“The story of white power as a social movement exposes something broader about the enduring impact of state violence in America. It reveals one catastrophic ricochet of the Vietnam War, in the form of its paramilitary aftermath. It also reveals something important about war itself. War is not neatly contained in the space and time legitimated by the state. It reverberates in other terrains and lasts long past armistice. It comes home in ways bloody and unexpected…”
- Kathleen Belew, Bring the War Home: The White Power Movement and Paramilitary America
When I pick up a nonfiction book, I am looking for a balance between content and literary execution. I expect that the research will utilize the appropriate sources, analyze those sources objectively, and draw conclusions based on the best evidence available. But I also want something that is enjoyable to read. Readability is important, because if the pages don’t hold my attention, there is no way I’m ever going to get the message being communicated.
Kathleen Belew’s Bring the War Home is an example of a book that has important things to say, but often gets in its own way in terms of style. It is impressively sourced, as attested by the vast and detailed endnotes. Unfortunately, it is also written in a manner that is self-limiting, ensuring that Bring the War Home – at least for me – never reached its full promise.
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At the risk of oversimplifying, white power movements in the United States have historically adhered to something of a pattern. Whenever nonwhite Americans have made any progress in civil rights – even if that progress is modest – there has been a subsequent white backlash. The Ku Klux Klan, for instance, emerged as a terrorist organization in the wake of Civil War, emancipation, and Reconstruction. The Klan’s second wave appeared in the 1920s, following the conclusion of a world war that saw thousands of black Americans serve as troops, and then return home demanding better treatment. When America elected her first black president – well, you get the picture.
Based on this pattern, it makes sense that Belew starts Bring the War Home in the shadow of Vietnam. Intensely controversial – and ultimately futile – the war unfolded next to the great civil rights movements of the 1960s, which resulted in landmark legislation. Faced with the loss of “their country,” the Vietnam experience bred men like Louis Beam, a former door-gunner and white nationalist who used his army training to organize armed cadres along military lines.
From the 1970s to the 1980s, Beam – and many others like him – waged a startlingly forgotten war on his own country. During this time period, white power movements trafficked in weapons, assassinated their opponents, and spread vile propaganda. To fund these enterprises, they also engaged in a slew of criminal activity, including armed robbery and counterfeiting. All of this, according to Belew, culminated with the April 19, 1995 bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City.
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Bring the War Home is most successful when coalescing around narrative set pieces, whether it’s a murder, bombing, or trial. Though I do not think Belew is a natural storyteller – at its best, the prose is workmanlike; at its worse, a bit tedious – she still does a really good job bringing to life events that might otherwise be overlooked.
For example, Belew starts with an excellent description of the Klan’s attempt to run off Vietnamese fishermen in Texas. Equally gripping is the depiction of the Greensboro massacre – which I had somehow never heard of – where the Klan opened fire on a Communist Workers Party parade, killing five and wounding a dozen.
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Among Belew’s more impressive accomplishments is piecing together the evidence so that it creates a meaningful whole. The groups she attempts to penetrate – such as “The Order” – are designed to be secretive. Belew finds the seams in this code of silence, giving you an unforgettable view from the inside out.
That view is pretty chilling. Whether she is following the various threads of white nationalism in the U.S. Army (including stolen weapons), or discoursing on the role of women (who proudly accepted their retrograde archetypes as virtuous maidens and racial propagators), Belew presents a very bleak portrait of poisonous logic and twisted worldviews.
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The highs of Bring the War Home are – in my estimation – somewhat dampened by the flatness of the writing. Belew also tends to be needlessly repetitive. At one point, she covers a criminal trial in which a number of white supremacists were acquitted by a jury. After the trial, certain members of the jury became romantically involved with the newly-freed defendants. While shocking and inappropriate, Belew keeps repeating this fact as though worried I couldn’t grasp the concept the first time she said it. Similar repetitions occur throughout, and bog down the pacing.
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For me, Bring the War Home fizzled at the end. Specifically, despite her forceful presentation, I was not wholly convinced by Belew’s closing argument that Timothy McVeigh represented the zenith of the white power movement. While Belew provides circumstantial evidence of his involvement with white nationalists, there is a great deal more direct evidence revealed through McVeigh’s trial and subsequent confessions that point in different directions.
To be sure, McVeigh was a racist, and moved within the interlocking circles of white supremacists, tax evaders, sovereign citizens, and survivalists. That said, there is no indication that he was working with any white power group, much less that he was following such a group’s orders. Rather, there is a surfeit of testimony that McVeigh’s homicidal actions were spurred by the fiery culmination of the ATF’s botched raid on the Branch Davidian compound near Waco, Texas in 1993. In other words, McVeigh’s terror attack was the psychopathic response to his views on the limits of government, rather than an act calibrated to reinforce white power structures or demonstrate racial superiority. The reality is that McVeigh appeared to be responding – in a wildly inappropriate, immoral, and criminal manner – to militarized policing, a genuine problem that – as Belew mentions in passing – actually falls hardest on minority communities.
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My biggest frustration in Bring the War Home is the strict boundaries of its scope of inquiry, tethered tightly to the Vietnam War, and ending sharply in 1995. Published in 2018, Belew was fully aware of the ugly forces unleashed by the 2016 election, resulting in a president who provided political cover to white supremacists, and who gave them tacit permission to say the quiet part loud. Nevertheless, she provides only a brief epilogue connecting her story to the present-day. Obviously, Belew intended to encompass a particular timeframe, and did not mean this to be a comprehensive history. I cannot fault her for that. Still, this would have been more powerful if some effort had been made to bridge the gap between Oklahoma City and Charlottesville.
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Whatever faults I found, Bring the War Home is still effective.
It is also really scary.
Even more terrifying is the prospect that things have probably gotten worse. Instead of a limited bunch of racist wannabe-soldiers taking target practice in the backcountry, there is a limitless number of racists sitting in their own basements, connected to each other by the internet, fueling their made-up grievances in an endless feedback loop. Instead of a known leader like Louis Beam, we are faced with the prospect of sudden violence perpetrated by previous unknowns such as Dylan Roof and Payton Gendron, anonymous nonentities filling the voids in their lives with alt-right conspiracy theories and vast stores of weaponry, determined to derive some meaning from their own unfulfilled existences by destroying others.