Tuesday, June 13, 2017

An Act Of Vandalism

Jackson Square, New Orleans, With St. Louis Cathedral In The Background



New Orleans Isn’t New Orleans Anymore

By Joe Bob Briggs


The video of Robert E. Lee being taken off his pedestal—literally—was stunning enough, since that 1884 statue by Alexander Doyle is sculpted in a Florentine neoclassical style that just doesn’t exist anymore.

Even more shocking is where it happened.

New Orleans? This really went down in the Southern city most associated with tolerance, community, art, hospitality, jazz, street celebrations, and a melting pot of black, white, mulatto, Creole, French, Spanish, Cajun, Native American, German, and Haitian peoples sprouting from various historical periods and cultural traditions?

The city of laissez les bon temps rouler [Let the good times roll] really singled out particular monuments from the city’s multilayered history and targeted them for iconic destruction, like the Taliban?

But it gets stranger. The idol smashers also took down the equestrian statue of General Beauregard, their own Creole hero, a man whose first language was French and who, in keeping with the loyalty that Louisiana inspires, chose to remain in the hostile Reconstruction South after the war, working for universal black voting rights, rather than accept lucrative offers to lead foreign armies.

The Beauregard statue is yet another Alexander Doyle piece, and although it’s still possible to see Doyle’s work in other places—the National Monument to the Forefathers in Plymouth, Massachusetts, three figures in the National Statuary Hall in the Capitol—it’s a little soul-rattling to see the city we Southerners once regarded as our cultural capital suddenly acting like book burners. My favorite Doyle statue, perhaps because I walk by it once a week, perhaps because it depicts a journalist, is the bronze Horace Greeley monument in New York’s Herald Square. Greeley’s famous exhortation in 1865—“Go west, young man”—is engraved on its base, making me wonder why he never took his own advice.

And, of course, that’s the period we’re talking about when we talk about these statues and monuments—the period after the Civil War, when the South had been destroyed. Is it surprising to anyone that Southerners—especially Southern women—would do what all defeated people do? They erected historical markers and statues and obelisks and pedestals of marble and bronze so that they wouldn’t be forgotten. Surely the people of southern Louisiana, with its history as a welcoming sanctuary for the misfits and outcasts and artistic geeks of the world, would understand the crushed spirits of half a country yearning for forgiveness and validation. Surely many of those broken people lived in the Crescent City themselves.

Lafcadio Hearn, the weirdest journalist who ever lived, a myopic Greek who had to leave a flourishing career in Cincinnati because he married a black woman, fled to New Orleans and ended up doing all his best work for the Times Democrat during the same years these monuments were being built. “Times are not good here,” he wrote to a friend in California. “The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under taxes and frauds and maladministrations so that it has become a study for archaeologists. Its condition is so bad that when I write about it, as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe I am telling the truth. But it is better to be here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio.”

Hearn was just one of thousands who sought refuge in New Orleans and found redemption there. The city always accepted any kind of fugitive. Of course the morose Confederates wanted symbols and monuments in New Orleans, if for no other reason than just to shake off the oppression of the carpetbaggers. They wanted to lift their withered spirits.

Monuments built by humiliated populations are a means of healing. If the United Kingdom decided to remove the statues of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce at Stirling Castle, I would expect a reaction even more brutal than the mild confrontations last week in New Orleans—and those Scottish battles are 700 years old. Even more to the point: Why do the people of London allow a memorial to William Wallace at the location where he was hanged, drawn, and quartered? It’s not because they admire Mel Gibson’s portrayal in Braveheart. There’s a feeling in many civilizations that rebels—especially when the rebels are related by blood—deserve some measure of respect. The statement being made is not “We agree with your cause” but “We forgive.” This is something that occurs throughout the world, wherever blood has been shed.

Yet the front-page headline in USA Today last week was “Confederate monuments reopen old racial wounds.”

Really? I don’t believe a statue that stood in the same place for 133 years suddenly reanimated and “reopened” wounds. The alleged wounding had to have another source. And to find that source, I’ve been repeatedly directed this week to the words of Mayor Mitch Landrieu, who was praised by The New York Times for his eloquence as he explained why the monuments had to come down. I encourage you to hear the speech. You can stream it on YouTube or read the complete text in both the Times and The Washington Post.

But I would also like to speak to Mayor Landrieu, point by point, because I was startled by his argument.

Part 1: Mayor Landrieu begins by reviewing the rich multicultural history of his city.

Agreed! It’s what made New Orleans what it is today. May it ever remain so.

Part 2: BUT, the mayor says, there are no historical monuments to the slave ships, to the sites of lynchings, to the beatings of the Freedom Riders.

Agreed! Erect the markers. The people who erect monuments to atrocities are also trying to reclaim their dignity. Let the slave markers rise alongside the Confederate generals.

Part 3: Now the mayor gets to the heart of his argument. The Civil War monuments are lies. They are “a lie by omission”—since the men and women who erected them (many of them civic leaders of New Orleans, by the way) don’t mention slavery. The statues were put up for “the Cult of the Lost Cause” in order to “hide the truth.”

I wouldn’t exactly call it a cult, but “Lost Cause” is Southern code. Sometimes it means the Ku Klux Klan, but in this context it usually means the United Daughters of the Confederacy, who are blamed, rightly or wrongly, for glamorizing the antebellum South. The problem with this analysis is that neither organization had anything to do with these statues. The UDC was not formed until 1894, and the second KKK not until 1915. The moonlight-and-magnolias myth didn’t exist yet in 1884.

The New Orleans statues were erected by survivors of the war long before the “Lost Cause” meme got started, in an age when public statuary was all the rage. This was true not just in the South, but in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, Cleveland—anywhere men had gone to war. The most massive Civil War monument is actually Grant’s Tomb in New York, intended as a replica of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, one of the original Seven Wonders of the World. It’s a magnificent structure, but if your argument is that monuments exaggerate reputations or causes and therefore need to be sledge-hammered, you’re going to have a long list of candidates for the scrap heap.

Even if we grant that the New Orleans monuments were the products of a Cult of the Lost Cause, it was an act of defiance toward Yankees, not—as the mayor would have us believe—a political screed. The civic groups that paid for the memorials were shaking their fists at the Cult of Grant and the Cult of Lincoln. All of these cults produced impressive statuary, and we should save it all. One of the most famous Civil War memorials is Augustus Saint-Gaudens’ bronze relief near Boston Common depicting the Massachusetts 54th Regiment. This tribute to black soldiers was sculpted the same year as Doyle’s Robert E. Lee.

Yet the mayor goes on at some length with the claim that the New Orleans monuments were designed to foster “white supremacy,” and he even equates them with burning crosses. To prove this, he says they “were first erected over 166 years after the founding of our city and 19 years after the end of the Civil War.” I’m not sure what the 166 number has to do with anything—is he saying the Spanish and French empires are underrepresented? Is he calling for more statues of Napoleon? By emphasizing 19 years, he appears to be implying that these are not monuments of remembrance but monuments of oppression. But this is ridiculous. The South was in ruins. Nothing was built during military Reconstruction. When New York City commissioned a statue of Union general Philip Sheridan in 1936—71 years after the war!—were they trying to make a political point or intimidate the Southerners who still remembered how Sheridan pillaged the Shenandoah Valley? Of course not. The Greeks commissioned a statue to Leonidas, king of the Spartans, in 1955—2,435 years after his defeat and martyrdom at Thermopylae. If “delayed commemoration” can be accepted as evidence of bad faith and false history, then the most influential exponent of the “Lost Cause” was David O. Selznick, the Jewish mogul who produced Gone With the Wind in 1939.

Part 4: These men were rebels and should never be honored.

Yes, a Southerner actually said this: “It is self-evident that these men did not fight for the United States of America, they fought against it…. These monuments purposefully celebrate a fictional, sanitized Confederacy; ignoring the death, ignoring the enslavement, and the terror that it actually stood for.”

Yes, it’s the mayor of New Orleans who wants to rehash these old arguments about states’ rights, slavery, the motives of the South, the motives of the North, the patriotism of all involved, and to do that he doesn’t even go to Shelby Foote, or Bruce Catton, or Carl Sandburg, or Samuel Eliot Morison, or Douglas Southall Freeman, or even, for God’s sake, the Ken Burns miniseries on PBS, he simply agrees with General Sherman that they’re rebels and therefore they should have hanged.

This back-and-forth about slavery vs. states’ rights has been going on since before the war, so we’re not really going to settle it at a New Orleans press conference. I’ll just make two points and then let it go. The reason they were called states instead of provinces or territories is that federalism wasn’t accepted by 1861, and most people in the South—like Lee—had more loyalty to their own state than they did to the Union. A Georgian wouldn’t think of living in South Carolina. The border between Louisiana and Texas, which had recently been a nation, practically required a passport. They did fight against the idea of a united states because they regarded themselves as self-sufficient mini-nations—but so did Illinois and Maine. Many people believed that the right to secede was inherent in the original pact. Many Californians believe the same thing today.

My second point is that both sides always exaggerated the nobility of their cause. The South was embarrassed by the fact that its economy relied so totally on the ownership of human beings, and so they liked to clothe their arguments in high-minded political ideals—and elaborate statuary. The North, which had become industrialized and no longer needed slaves in 1861, forgave the states like Delaware that still used slaves, while stereotyping all Southerners as barbaric—and preserved their moral superiority in elaborate statuary.

Of course it was about slavery.

Of course it was about states’ rights.

It was always about both!

Wars never have good causes—the noble motives are added later—but we have more books about the Civil War than any man can read in his lifetime, and they all agree that this brother-against-brother carnage had multiple causes that had built up over a half century.

Part 5: Alexander Stephens, Vice President of the Confederacy, was a horrible racist who told us the true meaning of the Civil War in his “cornerstone” speech.

The reason the mayor is quoting the Confederate vice president is that he couldn’t find such a quote from the president—whose statue was also removed last week—or any of the generals. Alexander Stephens was a weak Georgian who went from friendship with Lincoln, opposition to secession, moderation on slavery, to a sort of Ted Cruz role handling the propaganda of the Confederacy once the war started.

Advice for future mayoral statements: If you’re going to mine the archives for eugenics-based racist rants, always use South Carolina, not Georgia. All the Trotskyist “Fire Eater” ideologues came from there, and I’ll even give you a research shortcut. Use the writings of William Porcher Miles, a Congressman, slave owner, and mayor of Charleston whose vile intemperate racism would embarrass even Alexander Stephens.

But now Mayor Landrieu’s speech has passed into pure demagoguery. Anybody can pull up a single quotation and say, “There! I’ve proved it! Their true colors at last!” You still have to explain the hundreds of thousands of Southern loyalists who owned no slaves, had no ties to the cotton or sugar industries, yet chose to bear arms under the banners of the Confederacy and their home states.

Parts 6–10: The rest of the mayor’s speech can be categorized as The Pain of My Famous Black Friends. He quotes Barack Obama. He talks about a conversation with Wynton Marsalis (“How do you explain Robert E. Lee to a child?”). He brings the great jazz trumpeter Terence Blanchard into the mix. He doesn’t want any black person to ever drive by a Confederate monument because it represents a “dark time,” something that was “wrong,” celebrating “men who fought to destroy the country,” reminding us once again that these are “symbols of white supremacy.” He wants to “reclaim these spaces for the United States of America…instead of revering a four-year brief historical aberration that was called the Confederacy.”

And then he says a very strange thing.

“We should stop for a moment and ask ourselves—at this point in our history—after Katrina, after Rita, after Ike, after Gustav, after the national recession, after the BP oil catastrophe, and after the tornado—if presented with the opportunity to build monuments that told our story or to curate these particular spaces…would these monuments be what we want the world to see? Is this really our story?”

Is Mayor Landrieu really suggesting monuments to tornados, economic disasters, oil spills, and hurricanes? I don’t think he is, but I’m not sure what he does want to celebrate. Whatever it is, wouldn’t it be possible to celebrate it without New South Iconoclasm? He uses the word “curate.” Is he the master curator, a Soviet-style Minister of Public Statuary? We don’t really live in an era where marble and bronze are used to commemorate things—which is why these sculptures are rare. There’s a point at which art becomes worthwhile not for the person or event venerated but for the beauty and craft of the object itself. Do we really care who Antinous was when we look at Roman statues carved in his likeness?

And by the way, when politicians start carting off works of art, don’t you normally have thousands of museum curators and art history majors and First Amendment libertarians mobilizing in protest? The silence from the official art world is deafening at a time when specialists could be especially helpful in describing the ironic details in some of these sculptures. For example, the Confederate soldier in Old Town Alexandria, by the Bohemian sculptor Caspar Buberl, was erected at the spot where young men enlisted for the war in 1861, but the inscription on its base is APPOMATTOX. Likewise, when Canadian sculptor John A. Wilson crafted the famous “Silent Sam” monument on the campus of the University of North Carolina, he intentionally omitted a cartridge belt so that the student-soldier’s gun can’t be fired. So much for racist triumphalism.

But since the debate is now lapsing into personal anecdote, I would like to offer a couple of my own. The only paramilitary organization I ever joined—Boy Scout Troop 145 of Little Rock, Arkansas—used to journey periodically to Shiloh National Military Park in Tennessee alongside the Boy Scout troop at the Arkansas School for the Blind. Each sighted Scout would be assigned a blind Scout, and we would take them to every monument and marker on the battlefield, either reading the inscriptions to them or guiding their hands to the raised letters. Through this process you get up close and personal with a lot of Civil War statues, monuments, mass gravesites, artillery, rosters of the dead, and plaintive official laments sent from every state in the Union.

And I can tell you that they are all somber and depressing and, even when celebrating military victory, grim. There is nothing romantic or inspiring about the Sunken Road, or the Hornet’s Nest, or the Bloody Pond, or the ravine where Confederate general Albert Sidney Johnston died after being shot off his horse, and there is no word to describe the various equestrian statues beyond “funereal.” At Shiloh the carnage was so awful that widows and family members traveled there for decades, like 9/11 families, hoping to find some trace of their lost relative. There was not even a winner in the battle. The South won the first day, the North won the second, and then both armies withdrew because the field stank of death. There were too many bodies to bury, so the Union Army tossed them into deep pits, piling them forty deep.

And all of us good Southern boys, black and white, had the same reaction: We couldn’t relate to it at all. It was a cemetery full of horror stories, played out by men as remote from our experience as Chinese warriors. The land around Shiloh Church is verdant with beautiful meadows and forests, which somehow made it more alienating and mysterious.

It took Allen Tate, in his “Ode to the Confederate Dead,” to verbalize this feeling.

     Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,
     Turn to the inscrutable infantry risin
     Demons out of the earth—they will not last.
     Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,
     Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run,
     Lost in that orient of the thick-and-fast
     You will curse the setting sun.
     Cursing only the leaves crying
     Like an old man in a storm
     You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point
     With troubled fingers to the silence which
     Smothers you, a mummy, in time.

Tate wrote the poem in 1928. It wasn’t an ode at all, of course. It was a blind empty meditation on death. He was trying to find meaning but ran up against a blank slate. He stood at the gate of the cemetery and tried to connect—and couldn’t. (By the way, there’s an extraordinary YouTube video of Tate himself reciting the entire poem in his refined Southern brogue.)

In other words, there’s a mystery at the heart of every Civil War memorial, both the Northern ones and the Southern ones, and that mystery speaks across the ensuing decades as the nation moved into modernity. These symbols of war are actually symbols of profound grief. Why does my family save the official discharge letter of my great-great-grandfather, a captain in the Confederate Army, since it’s just a hastily scribbled scrap of paper allowing him to take his horse back to Texas? Because it’s something formal and understandable, unlike the messy horror of the war itself. The Civil War was the worst event in our history. The reason most Civil War monuments are so beautiful is that they’re covering up massacres and maimings and hatreds so intense that you can’t make sense of them. We should keep these whited sepulchres. They do mean something. If we’re still in the process of figuring out what they mean, that doesn’t mean we should cart them off to the junkyard, like small-town librarians who take Huckleberry Finn off the shelves because Mark Twain used the N-word.

The mayor closes his speech with quotations from Nelson Mandela and Lincoln.

Let’s deal with the Mandela part first. Nelson Mandela was all about “truth and reconciliation.” He created a commission to forgive all, even the Alexander Stephenses of South Africa.

One of my favorite museums is the Old State House in Little Rock, where, on one wall, blown up to gargantuan size, is a famous photograph of elderly uniformed Union and Confederate soldiers, fifty years after the war, most of them sporting long beards, reaching across the stone wall at Gettysburg to shake hands. Many of them had traveled great distances, leaning on canes, to traverse one final time the ground of Pickett’s Charge, which, in Southern lore, is the Rocky of Civil War history. Ordered by Lee, carried out by Longstreet, it was a failed infantry charge against Meade’s men, after which the South was so bloodied and worn out that it was all they could do to remain on their feet until the surrender at Appomattox. That photo of “the handshake” has been known to bring people to tears, because it seemed a final act of reconciliation. Men who had faced each other at the point of bayonets now embraced at the stone wall where the bodies had been piled. When I saw the photo for the first time, I thought, “That’s when it was truly over.”




And here we are, 104 years after that photo was taken, saying, “No, those warriors were wrong to shake the hands of their Southern adversaries. Erase the memory. No forgiveness. No reconciliation for the dead white supremacists.”

And now Lincoln. It’s altogether appropriate that Mayor Landrieu would close his remarks with the Lincoln quote from his Second Inaugural Address, delivered one month before his assassination—but does he really understand the context? He cuts it off too early. Let’s hear the rest of it:

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

Charity for all, not just the North—Lincoln reaching out to Davis. Binding up wounds—reaching out to Lee. Forgiveness. Hope. And this coming right after General Sherman’s March to the Sea, when the entire South was in psychic shock.

“We have devoured the land,” wrote Sherman to his wife. “All the people retire before us and desolation is behind. To realize what war is, one should follow our tracks.”

Rufus Mead, a Union soldier from Connecticut, recalled the march to Savannah even more clearly: “We had a glorious old tramp right through the heart of the state [of Georgia], rioted and feasted on the country, destroyed all the RR, in short found a rich and overflowing country filled with cattle, hogs, sheep and fowls, corn, sweet potatoes, and syrup, but left a barren waste for miles on either side of the road, burnt millions of dollars of property, wasted and destroyed all the eatables we couldn’t carry off and brought the war to the doors of the Georgians so effectively, I guess they will long remember the Yankees.”

And yes, they do remember. In New York there’s an impressive golden monument to Sherman at the southeast corner of Central Park—across from the Plaza Hotel and the Apple Store—that was sculpted by Augustus Saint-Gaudens. A native of Savannah, or Atlanta, or Macon, or the little town of Rome, Georgia, which was burned to the ground by Sherman’s men, might have trouble walking past it or explaining it to his children. I try to avoid it myself. Any Southerner acquainted with history probably regards Sherman as a sadist and a war criminal, since his depredations were all ordered after Chickamauga and after the last defenses of Atlanta had already fallen. When the Sherman Monument started to show signs of age in the ’80s, the city came up with the money to regild the statue and replace a palm frond and a sword that had been removed. There was no discussion of Sherman’s life, military career, the justice of his actions, or anything remotely political or revisionist. It was regarded as art for art’s sake.

And that’s as it should be. It’s a statue. It’s part of history. Herschel Gower, my Southern literature professor, sometimes mused about why there was so much admiration for Robert E. Lee but no movie about him. “There were no rough edges,” he concluded. “No fatal flaw. He followed duty always, even when it went against his own nature.” He opposed secession, he opposed taking up arms against his classmates at West Point, he didn’t want to make enemies of the same officers he had served with for 32 years, he admired Lincoln—but he felt his duty was to the state of Virginia. He spent the last days of the war trying to acquire statistics that would prove the superiority of the Union Army in terms of matériel and manpower—so that his men could at least have the cold comfort of knowing that their ability to fight was not in question, they were simply outmanned. At Appomattox, Grant allowed the rebels to keep their sidearms, so apparently he agreed. There are many morally repellent Southerners who took part in the Civil War. Robert E. Lee is not one of them.

I understand why a New York mob destroyed the statue of George III in Bowling Green on July 9, 1776. I understand why the people of Prague destroyed the granite monument to Stalin in 1962. I understand why, in the fever of war, the enemy’s flags and standards are desecrated. But why today? Why now? Would anyone today demand the removal of, say, the statue of the tyrannical peg-legged Peter Stuyvesant, ruler of New Amsterdam, that stands in the park off lower Second Avenue? Believe me, he did plenty to deserve it.

We want to wipe out the monuments of a century and a half ago because of some vague political point about racism? The New Orleans City Council certainly has the right to do that, and apparently the usual voices decrying the destruction of books and art works are failing to come forward in this case, but the mayor and his friends should know the precedent they’re setting. By confining these images to the scrap heap, you make the handshake of 1913 of no effect.

When Mullah Mohammed Omar gave the order to destroy the Buddhas of Bamiyan, he made a curious statement. He said, “I didn’t want to do it.” International aid workers kept showing up in the region in order to protect the monuments, while all around them living people were starving and dying—so he gave the order because he was morally appalled that anyone could value antiquities over living human beings. In New Orleans we have the reverse. No one is trying to save the antiquities, and no one is suffering because of the statues, but the mayor and city council say, “We do want to do it.” What occurred there was simply an act of vandalism to strike a blow against a minority group that is today out of fashion.

Mullah Omar had a better reason than Mitch Landrieu.

From Taki’s Magazine (June 8, 2017)

Also See: They Can Tear Down Statues, But They Could Never Build A Country and The Condemnation Of Memory.

5 comments:

  1. "There’s a feeling in many civilizations that rebels—especially when the rebels are related by blood—deserve some measure of respect."

    The Great Compromise in the aftermath of the American Civil War. The southerner agreed it was better the United States remained whole. And the northerner agreed the south had fought bravely and honorably for their cause. Seems right to me.

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    1. "There’s a feeling in many civilizations that rebels—especially when the rebels are related by blood—deserve some measure of respect."

      Radical leftists can't ever afford to give respect to their enemies, not even after they're dead, because for Radical Leftists the war is never really over.

      Delete
  2. Jefferson Davis incarcerated in the aftermath of the war and finally being released after his bail of $100,000 paid by northerners. Half of those northerners paying the bail money men who during the war had been ardent abolitionists.

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    1. Mandeville, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans, is only about 40 miles from Beauvoir, Jefferson Davis's home on the Mississippi gulf coast after he got out of prison.

      "On November 6, 1889, Jefferson left Beauvoir to visit his plantation at Brierfield. While in New Orleans, he was caught in a sleety rain, and on the steamboat trip upriver, he had a severe cold; on November 13 he left Brierfield to return to New Orleans. Varina Davis, who had taken another boat to Brierfield, met him on the river, and he finally received some medical care; two doctors came aboard further south and found he had acute bronchitis complicated by malaria. They arrived in New Orleans three days later, and he was taken to the home of Charles Erasmus Fenner, an Associate Justice of the Louisiana Supreme Court. Davis remained in bed but was stable for the next two weeks; however, he took a turn for the worse in early December. Just when he appeared to be improving, he lost consciousness on the evening of December 5 and died at 12:45 a.m. on Friday, December 6, 1889, in the presence of several friends and with his hand in Varina's. His funeral was one of the largest in the South.

      Davis was first entombed at the Army of Northern Virginia tomb at Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans. In 1893, Mrs. Davis decided to have his remains reinterred at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond. After the remains were exhumed in New Orleans, they lay for a day at Memorial Hall of the newly organized Louisiana Historical Association, with many mourners passing by the casket, including Governor Murphy J. Foster, Sr. The body was placed on a Louisville and Nashville Railroad car and transported to Richmond, Virginia. A continuous cortège, day and night, accompanied his body from New Orleans to Richmond.
      He is interred at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond.
      (Wikipedia)

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  3. "Wars never have good causes—the noble motives are added later—but we have more books about the Civil War than any man can read in his lifetime, and they all agree that this brother-against-brother carnage had multiple causes that had built up over a half century."

    Almost all wars have a multiplicity of reasons for having been fought. Some reason or reasons often predominant. And dynamic change exists during a war too. Reasons and motivations for continuing the fight those predominant factors subject to reappraisal. Historians themselves often have a hard time with enunciating factors for a war having been fought with absolute certainty.

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