 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Author's program note. In the autumn of 1968 I pulled off something no American had ever done before; I was elected to the Student Representative Council for the largest faculty of the University of St. Andrews, the Faculty of Arts. As it happened, it was also the year the students at Scotland's oldest university (founded 1413) elected their representative (called "Rector") to the governing board. Every student political party put up their candidate, the Conservatives, for example, running Sir Learie (later Baron) Constantine, the celebrated cricketer and High Commissioner for Trinidad and Tobago. Independents gathered round the banner of 007 himself, Sean Connery. Because the Independents were, well, independent, they had no party apparatus, no natural rallying cry or point of view; they needed a miracle; what they got was a campaign manager... the SRC choosing me for the task. Thus I came to work with Connery, a smooth customer every bit as charming and suave as the character he immortalized on the silver screen, "Bond... James Bond." He offered the students a free Olympic-size swimming pool were he to be elected; but the bribe wasn't good enough to win; Sir Learie, my future friend, romped instead and that was fine by me ... for I had met the archetypal "secret agent man"... at least until this summer when the smoothness of Bond was well and truly trumped by a geek named "Snowden... Edward Snowden." This is his song. This is his story. This is our problem. The music to spy by. Released in 1966, "Secret Agent Man" is a rock and roll classic written by Steve Barri and P.F. Sloan. The most famous recording was made by Johnny Rivers for the opening titles of the American broadcast of the British spy series "Danger Man." Its memorable guitar riff written by Chuck Day and inspired by Monty Norman's James Bond theme, makes it immediately recognizable whilst its raucous notes made every teen-age boy feel omniscient, all- powerful and ultra-cool as they swaggered down the street playing air guitar, shouting "Secret agent man/ Secret agent man/ They've given you a number/ and taken away your name." Wicked cool. Go now to any search engine and play it. It's time to be 16 and invulnerable all over again. Facts about Edward Snowden, born June 21, 1983, Elizabeth City, North Carolina. By comparison there is absolutely nothing cool, wicked or otherwise, about Snowden. He is pallid, not merely pale, his youthful face featuring just a wisp of scruffy beard and the obligatory wire-rimmed spectacles that mark him as serious, "intellectual", stubborn; a man who must always have the last word and will always know (and not infrequently say) that whatever he does is ipso facto the right way, the moral way, the only way. Such people are called "difficult", "humorless" and generally find themselves dateless of a Saturday night with only a computer to keep them company. In time, such people come to prefer this situation for in it they rule everything and everyone. Thus being wired becomes the only life they know... the only life they want, the life where they are the person they have always wanted to be: the undisputed king of the world, master of all, subservient to none, from whose keyboard the grandest of dreams take shape and become their sole reality. The more connected they are, the more disconnected from reality they become. So it was for Edward Snowden, once a shy, friendless boy of uncertain prospects and difficult health, bad at school, but within his own universe a paladin of righteousness, rectitude and a moral obligation to save the people and cleanse the Augean stables of what had once been the Great Republic and which he would single-handedly make great again. So sustained, so fortified, so certain he set about the work he must do... What he did. In his capacity as a technical contractor for the United States National Security Agency (NSA) and a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) he leaked details of several wide-ranging, top-secret U.S. and British government mass surveillance programs to the press. More specifically, Snowden leaked this information primarily to journalist Glenn Greenwald of London's left-leaning newspaper "The Guardian", starting in spring, 2013 while employed as an "infrastructure analyst" at NSA contractor Booz Allen Hamilton (until June 10, 2013). "The Guardian" in turn published a series of expose's in June-July 2013, therein revealing programs such as the interception of U.S. and European telephone metadata and the PRISM and Tempora Internet surveillance programs. The details were staggering, irrefutable, shocking; the government's abuse far more extensive and pernicious than ever before imagined or known, as clear an indication as any citizen needed that Big Brother was now and deeply immersed in our most private affairs and communications. Snowden had achieved what he set out to do, "to inform the public as to that which is done in their name and that which is done against them." Button, button, who's got the button? Having thus fomented the most significant NSA security breach in history, causing indignation amongst all members of Congress against culprit and president, whatever their party or political orientation, consternation and dismay amongst our allies, and smug self-satisfaction and glee amongst the many nations worldwide we have accused of human rights violations, Mr. Snowden commenced his travels, necessary after U.S. federal prosecutors on June 14, 2013 charged him with espionage and theft of government property. Now you'd think that with the largest and most expensive security system ever implemented that picking up one geek would be child's play. Think again. Not since the Scarlet Pimpernel has there been a man of such facile ingenuity and agility as Snowden has demonstrated. The man must be coated in butter, so easily has he slipped away, cocking-a-snoot, gallivanting, the world his oyster. To be sure, he had help, lots of it; from WikiLeaks, the dauntless organization which thumbs its nose at every authority; from the Chinese Communists, who are delighted that their staggering human rights violations are, for once, buried by those of the sanctimonious Great Republic; and of course from Vladimir Putin, who delights in the shear devilry and mischief that is his to command. Like him or loathe him he is the master of political legerdemain, fascinating to watch, exasperating in his complete lack of scruples. All good things come to an end, including the salad days of Edward Snowden. Pick up a newspaper any day now and you're sure to find the latest installment in this expansive saga; today, for instance, the Associated Press reports that Senator Charles Schumer (D-NY) and Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC) have told President Obama to find a new place to hold the September G20 summit, nixing the current venue, St. Petersburg, Russia. I reckon they're afraid Snowden will lob a raspberry at them, and that will never do. Of course American authorities want Snowden back to face the music; equally, Snowden doesn't want to return just yet, talking darkly of torture and murder if he does. What can he mean? But soon enough, even the inventive Putin will tire of the game and lose interest in his pawn, Mr. Snowden. At that moment, Snowden will be yesterday's news, today's garbage... and as his days in the sunlight wane, the reality of the rest of his miserable life will become glaringly apparent, whether he accepts asylum from Ecuador, Bolivia, or Venezuela; it really doesn't matter which. Consider this... An open letter to Edward Snowden. The first day of your long exile will be your happiest. Why? Because you'll know where you're going. You'll probably treat the first couple of weeks or so like a holiday in South America, buying a silly sombrero and getting collywobbles. After that things will get grimmer faster. Money? That'll be a huge problem. You'll probably get a few bucks from the country accepting you... but that amount will plummet as your utility does. You'll cadge from family and friends but they'll soon tire of supporting you. You'll quickly come to see what living in the third world is like and you won't like it one little bit, particularly when you need a good dentist or a surgeon who isn't a hack. In these countries a simple visit to the doctor's can result in a death certificate. Then there's the matter of what I'll call "companionship". You have a girlfriend now and no doubt she supports you. But she didn't see her hero in exile. When she does, she'll do a lot of thinking before she sends the inevitable "Dear Eddie" letter. As for the local ladies? When they discover that the Americano isn't rico, you'll find yourself with lots of free time. Time to think about your high-flying days when your name was on the lips of a posse of world leaders. You'll think about what you did, everything you did, justifying everything. You'll think a lot about America... about the family and friends you lost... the tidy income. gone forever. You'll find yourself misting up at the strangest times, when you think about the apple pie you love and cannot get... and the holidays you'll spend alone... then at your wit's end and, as sure as God made little green apples, you'll fall on your knees and ask Him for forgiveness... and the pardon no president dares to give you. Then one day, there will be a knock at the door and for just an instant you'll see the face of someone as adamant and obdurate as you are... and you'll see the glint of metal as he puts a bullet in your head, filled with so many ideas now lost forever. When he gets back to Portland, Maine or Tucson, Arizona, he'll be lionized. For, Mr. Snowden, not everyone thought you were right and should get away scot-free. "Ah, be careful what you say/ Or you'll give yourself away/ Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow." |
