News broke recently that at least four US senators sold off millions of dollars in overhanging stock just before the Wuhan virus tore the stuffing out of global markets. One of the senators, Kelly Loeffler (R-GA)—whose husband happens to be the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange—sold her shares just moments after she received a briefing from Pres. Trump’s Coronavirus Task Force. With timing that only an establishment politician could pull off, Loeffler dumped her assets before the ensuing bloodbath on the trading floor.
Another of the senators was Dianne Feinstein, apologist for Tiananmen Square and friend of the Butcher of Tibet, harvested-organ entrepreneur Jiang Zemin. Feinstein got in early on the China game, tying her early political fortunes to Jiang and his Shanghai cronies. (Let us remember that the verb “to shanghai” is not an anomaly—Shanghai has long been one of the most corrupt cities in the world.) Feinstein’s husband, Richard Blum, rode the coattails of his wife’s Sinophilia to the tune of some 160 million dollars for his hedge fund. Feinstein herself hosted an honest-to-goodness PRC spy in her office for almost twenty years. Russell Lowe, who now works for another pro-PRC organization in the Bay Area (sorry that that doesn’t narrow it down), was just one of many “China hands” that passed through the Feinstein-Blum trap door into the underbelly of the Chinese Communist Party.
In these stock selloffs by American politicians we see, of course, the very essence of globalism. Senators who gorge themselves on cash and dividends accruing from their kowtowing to the world’s only remaining slave power—the powerful and rich who once had most of the world convinced that globalization was the key to future prosperity—are utterly insulated from the consequences of their sycophancy. You might be worried about catching coronavirus and dying. Globalman is worried about whether he can write off his lunch meeting with his broker as a business expense.
Globalman cries connectivity, but is the first to bug out when the chips fall. “Globalization,” it turns out, is total exposure to risk for most of us, and immunity from it for the global elite. How insular is this strange creature, globalman! Pace John Donne, globalman is an island. (And when the bell tolls, it tolls for schmucks like us, unemployed while globalman decides at which home to ride out the market froth.)
Consider how this pattern holds for other globalists. Tom Cruise, who appeased the Simon Legrees in Xinjiang by removing a Taiwanese flag from his flight jacket in the sad, cheesy remake of Top Gun due out this year, isn’t going to be going without a ventilator if he happens to catch the bug that his artistic censors unleashed on mankind. Cruise makes upwards of 25 million dollars a film. Don’t expect to see him in an emergency room in the Mississippi Delta anytime soon.
The NBA, too, is parasitic on China, and its members are almost as insulated from the costs of doing business with a dictatorship as are other globalmen. Everyone will remember that last year Lebron James, whose ancestors were slaves, could not bring himself to criticize a government that operates Muslim reeducation plantations after one lone and clueless truth-teller in the NBA organization tweeted a solitary message of support for Hong Kong. This season, it was only after a Utah Jazz player tested positive that the game he was at that moment playing in was cancelled and the rest of the NBA season put on hold. The league had no scruples about packing tens of thousands of ticket-buying rubes into a stadium and exposing them to potential plague death—it was only when the fillies were in peril that the races were called off.
And Eric Schmidt, whose Google helped the PRC perfect its mass surveillance and control techniques, will himself never have to be “sent to the countryside” or reeducated in Marxist-Leninist-Maoist Thought in a cowshed in rural Yunnan. He will be cashing in on China for the rest of his earthly days (all bets are off after that, though, Eric). He will never even have to bother learning the names of the countless Chinese people who have been disappeared because of technology Google provided the PRC.
The same goes for Pope Francis—a reporter should ask him to name even one Chinese Christian who is in a Chinese jail—or grave—for his or her faith. Or maybe it’s racist to point out that every Catholic in China persecuted because of Francis’ disastrous China policy is Chinese?
This is all a study in the strange, insular life of globalman. No one who profits from the China Trade, none of the compradors who broker access to the huge, and unfree, Chinese market, will ever have to lose a loved one to a fentanyl overdose in lowly West Virginia. Globalman will not have to choose between food and rent in a midwestern town left barren after the factory jobs went to Wuhan and the only thing that came back was pandemic. The Vatican can preach up and down about the glories of the socialist life in China, but the cardinals and archbishops get to go back to their piazzas in the Eternal City once their conference in Shenzhen is finished. It’s the bishops and priests and faithful left behind who aren’t quite so lucky.
Carlos Ghosn, Davosman himself, who threw working stiffs out onto the streets in half a dozen countries, is even insulated from justice. When things started looking bad for him in the prosecutor’s office, he simply hired some former Green Berets, slipped onto the bullet train, stowed away on an airplane, and went back to his pied a terre in Beirut. (You have a pied a terre in Lebanon, too—don’t you?)
Or, as the eternal footman of globalman, Kevin D. Williamson, once advised those who had lost work in the heartland: “Get off your asses and go find a job.” (Williamson then compared the gutted-out rustbelt to “Stonehenge”. Globalman visits Stonehenge—only smelly Druids ever actually lived there. Someone pass Williamson the caviar. Or perhaps a pair of binoculars so he can gawk at the schlemiels from the National Review office in Manhattan.)
What this global pandemic is showing us is that those who cheered loudest for globalism, those who stood to make a killing from the ideology, were those who were never going to have to pay the price if any of it fell flat. With bitter irony, the Wuhan virus has hit everyone—except those who yelped the lustiest for “interconnectivity,” those who are now walled off and masked in and hunkered down while the pestilential air of the working class blows through the globalized world for a spell.
Globalman is an island, you see. Nothing that troubles the rest of us can touch him. If you want someone to kiss lepers in Molokai, bathe gutter dwellers in Calcutta, or die at your bedside, as the heroic priests in Italy are dying today when the disease that the globalists’ favorite country unleashed on the world is laying the hoi polloi low, then you’re going to need the Catholic Church. God willing, this virulent scourge will teach us the difference between the false religion of globalism, and the true one, whose universalism leaves globalism in the dust.
--Jason Morgan is associate professor at Reitaku University in Kashiwa, Japan