What made Bashir’s name a household word was a sensational November, 1995 interview with Princess Diana for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). During that interview, Bashir was able to obtain salacious bits of information about Diana’s private life, how she had been betrayed by her husband and his rather frowsy mistress. The interview rocked the British establishment and probably contributed significantly to Diana’s later divorce from her philandering tormentor, Prince Charles.
But that was only the beginning. An interlocked chain of events, inseparable from Bashir’s famous interview, was Diana’s spiral into mental health trouble. After her heart had been broken, Diana went on a wild rebound binge with a series of flashy foreign paramours. This was like catnip to the British press, and it led to her murder—it is the right word—in a suburban Paris tunnel as she and her latest boyfriend were fleeing from the so-called paparazzi, the bottom-feeding photo jackals who supply Martin Bashir and his associates with the images fueling the establishment media’s routinized destruction of lives.
How did Bashir obtain the interview in the first place with the famously private princess? He tricked her. Bashir got a low-level graphic design artist to forge bank statements “proving” that people in Diana’s circle had been spying on her and getting paid for their information. Bashir used these forgeries as a passe-partout to gain the confidence of Diana and those close to her. He showed total disregard for who Diana was as a person. He merely used her to get his face on TV. He preyed on her, turning her suffering into his gain.
Anthony Fauci, who is not a journalist but who plays many journalists on TV, is perhaps the best example of an authentic-living platitude dispenser.
Diana’s murder by the mainstream media shocked the world, and scarred her two sons, the princes William and Harry. William, the man who would be king, was likely saved by the burden of the duties that awaited him. He buckled down and lived in stoic anticipation of the curse of kingship that would one day be his. His younger brother, though, was not so lucky. In any country or age, an auxiliary prince is a celebrated spare, and even though Harry distinguished himself by his military service he seemed to live forever half in the photographs of him at his mother’s funeral. He did not have the sense-clearing responsibilities that rested increasingly on William’s shoulders. Harry was still very much a boy when Diana was killed, and the events of that awful summer trapped him like amber in that moment in time. William recovered, but it is likely that Harry never did.
But as with Bashir and the paparazzi, one predatory act always leads to another. Later, after a youth of the usual royal carousing, Harry met the downmarket Hollywood starlet Meghan Markle. Markle had followed in the footsteps of so many high-functioning American nihilists before her: she’d gone into the movie business. Chasing after the same ephemeral fame that the paparazzi who killed Diana peddled to the daily papers and nightly TV shows, Markle—the Anne Boleyn of the twenty-first century—saw damaged goods with a nevertheless remarkably good pedigree and went in for the kill.
Others tried to warn Harry that he was in over his head. William, above all, apparently tried to dissuade his younger brother from falling into the Markle trap. But sensitive young men in love will not heed the voice of reason. And scheming young women know just how to keep the blindness going. Meghan had, and has, a talent for making every situation all about herself, and even from the beginning of her and Harry’s courtship it was obvious that she was spinning a gigantic web of self-centered disinformation and melodrama in which to ensnare her target.
After she had gotten Harry to the altar, it was only a matter of time before she made him all her own. She finished what the paparazzi had started more than two decades before. She finally destroyed what semblance of a normal family life Harry had. Coasting on innuendo and accusations, Markle spirited Harry away to the place whither every empty-headed, black-hearted, fame-hungry, fresh-faced trainwreck aspires: California. Meghan preyed on Harry and finally succeeded in luring him to a place where not even his older brother would be able to protect him.
He helped fund gain-of-function research at the Wuhan laboratory where the pandemic was handmade. Then he lied about it, and also lied about lockdowns and masks and vaccines while literally billions of people around the world lost wages, sleep, and in many cases their lives. Fauci is a very rich man.
But that was not the end of things, either. Harry was always the means. Like his mother before him, he was now also the prey. Meghan Markle’s true triumph came in early 2021, when she and Harry sat down with Oprah Winfrey, one of California’s most accomplished predators of all time. Meghan fed on Harry’s weakness and made herself strong, and Oprah in turn feasted on Meghan and made herself even wealthier than she already was. It was a patently Jurassic food chain on display there in the expensive outdoor furniture in the California sun: Harry on the bottom, Meghan in the middle, and Oprah at the top. There was a big payday for Meghan, too, to be sure. But nobody seemed to notice the sad irony of Harry’s having been thrice martyred to rapacious journalists. First there was Bashir. Then there was the paparazzi in France. Then there was the Queen of Talk, letting Meghan throw Harry’s storied family—Harry’s grandmother, a real queen, came of age in an England being bombarded by the Luftwaffe—on the bonfire of Californian vanities. All of this, Meghan intoned, was for the sake of “living authentically”.
Media parasites are hardly the only problem. Preying on others and calling it “authenticity” or some other reheated platitude is what elites around the world have long been doing. Letting the weak die so the woke can prosper is precisely what is meant by “globalism,” after all. Anthony Fauci, who is not a journalist but who plays many journalists on TV, is perhaps the best example of an authentic-living platitude dispenser. He helped fund gain-of-function research at the Wuhan laboratory where the pandemic was handmade. Then he lied about it, and also lied about lockdowns and masks and vaccines while literally billions of people around the world lost wages, sleep, and in many cases their lives. Fauci is a very rich man. Semi-literate day laborers in a favela in Rio? Not so much. But who cares about them? We could follow the woke playbook and “say their names,” but we don’t know their names. Sharks, by the same logic, do not ask seals to introduce themselves before gorging on their flesh. Surely Fauci has a standing invitation to Aspen and Davos and six dozen townhouses in Washington.
We do not have to spend our lives preying on one another and then cashing fat checks in exchange. There is an alternative: the Catholic Church.
This is the world in which we live. But it does not have to be this way. We do not have to spend our lives preying on one another and then cashing fat checks in exchange. There is an alternative: the Catholic Church.
In a Christian society, men and women are taught to curb the old Adam and strive to be like the New. Holy priests and religious model the humble life fighting the world, the flesh, and the devil. At Mass we hear “Let us pray,” and we know to bow our heads and beg God to have mercy on us, miserable sinners. The rhythms of the Christian year sink into our bones and lead us, failure by failure, toward the Light. Let us pray for charity, we think when we are Christians, that we might love our neighbor as ourselves. Let us pray for faith, that we might render our wretched lives over to the good God Who loved us into existence. Let us pray for hope, that we might not give in to the blandishments of the moment or take the easy way out, but might instead persevere in what is right and just, and put Heaven before this fallen demi-hell of “authentic individuals” shrieking about their virtue. Let us pray.
In a globalist society, however, there is no society at all. “Let us prey” is the only law. Where someone is weak, let us surround and bludgeon him. Let us see others as rungs on the ladder to the top. Where a brother or sister is hurting, let us use that to our advantage. Let us stuff our bank accounts with the money that flows in when we conform to the world instead of fighting it. Let us worship the flesh. Let us have sympathy for the devil. Let us teach our children to say his name, in after-school programs where they learn how power and domination really work. Let us prey.
And when we grow bored of the bloodsport, or else feel that we might not be cut out for such horrors after all, let us turn on the TV, where the Martin Bashirs of the world—they are legion, they throng studios and newsrooms from Beijing to London to Times Square—tell us that prayer is for bigots, and that power is all that really matters in the end. Kill or be killed. The jungle legislates for all.
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But in this vision of hell especially we can see the hard fact of our existence. There is no way around the dichotomy. Like space-time, the very fabric of creation is suffused with the choice: Christ, or chaos? Globalists of every stripe—creepy be-sweatered globalists like Bill Gates or be-robed globalists like Pope Francis—try to incense their true god with the smoke of silky words. Inclusion, diversity, ecology, sustainability, authenticity, tolerance, “reset.” But none of these things are Jesus. We cannot have it both ways. Jesus calls us to mortify our flesh, fast and do penance, kneel in reverence, bend in supplication. Jesus does not want us to stand in the public square and crow about living authentically. God does not need our excuses. He needs only our penitent hearts.
Let us pray means let us stop posing, let us meet God on the pride-blasting ground of eternal Truth. By contrast, let us prey is the worldly creed. We can choose to live like devils. It is in fact the easiest thing in the world. But no number of fine-sounding phrases will ever close the gulf that opens when we make that terrible choice. The world, the flesh, the devil, and for long years now even the Vatican have proffered a Christless existence. Francis’ very pontificate is predicated upon the idea.
In the headlines of the day—this day, and every other—we see the choice laid bare. We can prey, or pray. Martin Bashir still has the choice: a life of penance henceforward for a life of predation heretofore.
I have the choice, too. So do you.
--Jason Morgan is associate professor at Reitaku University in Kashiwa, Japan.
Watch Jason Morgan's talk from the Tokyo Conference: