mashpee District Court judge found that mail-in voting was against the tribe’s constitution. 

The election is set to take place in person on May 16.

The Tribal Council set the date during its emergency meeting Monday, although the tribe’s Election Committee still has some work to do, Tribal Council Vice Chair Jessie “Little Doe” Baird said. 

Jesse "Little Doe" Baird

Tribal Council member Aaron Tobey Jr., along with two other tribal members, sued members of the Tribal Council and the Election Committee regarding the election, which was originally set for March 26. The Tribal Council and Election Committee decided to hold the election solely through mail-in ballots instead of in person in light of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Tobey and the other plaintiffs argued that it was against the tribe’s constitution, which states that voting in tribal elections shall be by “secret ballot cast at polls.” Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Alternate District Court Judge Amanda L. WhiteEagle agreed.




On May 16, registered tribal voters will pick the next tribal council chairperson as well as other government positions. Nelson Andrews Jr., Kyle Bassett, Aaron Tobey Jr. and Brian Weeden are vying for chairperson.

Carlton Hendricks Jr. and Edwina “Winnie” Johnson-Graham are seeking the vice chair position on the tribal council. Ann Marie Askew and Cassie Jackson are running for tribal council secretary, and Kimberly Frye is running against incumbent David Weeden for a spot on the tribal council.

Charles “Bobby” Foster, Angela Marcellino, Winona Pocknett, Karen Edwards Siegel and Marie Stone are running to be the tribe’s next treasurer.


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Ezra Klein | An Unusually Optimistic Conversation With Bernie Sanders
Sen. Bernie Sanders. (photo: Getty Images)
Ezra Klein, The New York Times
Klein writes: "Bernie Sanders didn't win the 2020 election. But he may have won its aftermath."


The Vermont senator discusses the Rescue Act, cancel culture, the filibuster and more.

If you look back at Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders’s careers, the $1.9 trillion stimulus package, the American Rescue Plan, looks a lot like the proposals Sanders has fought for forever, without much of the compromise or concerns that you used to see from Senator Joe Biden. That’s not to take anything away from Biden. He’s the president. This is his plan. And it is to his credit that he saw what the country needed, what the politics of the moment would support and where his party had moved, and met it with full force.

But Sanders’s two presidential campaigns are part of the reason that the Democratic Party had moved, and the politics of the moment had changed. And so I’ve wondered what Sanders makes of this moment. Is it a triumph? A disappointment? A beginning?

And I’ve wondered about his take on some of the other questions swirling around the Democratic Party: Are liberals alienating people who agree with them on economics by being too censorious on culture? Is there room to work with populist Republicans who might be open to new economic ideas even as they turn against liberal democracy itself?

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A memorial for D'Myah Tylise Rankin-Fleming and her father Darrion Rankin-Fleming, who were shot and killed in St. Louis in January. The number of all murders rose 25% across the country in 2020, according to preliminary data. (photo: Bill Greenblatt/Rex/Shutterstock)
A memorial for D'Myah Tylise Rankin-Fleming and her father Darrion Rankin-Fleming, who were shot and killed in St. Louis in January. The number of all murders rose 25% across the country in 2020, according to preliminary data. (photo: Bill Greenblatt/Rex/Shutterstock)


US Saw Estimated 4,000 Extra Murders in 2020 Amid Surge in Daily Gun Violence
Lois Beckett and Abené Clayton, Guardian UK
Excerpt: "A surge in daily gun violence contributed to an estimated 4,000 additional murders throughout 2020, in what experts warn will probably be the worst single-year increase in murders on record."

Lull in high-profile mass shootings during pandemic but data shows everyday violence has contributed to a likely record rise

or exactly a year during the pandemic, the United States did not see a single high-profile public mass shooting. But a surge in daily gun violence contributed to an estimated 4,000 additional murders throughout 2020, in what experts warn will probably be the worst single-year increase in murders on record.

There were only two public shootings in 2020 that primarily targeted strangers, were not related to other crimes and killed at least four victims – one standard definition researchers use to classify “mass shootings” – according to two databases that track this kind of gun violence. That’s the lowest annual count of high-profile mass shootings in America in nearly a quarter-century, according to Jillian Peterson, the founder of the Violence Project, which tracks these mass shootings going back to 1966.

At the same time, the number of people murdered in everyday violence last year surged in cities large and small. Early estimates suggest the US may have seen at least 4,000 more murders last year than in 2019, and potentially as many as 5,000 more, according to projections based on FBI data, though complete official statistics will not be available until the fall. The Gun Violence Archive, which tracks shootings in real time using media reports, recorded nearly 4,000 more gun homicides in 2020 compared with 2019, according to founder Mark Bryant.

Many of the homicides are concentrated in communities of color that have historically seen the worst burden of daily gun violence, including in Philadelphia, St Louis, Chicago and Oakland.

“We don’t get the reprieve that other communities get. Black and Latino mothers are still burying their children,” said Pastor Michael McBride, the executive director of Live Free USA, a gun violence prevention non-profit, who has spent nearly a decade struggling to get more national political attention for the toll of daily gun violence.

In response to two high-profile mass shootings in the past week, one targeting shoppers at a grocery store in Colorado and another Asian women at spas in Georgia, Joe Biden called on lawmakers to pass a renewed ban on military-style assault weapons and high-capacity ammunition magazines, and to expand background checks on gun sales, part of a renewed national debate over strengthening gun control laws.

But in Philadelphia, where the number of gun homicides was 40% higher in 2020 than it was in 2019 and with at least 103 people killed so far this year, Pastor Carl Day said an assault-weapon ban would not do much for the communities most burdened by gun violence.

“The point is being missed for the most part. You can take away high-capacity magazines, but a legal clip can kill eight people,” Day, a gun violence prevention organizer in Philadelphia said. “It’s not just about creating tougher gun laws, it’s about where we’re investing our money. You have to enrich and equip communities with what they need.”

Organizers are calling on the Biden administration to make a historic $5bn investment in inner-city gun violence reduction, focused on Black and brown communities. The money would be disbursed over eight years and go toward existing groups that work in the most hard-hit communities, helping to ensure that mentorship and intervention initiatives can start restart in-person programs that were disrupted during the pandemic.

“Our lawmakers need to be educated about the actual realities of gun violence,” said Fatimah Loren, executive director of the New-Jersey based Health Alliance for Violence Intervention, one of the activists pushing for the $5bn investment in local strategies.

America’s national mourning over shootings needs to become “more inclusive”, she said, “so the survivors who didn’t make national headlines feel seen”.

The number of all murders rose 25% across the country in 2020, with double-digit increases in small, medium and large cities, according to preliminary data from a large subset of law enforcement agencies that the FBI released last week.

A 25% increase in murders nationwide for 2020 would mean an estimated 4,100 additional murders last year, compared with 2019, according to Jeff Asher, a New Orleans-based crime data analyst. At least three-quarters of those murders, and perhaps more, are likely to be gun murders, based on trends from previous years, Asher said.

That would be the highest single-year increase, both in the murder rate and in the total number of additional murders, going back to 1960, the earliest year national crime data is available, Asher said.

The FBI’s preliminary 2020 data does not yet include some of the cities that saw the worst increases in murder last year, including Chicago, New Orleans and New York, Asher said, which might mean that total murders could rise more than 25%.

“If there’s a 30% increase, which I think is very plausible, that would be 5,000 additional people murdered,” he said.

“The thing that stands out about last year’s change in murders is that it was everywhere. Chicago and New York and the traditional places get the headlines, but Omaha, Nebraska; Lubbock, Texas; Shreveport, Louisiana: all of these towns saw huge increases in murder.”

Even with a 30% increase in a single year, he said, the country’s murder rate would still remain lower than it had been in the early 1990s.

The full reasons for last year’s sharp increase in community gun violence are still far from clear. Gun violence interrupters and clinicians point to the loss of vital in-person interactions between prevention workers and those most at risk of being on either side of a gun. Lawmakers and activists have also pointed to the rising levels of unemployment and financial and personal instability related to the pandemic, as well as the surge in gun sales, with Americans buying an estimated 17m guns through September 2020.

A spike in gun purchases during the early months of the coronavirus pandemic was associated with a nearly 8% increase in shooting injuries in the US between March and May, according to an estimate from researchers at the University of California, Davis.

Asher, the crime analyst, said he was skeptical of claims that there was any simple causal connection between the protests over police violence that started after George Floyd’s killing in late May and the spike in murders in the early summer, noting that there was “no relationship between the places that had the most protests, or the places that had the most violent protests, and changes in violence. It was literally everywhere.”

Mark Bryant, the Gun Violence Archive founder, said analysts tracking daily media reports of gun violence saw a large number of drive-by shootings contributing to the rising toll, as well as domestic violence killings and “club shootings” at pop-up parties held despite public health restrictions.

Though there was a year-long lull in high-profile mass shootings, incidents where multiple people are killed or injured have long been occurrences in neighborhoods. Still, these everyday mass shootings are rarely covered in national news.

“The rare mass shooting gets covered nationally because it’s ‘news’ and so people in turn believe that they take up more of a burden than they really do,” said Dr Jessica Beard, a trauma surgeon and researcher with Temple University in Philadelphia. “But you can’t design solutions based on the most rare form of the disease.”

However, highly publicized gun attacks, in which a perpetrator opens fire on strangers in a public place “really disappeared” in recent months as the pandemic led to widespread stay-at-home orders and hundreds of thousands of Americans died from Covid-19, Peterson, of the violence project, said.

Between 16 March last year, when a 31-year-old man shot four people to death at a convenience store in Missouri, and 16 March this year, when a 21-year-old man opened fire at three spas around Atlanta, Georgia, there was not a single recorded mass shooting in the databases of the Violence Project or Mother Jones magazine, which both track a similar subset of mass shootings that leave four or more people dead.

The last time the US saw only two of these kinds of high-profile mass shootings in a single year was in 1996, Peterson said.

Research has shown that mass shootings “tend to cluster”, with one 2015 study showing a heightened risk of further public shootings for 13 days after a highly publicized attack, Peterson said.

“We had hoped we had broken the trend and they were going to fade away, because we had lost the social contagion aspect,” Peterson said. “They were out of the news and off our radar.”


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Amazon faces a historic union vote in Alabama. Amazon. (image: Elif Ozturk/Anadolu Agency/Dustin Chambers/ReutersSamantha Lee/Insider)
Amazon faces a historic union vote in Alabama. Amazon. (image: Elif Ozturk/Anadolu Agency/Dustin Chambers/ReutersSamantha Lee/Insider)


Charles Bethea | On the Overnight Shift With the Amazon Union Organizers
Charles Bethea, The New Yorker
Bethea writes: "At around 4 A.M., two veteran union reps whipped votes outside the Amazon facility in Bessemer, Alabama, and swapped stories of past organizing efforts at Piggly Wigglys and a condom factory in Eufaula."

t three-twenty-seven on a recent morning in Bessemer, Alabama, Randy Hadley, a sixty-five-year-old man, was dancing at a traffic light. He wore a fedora and had a trimmed white goatee, and he waved a sign as he shimmied: “Without Change, Nothing Changes.” Beside him, a burly younger man named Curtis Gray held up a different sign: “Don’t Back Down.” Gray watched Hadley, who, in turn, watched workers file out of the nine-hundred-thousand-square-foot Amazon fulfillment center up the hill, near where ancient Native American mounds once stood.

“I don’t know what kind of dance that is,” Gray said, pulling his hood up against the cold. He and Hadley, members of the Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union, have been passing out pamphlets and holding up their signs in this spot almost every day since October, in an attempt to unionize a group of Amazon workers in America for the first time. Voting on whether to form a union has already begun. Gray’s earliest successful campaign was at the Pilgrim’s Pride poultry plant, in Russellville, Alabama, a decade ago. Hadley’s been at it longer. He has honed the art of talking through boredom and bad weather.

“You could drive from here to Ohio, he’d talk the whole way,” Gray said.

“Coldest I’ve ever been on a line was in Minnesota,” Hadley said. “Windchill thirty-five below zero. To strike a Hormel factory in fucking February!” He tossed off some of his greatest hits: “I’ve organized a peanut-butter plant in Albany. A dog-food plant in Virginia. Poultry plants in Mississippi. All kinds of nursing homes. Piggly Wigglys.” He added, “I tried to organize a condom plant down in, uh . . . ”

“Eufaula,” Gray said.

“Down in Eufaula, yeah,” Hadley went on.

“That’s the one that Steve Harvey ended up buying,” Gray added.

Around four-fifteen, traffic picked up. Some workers waved as they drove away. Others honked. A few offered a thumbs-up. The majority sped into the dark without a sideward glance.

“She’s gotta drive all the way back to Walker County,” Gray said, reading the license plate of a beat-up Honda. “That’s a long ways.”

“Bless her heart,” Hadley said. He went on, “We’re here this early just in case she rolls her window down and we can lean over there and have a conversation for two minutes.” He added, “Some days you’ll catch fifteen. Some days you’ll catch fifty. It’s just like going fishing.”

Eventually, Hadley was in need of a rest room. “Jeff Bezos just built a house with twenty-five bathrooms,” he said when he returned from the woods.

“They ain’t got twenty-five in there,” Gray said, motioning to the warehouse.

A man drove by and honked affirmatively. “Our president was down here the other day,” Hadley said, “and he goes, ‘Everybody is so friendly. How do you know if they don’t like you?’ I said, ‘Trust me—you’ll get that finger in just a second.’ ”

Traffic picked up again around five. Employees lit their post-work cigarettes and raced away, music cranked. A woman asked Hadley for help adjusting her rearview mirror. A man got out of his car to swear at a driver who’d cut him off. Someone asked Gray when the votes would begin to be tallied. (The end of March.) The sky turned from black to purple to pink and blue. Hadley shared some TikTok videos he’d made with his wife, including one in which the two are dressed as dinosaurs. Gray chuckled at stories he’d heard before and would no doubt hear again.

At one point, a car with three passengers drove by, smoke pouring from the windows. “Let’s go!” one yelled to Hadley and Gray.

“You smell a lot of weed,” Hadley said, as they skidded off.

“He ain’t lying,” Gray said.

A few hundred yards down the road, at another entrance, Jose Aguilar and Mona Darby stood in matching cold-weather jumpsuits, holding union signs. They’d shown up at four. There was less traffic at their post. Darby was listening to Steve Harvey on her phone. Aguilar was watching TikToks.

A woman drove by with her thumb down. They’d seen her before. She belonged to a small group of aggressively anti-union workers.

“Her and the white guy in a silver truck,” Darby said. “He’s crazy.”

Aguilar agreed. “The other day, he stopped and said, ‘You know what, you waste your time. You need to go home.’ I said, ‘You waste your time. You need to go home and get some rest.’ ”

He told a story about two workers who’d opposed the unionizing of a poultry plant. “Since Day One, they said, ‘No union, no union.’ Well, we win the election. And they’re the first people to join the union. I said, ‘O.K., welcome to the family.’ ”

Seven o’clock arrived. The sun felt good. It was time to go to Cracker Barrel. Hadley made a final pronouncement. “When we win,” he said, “I’m gonna buy that building over there, across the street, and make it our union hall. That’ll be Chapter 2.”

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Border detention center. (photo: Henry Cuellar/BuzzFeed)
Border detention center. (photo: Henry Cuellar/BuzzFeed)

ALSO SEE: Photos of Migrant Detention Highlight Biden's Border Secrecy


Photos Reveal the Crowded Conditions Unaccompanied Immigrant Kids Are Held in at the Border
Adolfo Flores and Hamed Aleaziz, BuzzFeed
Excerpt: "The photos taken by Rep. Henry Cuellar offer a rare glimpse of conditions inside CBP facilities for unaccompanied immigrant children."

hotos from inside a US Customs and Border Protection tent facility in Donna, Texas, reveal the crowded conditions unaccompanied immigrant minors are being held in at a time when the Biden administration is struggling to find bed space for the rising number of children crossing the border.

The photos, taken by Rep. Henry Cuellar, a Texas Democrat, offer a rare glimpse of conditions inside such Border Patrol facilities, which are currently housing just under 4,900 unaccompanied immigrant children. Axios first reported on the images taken by Cuellar.

The issues with overcrowding stem from the rising number of unaccompanied children arriving at the border and CBP’s inability to transfer them to the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), which doesn’t have enough bed space. HHS has been housing thousands of children in its system of shelter or emergency influx facilities.

There were just under 4,900 unaccompanied immigrant children in border custody late this weekend, as the population in HHS custody continued to grow to more than 11,000, according to government data reviewed by BuzzFeed News. The number of transfers from border custody to HHS custody had increased, with nearly 600 going over to HHS care in one day, according to the data. The Biden administration has tried to relieve the crowding in border custody in part by increasing the transfers to HHS custody.

Many of the children in CBP custody have been there past the 72 hours the government is allowed to legally hold them in border facilities.

DHS has not given the media or attorneys, who are able to visit these facilities as part of a court settlement, the ability to tour these facilities.

Lawyers who interviewed some of the children at the Donna tent facility told BuzzFeed News that some minors were held for as many as eight days in crowded areas without showers or the ability to call their families.

All of the children interviewed by attorneys had been in the custody of the border enforcement agency for at least five days, over the three-day limit they’re allowed to be in CBP custody under law.

CBP did not respond to an immediate request for comment.

"I have said repeatedly from the very outset that a Border Patrol station is no place for a child and that is why we are working around the clock to move those children out of the Border Patrol facilities, into the care and custody of the Department of Health and Human Services that shelters them," Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas told CNN on Sunday.


Henry Cuellar

In 2019, visits to Border Patrol facilities revealed children were being held in dirty, overcrowded, and unsanitary conditions. Attorneys who visited a Border Patrol station in Clint, Texas, described children caring for infants and toddlers, a lack of access to soap and toothbrushes, and inadequate food, water, and sanitation.

On a call with reporters last week, senior Biden administration officials said the HHS was racing to open up shelter space, but noted it would take months and was not a solution for the current situation.

Instead, the agency has turned to emergency intake sites, like a convention center in Dallas and another facility in Pecos, Texas, to try to move children out of CBP custody faster.


Rep. Henry Cuellar

In February, more than 9,400 unaccompanied immigrant children were encountered by US border authorities.

The Trump administration started the practice of expelling unaccompanied immigrant minors encountered at the border by US border authorities, citing a public health code called Title 42. The administration was blocked by a federal judge from continuing the practice in November. An appeals court lifted the judge’s order in late January, but by then a new administration had taken office and the Biden White House decided not to continue the practice of expelling unaccompanied immigrant children.

However, the Biden administration has continued to expel some immigrant families and adults whom border officers encountered at the border, citing the same health code as the Trump White House.

Before the judge forced the Trump administration to allow unaccompanied children to seek asylum in the US, the government was quickly sending these children back to dangerous Mexican border cities or flying them back to conditions they fled.

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Deb Haaland, center, with Kamala Harris, right, during Haaland's swearing-in for interior secretary in Washington DC on 18 March. (photo: Alex Brandon/AP)
Deb Haaland, center, with Kamala Harris, right, during Haaland's swearing-in for interior secretary in Washington DC on 18 March. (photo: Alex Brandon/AP)


'She's Representing All of Us': The Story Behind Deb Haaland's Swearing-In Dress
Hallie Golden, Guardian UK
Golden writes: "The skirt, a traditional Native garment, outshone everything in the Eisenhower building - and there is a story of empowerment and survival behind it."


t was a dress that triggered a flood of headlines. Standing in front of Vice-President Kamala Harris with her right hand raised, Deb Haaland was sworn in last week as the secretary of the interior dressed in a long rainbow ribbon skirt adorned with a corn stalk, butterflies and stars.

The skirt, a traditional Native garment with a variety of meanings often rooted in honoring the community’s heritage and symbolizing empowerment, outshone everything around her in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building during her swearing-in as the first Indigenous cabinet secretary in US history.

But there is also a story behind the dress: one of empowerment and survival of a community and also its designer. The garment was made as a “celebration-style skirt” in recognition of Haaland’s nomination, explained its creator, Agnes Woodward, who is Plains Cree from Kawacatoose First Nation in Saskatchewan, Canada.

The 38-year-old devoted weeks to creating the distinct piece of clothing from her home in North Dakota. While the rainbow colors are meant to represent all people and the pair of dark blue butterflies serve to offer an uplifting message, the cornstalk is a symbol of Haaland’s enrolled membership of the Pueblo of Laguna, a tribe in New Mexico, explained Woodward.

The shimmering four-pointed stars, however, were Woodward’s own distinct addition. She said she likes to feature them in all of her ribbon skirts as a homage to both the stories she grew up with about stars being relatives looking down on them and to signify the connection Native people feel “to everything around us; that everything has a purpose; that everything that was created by creator has a purpose”.

Woodward, who also works as an advocate for victims of violence for the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara Nation, started making ribbon skirts around 2010, when she was attending Native ceremonies with her husband, and she and her daughters, now ages 13 and nine, needed to wear them.

But she learned quickly that the act of creating such an important symbol of matriarchal empowerment that tells stories of survival, resilience and sacredness, also helped with her own healing and to restore her pride as a Native woman.

“So many women would inbox me and say, ‘This is my life story, can you put that on a skirt?’ or ‘This is my given Native name, can you put that on a skirt?’ Or ‘I’m a survivor of all this stuff and I need to heal, I’ve never owned a ribbon skirt,’” she told the Guardian. “And so, as I’ve had those conversations, it’s given me so much empowerment for myself, but also for all the women that I’ve connected with.”

Woodward explained that her father survived residential school and her mother the “60s scoop” – which involved thousands of Indigenous children being removed from their families in Canada and placed into foster care – and the year she was born her aunt was murdered. And then as a child growing up in Saskatchewan, Canada, she also experienced a wide array of racism, including being called a “dirty Indian”.

One instance when she was about eight years old and had to escape a domestic violence situation with her mother in the middle of the night is especially haunting. She said she remembers both of them being barefoot, dressed only in nightgowns, and running down a dark alley to get to a gas station to call for help. But instead of being greeted by concern, she remembers the clerk looking at them in disgust, before begrudgingly calling the police for them.

“I can’t explain how as a little kid you know that they’re looking at you in disgust because you’re Native, not for any other reason other than because you’re Native and this person doesn’t like Natives,” she said.

Woodward said the shame she felt about being Native meant her parents had to force her to wear ribbon skirts as a child. So, when she became an adult and made the active decision to start not only wearing the skirts again, but actually sewing them, she said it helped her heal and reclaim who she is as an Indigenous woman.

Once she started posting images of her creations on Snapchat, community members began reaching out to her requesting custom orders, and things just grew from there. Today, she has made hundreds of skirts, including ones helping to bring attention to the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two Spirit (MMIWG2) movement, and sells them through her organization, ReeCreeations.

Two of her MMIWG2 skirts had already made it on to the floor of the US Congress as part of discussions surrounding Savanna’s Act, a bill dedicated to Savanna LaFontaine-Greywind, a Native American woman who was killed in 2017 in North Dakota. So, when she was connected with Haaland and sent her a draft of her design, it seemed only natural that her skirt would be just right for this occasion.

Woodward said Haaland wearing the skirt designed by someone from all the way up north in Saskatchewan while being sworn in, makes it clear to her that “she’s still representing all of us as a people."

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Cerro was a leader of the Indigenous Lenca people and coordinated the movement United Communities. (photo: El Heraldo)
Cerro was a leader of the Indigenous Lenca people and coordinated the movement United Communities. (photo: El Heraldo)


Indigenous Environmental Activist Shot Dead in Honduras
teleSUR
Excerpt: "Indigenous environmental activist Carlos Cerro was shot dead in San Antonio, Honduras, local media outlets reported on Tuesday."

According to the advocacy group Global Witness, Honduras is among the deadliest countries for environmentalists.


Cerro was a leader of the Indigenous Lenca people and coordinated the movement United Communities, which brings together residents from the surroundings of Ulua de Chinda and San Antonio Cortes rivers as they fight against the El Tornillito hydroelectric project in the area.

"Today, on World Water Day, we denounce the vile murder of our comrade Juan Carlos Cerros Escalante, indigenous leader of the municipality of Chinda, Santa Barbara, defender of the rights of his community and against the dam "El Tornillito."We demand justice!"

According to the Santabarbarense environmental movement coordinator, Betty Vasquez, Cerro's children witnessed their parents' death.

"We condemn the murder of one defender and one more colleague. That is not fair. It is not possible that you are criminalized, persecuted, and then have your life taken away for defending a territory. We give this crime the assessment that it is a political murder," Vasquez said.

According to the advocacy group, Global Witness Honduras is among the deadliest countries in the world for environmentalists. During 2020 alone, at least 18 activists were killed.



 
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Water protectors rally against the Enbridge Line 3 pipeline in Park Rapids, Minn., on March 15, 2021. (photo: Courtesy of Honor The Earth)
Water protectors rally against the Enbridge Line 3 pipeline in Park Rapids, Minn., on March 15, 2021. (photo: Courtesy of Honor The Earth)


Minnesota Police Ready for Pipeline Resistance as Enbridge Seeks to Drill Under Rivers
Alleen Brown, The Intercept
Brown writes: "Law enforcement agencies are preparing for protests against planned drilling under the Mississippi River, internal documents reveal."

s you drive toward the Mississippi River’s headwaters from the east, the lakes that open up on either side of the highway are still white-blue with ice. The Mississippi River, however, is flowing. The open water — a trickle compared to the expanse it will become farther south — is a hopeful sign of the end of another long Minnesota winter, but it also has opponents of pipeline construction in the area on edge.

Enbridge, the Canadian energy-transport firm, is planning to route its Line 3 pipeline under the Mississippi, near where it crosses Highway 40. In winter, a pollution-control rule bars drilling under the frozen waters. As the ice melts away, so do the restrictions. Those organizing against the project worry that Enbridge could begin tunneling under the Mississippi and other local rivers any day — and the pipeline-resistance movement is getting ready for it.

“They got a lot of money, they got a lot of equipment, but we got a lot of people,” said Anishinaabe water protector Winona LaDuke at an event last week with actor and activist Jane Fonda, which took place in front of the flowing Crow Wing River, not far from where Enbridge seeks to drill under its shores. “Spring is coming. Let’s be outdoorsy.”

Enbridge’s Line 3 project began construction four months ago. It was designed to replace a decaying pipeline of the same name; however, a large portion of its 338-mile Minnesota section, which makes up most of the U.S. route, plows through new land and waters. The project would double Line 3’s capacity for carrying tar sands oil, one of the most carbon-intensive fossil fuels in the world, at a moment when a rapid shift away from fossil fuels has become critical to address the climate crisis.

The delicate waterway ecosystems through which the pipeline passes have become the central organizing point of the anti-pipeline, or water protector, movement. Hundreds of rivers, streams, and wetlands face the specter of a tar sands leak after the replacement Line 3 begins operating. And the particularly intensive form of drilling required to tunnel the pipeline under rivers holds its own set of risks during construction.

Those same waters are central to the Anishinaabe people’s identity, and Anishinaabe women have led opposition to the Line 3 project. Over the past year, women and nonbinary people have organized small camps near planned construction sites. In recent weeks, they’ve led a steady schedule of gatherings and ceremonies at the edges of rivers, with some organizing more obstructive protests, known as direct actions, aimed at slowing pipeline construction. With spring on the horizon, pipeline opponents are poised to take even more obstinate stands to block construction at the river crossings.

Law enforcement agencies, with Enbridge’s support, are also preparing for the time when the rivers open up. Documents obtained by The Intercept confirm that local sheriff’s offices have for months been practicing for direct actions focused on the Mississippi River.

“Operation River Crossing”

This past September, members of the Northern Lights Task Force, a coalition of state and local law enforcement and public safety agencies set up to respond to pipeline resistance, gathered for the 12-hour training at Camp Ripley, a Minnesota National Guard training center on the Mississippi River south of the pipeline route. The exercise was titled “Operation River Crossing.”

In a manual for exercise participants, obtained by The Intercept through a public information request, officials from the Minnesota Department of Public Safety Division of Homeland Security and Emergency Management and the Minnesota State Patrol provide hints about what they fear will happen — and how they intend to respond.

Operation River Crossing was designed for law enforcement trainees from along the pipeline route to practice their response to a “civil unrest situation with threats to public safety including criminal damage to property, obstruction of transportation, assaults, threats to bystanders, and rioting.” Officers would confront a range of people posing as pipeline opponents. Some would be quietly holding signs. “Others are blocking the roadway and access to the work area and refusing orders to disperse. A small group of protesters has started threatening pipeline workers and law enforcement officers and lobbing balloons filled with urine and deer repellent.”

In the fictionalized scenario, law enforcement officers have access to various headquarters for cross-county coordination. “Two Regional Emergency Operations Centers (EOCs) have already been established: Northwest EOC near Crookston and Northeast EOC near Duluth,” the planning document says. A hypothetical state-level operation center had also been “partially activated” at Camp Ripley.

The manual also explains that fictive officers have been monitoring social media and using it to determine their strategies. “Public safety officials became aware of a spike in social media messaging activity regarding planned protests” at a second Mississippi crossing site in Aitkin County, downstream from the headwaters. “Multiple groups indicate they will travel to the counties along the route to protest the project,” the scenario says. “One of these groups is associated with past criminal activities during protests.”

In response to all these hypothetical details, the police would practice coordinated crowd-control tactics and methods of cutting away materials used to attach pipeline opponents to infrastructure. They would simulate the use of chemical munitions, while observers watched the training on bleachers.

Six months later, law enforcement agencies have put some of the planned exercises into real-world action. As the scenario foreshadowed, a Northeast Emergency Operations Center was activated November 30, shortly after the pipeline’s approval, according to Northern Lights Task Force meeting notes obtained by The Intercept. Multiple county sheriff’s offices now have their own extrication or cutting teams trained and ready to use equipment for cutting water protectors away from infrastructure. Some of that equipment has been paid for by Enbridge itself.

An escrow account set up by the Minnesota Public Utilities Commission and funded by Enbridge, primarily to cover the costs of policing pipeline resistance, has distributed more than $500,000 to law enforcement agencies as of March 15. The account is not meant to be used for equipment, though, unless it’s personal protective equipment. The state-appointed account manager has rejected law enforcement requests for reimbursement of cutting tools. But there are ways around that. In Hubbard County, for example, Enbridge donated cutting tools separately from the escrow account.

The escrow account manager also rejected requests that had framed chemical munitions as “personal protective equipment.” Whether or not they’ve been reimbursed, law enforcement agencies have new stock available. No use of chemical munitions has been reported so far. Instead, water protectors say that they have seen increased traffic stops, aerial surveillance, and police officers following pipeline opponents in cars.

In an interview with The Intercept, Aitkin County Sheriff Dan Guida denied there has been an escalation of law enforcement’s response to water protectors in his jurisdiction. He spoke as he monitored his county’s extrication team, which was attempting to remove seven people that had attached themselves to an Enbridge Line 3 pipeline pump station. He said his county is not deploying aerial surveillance, that any traffic stops were a response to traffic laws being broken, and that he is committed to protecting the safety and first amendment rights of water protectors, as well as the property rights of the pipeline company.

“When there is illegal activity around — it doesn’t matter what movement you’re involved in — we focus energy on it. That’s our job,” said Guida. A spokesperson for the Northern Lights Task Force did not answer a list of questions sent by The Intercept. Guida, who previously served in a leadership position for the task force, confirmed that his county participated in the Operation River Crossing training.

Nonetheless, tension between law enforcement agencies and water protectors is simmering, and the planned river crossings threaten to serve as a tipping point toward more aggressive policing.

Any Day Now

Enbridge has suggested that no river crossing is imminent. Last week, the company announced that Line 3 is now half complete and that the project will go on a “planned” two-month hiatus. Enbridge spokesperson Juli Kellner confirmed to The Intercept that river drilling will occur in the summer. Many opponents are hopeful that it will be enough time for President Joe Biden to intervene and stop the project, the way he stopped the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline. There are also ongoing legal cases to stop Line 3, including from the White Earth and Red Lake tribal governments, whose treaty land the pipeline passes through.

Project opponents, though, remain on edge, wary of the possibility that any day they could receive word that drilling at one of 21 river and waterway crossings has begun. Darin Broton, communications director for the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency, told The Intercept that no rules prevent Enbridge from installing their pipeline under rivers where the ice has melted: “They are able to drill under those waters. The only condition was prior approval when waters were frozen.”

In November, the pipeline company commenced construction so swiftly that it caught local sheriff’s departments off guard, according to notes obtained by The Intercept from another Northern Lights Task Force meeting. “Enbridge has advised they intend to begin construction as soon as November 27 (much earlier than anticipated and without a 45 day notice as expected),” the document says. “We are approximately three to four weeks from all initiatives being fully operational but we are prepared to make it work in the interim.”

Much of the remaining drilling work involves a process called horizontal directional drilling, in which pipeline is threaded through a tunnel bored below the riverbed. The slurry of water and clay used as a drill lubricant can leak into waterways, clouding aquatic habitats or drinking water.

People’s greatest fears, however, center around what could happen once the workers leave the construction site: a spill. The largest inland oil spill in U.S. history happened in 1991 in nearby Grand Rapids, Minnesota; 1.7 million gallons of crude oil spilled from Line 3, the same pipeline that Enbridge is now replacing. In 2010, a Michigan community suffered a huge spill from another Enbridge pipeline.

Last Tuesday, as Clearwater County Sheriff Darin Halverson looked on, Anishinaabe women from nearby communities led a group in a ceremony, and men sang and drummed. As three giant puppets — a wolf, a bear, and a woman in a jingle dress — moved toward a wide bare gap in the trees — the pipeline easement — a figure in the dark truck parked in the easement driveway filmed the group with a phone.

Sarah LittleRedFeather, who is Anishinaabe and whose family is from White Earth, said she was undaunted by the resources being poured into law enforcement efforts against pipeline opponents: “It’s not going to stop us.”

“If they bring that drill pad to that river, I’m there. If that means I’m standing in the water, I’m there,” said LittleRedFeather, who works with the nonprofit Honor the Earth. “That’s what I’m waiting for. We’re praying that it won’t get to that point.”

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