by Jordan Wallens

As you may be aware, the past year has seen much hand-wringing, tongue-wagging, and tsk-tsking around the Spartan, draconian (and enviably effective) child-rearing techniques of the Chinese “Tiger Mom.” Courtesy (or alleged lack thereof) über-parent Amy Chua’s controversial Battle Hymn.

As you may be further aware, ever since the Tigeurre’s emergence, we have witnessed a secondary drumbeat of cultural rebuttals, each and all attesting to the modular superiority of suddenly competing nationalities of motherdom. French moms, Italian ones, Guatemalans even, and others, have each made their regimental case, spoken their maternal peace.

French mothers make their kids play by themselves and forbid spontaneous snacking. Italian mamas inundate their littluns with public displays of affection, punctuated by pugilist displays of protection/retribution, depending which side you’re on. Guatemalan kids reportedly raise themselves. As Latin dads say, “Suum cuique.” (To each their own.) L’chaim.

To be clear, author does not profess to mastery of maternal efficacy. I just married well and faithfully devoured each of the above testimonials. Sorry, ovamonials. And I’m here to gratefully submit a pacifist alternative:

Basque moms are tops.

I went Basque, and I will never go back. Not sure who I mean? Neither did I. A primer. The Basque people hail from Europe’s Iberian peninsula and carry a tenderly proud culture that dates its roots literally to pre-history. The semi-autonomous “Basque Country” is perched in the western Pyrenees mountain range, comprising the southernmost region of France and northern few provinces of Spain. But lest you mislabel them “French” or “Spaniard,” know that any Basque will delicately enlighten you, Basques were Basques before mapmakers ever wrote “France” or “Spain.”

The Basque language, called “Euskera,” is a linguistic riddle, an incomprehensible anomaly. Euskera shares virtually zero root correlations with the romance-based tongues that surround (never invaded) them. If you’ve ever seen Euskera in print, you’ll understand why English is mostly devoid of letter Xs. The Basques used them all up. But our son Xabi is doing his part at bringing X back stateside.

Basque mothers are pure, honest, and warm (Basque fathers take a while to come around). And their culture pure, that is, till this mongrel came along. In 2003, we wed, in 2009 we bred, ceremoniously despoiling by half centuries of unalloyed bloodline. Lo siento.

To get in with Basques, it helps to be one of them, as they are intensely loyal to fellow members. But ain’t nothing you can do to change that. So, it doesn’t hurt to be Catholic. Which I’m not, sorry Papa, or whoever. But third chance, earn a solid reputation as a good eater. For a Basque mother, this will do. As Israeli moms say, “Dayenu.” (“It would be enough.”) Basque moms, turns out, didn’t care less that I’m half Jewish.

Basque culture has been en vogue for a while now. Recognized globally for their avant-garde cuisine, Basque moms can be counted on to reliably ply you and your children (plus any visitors or casual acquaintances) with heaping mounds of affection, interest, and sumptuous food. Pintxos, stews, tapas, pescado, “espagarrry,” fried chicken, and pork chops so “exquisito!” you will lick others’ fingers too.

I don’t know. I grew up mostly without a mom, more a committee of them. But I was lucky: I married Basque. And by extension, her Basque mom. Which is great for me, and phenomenal for our kid. (Her Basque dad I’m still courting.)

This Mother’s Day, let’s sound a salute to the grandmothers. I, we, couldn’t do it without ’em. I am unshutupably fortunate for the mother-in-law I got dealt, Maria Angelines, the “Amatxi” my son scored.

Basque mothers are committed yet independent, so not too overbearing. They are elementary school room mothers and field trip chaperones. And they’re the first to arrive with reinforcements and logistic support when you, or for that matter anyone you have ever known, falls ill. If Maria catches wind of it, expect a care-strike of 72 mixed croquettes stat, convalescent stuffed pimientos all around.

Basque mom will join you for a hike, gut your fish, and play sneaky good soccer. She lives completely without guile, except when playing cards. There she is, well, shrewd.

But when your trousers tear, she will mend them. When a picture breaks, she repairs it. Warning, she’ll frequently resort to charitable subterfuge, and always have an excuse for why it was no problem. She anticipates your resistance, but you are powerless to stop her, for what she knows that we miss, is that it is more joyous to give, than busybusy you may be hip to receive.

Domestic pushovers they are not. Basque mothers are just as stern with wayward children as those raging Sicilians with their paddles. Basques walk softly and carry a big pella. Which she’ll never need, for she possesses an inimitable look that clearly states, “Child you are in error, and got two seconds to get your misbehavin’ act sorted out.” It’s a searing gaze that could reduce a toddler of steel to a quivering hug of guilt in seconds. And don’t even bother pleading your case, she knooows.

As my wife and her brother will tell you, “Our mother never had to strike us. One look, and we got the message.”

But lovingly persistent these Basque moms and “amatxis” will be. When your brother dies tragically, she will cry for you, light candles to beg St. Anthony’s mercy, and call you on the phone every single morning to make sure you believe you’re gonna make it.

She will teach your toddler pitch-perfect Spanish, arrive gleefully sans complaint on call to babysit, tag-team a doctor’s appointment, or await a repairman, so you can get your job done, or better yet eke a spell of priceless freedom.

“Go look at a movie. Take your lovely wife out for dinner.”

Basque moms show up pre-dawn, spirited, and never ever late. They say when you bring the kids, it’s a trip; leave the kids behind, and it’s a vacation. “My vuKAYtion!” elates Maria. Thanks to Amatxi, this helps us devilishly often. Ain’t I a stinker?

She is the doyenne of domestic detail. Makes her Playdoh from scratch. Basques grew up with little, and thus evolved eminently resourceful. She always makes fresh ice.

Basque “amas” are highly disciplined. When a lifelong devotee of sweet confections learned she was diabetic, her diet turned square on a peseta, never to go back. She will only indulge in drink on the rarest of occasions. About one time in 10, she’ll give in and make the table’s night as she exclaims, “Whyyyy NOT!”

A Basque mom tells stories replete with characters and sayings that don’t quite translate. They clearly and sincerely champion compassion, good humor. And when she closes the yarn with her contagious trademark flourish, “And we laaaughed,” you will with her.

I find the fraught “mother-in-law” misleading. Maria is ever vigilant not to encroach, lest we pin on her the dread label of “suegra,” or “monster-in-law”.

Basque moms listen patiently to your tales of triumph and confessional woes. Even if she doesn’t always understand everything you’re saying (or writing), she will ask good questions, encourage, and unfailingly take your side. For reasons that are as clear to her as they are not altogether obvious to you. Even when I’m wrong, she spares me that look.

Amy Chua’s got the bona fides (Her kids are reportedly very well-adjusted, skilled artistic performers, and peak scholastic achievers). And so does Maria. In a nation where we each are what we do, where as parents we are what our kids become, her son is a successful yet mild-mannered CFO, and her daughter attended the nicest business school in the land before re-joining one of the world’s finest investment firms.

A Basque mother (all right, grandmother) will never complain about the job you do maintaining your home. She will sneak over when you’re at work and clean it up better than you ever could. Not because she must, but because Basque mothers prefer to keep busy, and simplify your enbusied life. She knows.

Unlike us entitled American brats, she will never require an ounce of praise, but as outspoken yankee, you’ll lavish it on her anyway. The one thing she has never quite mastered is how to suffer compliments. Basque mothers are content to toil backstage in the wings. Did I mention the wings? Angelic, lightly battered.

I’ll admit, I was susceptible. But a Basque Mom will remind you every single day, occasionally in words, but always in deed, and ever in manner, that you are never alone, you are dearly loved.

Her influential example has made me a more patient person, which is a real feat. My wife’s mother, my son’s Amatxi. Ave Maria! We love her. She knows. Need not even say. But I will, ’cause I must.

I hope Euskera has a stronger word than thank you. Basque moms make life smooth, world better. Look into one.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Jordan Wallens is a Cornell graduate and author of Gridchronic. He has worked in the investment business for 18 years and lives in Los Feliz with his wife and son.

*Photo courtesy of futureatlas.com.

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by Gabriel Saez

Tony Soprano: It’s good to be in something from the ground floor. I came too late for that, I know. But lately I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.

Dr. Melfi: Many Americans, I think, feel that way.

For more than a decade I had heard about how great The Sopranos was. So earlier this year I finally decided to give it a try. And how shocked I was when, just four minutes into the pilot, and right after Soprano and Melfi shook hands for the first time, the above exchange took place! It sounded so familiar … I mean, this is a guy of Italian descent complaining about how the present, although richer and more comfortable, is nevertheless worse than the past. It was the incarnation of the Argentinian spirit.

Growing up in Argentina entails continually practicing historical revisionism and indulging in nostalgia for our bygone greatness. Actually, it is more like nostalgia for the greatness we feel entitled to, but were somehow deprived of. Argentina’s psyche resides permanently in the land of “should have, would have, could have.” If neighboring Brazil is the perennial country of the future, Argentina is the country of the perennially golden past-we are obsessed with looking back to a time (say, a century ago) when our GDP was comparable to that of European powers, and scratching our heads as to how we could have blown it ever since. If only …

Argentina is the dean of the club of nations utterly obsessed with their decline, so it is our distinct pleasure to welcome the United States to our dour fraternity-go ahead and take your place, there, alongside France.

Welcome, but brace yourself for lots of snide comments. I for one am sick and tired of hearing: “Japan is an example of how much you can do with so little; Argentina is the other way around.” Then there is the equally annoying: “Australia is what Argentina could have been.” Brazilians, meanwhile, make me cringe with their subtle invitation for Argentina to become “their Canada.”

But tough global times make Argentina’s experience seem, well, universally relevant. That’s why our current president takes advantage of every opportunity she has to preach to the rest of the world-and, more importantly, to the rest of the G20 countries-about the “Argentinian model.” It is not a model of development, that’s for sure. It is a model of resilience.

You see, Argentina is a part of Europe in exile-or on probation. So when we look at Greece, we smile. We immediately and instinctively know what all that mess is about. We look at the Spanish indignados as brethren, since we are the perennially outraged. And “Occupy Wall Street” seems to us to be the Hollywood version of “Que se vayan todos,” the movement that unseated President De La Rua a decade ago, and allowed our country the rare privilege of having five presidents in one week. See, America, you still have a ways to go.

And don’t worry, obsessive decline isn’t all bad. It’s a bonanza for booksellers, shrinks, and pessimistic political analysts. It turns taxi drivers into philosophers. It seems to do wonders, as well, for red meat-and-wine consumption, not to mention late-night, angst-ridden café conversations. Buenos Aires does late and angst like no one else. Maybe Kansas will see the emergence of its own tango-like melancholic dance.

But for you Americans to join the club of the obsessively declining nations, there is still one thing you must do. Senseless wars, reckless fiscal policy, and cultural decay aren’t enough. You must also shed your quintessentially American core belief that you can reinvent yourselves. Yes, you must give up what Roberto Unger and Cornel West have described as “the American religion of possibility.” This idea that it is the natural order of things for your democracy to fulfill an ideal, and for individuals to become fulfilled themselves? Forget it if you know what’s good for you. It is an obstacle to the full enjoyment of decline that comes with resigned fatalism.

That American religion of possibility is what those of us elsewhere have most admired about the United States throughout history. Now that this faith is in retreat in your country, Argentinians can appreciate how it evokes the sense of possibility that once upon a time also drew millions of immigrants to our shores. We’re so wrapped up in our historical drama, it is difficult to ascertain how great we really were, or for how long. But people from all over the world did come here in search of happiness and fulfillment. Most of their children still love this land. Our neighbors like us more than they are ready to admit. Maybe, someday, we can still achieve greatness, or at least an equilibrium where the humor and angst involving our “might have beens” will become more folkloric, and less wrenchingly poignant.

It isn’t quite reinventing the notion of reinvention, which may still be within America’s grasp, but it might be enough to make the Tony Soprano in all of us feel a bit better.

Gabriel Saez is a legislative advisor to a member of Argentina’s National Congress.

*Photo courtesy of CateIncBA.

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“What a great day it has been!” he said with a broad smile, when he stepped into the car that would take him back to the airport of Graz.

The date was June 21st, 2011 and Arnold Schwarzenegger had come back to Thal, the place where he was born, and where he had spent the first 18 years of his life. The day had been a warm emotional bath in goodwill and support. Everyone could see how comfortable he felt in his old surroundings.

Of course the Thalers knew about the troublesome times he had gone through. The illegitimate son, his separation from Maria, the break-up of his family, the media attacks. Still, he had always been their pride, and they showed him that here, in Thal, nothing had changed. He had come to visit his birth-house, which was converted into the “Arnold Schwarzenegger museum.” On July 30th, Arnold’s 64th birthday, the Museum would open to the public.

Thal is a village with roughly 2300 inhabitants, 3.2 kilometres away from the city-limits of Graz, the capital of the Austrian province of Styria. Most Thalers work in Graz, but live in Thal because living is cheaper and more peaceful there. For the people of Graz, Thal has always been something like a recreation spot. There is a little lake with rowboats and fishing rods for rent in summer. In winter, when the lake freezes over, people come here to ice-skate.

One of the boats — they say it was the real one — is on display on the lakeshore. “Boat of promise” says a sign under pictures that show a young and happy Arnold, embracing a young and happy Maria. More than 20 years ago he rented this boat, rowed Maria to the middle of the lake and asked her to marry him. Since then, many young couples are said to have come here to pose in front of the boat, and to pop the same big question.

As far as anyone in Thal is concerned, the Schwarzenegger-Shriver story might just as well end there. The clouds that have darkened Schwarzenegger’s life in California haven’t reached Thal. Here Arnold represents bright sunshine. “He is one of us,” they say, “and when he needs people to stand by his side, he should come home to Thal.”

Needless to say, the whole village assembled to welcome him during his June visit. Even his grammar school teacher, now a 90-year-old lady, was here. And all his early bodybuilding buddies. And the man who lived next door when they were boys. He had practiced on his trumpet, while Arnold lifted his weights with the windows of his first-floor room open.

“Franzl was my personal musician,” Arnold grinned. “Sweating was easier with him playing.”

In the old days Thal was nothing more than a sleepy little village with a sleepy little lake. The city-people in Graz smiled upon the villagers as country bumpkins.

Their claim to fame came with Arnold. Through him–so they think–the name Thal is now known worldwide. Somehow it is true. Look up Arnold’s biography on the Internet, and Thal is mentioned as his birthplace, and briefly described. Now it is home to the only Arnold Schwarzenegger museum in the world.

There is also an “Arnold-Schwarzenegger-hiking-path.” The lake restaurant serves Schnitzel a la Arnold and Apple-Strudel a la Aurelia, the latter made according to a recipe from Arnold’s mom, Aurelia Schwarzenegger, who was by all accounts a tremendous cook. And there is of course the aforementioned boat.

Yes, the marriage that started in that boat has crumbled apart, but that is no reason for the Thalers to remove the boat from the lakeshore. “Couples still come and have their pictures taken in front of it,” they say.

Arnold has promised that he will return to Thal again for a formal opening ceremony for the museum, perhaps in October. That might be one reason for a visit. The friendly people of Thal and their smiling, welcoming faces might be another. Here he is still a hero.

Werner Kopacka is a journalist in Graz and author of 16 books. His work can be found at his home page.

*Photo courtesy of cocoate.com.

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I was on my way back to Oslo five weeks after the July 22 attacks that made headlines around the world, covering the story for Swiss radio. A young man of Norwegian origin with a background in the political far right bombed the Oslo governmental blocks–leaving 8 people dead–and massacred 69 people at a summer cap of the ruling Labor Party. The morning of his attack, the 32-year-old terrorist, Anders Behring Breivik, had uploaded his 1500-page manifesto onto the internet, in which he announced the start of a “global civil war” between Christianity and Islam. He described in the document how he had planned these attacks–the worst terrorist act in this peaceful and rich country since the Nazi occupation–for almost 10 years.

10 years.

This same decade was when the world experienced searing terrorist attacks that each got a shorthand: “9/11,” “M-11,” “Double Seven.” Thousands of people lost their lives in attempts by terrorists to trigger some sort of global civil war between ideologies, religious beliefs and cultures.

The reaction to this by the attacked countries has been strong and bold–new wars far from the sites of the original attacks and new limitations on freedoms at home.

This has produced a global politics of fear. The U.S., with its declaration by former President Bush of a “war on terror,” distinguished itself, for the worse, by meeting terrorist violence with state violence. But even on European soil, the March 11, 2004 bombings of suburban trains in Madrid and the July 7, 2005 bus bombings in London soil prompted governments to suspend some civic freedoms, boost surveillance and increase immigration controls. The reaction showed that terrorists had realized one of their goals: undermining democracy.

The Oslo attacks could have joined the list of terrorist successes. Except the Norwegians refuse to let them.

There are still seas of flowers around the main churches in the Norwegian capital, and the bombed headquarters of the national government will not be operational before early 2013. Yet what is most striking about Oslo is that people here are lowering barriers, not raising them.

My plane ride was only one example. After I landed in Oslo, I did not see any special security at Gardemoen Airport. The same picture in downtown Oslo: almost no police were out on the streets. Strategic buildings such as the Parliament, the Central Railway station and the Central Bank Headquarters remained unprotected by security and broadly open to the public.

All this is not by accident. The first reaction by Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg to the bombings and massacre was not “We fight back.” He did not promise more security. No, the only things that Stoltenberg pledged were “more democracy” and “more openness.”

“We need to talk together much more than before and to express our views and opinions,” the prime minister said. He emphasized that no one should be isolated or left out: “An open political dialogue is the best insurance against any form of violence.”

There has been legitimate criticism of the Norwegian ability to detect terrorist attacks. Some naïveté has been exposed. When Anders Behring Breivik conducted his attacks on July 22, out of 2300 police officers in the Capital of Oslos, only four were on duty. The rest were on vacation or off duty, late on a typically quiet summer Friday afternoon.

And during the massacre at the Labor summer camp, the police had no helicopters or boats available to respond. Law enforcement could not communicate well with each other. These failures are now being examined by an independent commission. Some things may change. Police levels may be increased. Surveillance of extremist circles may be stepped up. The accessibility of some governmental buildings in downtown Oslo could be limited, slightly.

However, the government has made clear that it will limit any changes and stick to its strategy: keep society open and promote the political dialogue. The government has suggested that this might be the moment to consider broader political reform in Norway to make the system even more democratic.

This Norwegian approach offers a global counter-example of replacing the politics of deterrence, counter-attack and fear with the opposite: more openness.

This is not what terrorists would like to achieve. And that is why the Norwegian answer to terrorism is the only right one.

Bruno Kaufmann is a broadcast journalist based in Sweden, from where is covering Northern European Affairs for the Swiss Broadcasting Company. He can be contacted at kaufmann@mailbox.euromail.se.

*Photo courtesy of johsgrd.

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Back in the 1980s, cruising the European continent onboard a night express was something of a nightmare with bad food and uncomfortable accommodations. Unfriendly border guards disturbed travelers on a regular basis. Too many times my journey ended suddenly at a nation-state checkpoint, when my luggage drew some extra attention or my passport was deemed to be “somewhat” invalid.

Visiting California at that time was pure luxury. As a young Swiss student, I traveled on the brand-new, double-leveled Caltrain and Amtrak fleet with parlour cars serving delicious pale ales and delivering local daily newspapers at each stop. I could start my day in hot, balmy Los Angeles and end it in the cool, cloudy Bay Area, where the brand-new BART system invited visitors to cruise the most European city of the US, San Francisco.

This was just one generation ago. Since then, Europe and California have switched routes with one another. Europe accelerated towards high-speed travel between major cities while California slowed to a halt, stranded somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley.

In 1981, Europe inaugurated its first high-speed rail connection between the French capital of Paris and the second city of the republic, Lyon, 450 kilometers (280 miles) south. The new trains needed less than two hours to make the trip and introduced new levels of comfort, with cushy seats, elaborate meals and the best magazines. Europeans embraced this speedier, more comfortable form of transportation, and the airplane flights between the two cities lost their purpose literally overnight.

I recently boarded a train from Madrid to Barcelona, a distance of more than 650 kilometers (a little more than 400 miles). It took me two hours from downtown to downtown. Two hours during which I could browse the Internet, eat delicious pasta with a tasty glass of Catalan red wine, and take a cozy nap. But what was best about the journey was what I didn’t encounter: no airport transfers, no security check hassles, no cramped seating. It was genuinely effortless travel.

Expanding high-speed rail in Europe has become a priority of the European Union, both of its governments and its citizens. By contrast, America’s high-speed rail initiatives have stagnated. Elected officials and the general public see rail improvements as ancillary to more “urgent” issues, such as the recent debt-ceiling debacle.

California’s rail system, like much of its other infrastructure, is a literal and figurative reminder of its initial promise and subsequent neglect. A flash of emerald marble from an old art-deco station or the sparkling steel of a train car may still be glimpsed briefly – though such sights are quickly swallowed up by all the state’s weathered and crumbling structures.

There’s an irony here that seems lost on Californians: when you ignore seemingly smaller subjects like high-speed rail to bicker over the vitality of society, you overlook the very systems that allow for the easy, efficient movement that are vital to, well, the vitality of society.

The locomotives of 1980s California that glimmered in the afternoon sunlight of the Central Coast are still lustrous in my memory. Those trips, and the possibilities they stirred, are now echoed in my travels across Europe. When I was in my 20s, many people questioned my decision to opt out of car driving (and to some extent flying) and instead use trains (and sometimes bicycles) to get around. These days, my reliance on trains doesn’t seem so strange. I have no problem taking a train to London for a brief lunch meeting after staying overnight in Paris, or filling my agenda with consecutive meetings in Zurich, Milan, and Rome during the very same day.

Although Europe is getting bigger-the EU has grown from 12 member states in 1995 to almost 30 today-it is also becoming smaller, as high-speed tracks and trains bring together people from all over.

Another fascinating consequence of the European high-speed revolution is how the big old railway termini in most capitals have been revived as our most important public meeting spaces. The “railway cathedral” of Antwerp-Central, the breathtaking trainsheds of London St. Pancras, the glass ceilings of Helsinki Rautatieasema-these are more than just transit hubs, they are centres for connection, commerce, and community.

I see the potential for California’s rail stations to serve the same purpose, from the throwback Mission Revival and Art Deco interiors of Los Angeles Union Station to the über sleek, glass-and-steel foundation of San Francisco’s upcoming Transbay Transit Center.

As a frequent visitor to California for my work as a journalist and democracy activist, I take the train when time permits, but the slow pace – and lack of advances to the system since I first visited three decades ago – makes such travel impractical for all but tourists. I hope to take California high-speed trains in the not-too-distant future, when the journey from Los Angeles to San Francisco will live up to the one of my memory.

Bruno Kaufmann is a broadcast journalist based in the northern Swedish city of Falun, where he often boards a 6 am train to reach Stockholm, other Nordic capitals – and the rest of the world. He and his traveling family members do not own a car or have a driving license. He can be contacted at kaufmann@mailbox.euromail.se

*Photo courtesy of Matthew Black.

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The Obama administration has begun taking action to bring Internet freedom to Iran. This sounds wonderful.

But this approach ignores two key factors: 1) Iran already has the upper hand in this battle; 2) the current approach is dangerous to activists and focuses on too few people. If the U.S. really wants to bring free-flowing information to Iran, it needs to rethink its current strategy.

I grew up in Iran and worked as a journalist there until 2004, when I-along with 20 other bloggers, Web technicians, and journalists-was arrested by security forces for my blog, in what was the first major raid against bloggers and online activists. After two months of mistreatment and solitary confinement, I was released and soon after moved to the United States.

In January 2010, I joined a number of Internet activist and journalists from around the world for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s major address on Internet freedom. In the speech, she announced what amounts to a soft cyber-war with authoritarian regimes including Iran. “We are … supporting the development of new tools that enable citizens to exercise their rights of free expression by circumventing politically motivated censorship,” said Clinton, adding, “We are providing funds to groups around the world to make sure that those tools get to the people who need them in local languages, and with the training they need to access the Internet safely.”

According to some estimates, the State Department will spend something around $70 million on “circumvention efforts and related technology.”

In June, the New York Times reported that “the Obama administration is leading a global effort to deploy ‘shadow’ Internet and mobile phone systems that dissidents can use to undermine repressive governments that seek to silence them by censoring or shutting down telecommunications networks.” One of the secretive programs that the administration is working on is a $2 million project dubbed the “Internet in a suitcase.” The idea is to send these devices to activists in authoritarian countries like Iran; recipients will be able to use wireless communication and connect to the global environment, without fear of monitoring. (The Open Technology Institute of the New America Foundation, which is part of the Future Tense partnership with Slate, is a recipient of the grant and taking part in the “Internet in a suitcase” plan.) Iranian authorities promptly announced that they have plans to fight back these secretive plans. In fact, they’ve already been doing it for years. The United States has a lot of catching up to do if it hopes to use the Internet to bring freedom to Iranians.

Over the past five years, Iran has employed one of the most sophisticated filtering systems in the world. It controls Internet service providers, hunts activists via the Internet police, uses thousands of operators to monitor Web content, and can slow down or shut down the Internet when needed.

Since the contentious 2009 presidential election sparked so much international conversation about the role of social networking in democracy movements, Iran has intensified its efforts to finish the “National Internet Network,” which costs the government about $1.5 billion. The network is supposed to disconnect Iranians from the World Wide Web and enable the government to have a much higher control over the Internet. A year after the election-related unrest, Iran’s police commander told reporters, “Social networking on [the] Internet has imposed a heavy cost to the country.” Iran’s investment in curbing access shows that the government sees the threat of the power of the Internet.

Furthermore, the Iranian government has managed to mobilize an army of hackers that intensely attack opponents’ websites and hack emails. In 2010, the deputy to the militia Basij Force said, “Cyber war is a two-sided war. As we are targeted by cyber-attacks [such as the Stuxnet virus], our cyber army includes experts from Basij, university students, and students in seminaries.”

As much as I find the Obama administration’s efforts promising, I believe they are practically insufficient and will not bring any meaningful change to Iranian people’s ability to access information and organize. They will also likely do more harm than good. The budget is very small, the target group is very sensitive, and progress is very slow. We need a way to connect the millions who are without access to the Internet-not just a small group.

Moreover, it’s strange that the efforts have been made public. Many Iranians I spoke to about this news were shocked that the plan has been revealed; bringing such plans to the attention of the Tehran authorities may put people in danger. What will happen if the Iranian government captures an individual with one of those Internet suitcases? He or she will be charged with espionage. Punishment may take the form of a long prison sentence or even execution. In 2010, Iranian blogger Hossein Ronaghi Maleki, who was involved in anti-proxy programming, was sentenced to 15 years in prison just for fighting against censorship. The same applies to cell phones that might be equipped with such U.S.-backed technologies; they will be just too risky for people to try. A better use of U.S. Internet freedom funds would be to develop better anti-proxy software programs, which is dangerous, expensive work for in-country digital activists.

Furthermore, the Internet, while important, is not the entire game. In Iran, only 38 per cent of the population is even connected to the Internet. Almost 90 percent of these people use sluggish dial-up-modem connections; sometimes it takes one minute to open a page. In contrast, satellite TVs have very broad outreach. But the Iranian government jams satellite TVs, including the Voice of America and the BBC. The United States would make far more of a difference by investing in technology to circumvent Iran’s satellite-jamming process. Last year, I tried to emphasize the importance of this strategy when I testified before the Senate judiciary committee’s subcommittee on human rights and the law. I emphasized that the commercial carriers are reluctant to broadcast reform-oriented Iranian TV content because of the jamming. Using new technologies that jam the jammers, so to speak, would be a wise investment for the U.S. government.

This approach would give millions access to TV channels that fight back against the Islamic Republic’s incessant propaganda. The U.S. would also be wise to invest heavily in the underfunded Voice of America TV channel, which is popular in Iran. VoA Persian could be the most powerful tool to fight Iran’s anti-American propaganda. If authorities can find a way to unblock VoA Persian, the U.S. will be able to reach beyond the middle-class and city dwellers. And this approach would not place people in danger: Millions are already tuning into satellite TV, even in small villages, even though it’s illegal. On occasion the police have gone door to door in big cities to intimidate people into not using it, but once they are gone people merely cover their dishes and turn the TV back on.

I believe that the United States is in a propaganda war with the Islamic Republic of Iran. Winning this war will require more than ! just providing Internet access for a couple of hundred people. Tehran Internet freedom sounds great in speeches like Clinton’s, but the United States’ current plan to change the Iranian Web landscape is simply not realistic. In fact, the current plan makes me suspect that the U.S. isn’t taking Iran as seriously as it ought to.

Omid Memarian, a UC-Berkeley graduate, is an Iran analyst. His writings have appeared in the Daily Beast, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Foreign Policy, and other outlets. Follow him on Twitter. Zócalo is a partner of the Future Tense program of Arizona State University, Slate Magazine and the New America Foundation, for which this essay (published earlier on Slate) was produced.

*Photo courtesy of balleyne.

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I’ve never been to Hollywood, but I’ve seen it in the movies. I live and have always lived in Holywood, Northern Ireland, on the shore of Belfast Lough.

That’s Holywood with one ‘l’. It is pronounced “Hollywood,” but the entertainment capital of the world and the hometown of golf champion Rory McIlroy are very different places. And lest you think we have a chip on our shoulder about that missing “l,” I expect it’s the people of Hollywood, Calif. who should envy us our town.

We have a Maypole. A permanent one, not something erected on a movie set. It’s the only Maypole in Ireland. Every year schools kids dance round it during the May Fair. I bet Hollywood doesn’t have a May Fair.

While we don’t often get confused with our Californian cousin, there are some things we do have in common. Holywood is a media town. Yes, there are movie-makers, TV producers, directors, production houses and editing facilities. You will find more than one resident with their name in the Internet Movie Database. Large parts of HBO’s Game of Thrones were shot within walking distance of the Maypole. (Oh yes, we can walk five or six miles along main roads without being arrested for acting suspiciously, as you might in certain cities renowned for their freeways).

I will concede that it is quite a long walk to the Paint Hall – currently the centre of Northern Ireland’s movie industry. And it isn’t actually in Holywood, but for the purposes of this article, we Holywoodians will claim it.

Oh – and did I mention that we also have Rory McIlroy? Surely he’s more valuable than that extra “l.”

As the reports of this preternaturally skilled young golfer mention his hometown, Holywood, the listening and watching public think “Hollywood? Swimming pools? Movie stars?” No, it’s Holywood – and we don’t have a swimming pool. That has been a matter of disagreement with the Council for many years – and, sigh, another story.

The final approach to Belfast City’s George Best Airport leads right over Holywood. As the private jet carrying Our Rory flew him home, he could look out the window on the left side to see his town below: the golf course where he began playing, his school, the places where he grew up.

A few days earlier, Rory had won a trophy that had spent the previous year only 80 miles to the north, in Portrush. Last year’s winner, Graeme McDowell, is from Northern Ireland too. So if Northern Ireland wins the U.S. Open a third time in succession, do we get to keep the trophy? Only seems fair.

By the time our champ arrived to celebrate in the Holywood Golf Club, the town’s businesses were displaying posters congratulating him: the crystals shops (oh, we are very New Age here), the fish & chip shops (and traditional), the post office, the bakery, you name it. Rory was to be seen everywhere.

Last month, President Obama came to Ireland in search of the missing apostrophe in his name (O’Bama? What a hoot that man is; typically Irish). Holywood has never been in search of a missing “l”. Sure, we have that Maypole – “overcompensation” do I hear you say?

Holywood is on its third name. First known by the Gaelic name Ard Mhic Nasca, it went through its youthful religious phase in the 7th century when it was called by the Latin Sanctus Boscus (the Holy Wood). Monks were sent out to the known world from Holywood. The same thing was happening from Bangor’s monastery, a few miles further east. There has been a certain simmering sibling rivalry between the two towns to the present day; I mentioned the swimming pool, did I not?

But the unanswerable question is when people began calling it “Hollywood” rather than “Holy Wood”? It may never have been called Holy Wood – in the 14th century the town’s name was spelt Haliwode. My father called it Hollywood, his mother did too and there were no movies when she was growing up here. So I’m guessing the name has been pronounced with a double-l for at least 700 years.

You’ll never go hungry in Holywood. Within the 500 yards from one end of High Street to the other there are more than 30 restaurants, coffee shops and hot food takeaways (not a McDonalds or a Taco Bell among them). There are fewer pubs than in the past, something that might come as a surprise to you. Fewer people visit the bars, too. It is commonly held that the UK-wide ban on smoking in public places is to blame. That is probably coincidental rather than causal. More likely are the economic conditions that persist and the availability of cheaper supermarket alcohol. Most of the bars have turned to serving food. Yet one bar remains that is totally traditional, serving drinks only with a TV in the corner and swift cordial service. That is the Maypole Bar, adjacent – as you might expect – to that Maypole.

Flying past the town – in a private jet or not – one might think it is just that 500-yard High Street. But this is Ireland (and yes, it’s also the UK, and that is yet another story). We here have a whole different concept of place and place names. We have “townlands,” of which Holywood takes in several: Ballycultra, Ballymenagh, Ballydavy, Ballykeel and Craigavad, among them.

The town sits on the coast only six miles from Belfast city centre. It has its own humble little yacht club – no snobbery or cut glass accents here. The yacht club has been home to a Tuesday night blues club for years. No ocean-going craft either, but there are a lot of dinghies. At the foot of the Holywood Hills (yes, we have those too) lies the Holywood Golf Club. This is no exclusive country club. Your plumber or truck driver is as likely to be a member as your accountant or doctor. Golf here is not the exclusive pursuit of the rich. That is probably one of the main reasons that Rory is held in such affection by the locals. He is one of us. His father is one of us. There are no airs or graces.

Our admiration of this young man didn’t start with some sweeping victory. For many it began when as a 9 year old. He appeared on a local TV programme chipping golf balls into his mother’s washing machine.

There is much else to make this town the envy of its glamorous, sun-kissed namesake. Each Hallowe’en the annual fireworks display marks the oncoming winter. The larks in May mark the beginning of the longer, brighter (if not drier) days, and the fireworks at Seapark forewarn of the dark evenings and the cold winds ready to whip up Belfast Lough from the Irish Sea. Those winds make aiming a golf ball with any accuracy almost impossible. What isn’t there to envy?

But the big difference between Hollywood and Holywood is this. Rory McIlroy says “Holywood is the greatest place in the world.” That will do me.

Davy Sims is Head of Social Media at the charity PublicAchievement.com where he runs the political engagement project for young people www.wimps.tv (Where Is My Public Servant?). He is former Head of New Media at BBC Northern Ireland. He does not play golf.

*Photos by Davy Sims.

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by David Altman

I have studied direct democracy for years, but I was still unprepared to encounter at a conference last year the anger and alienation of American activists who rely heavily on California’s initiative and referendum process. They loved direct democracy, as I would have expected, but what shocked me was that this love stemmed from their total disenchantment with the institutions of representative democracy. This worried me.

This worried me a lot.

To be hooked on direct democracy while being dismissive of a democracy’s underlying representative institutions is like saying you love cheese but can’t stand pizza. Initiative balloting can fortify and complement modern representative democracy, but it can’t substitute for it.

Americans may not know it, but direct democracy is growing worldwide – nations, states, provinces, prefectures and all kinds of other jurisdictions around the world are taken in by the legitimizing and seductive appeal of putting questions directly to the governed. When “the people” vote in an initiative or referendum, we might say that “the sovereign has talked.” We must bow before such unfiltered democracy.

Given the spread of direct democracy, it is disconcerting to think that some of its practitioners in California see it as some end-run around representative democracy. This is a terrible message to be sending less developed democracies. You can skip wired phone lines and go straight to cell phones, yes, but it would be erroneous to think you can skip past the creation of solid representative institutions and go straight to direct balloting as a viable form of governance.

As a Uruguayan living and teaching in Chile, I know firsthand that representative government helps make me free in both my countries, despite all its deficiencies. And as I survey the world, I understand that I can be perfectly free under a representative government (of the type envisioned by the drafters of the U.S. Constitution) without direct democracy (of the type America’s progressive movement later embraced). The world, in fact, is full of many cases in which great freedom and human happiness exist without direct democracy. But there is not one single case of a country where freedom flourishes on the basis of direct democracy absent solid representative institutions.

Indeed, as an academic who has studied and catalogued every model of direct democracy I can find on the planet, I can assure you that direct democracy is a very mixed bag. Categorical claims that direct democracy is good or democratic – or bad or dictatorial – do not match the complexities and heterogeneity of the direct democratic world.

I define a mechanism of direct democracy as a publicly recognized institution where citizens decide or emit their opinion on issues – other than through legislative and executive elections – directly at the ballot box through universal and secret suffrage. Please note that this definition embraces cases as different as the Nazi annexation of Austria in 1938, California’s Proposition 13, a Uruguayan referendum to block the privatization of public companies, the Swiss popular initiative against the construction of new minarets, and Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet’s constitutional reforms of 1980.

Appraisals of direct democracy thus generally depend not on abstractions but on the context – the how, why, where, when and what of a particular direct democratic action. Conveniently for direct democracy detractors and for its defenders, there are so many types of modern direct democratic actions, which have produced so many different results, that one can always find an example supporting whatever your argument happens to be. Put simply, being in favor or against the posing of questions depends on whether you like the answers.

There is no better place than California to appreciate the oft-distorted shape of the battle between direct democracy advocates and opponents. The Golden State’s Prop. 13 may be the most argued-over instance of direct democracy. It is present in virtually all American literature on direct democracy. But the broad claims about the measure – that it produced irresponsible policies, or that it gave people enormous protection against taxation – seem absurdly overdone.

Californians and other Americans eager to blame direct democracy for various ills would do well to look at other political practices for culprits. Campaign finance, for example. Your country’s court decisions permit corporations to spend what they wish in elections. The courts have also held that there can be no contribution or expenditure limits on direct democracy campaigns. Thus critics of direct democracy should aim their darts at the right target: perhaps it is the money, not the popular votes, that is at the root of the problem.

And those who see direct democracy as a way to resolve problems should be reminded that representative government’s shortcomings cannot be solved by democratic crowd-sourcing. Yes, in some cases, direct democracy deserves a try. But the devil is always in the details – the type of direct democracy action, the issue covered, the context in which a ballot measure is brought forward, the timing of the votes. Even “good” direct democracy is a risky game, which does not mean that we should avoid it.

It is important to wrestle with the question of how to get direct democracy right, and it’s never right if it is sold as a shortcut to fix a flawed representative structure. The question of how to get representative democracy right is not something to be sidestepped or ignored. I worry that the activists I met in San Francisco take representative government for granted, or see it as being quaintly passé.

We should be able to agree that direct democracy cannot replace representative government; it’s no Democracy 2.0. Representative democracy is freedom’s common predicate. Even direct democracy’s most avid fans in California must guard against the gradual erosion and vanishing act of its representative institutions. History shows that when countries lose their republican foundations, darkness ensues.

David Altman, an associate professor of political science at the Pontificia Universidad Catolica de Chile, is author of Direct Democracy Worldwide (Cambridge University Press, 2011).

*Photo courtesy of OregonDOT.

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