“In the fall of 2002, when George W. Bush made plain his intent to launch a second Iraq war—on November 11, just after the midterm elections that Bush had used the specter of war to win—Dylan appeared at Madison Square Garden and again offered “Masters of War” as an answer record to real life… The song sounded like a curse dug out of the ground.”
—Greil Marcus, ‘Stories of a Bad Song’, Threepenny Review, Winter 2006
Anniversaries are generally pointless; a nice round figure and nothing more, bearing little significance other than that which we have assigned. So it’s worth remembering that ten years is not the outrageous number. The true outrage, as always, is the eight-plus years over which the vast crime of the Iraq war was committed, vandalizing an entire era in the process.
(Reprise; US: 31 Aug 2003)
(Reprise; US: 21 Sep 2004)
DMZ Vol 1: On the Ground
(Vertigo; US: Jun 2006)
(NBC Universal; US theatrical: 26 Feb 2010)
(Lionsgate; US theatrical: 4 Sep 2008)
Nevertheless, the fact that 2013 marks a solid decade since the illegal invasion which unleashed so much self-replicating atrocity has prompted many to reexamine the conflict, and that is no bad thing; if anniversaries have any virtue, it is to remind us of things we should not forget so easily. And anyone who lived through those unpleasantly interesting times probably wondered what hindsight would look like, after the smoke cleared. Grim, as it turns out.
I have memories and a lot of records. Sometimes, I get them confused. When our leaders told us we were at war (as Spike Milligan would say, “I loved the ‘we.’”), I was still in high school. Iraq, after a fashion, taught us how to protest; on our first school walk-out, a friend of mine brought along a gas mask, which—should the need arise—several of us would share, back and forth, like in Terminator 2. Eventually, we stormed Edinburgh castle (sort of), made the local news, and then went home again. A few weeks later, there was another demonstration, and another, and another.
In the New Statesman, in her article, “Ten years ago we marched against the Iraq war and I learned a lesson in betrayal” Laurie Penny wrote,
“My generation’s lack of faith in the political process has often been mistaken for apathy. It is only now, with ordinary people across the world putting their energies into movements that bypass mainstream politics, that the betrayal of Bush and Blair’s wars is beginning the be understood. We have known since we were at school that it’s not enough simply to make our voices heard. We have to make sure that we are listened to—and we’re still working out how to do that.” (14 February 2013)
Our reactions may have been insolent, irreverent, half-baked—in a word, teenage—but they were forced to grow up with haste. Meanwhile, the culture around us began to mutate in response to the war that had polluted it.
It was kind of poetic that, for my peers and I, our adolescence—which made no sense, at least to us—had, as its background, a conflict that was just as nonsensical. Then and now, I tried to make sense of the world through its arts—books, music, movies, whatever was handy—but when faced with the horror of Iraq, that task became monumental.
I remember there were whistles, and drums, and slogans that grew steadily more profane. There were also a lot of songs—by John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Joe Strummer, Billy Bragg, Bob Marley, Woody Guthrie and countless more—dredged and borrowed from history to see if they might be made use of again. Some of it was moving, some of it was cringeworthy, some it was just catchy. We weren’t particularly picky. For a lot of us, the political consciousness awoken by Iraq heralded a crash-course in nostalgia: taken unawares by how quickly the world could go insane, we had to learn how these things were done, and quickly. While a new anti-war counterculture grew slowly and organically out of our shared discontent, we looked back and cherry-picked what we wanted from those who had come before, and tried to emulate as best we could.
Chances are, you’ll find this slice of recent history familiar, if not fresh. You were there, and so was I, and I’m still trying to figure out what that did to us all. Looking at the art our society produces under such circumstances is usually a good way to gauge that creeping transformation. Yet the cultural response mirrored the war itself, a fractured mess run through with nonsense and red herrings. What did it achieve? Could it have done better?
Ask a further, cruder question: Why should anyone care? Ultimately, while people were killing and dying, what did it matter whether there were decent songs being sung, insightful films being produced, appropriate art being inspired? When did poetry ever stop a war?
“Blind faith in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed.”
In these matters, there’s always a temptation to act with a certain level of hipsterish snobbery (though there are certainly worse things to act on). Inevitably, we look back to the ‘60s and the cultural response to Vietnam, and almost always find our own era lacking in comparison. As some people have noted, it’s tough to compete with the Beatles. And even now, 45 years after Chicago police broke skulls outside of the 1968 Democratic Convention, the United States is still fighting the ridiculously named ‘culture wars’ that find their origin in the decade of Kennedy and Nixon. Everything we have now can sometimes seem like a shadow, an aftereffect, or an imitation.
However, this superficial perception clashes with the reality. The heady days of 2003 and after were not small potatoes; too few remember that the Iraq invasion provoked the biggest anti-war demonstrations in the history of the world. On 15 February 2003, a coordinated day of global protest, over three million people marched in Rome. One and a half million did the same in Madrid. Some 50,000 of us even managed to trudge through Glasgow, and that’s something nobody should have to do unless it’s for a really good cause. Looking back, it’s clear that the response from our artists and entertainers was equally varied and widespread, and deserves recognition for that. Sooner or later, the Iraq war seeped into every crack of the common culture.
And yet, it’s still hard to imagine that, years or decades from now, the cultural impact of the war will endure on a scale approaching the artistic legacy of Vietnam, or even the myriad militarist bungles of the Reagan years, which acted as Vietnam’s hangover. Maybe that’s simply because the two wars are not equivalent: Iraq polarised America, but Vietnam traumatised it.
As it seemingly always does, it was in music that protest found its most prolific outlet. The bands and songwriters who chose to address the war we were inexorably dragged towards ranged from the predictable to the bizarrely uncharacteristic, which added to and reflected the endearingly schizophrenic quality of the antiwar movement in general.
Neil Young used both the war and the protest movement it inspired as background for the epically ambitious Greendale (2003), his most interesting album since Sleeps with Angels. Bad Religion, the politically-charged California punk band for those too smart for Black Flag, mounted a near-return to form with ‘Let Them Eat War’. Green Day, who had largely slipped from the public eye, used a newfound antiwar radicalism to propel their comeback album 2004’s American Idiot. The Dixie Chicks dared to voice an opinion, and the sky fell on their heads.
Steve Earle reminded us that this was a ‘Rich Man’s War’, while Tom Waits sang mournfully of soldiers dreaming of returning home in ‘The Day After Tomorrow’. Eminem summoned an imaginary revolution with ‘Mosh’ and Conor Oberst asked what happens ‘When the President Talks to God’. Tori Amos, Pink, the Offspring, Lamb of God, Muse, System of a Down, Bruce Springsteen, Nerina Pallot, Alabama 3, Dream Theater and many, many more, all produced musical protests of some kind or another in response to the war. And unlike the ‘60s model, there was little in the way of shared style or genre. This was not just a bunch of hippies, as told of in ‘60s legends; it was a fractured, multifaceted culture that had been stretching itself into the possibilities of the new millennium, and was now forced to awkwardly turn its various hydra heads towards a common goal.
The music scene, along with the arts in general, could not hope to oppose the war with any kind of army of its own; instead, it had to make do with what it had. It was not a well-disciplined force—it was a mass mobilisation of minds, but those minds were not thinking in unity. They were a rag-tag mix that used whatever weapons were available. They cannot be blamed for that.
In stark contrast, the world of cinema has been oddly timid in its portrayals of the war, although Hollywood has always had a bad record in this area: the only film of note made during Vietnam that acknowledged the war at all was the turgid John Wayne fantasy The Green Berets .
For much of the industry—Iron Man , the superhero franchise that dances around politics but never fully engages with them, being a prime example—the safe route was to focus on Afghanistan, seen by most as a less controversial conflict. In the Stunt Man (1980), Peter O’Toole’s best film, in which he plays a megalomaniacal director filming an anti-war epic set during the First World War, there is a scene in which his cynical screenwriter mocks him with the fact that the studio wouldn’t let him film his impassioned polemic until five years after Vietnam had ended, thus robbing it of relevancy. That truth seemed to hold just as true with Iraq.
The Stunt Man has a further ominous insight: After his movie has been completed, O’Toole explains to the protagonist the dangers of making art out of atrocity: “I knew a man who made an anti-war movie—a good one. And when it was shown in his home town, army enlistment went up six-hundred percent.” Intentionally or not, the glories of art can too often be reflected back onto what its subject, even if what it portrays is a grubby, dishonest war of greed and idiocy.
Even The Hurt Locker (2008), probably the most critically acclaimed Iraq war movie yet produced, scrupulously avoided engaging with the rights and wrongs of the conflict, something which set the pattern for director Kathryn Bigelow’s cowardly and uncritical approach in her recent propaganda exercise Zero Dark Thirty. Paul Greengrass’s Green Zone (2010) took a braver stance, being one of the few films to acknowledge and deal with the falsity of the war’s supposed justifications, but many others simply used the Middle East’s latest warzone as a convenient backdrop for a summer blockbuster (like 2011’s the A-Team ), or for smaller, more personal dramas (such as 2008’s American Son ).
In comics, only Brian Wood’s DMZ, detailing life the demilitarised zone of New York during a second American civil war (spurred, in part, by the US government’s overseas military adventurism), grappled with, if not the actual subject of Iraq, then all the issues it stirred up—torture, insurgency, government lies and chaos. Despite its critical acclaim, the book has not yet received the credit it deserves as one of the bravest pieces of political fiction of the past decade.
At its most ambitious, American television offered interesting failures like Generation Kill and Over There , both of which dealt with American military personnel stationed in Iraq, but quickly descended into soap opera territory. Aaron Sorkin, once the showbiz politico du jour, seemed distinctly wary of engaging directly with the war, and avoided doing so in any of his self-created, self-congratulatory TV jeremiads. David E. Kelley, on the other hand, brought it up in Boston Legal so often that in one episode, before James Spader’s character Alan Shore launches into another courtroom tirade, he takes out a small crate and stands on it. When the judge asks what he’s doing, Shore responds: “Climbing on my soapbox, Judge. I do it once a week.”
Other than Jon Stewart—the perpetual exception—television stumbled into Iraq with as little foresight as America itself, eventually admitting (after exhausting every other option) that since the war was now a daily reality for the United States, it would appear strange not to admit its presence in their programming. The argument is perfectly logical: it would have been ludicrous for the fictions of film and television to take place in an alternate world in which the war did not exist (though a few tried, for a while); it had to be shown. Showing it demanded engagement, and that is where most of the culture fell down. Most took the path of least resistance and simply assimilated it into the fabric of pop culture with barely a second thought, and that mirrored the crime we were all guilty of: we accepted the reality of the war too easily.
“There comes an hour when protest no longer suffices; after philosophy there must be action; the strong hand finishes what the idea has sketched.”
—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
The art that comes from protest always has high standards to live up to, and it does not pay to underestimate its potential effect: as a result of Les Misérables, the entire French penal system changed. Wilfred Owen may not have stopped the First World War—or even survived it—but no one who read his ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ could bring themselves to call the war ‘just’ ever again.
When we marched against Iraq, we wished to live in a world where a response, in any form—in a song with a message, a movie with a conscience, an book furnished with truth—might have some impact on the flow of history we found ourselves caught up in. But wishing does not make it so, and we bitterly discovered we did not live in such a world. “Create all the art you want,” said the world. “Be as angry as you want. Your leaders will continue to lie, and kill. They will smile while doing so, and tell us it was all for our benefit.” Stronger medicine was required; next time, more radical measures will be necessary.
In any retrospective of protest art, there will no doubt be a few cynical words to say about ineffectual celebrities and their well-meaning, pointless platitudes and entreaties that ultimately do not save a single life. I may have said some of those words myself, once upon a time. No, I won’t call the movement against Iraq, or its artistic dimension, a complete failure. But we needed to do better. Art did all it could, but it could not stop the war. We failed. We lost. It was Iraq, the war that everyone lost.
If there was a clear difference between our cultural reaction to Iraq, and the artistic protests of generations past, then it was that the anti-Vietnam protests, ‘Rock Against Racism’ and similar uproars emerged from lively, open backgrounds of intellectual inquiry. In the early days of the 21st century, Western society had largely lost that contest—many musicians, filmmakers and writers simply did not have the political background that existed prominently a quarter century ago.
The effect of war upon art should be well understood. The iconoclasts of Dada were triggered into action by the understanding that, if culture as we know it had produced the abomination of the First World War, then it had failed in every important respect, and needed to be destroyed. New art was necessary to forge a new age. The revolutionary creative instinct was admirable; the instinct to scorch the Earth, on the other hand, looked slightly less attractive after the advent of Nazism. Iraq radicalised many in a similar way, but never imbued them with the sense of transformative potential. We lacked the hubris to believe we could change the world.
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s famous claim that poets are the “unacknowledged legislators of the world” gets a lot of flack these days; nice idea, Percy, but the men who rule the world are not inclined to verse. This, I always felt, missed the point of Shelley’s defence: no, art and the artists who make it do not result in a cabal governing the world in secret according to aesthetics. Though it is a darkly delightful idea. Visions of Vladimir Nabokov guiding the destiny of nations from behind a discreet screen will haunt me in my dreams. But it is, and always will be, a form of loyal opposition that almost—but not quite—transcends ideology.
When the political class fails, the artistic class can usually be relied upon to illustrate how it has done so, to make it look foolish and weak and venal by comparison. Some will complain that none of us can live up to the example of art. That doesn’t mean that we should stop trying.
Political consciousness is not a weekend obligation of the arts; it does not suddenly reactivate when it is called upon, and remain on standby in times of debatable ‘peace’. Today, in much of the Western world, the arts have been radicalised by the economic fight for survival they find themselves in. With luck, all those involved who bear witness will remember that, if it does not remain vigilant and involved, the arts will not only become politically impotent, but may cease to exist as a socially significant force of any kind at all.
Iraq was, hopefully, the last time for a long while that the Western world—or anywhere in the world, for that matter—will pussy-foot around artistic engagement with both its politics and its organised, legalised acts of mass-murder. All art is political, though not all art is agitprop, or its similarly unsubtle brethren. Art must learn to be conscious of politics at all times, no just when it feels obliged. For when that sense of awareness slackens, so does the discipline that comes with it, and when we find ourselves facing a new nightmare, we may find ourselves wondering why, once again, we didn’t do enough to try to stop it.