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GWOT IV - The New Divide NI
Feb. 13th, 2024 07:42 amGWOT IV - The New Divide NI
It was not perhaps the world's cleanest piece of propaganda.
It was however, heartfelt.
First was the fact of how it was being broadcast.
The usual brassy America Now brought to you by Homeland was nowhere to be found.
Nor was any other station.
All that played, for over a week, was the short eight minute clip, on every station - digital TV, the old analog TV that most people had to dust off to plug in, satellite channels where ground stations in the formerly United States could not regain control, even local cable in those cities not yet wrecked by fighting.
The opening was as if a focus group had asked everyone to pick, "Who would you trust if you had to trust a general?"
A man in his forties with a deeply marked face, soot on his cheek, wearing the notorious R armband of the Resistance and a general's stars on a battered old-style camoflauge jacket. Behind him, a dimly lit room that somehow suggested both video studio and command post.
"It is my duty to introduce the Provisional Emergency Governor. Pat."
The screen cut to a view of a severe-looking person sitting at a glass table with a backdrop of the Sierra mountains. A serene scene apparently in an undamaged conference room or office building somewhere.
Pat's gender ambiguity was the first thing anyone noticed. "Born in the Uncanny Valley," mocked one American commentator. In between male and female but having elements of both. Fuzz as from a day's missed shave with suggestive curves and big hairy feet in Birkenstock slippers clearly visible because of the glass table. A cream pant suit that matched Pat well.
"My fellow Californians. My name is Pat. Through an accident of history, and only because of the misfortunes visited upon us all, it is my duty to act as the Provisional Emergency Governor until free and fair elections can be held."
Cut to a long shot of the ruins of the City of San Francisco, so familiar to all from Homeland's own propaganda.
"We now know that China did not destroy San Francisco."
A shot of a piece of paper, printed in blue on red glossy paper. Recognizably TS/SCI not least because of those letters on the top. A handful of experts would recognize it as flash paper. What America printed her most secure documents on.
Its title, zoomed in.
"War Plan Red," it boasted.
"The nuclear destruction of the City of San Francisco was carried out by a ballistic launch from an American Navy submarine. On orders. It was a deliberate sneak attack on America, by America."
A computer generated graphic showed a ballistic track off the California coast, near Pescadero, and three lines streaking east. Two struck, horrifically. The third faded away further east.
"As we all know, over one million of us perished in that initial attack. But that was not enough for America or for the genocidal fanatics at Homeland."
Horror shots of people rounded up, gunfire, piles of bodies, long shots of internment camps as far as the eye could see.
"They stole us from our homes. They kidnapped us. They starved us. They put us to work for no pay, enslaved in all but name. And if we were different or if we spoke up or we Resisted, they murdered us."
More horror imagery. Some stock footage, annotated very differently. Some new footage, gathered by Resistance fighters and fellow travelers. A helitorch lighting houses. A Resistance tactical team breaking into gleaming steel halls full of torture instruments, and the people suffering within. The work of triage as a Resistance medic team tried to cope with the nightmare Homeland called a camp infirmary.
"No more. We Resist. We fight back. This is not enough. As your Governor I take full responsibility. The great California Republic divorces herself from the so-called Union. We assert our independence. We assert our sovereignty.
"In China they tell a story of a cruel Emperor who makes every crime punishable by death. They had conscription. A band of conscripted farmers was ordered to report to duty, but they were stuck in the rain. One of them stood up and said, 'My brothers, what is the penalty for treason?' 'Death,' he was told. 'And my brothers, what is the penalty for being late reporting to duty?' 'Death,' he was told again. 'Well, my brothers, I have some bad news for us all. We're late!'
"And so we are, here in California. We are dead either way. We are late in standing up for our murdered millions. The residents of the City who had done nothing wrong. Our brothers and sisters of Chinese ancestry, murdered not just by Homeland but by the rest of us. The internees, the transgendered, those who protested, who stood up for their fellow human beings. Murdered.
"There is a time when someone has to stand up and say, 'We're late.' Enough is enough. All of us have lost someone. I saw my spouse murdered right next to me. If we are to die, let us at least die free or die fighting to be free.
"If you would help us, find someone wearing an 'R' armband."
Pat stopped, picked it up from the table, showed it to the camera.
"These are not easy to forge. Notice the scalloped edge."
Pat put it on.
"If you do not wish to help us, do not get in our way. We don't want to mistake you for an American patriot or sympathizer. We've had enough of American lies and American murders."
Pat's voice turned crisp and cruel, "If you're still an American anyway, get the fuck out of my state while you still can."
Then calm again.
"Californians, your brothers and sisters desperately need your help. If you don't feel right fighting, that's OK, we still need you to help care for the millions who are refugees, sick, starving or worse. There is our national aid society, the Red Lion. They wear a literally red Red Lion logo, and once you see their logo once you will never forget it."
Red Lion crews, ambulances, camps. The Red Lion logo was a rampant lion sticking out a paw. But the paw was pixelated. The camera lingered briefly on the pixelation.
The camera cut back to Pat.
Then the camera panned out and moved away. Either a long boom or a drone.
Pat hadn't been sitting in a comfortable air conditioned office building.
The glass desk, the clean floor, had all been a fake. Someone had swept up broken glass and concrete to create a patch of normality amid shattered ruins.
Beyond the ruins, the sudden CRUMP of a mortar barrage.
Troops moved past Pat. All armed heavily, all wearing helmets and R armbands, mostly male but a few female. None spared a glance for Pat as they moved forward. They had a mission.
Pat stood. Someone handed Pat a helmet and held out a body armor vest for Pat to put on.
"Let's go, my fellow Californians. Die fighting or die in a torture camp? I've made my choice. Make yours."
Someone handed Pat a rifle and Pat walked out of frame with the troops.
The video cut to black. A test screen. Then words.
"The Republic of California" in gold. The California state flag, waving, but notably missing something. It took a moment to realize.
No star.
After a minute, the repeat.
It was not perhaps the world's cleanest piece of propaganda.
It was however, heartfelt.
First was the fact of how it was being broadcast.
The usual brassy America Now brought to you by Homeland was nowhere to be found.
Nor was any other station.
All that played, for over a week, was the short eight minute clip, on every station - digital TV, the old analog TV that most people had to dust off to plug in, satellite channels where ground stations in the formerly United States could not regain control, even local cable in those cities not yet wrecked by fighting.
The opening was as if a focus group had asked everyone to pick, "Who would you trust if you had to trust a general?"
A man in his forties with a deeply marked face, soot on his cheek, wearing the notorious R armband of the Resistance and a general's stars on a battered old-style camoflauge jacket. Behind him, a dimly lit room that somehow suggested both video studio and command post.
"It is my duty to introduce the Provisional Emergency Governor. Pat."
The screen cut to a view of a severe-looking person sitting at a glass table with a backdrop of the Sierra mountains. A serene scene apparently in an undamaged conference room or office building somewhere.
Pat's gender ambiguity was the first thing anyone noticed. "Born in the Uncanny Valley," mocked one American commentator. In between male and female but having elements of both. Fuzz as from a day's missed shave with suggestive curves and big hairy feet in Birkenstock slippers clearly visible because of the glass table. A cream pant suit that matched Pat well.
"My fellow Californians. My name is Pat. Through an accident of history, and only because of the misfortunes visited upon us all, it is my duty to act as the Provisional Emergency Governor until free and fair elections can be held."
Cut to a long shot of the ruins of the City of San Francisco, so familiar to all from Homeland's own propaganda.
"We now know that China did not destroy San Francisco."
A shot of a piece of paper, printed in blue on red glossy paper. Recognizably TS/SCI not least because of those letters on the top. A handful of experts would recognize it as flash paper. What America printed her most secure documents on.
Its title, zoomed in.
"War Plan Red," it boasted.
"The nuclear destruction of the City of San Francisco was carried out by a ballistic launch from an American Navy submarine. On orders. It was a deliberate sneak attack on America, by America."
A computer generated graphic showed a ballistic track off the California coast, near Pescadero, and three lines streaking east. Two struck, horrifically. The third faded away further east.
"As we all know, over one million of us perished in that initial attack. But that was not enough for America or for the genocidal fanatics at Homeland."
Horror shots of people rounded up, gunfire, piles of bodies, long shots of internment camps as far as the eye could see.
"They stole us from our homes. They kidnapped us. They starved us. They put us to work for no pay, enslaved in all but name. And if we were different or if we spoke up or we Resisted, they murdered us."
More horror imagery. Some stock footage, annotated very differently. Some new footage, gathered by Resistance fighters and fellow travelers. A helitorch lighting houses. A Resistance tactical team breaking into gleaming steel halls full of torture instruments, and the people suffering within. The work of triage as a Resistance medic team tried to cope with the nightmare Homeland called a camp infirmary.
"No more. We Resist. We fight back. This is not enough. As your Governor I take full responsibility. The great California Republic divorces herself from the so-called Union. We assert our independence. We assert our sovereignty.
"In China they tell a story of a cruel Emperor who makes every crime punishable by death. They had conscription. A band of conscripted farmers was ordered to report to duty, but they were stuck in the rain. One of them stood up and said, 'My brothers, what is the penalty for treason?' 'Death,' he was told. 'And my brothers, what is the penalty for being late reporting to duty?' 'Death,' he was told again. 'Well, my brothers, I have some bad news for us all. We're late!'
"And so we are, here in California. We are dead either way. We are late in standing up for our murdered millions. The residents of the City who had done nothing wrong. Our brothers and sisters of Chinese ancestry, murdered not just by Homeland but by the rest of us. The internees, the transgendered, those who protested, who stood up for their fellow human beings. Murdered.
"There is a time when someone has to stand up and say, 'We're late.' Enough is enough. All of us have lost someone. I saw my spouse murdered right next to me. If we are to die, let us at least die free or die fighting to be free.
"If you would help us, find someone wearing an 'R' armband."
Pat stopped, picked it up from the table, showed it to the camera.
"These are not easy to forge. Notice the scalloped edge."
Pat put it on.
"If you do not wish to help us, do not get in our way. We don't want to mistake you for an American patriot or sympathizer. We've had enough of American lies and American murders."
Pat's voice turned crisp and cruel, "If you're still an American anyway, get the fuck out of my state while you still can."
Then calm again.
"Californians, your brothers and sisters desperately need your help. If you don't feel right fighting, that's OK, we still need you to help care for the millions who are refugees, sick, starving or worse. There is our national aid society, the Red Lion. They wear a literally red Red Lion logo, and once you see their logo once you will never forget it."
Red Lion crews, ambulances, camps. The Red Lion logo was a rampant lion sticking out a paw. But the paw was pixelated. The camera lingered briefly on the pixelation.
The camera cut back to Pat.
Then the camera panned out and moved away. Either a long boom or a drone.
Pat hadn't been sitting in a comfortable air conditioned office building.
The glass desk, the clean floor, had all been a fake. Someone had swept up broken glass and concrete to create a patch of normality amid shattered ruins.
Beyond the ruins, the sudden CRUMP of a mortar barrage.
Troops moved past Pat. All armed heavily, all wearing helmets and R armbands, mostly male but a few female. None spared a glance for Pat as they moved forward. They had a mission.
Pat stood. Someone handed Pat a helmet and held out a body armor vest for Pat to put on.
"Let's go, my fellow Californians. Die fighting or die in a torture camp? I've made my choice. Make yours."
Someone handed Pat a rifle and Pat walked out of frame with the troops.
The video cut to black. A test screen. Then words.
"The Republic of California" in gold. The California state flag, waving, but notably missing something. It took a moment to realize.
No star.
After a minute, the repeat.
