Amitabh Pal

Amitabh Pal is the Managing Editor of The Progressive. He has interviewed the Dalai Lama, Mikhail Gorbachev, Jimmy Carter and John Kenneth Galbraith for the magazine. In addition to his role as the Managing Editor, Pal is the Co-Editor of the Progressive Media Project.
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By Amitabh Pal on August 20, 2013

With journalists like Time magazine's Michael Grunwald, the Pentagon doesn't need a social media p.r. team.

Over the weekend, the weekly's senior national correspondent tweeted: "I can't wait to write a defense of the drone strike that takes out Julian Assange."

The bloodthirstiness of the message is as shocking as the spectacle of a journalist fantasizing about celebrating the execution of a whistleblower.



By Amitabh Pal on August 14, 2013

Republican stalwarts are outdoing one another in their basic scientific ignorance.

California Congressman Dana Rohrabacher recently weaved an intricate theory to explain global warming.



By Amitabh Pal on August 13, 2013

The Obama Administration seems to be going more forcefully after big banks, but this is little more than a charade.

The United States is asking Scotland Yard to arrest two London-based JPMorgan Chase traders who were involved in the multibillion-dollar trading loss that caused waves last year. It is also wanting a confession from the bank itself, a move that is seen by some as a departure from its lenient treatment so far of the financial sector for the mess it left us all in.



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MOVE members flee after bombing

Editor's note: 30 years ago, police ordered the bombing of the Philadelphia headquarters of the black liberation...

Nepali schoolgirls hold vigil after earthquake

The country’s government has been astonishingly callous in the aftermath of the calamity.

Lesbian couple poses with judge after wedding ceremony

For Wisconsin couples, the road to equality has been paved with fear, hope, uncertainty, and joy.

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

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