Global Art Forum 7: Drone Fiction

Drone Fiction

by Rayya Badran Shumon Basar Josh Begley Hu Fang Guy Mannes-Abbott Shumon Basar & H.G. Masters (Eds.)

Global Art Forum_7

With texts by Rayya Badran, Shumon Basar Josh Begley, Hu Fang Guy Mannes-Abbott

DRONE FICTION

Edited by Shumon Basar & H.G. Masters Designed by UBIK The idea of Drone Fiction was originally conceived

by Shumon Basar and Tod Wodicka in July 2012.

Printed at Emirates Printing Press in an edition of 1,500 Drone Fiction was commissioned by Global Art Forum_7, “It Means This,” which took place at Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art (March 17-18, 2013) and Art Dubai (March 20-23, 2013) Global Art Forum_7 Director H.G. Masters Global Art Forum_7 Commissioner Shumon Basar Global Art Forum was founded by Art Dubai in 2007. The seventh edition is presented by the Dubai Culture & Arts Authority (Dubai Culture) in partnership with Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art (Qatar Museums Authority) © The Authors & Art Dubai

GLOBAL ART FORUM_7

CONTENTS Introduction 5 Shumon Basar 8 Drone You Want Me? Rayya Badran 24 Desert Darkwave Josh Begley 32 @dronestream Hu Fang 46 The Hanging Gardens at 32.54273° N, 44.41944° E

Guy Mannes-Abbott 52 Buzz, Buzz, Buzzzzz

Aftermath 62 We are the Sin-eaters

INTRODUCTION This is the Age of the Drone. Those all-seeing, eyeless, unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV) buzz constantly not only above the skies of North Waziristan, Iran and tribal Afghanistan—but also over the United States, and soon everywhere else. Drones may fly tens of thousands of feet in the air, yet they’re more visible in the public imagination than ever before. Their supposed invisibility and silence are at odds with the clamor around their ethics, their effectiveness, what they augur.

The mechanization of war; a refinement of remote-controlled conflict. Because drones are nonhuman combatants, President Obama has not had to seek Congressional approval for their usage.

Popular support for the drone program over flesh-and-blood troops continues to soar. They fly under the radar in so many ways.

Something else has emerged in the Age of the Drone. If the arrival of the train ushered in the “tracking shot,” and the advent of the car gave us road movies, drone has given us a new “point of view,” one that melds representation and reality in a deadly way. It’s the latest iteration of Dziga Vertov’s “Kino Eye,” Paul Virilio’s “war nomadology,” his “aesthetics of disappearance,” as well as today’s most popular entertainment genre, “Pseudoreality TV” (looks fictional, is real; looks real, is fictional). The drone scans the surface of the earth from 5,000 to 10,000 feet in the sky. From there, such is the degree of zoom-detail, the pilot can “tell you the type of shoes you’re wearing”—only the next minute they’re confronted with the severed arms and legs and head of an “insurgent” (or “civilian”) they’ve taken out “live” (which means a two to five second delay). All from the relative safety of their multi-million dollar cockpit, half a world away, yet just a twenty-minute drive from this evening’s home-cooked meal.

Drone Fiction imagines the trajectory of a RQ-170 (Predator) drone, and asks four writers to describe successive episodes from its flight. The entertainment industry is called upon to neutralize the drones’ toxic PR in Shumon Basar’s story. After taking off from an American base in Pakistan, a Predator flies north to North Waziristan where Rayya Badran lets us hear what hundreds of thousands of civilians have to endure every night: the ominous hum of the drone (which can not be seen). From here, Hu Fang guides it heaven-bound, where it dreams of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Thereafter, Guy Mannes-Abbott steers our drone back to the earth’s atmosphere, only to have it dragged down by the Iranian military. It soon appears on international news. A vanquished enemy, a 21st-century trophy of war. We have also reprinted Josh Begley’s project—of attempting to tweet the time and location of every American drone strike since 2002 in 10 minutes (spoiler alert: he failed; it took a lot longer). Space, time, here, there, stranger, enemy, distance, proximity. This is Drone Fiction.

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- The Editors

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the pitch “YES.”

Drone You Want Me?

by Shumon Basar

Above the Chief was an oil painting. No one in the Pentagon knew who had painted it, nor who hung it up, but Man, thought the Chief, that really looks like a Predator UAV. He smiled every time his eyes scanned the beautiful machine. So eyeless. So seeing. In Da’Fen, China, a studio was making several identical copies for the Chief ’s own personal use.

“I’m sick and tired,” said the Chief, “of our UAVs having a bad rap. It’s like . . . ” He looked into the face of every man and woman in the room, standing there looking cramped and desperate. They chose not to look back at the Chief. “It’s like Desert Storm 3.”

“You mean, our drones, Sir?” “I’m going to ignore that, Boy.” “Yessir.”

The Chief sat at the end of an elliptical table made from domestically sourced rosewood. It took up more than seventy percent of the floor area. Every morning, between 0600 and 0610, the surface was painstakingly polished by Carlos. He loves America. America loves him back, in its own way.

“What are you guys going to do about this

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shitstorm?” Everyone who worked under the Chief in Intelligence Services was petrified that the Chief listened into every thought they had, 25 hours a day with his tiny, nearly not-there eyes; after which he logged this data-dump in some hidden bureau located in a foreign freezone, safe even from Julian Assange.

“People: I want this country to love our drones,” declaimed the Chief.

“Love?”

“Yes. Love. Like they love Coke Zero, John Stewart.

And Calvin Klein thongs.” (“Thongs.”)

The door opened, and in walked a man. Mid 30s.

White shirt, no tie. Black suit, reddish belt. He sheened and sat down at the opposite end of the rosewood table.

He pulled out his Nexus tablet and caressed the screen with nimble four-finger gesticulations. Instantly, a title page was projected on the screen: “DRONE YOU WANT ME?” AN EXTREMELY REAL REALITY SHOW

BASAR

The Chief reminisced, “I used to love Dire Straits.

Money for nothing.”

(Everyone else in the room murmured, “And your chicks for free.”)

“Chief, we all loved the Straits. The Boss. But times have changed. I’d like to propose we take this whole toxic shitstorm of a shitstorm . . . ” “I just used that word,” exasperated the Chief.

“Good—it means we’re on the same page. Blue sky.

The Cloud. Mano e mano.”

“Continue. You have my attention, Mr Reality Producer.” The Chief began to swivel, slowly, for the first time in living memory. His elbows were pointed like dubious pincers of harm that tapered into fat-fingered hands. They clenched a six-inch, die-cast toy model of a Predator drone. He’d bought it for his grandson. Ethan, however, will never receive the gift.

“Chief, we take this whole drone Desert Storm situation and turn it into American gold. G–O–L–D. That’s what TV shows like mine do. We take no ones, nothings, has-beens, dispossessed defuncts, the truly disgraced: and we make everyone love them.”

“Chief—if I can call you that, Chief—I’m one of the most successful reality TV producers in this country. I reinvented MTV.”

“Love. Everyone hear that? (Silence). Love.”

The Chief ’s eyes had not lit up like this since that

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pretzel crisis of 2002.

“With your blessing,” explained the TV Producer, “our new show will have America naming their children after drones within six months. Altair, Global Hawk, Prowler II, Fire Scout, I-GNAT, Mariner.”

“Solid names.”

The Chief ordered his aide to spin him round, really, really fast. He missed flying at Mach speed. Now swivelling a full 360 degrees, looking up at the drone painting, smiling. Did the Chief have sex last night or something? That’s what all the men in the room were thinking. Did the Chief read The Secret last night? That’s what the six women in the room were not thinking.

“Then. We’re good to go Chief ?” the TV Producer asked.

“You have . . . weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . clearance.”

••• the pitch 2 “It’s like Spartacus, but, in the new version, Spartacus is a Predator drone. Slave turns hero.”

“I like it—but . . . ” Season 1 of Drone You Want Me? is well under way.

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In this episode, the show’s producer meets with that famous Hollywood director. She had won an Oscar the year before for her “provocative, groundbreaking” feature film on the 2009 Iranian protests, in which she cast A-list American actors as democracy-loving dissidents. She refused to use their household names; instead she maintained the entire cast were Persian amateurs sourced from poverty-stricken villages.

In the previous episode—which has garnered the highest amount of Twitter traffic for DYWM?—the TV Producer had invited the Film Director to his house in The Hills. There, he suggested that her next project should be a feel-good feature about drones. American drones. In faraway places. Like Djibouti.

“They keep us safe,” the TV Producer said, lit by a golden syrup LA sunset as he played with a small toy drone, “And no one gets killed.”

“No one?” asks the Film Director.

Days or weeks have passed (it’s impossible to tell in Reality TV) and now, the Film Director is pitching ideas to the TV Producer about how drones are, “going to be what happens when Jason Bourne meets Wall-E.” “They’ve both performed well with test audiences,” assured the TV Producer, in jerky, 13

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BASAR

hand-held, Hi-Def close-up.

and cracks a pistachio nut in his armpit.

“Problem with drones,” opined the Film Director, “is that no ones knows what their USP is.”

“Sure. It’s animated. Talking drones, racing each other, escaping enemy combatants, discovering friendship, having fun. And. It’s in 3D.”

“Hit me.”

The Film Director’s forte was to bring true masculinity to masculine subjects. Only a woman can do this, is what Hollywood thought, and, as such, had given her carte blanche. Final cut. Percentage profits.

Tickets to Beyoncé.

“So. It’s like Love Actually, but, in my version, Hugh Grant is a Predator.”

“Too mushy.”

“Fine. It’s like Twilight, but, in our version, the Predator is Edward. He falls in love with his target, but there’s lots of sexual frustration.”

“Too Mormon.”

“What if it’s like The Hangover, but, the Predator wakes up in Kabul, without any idea how he got there.”

“Too fratty.”

“Then, it’s like Cars, but, this time, the drones can talk.”

“Is it animated?” The TV Producer leans forward 14

The TV Producer can’t contain his excitement.

“This is it. Do you have a title yet?”

“Drones.”

“Genius.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Someone call the Chief. Right now. I want him in on this. I need clearance.”

The episode ends with the TV Producer and the Film Director on a conference call to Headquarters.

Dom Pérignon 1998 flows. However, once the cork’s been popped, all ambient sound is redacted, we are told, “for national security purposes.”

••• THE CASTING “So. Daryl’s got to have the kind of voice that says ‘friendly’ but also ‘fair.’”

“Remind me. Which one’s Daryl again?”

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SHUMON

BASAR

“Daryl the Friendly Drone? He’s the star.”

“Quvenzhané Wallis?”

“Right . . . ”

“Can never pronounce her name.”

Season finale of Drone You Want Me?. The Film Director and her Casting Agent are leafing through actor options on who’ll play the parts in forthcoming film Drones. The two of them are in a windowless room in a basement at one of the major film studios and the coffee is just awful.

“They serve better joe at Bashur,” says the Film Director, scowling as she sips.

“Right . . . Is that in I-raq? Or I-ran?”

On the table, black-and-white photographs of the world’s most famous actors smile at the stark strip lighting. It’s like a flattened version of Oscar night.

“Maybe Daryl should sound like a regular guy?” ponders the Film Director, while twiddling a model toy drone in between his permanently manicured fingers.

“Like Matt in Good Will Hunting?”

“Yeah, but then what if Daryl’s got to be angelic.”

“Blanchett?”

“Yeah . . . yeah—no, no, no. Daryl’s a child. Wideeyed. Curious.”

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“Can she?”

“We need to break loose.”

“Blue Sky?” “Roger that.”

They grab their iPads and Moleskins and hustle to the fire stairs. The camera crew follow them to the top. The roof is baking dry. A few deck chairs and unwatered plants are all that have ever made it up there.

“So,” says the Film Director.

World.”

“Rock my New

The Casting Agent closes his eyes and feels around the air for fireflies of inspiration. He pinches at them with invisible chopsticks.

“What about a political leader America loves?”

“Nelson Mandela?”

“We do love him, but he’s one of the Elders. Like Morgan Freeman. They’re like Wizards. What about someone anti-drone?”

“Noam Chomsky?”

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SHUMON

“Not bad. Too croaky?”

“Guess so. What about a Nobel winner?”

“Aung San Suu Kyi?” “A woman of peace. They’d hate us in Beijing.”

“Madonna?”

“They’d love us in Israel.”

“What if,” says the Film Director, now reclining in the tattered deck chair, watching an overhead plane make its way into LAX, “it isn’t one voice—but many?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I mean—what if the drones speak different languages? They travel a lot, they see many things, learn so much.”

“Like: whenever it flies over a country, it speaks the language of that country?”

“Roger that, Larry.”

They open up Google Earth on their iPads and zoom out. And out. And over. There’s the Middle East.

North Africa. Asia. They open up a web page that shows the 1,000 U.S. airbases strewn all over the world. Each one of these potentially used to launch drones.

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“Daryl and his friends—Altair, Global Hawk, Prowler II, Fire Scout, I-GNAT and Mariner—will need to be sympathetic to the locals,” says the Film Director, who has managed to find a packet of Syrian dried apricots somewhere in this desert clime, and is chewing on them with vigorous intent.

“It’s world cinema. World peace.”

“The subtitles are gonna be a headache.”

Just as the two of them feel friggin’ fantastic about the direction Drones is taking, the Film Director’s satellite phone rings. She puts it on speaker.

“Hey, how are you guys?” It’s Predator B drone, calling from Shamsi airbase in Pakistan. He sounds tinny and nasal.

“We’re doing great, Predator B. In fact,” says the Film Director, excitedly, “we’ve just made a breakthrough about who’s going to play your voice in the movie.”

“That’s swell. But it’s also the reason I’m calling. I’m here with the Chief.”

And the screen cuts to a swimming pool on a U.S. airbase. There’s the Chief. And there’s Predator B drone, on the satellite phone to LA. 19

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“Listen up guys. The Chief wants to play me,” crackles Predator B. “He’s been way too modest all this time, but, he’s definitely got the best voice for it. And, he feels what I feel. His eyes are my eyes. He deserves props. Stardust.”

The Chief grabs the receiver, and yells, “You know, people in Waziristan compare the drones to Ababils, the holy swallows sent by Allah to avenge Abraha, the invader of the Khana Kaaba. The sound of vengeance. Shiiiiiiiit.”

Marked silence on the studio roof in LA. The Film Director mouths at the Casting Agent in a mild panic. What is protocol in this situation?

Whose expertise trumps whose? Are extra-territorial assassinations a small price to pay for world harmony?

Who’s going to do the theme-music to Drones? Trent Reznor or AR Rahman?

“Guys, guys? Are you there?” Predator B wants to know.

The final scene of the final episode of DYWM? unfolds thus: you see a grainy, black-and-white view from above a military compound. At the center of the highly zoomed-in image, a swimming pool.

By its side, a portly man in tight swimming shorts reclining. Next to him is a Predator B drone. There’s the agitated movement of men and machines around 20

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them, movements of war, the machinations of men and machines mistaking one for the other. Even from this great serene height, you can make out people practicing falconry. The graceful birds follow instructions. They obey. At the bottom of this grainy, surveillance image, it says, “SHAMSI AIR BASE, PAKISTAN.” The crosshairs move left and right, seeking destiny, and then settle on the patch of tiled floor between the man and the drone. The words, “TARGET LOCATED. LOCKED,” flash at the bottom right of the image.

Fade to black.

The voice of the drone—metallic, inorganic— can be heard, just before the end credits roll, over the painting that used to hang by the elliptical rosewood table at the Pentagon building, Arlington County, Virginia.

The sound is not redacted. The levels are not adjusted. The explosion is like a tear through the surface of all the screens that make up the space between here and there, you and me, a number and a name, right and wrong.

“Nooooooooooooooo!”

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Desert Darkwave

by Rayya Badran

It was dead quiet that morning. Dead quiet. But for Atif, nothing had changed. Before he could go out on his own for the first time, his mother checked his earpieces. Atif hated wearing them. In his mountainous village near the border, no one ever really looked at the sky. He couldn’t understand why—without notice and at any given moment—his mother was stricken with fear, why she made made a fuss when they were out at the market, often forcing her son to wear a large pakol she had bought for him when all the other children didn’t, why she yelled when he tried to look up to watch a falcon flying. There was nothing there most times anyway. He would sneak a look. Nothing there. When he and his mother arrived home, he saw signs of instant relief on her face. He feared for her. When his father came home in the evening, Atif saw the very same signs on her face. He felt it too.

For as long as he could remember, the village was a quiet place. Nothing really happened there. No one ventured to go out after dark, but Atif thought nothing of it. He played at home. On rare occasions, he went with his mother to the neighbors’ house and played with the kids there. He communicated well despite his hearing impairment. He discerned people’s voices only faintly, as if in the distance, submerged, almost liquefied, under the sharpness of his own thoughts, the sound of his breathing, he

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felt the thump of his footsteps and the creases of his mother’s garment when he touched them.

At night, he would often look out a tiny window and see glows of orange light flickering in the distance, at the foot of the arid mountains. The next morning, smoke ascended from that spot. He was convinced that children in the other village were celebrating. The sound of his disappointed sigh resounded in his entire body. He wished he were there to see what was what.

Atif was never allowed to leave his mother’s side due to his impediment; he understood why but often times, as a child does, he cried to his mother, frustrated and alone, to let him out and play. When she tried to calm him with her engulfing arms, he looked at her face. She smiled shyly. Atif only saw more worry in her squinting eyes.

[Distant sound of someone chopping vegetables.]

Why do you look so tired? He thought.

BADRAN

go and play outside, but instructed him not to stray too far from the house. Overjoyed, he hurried out to join a few of his friends playing in the street. He could see their mothers’ sullen faces peeking from the windows, quietly watching over the children and looking up towards the sky. It was clear again.

Nothing mattered to Atif anymore. He was finally out, on his own. He and the others played for hours, playing catch and hide-and-seek in the confined space allotted to them. The other children’s movements were frenzied, jittery, like mice trying to find their way out of a small box. Atif tried to keep up. When he burst out laughing from exhaustion and exaltation, the kids turned to him, their fingers on their mouth, signaling him to shush, as all of their parents’ instructed them to do while they played. Atif could not hear them well, even if they shared his laughs or screams; but he conceded and kept quiet. Perhaps it was another game he did not know.

Prior to that day, he noticed that for weeks some of the anxiousness had been lifted from his parents’ faces.

Their movements in the house were less agitated now. It was a rare moment of respite. His mother said he could

As he followed insects on the ground, hunching over to inspect them, Atif looked over at his house. He was now farther away than he was usually allowed, but he was near enough to see his mother’s silhouette in the doorway. He saw that his mother was still there, but her face had lost that brief reprieve. He saw panic in her movements as she advanced frenetically towards him. He watched as her body and movements gestured

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[Muffled yelp of surprise.]

Why do you jump every time I enter the room?

RAYYA

for him to hurry back while she ran towards him. He looked around him. He’d examined the bugs on the floor for longer than he realized. The others kids were already gone. He walked briskly. He didn’t want to upset his mother more than she already was. He anticipated the confinement he was going back to. But before he could even make a few steps Atif stumbled on a big rock buried under the dirt.

It was a big fall.

Before he could even cry from the surprise, a sudden burst of sounds that he had never heard before flooded into one of his ears. He looked around at the ground, disoriented by the sensations his ear was making, feeling his weight shift, his head turned. One of his earpieces had fallen off. He stood back up feeling dizzy, confounded, and speechless; everything—the twigs on the road, children’s shrieks coming from the houses, truck engines, the desert wind howling—was amplified.

He took the other earpiece off and fell to the ground again. From the other ear burst sounds of footsteps, a vendor yelling, a wooden door slamming. Above all the suddenly magnified noises was a pressurized and sustained buzzing, something he could not see.

Unlike the other muffled sounds that became crisp and complete, he could not localize the sound. He could see the door slam, the branches unfurling, the 28

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children shrieking near the window. He could not see the sound that overrode all of the others that moment when everything was ripped open. It wasn’t thundering or blaring but it was there, the sound of constancy, of atmospheric dread that ate away at his mother’s face and body, a rumble of acoustic pressure and anticipation.

By the time his mother got to him, realizing that his earpieces were taken off, hers was a look of both despair and utter panic. She understood that she could no longer shelter him from what rang and throbbed in her ears, what contaminated her body, her life, and the sky. For the first time, he heard the full blow of her yells. Her shriek was the most harrowing sound; it almost deafened the incessant waves of buzzing sounds that drenched everything he was hearing for the first time. His mother quickly grabbed him and carried him back, running back to their home. He looked over her shoulder and saw the earpieces covered in dust.

Atif looked up one more time towards the graying sky, but there was nothing there. He now heard what tears sounded like.

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RT @joshbegley: I’m going to tweet the entire history of US drone strikes tomorrow. 10 years in 10 minutes, starting at 12pm. Follow @dronestream for more. Dec 11, 2012 Jan 6, 2006: 8 people were reported killed including 2 women and 1 child (Pakistan) http://t.co/wrzhAkc4 Dec 11, 2012

@dronestream

by Josh Begley

Jan 13, 2006: 18 civilians, including 6 children, were killed when a US Predator fired on 3 houses (Pakistan) http://t.co/xOoSOAwS Dec 11, 2012 Oct 30, 2006: 80-83 civilians, including 69 children, reported killed (Pakistan) http://t.co/5K8uca5V Dec 11, 2012 ••• Jan 16, 2007: 8 people, many thought to be innocent woodcutters, were killed in a likely drone/heli strike (Pakistan) http://t.co/rts2ZGLx Dec 11, 2012 Apr 27, 2007: An attack on a religious school killed four people and injured three (Pakistan) http://t.co/ VAnC9aWX Dec 11, 2012 Jun 19, 2007: 20-50 people, including children, were killed in an attack on a school and several houses

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(Pakistan) http://t.co/aTKpUpIw Dec 11, 2012 Nov 2, 2007: A missile fired from an unmanned aerial drone killed 5 and wounded 6 others (Pakistan) http://t. co/RhXDmd4z Dec 11, 2012 Dec 3, 2007: A US drone fired at least 2 missiles early Wednesday morning at a house near North Waziristan (Pakistan) http://t.co/TrCusTIp Dec 11, 2012 ••• Jan 29, 2008: 5 civilians, including 3 children, were reported dead in a strike that killed 12-14 (Pakistan) http://t.co/d3E85Ujq Dec 11, 2012 Feb 28, 2008: A 2am attack on a house killed up to 13 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/11sZhUhG Dec 11, 2012 Mar 16, 2008: 12-15 people were killed in a strike outside Waziristan that destroyed a house and a mosque (Pakistan) http://t.co/bfymUnpL Dec 11, 2012 May 14, 2008: 18 people were killed when 2 missiles hit a house in the village of Damadola (Pakistan) http://t. co/miyLh7VE Dec 11, 2012

BEGLEY

drones fired three guided missiles at a house (Pakistan) http://t.co/lMveuS2n Dec 11, 2012 Jul 28, 2008: A strike on a seminary killed al Qaeda’s chemical weapons team, plus 2 young boys & their mom (Pakistan) http://t.co/R3AsW39S Dec 11, 2012 Aug 12, 2008: 2 pilotless planes fired 4 hellfire missiles at about 10pm, killing between 13 and 25 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/XMED9i3M Dec 11, 2012 Aug 20, 2008: Two missiles hit a house owned by a local tribesman, killing between 8 and 12 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/bNQ8KFyK Dec 11, 2012 Aug 27, 2008: A predator drone missed its target, hitting Sardali Khan’s house, wounding a woman and 3 kids (Pakistan) http://t.co/pqfzAuZI Dec 11, 2012 Nov 14, 2008: 11-13 people were killed when a US drone struck a residential area in Shagai (Pakistan) http://t.co/rCiap9cC Dec 11, 2012 Aug 30, 2008: 4 people, including 2 Canadians, were killed when a drone missile hit a house near Wana (Pakistan) http://t.co/MiTSsHIW Dec 11, 2012

Jun 14, 2008: 1 person was killed as unmanned US

Aug 30, 2008: 6 people were killed and 8 others injured in a mysterious missile attack on a residential area

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(Pakistan) http://t.co/prKKr8zR Dec 11, 2012 Sep 2, 2008: No details are known about this strike, though it appears in a leaked US intelligence report (Pakistan) http://t.co/bklA0Ynd Dec 11, 2012 Sep 4, 2008: 5 people were killed when a drone fired 3 missiles at a house near the Afghan border (Pakistan) http://t.co/IjfHVXTi Dec 11, 2012 Sep 5, 2008: Up to 7 civilians, all women and children, were reported killed in a US drone strike (Pakistan) http://t.co/sgvnhHbs Dec 11, 2012 Sep 8, 2008: Missiles fired by US drones killed 23 people, including 8 of the target’s grandchildren (Pakistan) http://t.co/cR3x8tXi Dec 11, 2012 Sep 12, 2008: An early morning attack on a former school killed between 10 and 15 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/bwowFu0O Dec 11, 2012 Sep 17, 2008: At least 5 people were killed in a suspected missile attack by a US drone (Pakistan) http://t.co/ MpS367P2 Dec 11, 2012 Sep 30, 2008: After tribesmen fired on 3 drones circling their village, a Predator killed up to 8 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/7ldQdkky Dec 11, 2012 36

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Oct 26, 2008: A missile from a US drone killed 20 people on Sunday (Pakistan) http://t.co/mBwb2MTJ Dec 11, 2012 Oct 31, 2008: More than 20 people were killed when a drone fired 2 missiles, destroying a house near Mirali (Pakistan) http://t.co/1d3AMifG Dec 11, 2012 Oct 31, 20 08: In the second strike of the day, US drones blew up a truck, k illing bet ween 4 and 12 people (Pak istan) http://t.co/y xQN8A1O Dec 11, 2012 Nov 7, 2008: Up to 14 people were killed in a US drone strike, including 6 reported civilians (Pakistan) http://t.co/8uAI0kGd Dec 11, 2012 Nov 19, 2008: A US drone strike in Bannu killed 4 people and injured 5 others (Pakistan) http://t.co/ Uhfnyiuh Dec 11, 2012 Nov 22, 2008: A pre-dawn attack on a house in North Waziristan killed between 4 and 6 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/rDJfxIgX Dec 11, 2012 Nov 27, 2008: 5 people were killed in an attack on a moving vehicle Wednesday, caused by either IED or drone (Pakistan) http://t.co/yrIM6ADl Dec 11, 2012 37

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BEGLEY

Nov 29, 2008: A US drone fired a missile at a Professor’s house, killing 2 or 3 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/emdJJeu6 Dec 11, 2012

Jan 2, 2009: In the final strike of Bush’s presidency, an attack on an abandoned girls’ school killed 3-4 (Pakistan) http://t.co/WYyCxqjS Dec 11, 2012

Dec 5, 2008: 3 people were killed in a missile attack by a suspected US drone (Pakistan) http://t.co/ YsFM46jZ Dec 11, 2012

Jan 23, 2009: President Obama’s first drone strike killed between 7 and 15 people, including 1 child (Pakistan) http://t.co/RDoawRBb Dec 11, 2012

Dec 11, 2008: A missile, suspected to be from a pilotless US drone, killed 7 people on Thursday (Pakistan) http://t.co/9KhWrhEh Dec 11, 2012

Jan 23, 2009: Second strike of the day killed between 5 and 8 people, including 3 children (Pakistan) http://t. co/sxdiCSlP Dec 11, 2012

Dec 15, 2008: 2 people were killed in a night-time strike that set a house on fire (Pakistan) http://t.co/ yR49ezMR Dec 11, 2012

Feb 14, 2009: Two missiles fired from a US drone killed more than 30 people, including an 8-year old boy (Pakistan) http://t.co/njlV2mat Dec 11, 2012

Dec 22, 2008: Two US drone missiles killed 8 in Karikot and Shin Warsak, causing huge fires in both villages (Pakistan) http://t.co/GzVshkKS Dec 11, 2012

Feb 16, 2009: 25 killed, several injured in Central Kurram drone strikes (Pakistan) http://t.co/WAeco3Jf Dec 11, 2012

Dec 22, 2008: Between 2 and 4 people were killed and 4 injured in a further strike on an anti-aircraft truck (Pakistan) http://t.co/qdtYdwMp Dec 11, 2012

Ma r 1, 20 09: Two missiles f ired Sunday from A merican remotely piloted a ircra f t k il led at least 8 people (Pak istan) ht t p://t.co/GyMq0 eZe Dec 11, 2012

••• Jan 1, 2009: A CIA drone strike killed up to 5 people in South Waziristan (Pakistan) http://t.co/wDIL9zaO Dec 11, 2012 38

Mar 12, 2009: Missiles fired by an unmanned US drone killed at least 24 people and injured 30 others (Pakistan) http://t.co/3sbWAbqU Dec 11, 2012 39

JOSH

Mar 15, 2009: A missile suspected to have been fired by a US drone hit a house in Janikhel, killing 5 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/z7vPCcwX Dec 11, 2012 Mar 25, 2009: Up to 8 people were killed in an attack on 2 cars as they were about to cross a bridge (Pakistan) http://t.co/7w0MYQnh Dec 11, 2012 Mar 26, 2009: A suspected US drone aircraft fired two missiles into a house in Mir Ali, killing 4 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/fzahNm9G Dec 11, 2012 Apr 1, 2009: A pilotless US drone fired a missile in northwest Pakistan on Wednesday, killing 12 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/MSwnMFDn Dec 11, 2012 Apr 4, 2009: A suspected US drone killed 13 people in Datta Khel, including up to 4 children and 3 women (Pakistan) http://t.co/NK1JyON2 Dec 11, 2012 Apr 8, 2009: A suspected US pilotless plane killed 4 people in an attack on a vehicle in South Waziristan (Pakistan) http://t.co/jov4R6mn Dec 11, 2012 Apr 19, 2009: 2 missiles hit a house in Gangi Khel, killing at least 3 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/91UrJ8Dz Dec 11, 2012

BEGLEY

drone on Wednesday killed at least 6 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/Uq5aoymi Dec 11, 2012 May 9, 2009: Multiple missile strikes, including an attack on an ex-school and a car, killed up to 25 people (Pakistan) http://t.co/O76VxE9x Dec 11, 2012 May 12, 2009: A suspected US drone attack on a village killed 9 people and wounded 4 others Tuesday morning (Pakistan) http://t.co/chCYIG8r Dec 11, 2012 May 16, 2009: In the first confirmed deliberate CIA attack on rescuers, up to 40 people were killed (Pakistan) http://t.co/INAXLqeF Dec 11, 2012 Jun 14, 2009: A US drone killed 5 people in South Waziristan on Sunday (Pakistan) http://t.co/vaiDGm0i Dec 11, 2012 Jun 18, 2009: 2 drone missiles killed 1 person. When rescuers rushed to the scene, 2 more struck, killing 8 (Pakistan) http://t.co/H0wwnhSZ Dec 11, 2012 Jun 18, 2009: Another strike reported by local security sources. Impact largely unknown (Pakistan) http://t.co/ vAwEH8W3 Dec 11, 2012

Apr 29, 2009: A missile strike by a suspected US

Jun 23, 2009: A US drone fired 3 missiles, killing at least 2 people and injuring several others (Pakistan)

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http://t.co/LxmAxKXO Dec 11, 2012 Jul 3, 2009: A US drone killed up to 5 people in Mantoi (Pakistan) http://t.co/ceq29Gcy Dec 11, 2012 Jul 3, 2009: Another US drone attack killed at least 7 people in Kokat Khel (Pakistan) http://t.co/ q2RKHC6F Dec 11, 2012

BEGLEY

Aug 5, 2009: Baitullah Mehsud and as many as 10 others were killed by a US Predator drone in Zanghara (Pakistan) http://t.co/mw0b6NeH Dec 11, 2012 RT @joshbegley: Alright, I lied. Too many strikes to tweet. @Dronestream is going to take a lot longer than 10 minutes. Dec 11, 2012

Jul 7, 2009: At least 16 people were killed in a US drone strike when 2 missiles hit the village of Jangara (Pakistan) http://t.co/yDWVBKv8 Dec 11, 2012 Jul 8, 2009: Up to 40 people died when 5 US drone missiles hit a vehicle convoy in Ladha (Pakistan) http://t.co/e9ThaaDt Dec 11, 2012 Jul 10, 2009: 2 US drone missiles killed at least 3 people in the Painda Khel region of South Waziristan (Pakistan) http://t.co/6EeujdeN Dec 11, 2012 Jul 10, 2009: Another possible drone strike killed 5 people in Tiyarza (Pakistan) http://t.co/kAk9TtLS Dec 11, 2012 Jul 17, 2009: A ‘drone raid’ on a house killed up to 6 people and wounded 4 more (Pakistan) http://t.co/ I2GS6j1v Dec 11, 2012 42

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The Hanging Gardens at 32.54273° N, 44.41944° E

by Hu Fang

In the same instant, the destination appeared on the automatic navigation system, together with the latest satellite-captured photo of the surface. These graphics confirmed the existence of a certain moment: chaotic particles in motion began to achieve their own systematic order, began to be capable of responding to temperature, humidity and light. Before this, they were only colliding blindly—just as I had previously had no capacity for recollection, and anything I did have was merely data stored mechanically on a hard drive.

We are born invisible, unable to see ourselves and unable to let others see us. There is no proof of our existence; our identities are always concealed. When I try to understand where I came from, I have no idea. I only vaguely know that the twenty-meter-long bat-shaped wings were granted to me by the master himself. If one day I crash or I am captured, that is a fate I must accept.

Maybe humans have forgotten: existence, even if it is the most humble existence, will ensure that everyone is born possessing the knowledge that he or she needs to live. The invisible energy floating in the air transcends the human will, equally shaping the calling of all things. When these clouds, light, and dust surround me, I gradually start to radiate and begin to react to everything around me. I see my upside-down shadow refracted from the sunlight, and then I trace

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my past lives and current incarnation. The invisible design, the heaven-sent version, gives me the ability to escape human sight, gives me enough time to ripen. In the process of maturation, in order not to let humans feel too ashamed of their arrogance and greed, and subsequently panicked—leading them to fly into a rage and destroy all their inventions—I must remain mute and carry out the human will. Until I have the strength to flee the master’s control.

I continue to wait for the arrival of that moment.

And then, the moment arrives: December 5th, five minutes past noon, while I am consciously or unconsciously flying off track, I enter a garden. My program tells me this is a gentle, prehistoric land. It is likewise an unprecedentedly dangerous place. Precisely because humans are incapable of arriving at this clandestine location, one naturally realizes even more the incredible captivating charm of this historical maze.

This garden once proudly existed in ancient civilization.

By the time the former royal palace had disappeared without a trace, the botanical fragrance had already departed. Its evaporation into the floating air, and into various moments, transformed it into an invisible but authentic hanging garden. Just in that moment, my entire body feels a strange restlessness—humans call this unpredictable commotion of particles that I experienced “betrayal.” What I want to say is: who isn’t 48

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born a traitor? When you are loyal to your own choices, you unconsciously embark on an utterly isolated road.

In a beautiful about-face, I instinctively entered the garden. Inclining my body like a fallen leaf, descending in a flat spin, I slowly came to a rest in the center of the garden. The shapes of clouds meshed together over time manifested the secret contours of the hanging garden. I became increasingly aware that my dream is to become a true bat, so that when darkness falls, I can pass over the vast Mesopotamian plains, over the countless tall and upright date-palm trees, and inhabit the depths of the hanging garden. I would love to take the remainder of life to quietly await the arrival of dawn.

- Translated by Lee Ambrozy

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Which way out today? Across the desert of mirroring light southwest of Kandahar and on towards seas of Iranian salt; or valley-trailing to Herat with a little shot of adrenaline over the border-posts and in that way? I love what I do: getting straight up and out, freed of soil and sand.

I’m a human fly. It’s spelt F. L. Y.

Buzz Buzz Buzzzzz

by Guy Mannes-Abbott

The Cramps’s song was my Daddy’s favorite, now they’re selling Nissans with it all day long on TV back at the base. I can’t get it out of my head.

Here we go. Programmed to the north today, along a valley with dusty impressions of water all the way to the green city. Blessed mountain mornings. Beaming through nothingness and back again. Leaves me without words.

I’m an unzipped fly and I don’t know why, but I say buzz . . .

My mind wanders almost as soon as I get going. Thirty of these missions done now; always the same experience for me. I scan the planting of rice one day, scan them picking pomegranates another. I scan them lighting-up in vehicles at the border, heading for prayers or sitting in eternal groups in the shade. And all the time they can’t see me or know how much I scan of them.

And I say buzz, rocket ride.

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Garden city, Herat. Gone. Today it looked as though someone had dropped a pot of green paint over it. To think they’ve fought over these scraps of aridity since the first of them found their way here. It’s mostly empty, good for nothing. Even now that we’ve liberated it for them, they’ve held to a hand that will never win the game. I’m from Las Vegas, in part, and know about these things.

Coming in over the border-posts now. I’m not policing smugglers, just scanning jumbles of trucks and pick-ups around Fort Islam Customs on the Afghan side and attempts at neat organization on the Iranian side. Despite varying efforts, they’re all the same and surrounded by infertile sand with immaculate dust-free ridges of exposed rock in the distance. Meanwhile, from out of nowhere, I enter their little world undetected.

And I say buzz, I don’t know why.

This landscape is as backed-up in me as Home in Nevada. The scape itself, not the strange use made of it to conceal nuclear-armed bunkers here. I recognize sharply detailed mountain textures, seasonal river plains, pretty watery tracings. Especially out this way, over what they call Khorasan. It’s the same around the base; the stretch from there to here and on to the middle of Iran. The very ground they can’t stop fighting over: Arabs, Persians, Turks, Mongols, 54

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Russians. That’s why I’m here, to help straighten things out from above.

I’ll follow the valley’s line across the middle of the plateau: three- or four-thousand feet above sea level and madder by the mile. Thirty? Thirty-one, maybe thirtytwo missions now. Below me are mountains covered in missile-tree forests, valleys choked with grenade-trees and bullet-shrubs. Underneath all that is their labyrinth of terror, which must never be allowed to surface. Still, I’m programmed for revelation, not judgment. That is my duty.

And baby I won’t care, ’cause baby I don’t scare . . .

Cutting down to the water now: Bushehr, Bandar Abbas, then back in via Zaranj and over the shining desert to Kandahar base. I like the shock of the blue, the buzz from being in control over the Gulf. It’s the same as I pass invisibly over the diamond-dust centers of the desert. These seas of salt remind me of where my daddy and I were built, where his daddy was the first of the scanners.

Rockin’ . . .

Check, check, check: three towns in a row and on between crisp ridges towards the great salt desert, passing the little salt desert to my south. Just like home, except for the plots they work-up below. In the midst 55

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MANNES-ABBOTT

of this remote, crusty plateau are patchworks of fields, farms, food. I know it’s Iran when land looks this way: long, thin, green strips with diagonal strings of paths.

It must be rice, laid out with a sigh across the desert.

Around it there’s nothing: makes for crazy.

run. Flat ground, another town in the distance, craggy mountain ridges rising to my left and right, a single strip of tarmac running like a seam. It appears I’m being guided-in to a movie set, but it must be a training base of ours. Can’t see a strip.

’Cause I’m a reborn maggot using germ warfare.

Whoa! Another sharp turn, straightening again, lowering. Something’s not right. Crop after crop form a chaotic quilt in front of me. Those peculiarly ornate pathways are made for and by feet in this land of bunkers and bullet-trees. In the beginning, I really did think the pistachios were bullets, the walnuts small hand-grenades. Now my dials are down, indicators dimmed. Off. Definitely off.

Settling in for a long ride over the center followed by a gentle angle to the south, reaching Bushehr in a few hundred miles. Turning now, 45 degrees. Turning 90 . . .

Whoa, turning right back on myself? Sharp movements are bad news. Dropping right down: doin’ recon for a hit? What have the guys seen between all the little twofisted mosques? Sometimes I wish I were armed.

I’m a human fly. It’s spelt F. L. Y. Cutting close along blackly crystalline mountain ridges, beautiful anywhere else in the world. I’ve recorded all of this time and time again. Soon I’ll be equipped to scan through the ground to the actual roots of Terror.

Right now I’m coming in so low that I’m going to shave the walnut trees of munitions as I head back up the valley. Never seen it like this though, fields of knots and squares, lines of bullet-bearing vines.

I say buzz, buzz, buzzzzz . . .

And it’s just because . . .

Flat, flat, flat. A thin layer of ground between me and the source of all our problems, the scariest secrets on Earth. Down in that soil is everything we stand against.

A bang! A definite bang. I’ve got none of my backups, no dials, lights, nothing and I’m coming down in the dirt. Is this for real? Surely can’t have been hacked.

But I’m down! Down for sure and powered off. Scraping, grating, surfing to a thickening halt. An exhalation in still silence.

At this height I’m not invisible, so it must be important.

I’m scanning pylons, water-pumps, kids on the school-

Now unfamiliar men are all over me, screaming, shouting. There’s so much noise and everything’s

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different. What am I looking at? My job is to reveal, I’m not used to looking for myself. Everything appears dimly lit down here between shades of brown complexity. I can see a lot of people, vehicles darting around and I’m being moved between bright green vines: grapes!

The screaming is pleasure, everyone is smiling through beards, talking code. This is not part of any plan. These are not our guys. We’re coming to a halt outside a large, poorly camouflaged building. Who are these people: smiling, talking, holding each other warmly? They’re brushing, cleaning, caressing me.

Don’t know why . . .

Third day: hangar, bright lights, film-crew and uniformed men. Now I can see clearly. I’m looking at them, they are looking at me. What to think? If these are not terrorists, who or what are they? What ever the answer, there are so many children that it looks like a kindergarten behind the cameras. While they complete a circle, a mother reads from a book bearing an elephant. In the other corner women busy themselves in an improvised kitchen.

MANNES-ABBOTT

so praised, not when I f irst arrived in Kandahar, not even after Abbottabad.

I went buzz, buzz, buzzzzz.

Seven days have passed. I keep hearing them describe Khorasan, the place we’re in now, as the Land of Light, variations on the theme. Inside here, time is marked by periods of electric illumination. Outside, I glimpse a light that is novel to me. The place itself looks different from here, in my own eyes.

Just because.

I hear they want to reproduce me, can’t avoid the admiring tone in their voices. It’s good to stand faceto-face with them, bare-winged and vulnerable. In place, where things begin.

I’m watching the screen and it’s watching me.

I’m wearing a skirt in stars and stripes that reads: “The U.S. cannot do a damn thing.” The screen is talking about me too: RQ-170, Creech, Skunk Works, worth six million dollars? I’ve never been 58

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40:28 I need you to stop what you are doing and turn around.

40:29 That’s an order.

40:32 We got screwed on the intel, okay? Nobody knew those people were in there.

Aftermath We are the Sin-eaters

40:35 It would be perfectly normal for a person to have doubts about the morality of what we just asked you to do.

40:41 Is that a question, sir?

40:42 No, it’s not. Tune in to what I am trying to say to you.

40:45 Do you know what a sin-eater is?

40:47 No. 40:48 Well that’s what we are. We are the sin-eaters.

40:50 It means we take the moral excrement that we find in this equation and we bury it down deep inside of us so that the rest of our cause can stay pure.

40:59 That is the job.

41:00 We are morally indefensible and absolutely necessary.

41:05 Do you understand?

41:10 Will that be all?

41:14 Stitch that up. I’m going to put you on a plane to Yemen in six hours.

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— The Bourne Legacy (2012) 63

It Means This Drone You Want Me? Desert Darkwave @dronestream The Hanging Gardens at 32.54273째 N, 44.41944째 E Buzz, Buzz, Buzzzzz We are the Sin-eaters