Chapter 4 Confessions of an Economic Hitman (4)

I also always ask myself: Even if the ultimate goal of US aid to foreign countries is to achieve imperialism, is this immoral?I often find myself envious of people like Charlie, who have so much faith in our country's institutions that they go to great lengths to impose American policies on other countries. I doubt that the limited resources on earth can make it possible for people all over the world to live as affluently as Americans, when in fact there are tens of millions of residents living in poverty within the United States. Also, I don't really know if people in other countries really want to live like us.

The statistics on violence, recession, drug abuse, divorce, and crime in the United States also show that, despite being one of the wealthiest countries in history, we can also be among the happiest people. So why do we force others to imitate ourselves? Perhaps Clodin had already given me hints of these questions, but I'm still not sure what she was trying to tell me. I wrote in my diary: Is there anyone in America who is innocent?The vast majority of people in our country rely on exploiting developing countries to maintain our good life—of course, those who benefit the most are those at the top of the social and economic system pyramid.

The abundant resources and cheap labor we depend on come from underdeveloped countries like Indonesia, and they get very little in return. Huge loans from foreign aid can only ensure that future generations of people in developing countries will become "hostages" of the United States. These countries have had to let American companies exploit their natural resources, and they have had to put aside plans for domestic education, health care, and other social infrastructure, and pay our debts first. But in reality, our companies have recouped the vast majority of their funds from construction projects like power stations, airports and industrial parks — even though they are not included in the formula for calculating loans.

Does the excuse that "most Americans don't know" mean we're innocent?Maybe someone will say "unaware", maybe because someone deliberately misled, in short, there are many excuses, but can you say that you are innocent? Of course, I have to face this fact, even though I am also one of the "uninformed". Worldwide jihad—that word makes me uneasy, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that it will happen sooner or later. In my opinion, if Islamic jihad does happen one day, it will be a war between developing and developed countries, not between Muslims and Christians, but at the forefront is Muslims only.

We developed countries consume a lot of natural resources, while developing countries are suppliers of natural resources. Thus the return of the mercantile system of colonialism, which was known to be characterized by the plundering of the mighty, the pirate-like predation of the defenseless. I don't carry Toynbee's book with me, but I have learned enough historical knowledge to understand that those who are exploited and squeezed will one day rise up to resist. Just look back at the American Revolutionary War, Tom Paine is a perfect example. I remember the history books stating that during the colonial period, the British taxed the colonies on the grounds that they provided military protection and helped the colonists against the French and Indians, and the colonists interpreted this very differently.

In his excellent book (Common Sense), Paine presents to his countrymen what young Indonesian friends I have met call the soul—a consciousness, a belief in supremacy, and a A belief in liberty and equality that is distinct from the absolute monarchy of England and the domination of eminent men. The same is manifested by Muslims: devotion to a supreme power who believes that developed countries have no right to suppress and deprive other nations of their souls and beliefs. Like the militias that were readily available during the War of Independence, Muslims fought to assert their power when threatened.

Yet we, like the British colonists in the 1770s, call this act of resistance "terrorism." I wonder if the US and its allies would spend all the money spent on colonial wars like the Vietnam war on eradicating world poverty and famine and on basic education and healthcare for all people around the world including my people , what will our world look like?I wonder how much future generations will thank us if we commit ourselves to alleviating human suffering and protecting rivers, mountains, forests, air, and everything else on which the human soul and body depend. I do not believe that the pursuit of the right to life, liberty, and happiness, as envisioned by the Founding Fathers of the United States, exists only for Americans.

And now, why do we still want to build the imperialist country that our founding fathers fought so hard back then? On my last night in Indonesia, I woke up from a dream. I sat on the bed and turned on the light, looking at everything familiar in the Intercontinental hotel room: tables and chairs, batik woven paintings, and framed puppets hanging on the wall. The dream just now still floats in my mind. I saw Christ standing before me. When I was a child, I prayed to the Christ statue every night before going to bed, and told him my thoughts. The Christ I just dreamed of is very similar to the Christ I saw when I was a child.

The difference is that when I was a child, the Christ I saw had fair skin, blond hair, and green eyes, but the Christ I see now has black hair and dark skin. Christ bent down and put something on his shoulders. I thought it was a crucifix, but instead I saw a car axle with rims protruding all around, forming a metallic "halo" over his head, with grease dripping from it like blood onto his chin. on the forehead. He straightened up, looked me in the eyes, and said, "If I showed up now, you'd see a different version of me. " I ask him why. "Because," he said, "the world has changed."

The clock on the wall reminds me - dawn is coming. I knew I would never sleep again, so I got up, dressed, took the elevator down to the empty hotel lobby, and walked slowly into the garden next to the swimming pool. The bright moon is in the sky, and the air is filled with the faint fragrance of orchids. I found a bench and sat down, thinking, why am I here now, why am I on this path, why Indonesia? I tried to reconcile with Ann, and I went to Paris to spend the holidays with her before returning to the United States. But even during our holidays in Paris, we kept arguing. As good as we got along, it became clear to both of us that long-suppressed sullenness and resentment had formed an insurmountable barrier between us.

Besides, I have so many secrets that I cannot confess to her. The only person I could confide in was Clotin, and I thought of her often. Ann and I landed at Logan Airport in Boston, and we took a taxi back to the "Back Bay" residential area. After we got off the bus, we went our separate ways and went back to our apartments. soldiers and whores After a delicious steak and beer, we left the restaurant and walked down the dark street.Fidel advised me never to go down this street again. "If you want to come here, take a taxi and go straight to the front door." He pointed to one side. "That's right there, above the fence, and that's the canal area." He continued to drive, and Fidel pulled over in a clearing where many cars were parked.An old man staggered towards us.Fidel got out of the car, stepped forward and patted the old man on the back, and then touched the fender of his car affectionately. "Take good care of her, she is my woman." He handed the old man a bill. We followed a path out of the parking lot and onto a brightly lit street.Two little boys ran past us holding a stick and pointing at each other like they were playing a shooting game.One of the little boys - the top of his head was only as high as Fidel's thigh - accidentally bumped into Fidel's leg.The little boy stopped and took a few steps back. "I'm sorry, sir," he gasped, speaking in Spanish. "But, you gotta tell me, who are you and your little friend shooting at?" Another boy came towards us and put his arm around the boy who had bumped into Fidel. "My brother," he explained, "I'm sorry." "It's okay," Fidel smiled slightly. "He didn't hurt me. I just asked who you two shot at. I think I played this kind of game when I was a kid." The little brothers looked at each other, The older one laughed. "He's a gringo general in the Canal Zone. He wants to rape our mother. I'm going to clean him up and send him to where he belongs." Fidel sneaked a look at me and asked, "Where should he go?" "Go home, America." "Does your mother work here?" "There it is," the brothers pointed proudly at the neon lights of the street. "She's the bartender." "Keep playing," Fidel gave them each a coin, "but be careful, it's best not to play in such a dark place." "Okay, thank you, sir." They ran off. As we walked on, Fidel told me that Panamanian law prohibits women from being prostitutes in the country. "They can work as bartenders, but they can't sell their bodies. Only foreigners do that." We walked into a bar where American music was blaring.This made me very uncomfortable.Two burly American soldiers, marked on their uniforms as gendarmes, guarded the gate. Fidel led me inside, and a stage appeared before our eyes.There were three young girls dancing, naked save for hats on their heads.One of them was wearing a sailor hat, one was wearing a green beret, and the other was wearing a cowboy hat.They are graceful and smiling, they seem to be playing a certain game, and they seem to be conducting a beauty pageant.The music, the dancing, the stage, it was like being back in a discotheque in Boston, the only difference was that they were naked. Fidel led me past a group of young English-speaking men.Although they were wearing white T-shirts, it could be seen from their crew cut that they were soldiers from the military base in the Canal Zone.Fidel tapped a waitress on the shoulder.She turned her head, gave a squeal of delight, and threw her arms around Fidel.The group of English-speaking young people watched this scene and looked at each other disapprovingly.I wonder if they applied the "Manifest Destiny" theory to this woman.The waitress took us to a corner and out of nowhere she managed to get a small table and two chairs. We sat down, and Fidel greeted in Spanish a pair of men at the next table who, unlike the other soldiers, wore patterned short-sleeved shirts and rumpled trousers.The waitress just came back and brought us two balboas.When she turned to leave, Fidel patted her on the buttocks, she turned her head and blew him a kiss, I looked around, the young men stopped staring at us, I felt relieved, they were all caught The dancers were attracted. Most of the people who came here were English-speaking soldiers, but a few others, like the two men sitting next to us, were obviously Panamanian.Hair color is the most obvious distinguishing mark, and they don't wear T-shirts and jeans.The Panamanians, who sat at tables or stood against a wall, looked hypervigilant, like sheepdogs watching over a flock of sheep. Several women on the stage came down and walked slowly between the tables.Sometimes they walk, sit on the laps of customers, and yell at the waiter;They wear tight skirts, T-shirts or jeans, fitted tops and, of course, high heels.One is wearing a Victorian gown and veil, the other is wearing a bikini.It was clear that they were selling their bodies and only the beautiful were welcome.I was amazed that they came to Panama, and I don't know what made them desperate to come here to do this kind of thing. "All foreign?" I asked Fidel loudly, trying to drown out the loud music. He nodded. "Except..." he pointed to the waiters, "they're Panamanians." "which country?" "Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Guatemala." "These are your neighbors." "No. Costa Rica and Colombia are our closest neighbors." The waitress who had brought us here came over and sat on Fidel's lap.He stroked her back gently with his hand. "Clarissa," he said, "tell my friend from North America why these girls have left their homes to come here." He pointed toward the stage.At this time, three more girls appeared on the stage and took the hats from others. Those girls had already stepped down and started to put on their clothes.The music switched to salsa ①, new dancers came on stage, and slowly took off their clothes in the rhythm of the music. Clarissa held out her right hand. "Nice to meet you," she said.Then she stood up and picked up our empty wine bottles, "The answer to Fidel's question is that these girls come here to escape tyranny and brutality. I'll get you some more bottles of Balboa." After she left, I said to Fidel, "It's about the money." "Yes. But why are so many people from countries run by fascist dictators?" I looked over to the stage again.The three girls laughed and tossed their sailor hats like balls.I looked into Fidel's eyes, "You're kidding, aren't you?" "No," he said seriously, "I hope I'm joking too. Most of these girls have lost family members—fathers, mothers, brothers, husbands, or boyfriends. They have had to face death, have to Accept the torture of life. Dancing and prostitution is not so dirty for them as you think. They can make a lot of money here, and then start a new life elsewhere, buy a small shop, or open a cafe ..." Suddenly, a commotion nearby interrupted him.I saw a waitress shake her fist at one of the soldiers, who grabbed her wrist and twisted it so hard that she fell to her knees screaming.The soldier laughed and shouted to his companions, and they all laughed.She swung her other hand to hit him.He squeezed harder, and the waitress' face contorted with pain. The gendarmes were still standing by the bar door, watching all this calmly.Fidel jumped up and walked over to the soldier.A man at the table next to us blocked him with his hand. "Calm down, brother," he said, "Calm down, brother. Enrique can handle it." A tall, lanky Panamanian popped out of the corner next to the stage.He moved like a cat, and he was at the soldier's side in no time.With one hand he wrapped his arms around the soldier's neck, and with the other he splashed a glass of water on his face.The waitress took the opportunity to escape.The music stopped.The Panamanians who had been sitting against the wall came out and formed a semicircular protective wall around the tall man.The tall man walked towards the bar with the soldier in his arms, and he was still saying something, which I couldn't hear clearly.Suddenly, he raised his voice and said in English word by word: "The waitress is not something you can touch, and you don't even want to touch other girls before paying the money." The two gendarmes finally started to move.They approached the circle of Panamanians. "Give him to us now, Enrique," they said. The tall bodyguard threw the soldier in his hand to the ground, grabbed his neck vigorously, and twisted his head. The soldier screamed in pain. "Now you see what I mean?" The soldier let out a feeble groan. "Okay," he said, handing the soldier over to the two gendarmes, "get him out."