Thursday, February 19, 2026

Review by Bill Doughty

“There is no such thing as a naval dictatorship.”


Those are the words of George Orwell in his essay “England Your England,” written February 19, 1941, shortly after the United States entered the Second World War along with its Allies against Fascism and totalitarianism.


No naval power, he contended, could survive as an authoritarian dictatorship.


Orwell’s words are within the context of England as the world’s imperial superpower of its time, as well as his observations about his countrymen. Orwell addresses the English people’s ambivalence toward waging war, with many actively against serving in the military.


“After all, the English have absorbed a quarter of the earth and held on to it by means of a huge navy,” he writes. “How dare they then turn round and say that war is wicked?”

“It is quite true that the English are hypocritical about their Empire. In the working class this hypocrisy takes the form of not knowing that the Empire exists. But their dislike of standing armies is a perfectly sound instinct. A navy employs comparatively few people, and it is an external weapon which cannot affect home politics directly. Military dictatorships exist everywhere, but there is no such thing as a naval dictatorship. What English people of nearly all classes loathe from the bottom of their hearts is the swaggering officer type, the jingle of spurs and the crash of boots.”

One can imagine what Orwell would say about masked paramilitary agents acting as a “standing army” asking for citizens for identification, separating families, terrorizing children, beating people in the streets, and worse. 


He was clear about his disdain for thuggish bullying behavior in the name of law and order, especially ostentatious shows of force, including goose-stepping parades.

“Decades before Hitler was ever heard of, the word 'Prussian' had much the same significance in England as 'Nazi' has today. So deep does this feeling go that for a hundred years past the officers of the British army, in peace-time, have always worn civilian clothes when off duty.

One rapid but fairly sure guide to the social atmosphere of a country is the parade-step of its army. A military parade is really a kind of ritual dance, something like a ballet, expressing a certain philosophy of life. The goose-step, for instance, is one of the most horrible sights in the world, far more terrifying than a dive-bomber. It is simply an affirmation of naked power; contained in it, quite consciously and intentionally, is the vision of a boot crashing down on a face. Its ugliness is part of its essence, for what it is saying is 'Yes, I am ugly, and you daren't laugh at me,' like the bully who makes faces at his victim. Why is the goose-step not used in England? There are, heaven knows, plenty of army officers Who would be only too glad to introduce some such thing. It is not used because the people in the street would laugh. Beyond a certain point, military display is only possible in countries where the common people dare not laugh at the army.”

Dictators and would-be dictators hate to be laughed at.


Common traits of autocrats include attacking critics, rewriting history, subverting the judiciary, worshipping themselves, interfering in elections, and accumulating wealth through corruption.


Dictators also embrace the power of patriotism and promote nationalist “patriots” with misplaced loyalty to the Leader. Witness the attempted coup of January 6, 2021 at the United States Capitol and pardoned participants, including violent extremists who brutalized law enforcement personnel.




Absolution from Evil

Orwell’s “England Your England” essay opens with a powerful image as German bombers attacked Great Britain:

“As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me.

They do not feel any enmity against me as [an] individual, nor I against them. They are ‘only doing their duty’ as the saying goes. Most of them, I have no doubt, are kind-hearted law-abiding men who would never dream of committing murder in private life. On the other hand, if one of them succeeds in blowing me to pieces with a well-placed bomb, he will never sleep any the worse for it. He is serving his country, which has the power to absolve him from evil.

One cannot see the modern world as it is unless one recognizes the overwhelming strength of patriotism, national loyalty. In certain circumstances it can break down, at certain levels of civilization it does not exist, but as a positive force there is nothing to set beside it. Christianity and international Socialism are as weak as straw in comparison with it. Hitler and Mussolini rose to power in their own countries very largely because they could grasp this fact and their opponents could not.”

Orwell would say the right kind of patriotism relies on truth, justice, accountability, and respect for the law and the people of a nation.


He questioned authority but wore a variety of uniforms to defend freedom and liberty. As a military officer, he demonstrated his commitment to serve with humility, kindness, and compassion –– characteristics of the best members of the military or in law enforcement.


Orwell’s gift for self-reflection is clear in two other essays, “A Hanging” and “Shooting an Elephant.” In A Hanging, Orwell witnesses in stunning detail the hanging of a prisoner and considers the reality of purposefully ending another human’s life. In Shooting an Elephant, he reflects on his time as a police officer serving in then-Burma, where the local population, even the Buddhist priests, openly rejected his presence.


“In Moulmein, in Lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people –– the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me,” he writes. He was openly jeered, mocked, and disrespected, much like ICE and Border Patrol agents are treated today in American cities.



Baited and Hated


“As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so,” Orwell writes.

“All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically –– and secretly, of course  –– I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters.

The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been flogged with bamboos—all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it.

All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible.”

Orwell opposed the monarchy but later came to respect figurehead leaders as a control –– denying power from runaway politicians who would subvert the people’s will in a democracy. He would most certainly applaud calls for accountability and justice as relates to the "Epstein Class."


What would he say about the arrest today of Britain’s former Prince Andrew? 


Andrew, who is accused of passing confidential information to convicted pedophile Jeffrey Epstein,  is a Royal Navy veteran who served in the Falklands. (He is brother to King Charles III and the youngest son of a Royal Navy hero, Prince Phillip, who fought in World War II and was present for Japan’s surrender in Tokyo Bay aboard USS Missouri (BB-63).)


Although Orwell did not serve in the Royal Navy, he saw firsthand the differences between the army and the sea services. Hence, his comment that there are no naval powers with dictatorships –– true at least during the middle of the last century.

Orwell lived in a time of great disparity between the haves and have-nots, with poor people drawn into the lower ranks of military service. His warnings about over-militarized autocracy as well as the effects of income inequality resonate with us today, nearly a century later. [More about that in the next review.]


The essays cited here are found in “George Orwell: Facing Unpleasant Facts –– Narrative Essays,” compiled with an introduction by George Packer (Harcourt Books, 2008).

Sunday, February 1, 2026

Voices

Review by Bill Doughty

Art is often created in pain.


During and after the U.S. military’s incarceration of people of Japanese ancestry in World War II, many of the prisoners created literature. Editors Frank Abe and Floyd Cheung collected some of the creations in “The Literature of Japanese American Incarceration” (Penguin Books, 2024).


Historians Abe and Cheung write:

“The literature in this volume presents the collective voice of a people defined by a specific moment in time: the four years of World War II during which the United States government expelled resident aliens and its own citizens from their homes, farms, and businesses, and incarcerated more than 125,000 of them in American concentration camps, based solely upon the race they shared with a wartime enemy…

By its own latter-day admission, the government had no military need for the mass exclusion –– acknowledging that it was driven by a mixture of race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership –– rendering the three-year incarceration that followed just as unnecessary as it was wrong.”

This valuable book brings together “many voices telling a shared story,” according to Abe and Cheung, a “struggle to retain personal integrity in the face of increasing dehumanization.”


“It’s the story of the struggle to retain personal integrity in the face of increasing dehumanization,” they write. The literature includes fiction and nonfiction; stories, narratives, and observations; a few drawings and comic strips; and various forms of poetry, some of which we include in this Navy Reads post.


Some of the poems are written in the Japanese style of haiku or tanka; some poems rhyme while others are freestyle. Some were written after detention and imprisonment; others were written in the post-traumatic months and years after the camps.



Voices from the Camps


From Portland Senryū Poets


“Resolution and Readiness, Confusion and Doubt”

Translated by Shelley Baker-Gard, Michael Freiling, and Satsuki Takikawa


By Jōnan:


for these current times

all 100,000 of us

made ready


By Mokugyo:


whatever is next ––

father has already written

his final wishes


By Jōnan:


our mother too

awaits the baby's first cry

all on edge


By Goichi:


decided now

my new destination ––

our breakup is near


By Jōnan:


at the train station

my self-control departs

and tears arrive


By Roshyou:


stay forever or return home

the decision never made ––

just too much to bear


By Sen Taro:


they never asked

suspicious or not— 

just put us away


From Fort Sill Incarceration Camp


By Otokichi (Muin) Ozaki

Translated by Jiro Nakano and Kay Nakano:


I bid farewell

To the faces of my sleeping children

As I am taken prisoner

Into the cold night rain.


Sailing on the same ship—

The son, A U.S. soldier;

His father,

A prisoner of war.


A wretching anguish rises

As the number "III"

Is painted

On my naked chest

In red.

From Sand Island and Santa Fe Incarceration Camps


By Yasutaro (Keiho) Soga

Translated by Jiro Nakano and Kay Nakano:


Like a dog

I am commanded At a bayonet point.

My heart is inflamed

With burning anguish.


A fellow prisoner

Takes his life with poison.

In the evening darkness, Streaks of black blood

Stain the camp road.


The barren wasteland

Raged by sand storm,

I weep for my friend 

Who sleeps there alone,

Eternally.



Voices After the Camps


“Topaz, Utah”

By Toyo Suyemoto:


The desert must have claimed its own

Now that the wayfarers are gone,

And silence has replaced voices

Except for intermittent noises,

Like windy footsteps through the dust,

Or gliding of a snake that must

Escape the sun, or sage rustling.

Or soft brush of a quickened wing

Against the air. — Stillness is change

For this abandoned place, where strange

And foreign tongues had routed peace

Until the refugees release

Restored calm to the wilderness,

And prairie dogs no longer fear

When shadows shift and disappear.

The crows fly straight through settling dusk,

The desert like an empty husk,

Holding the small swift sounds that run

To cover when the day is done.



“Returning Home”

By Shizue Iwatsuki

Translated by Stephen W. Kohl:


I. Going home,

Gripping my daughter's hand,

Feeling cheated,

I tell her we're leaving

Without emotion.


2. Through the car window

A glimpse of pines.

Oregon mountains.

My heart beats faster,

Returning home.


3. Four years have passed,
Returning home
Though I have no flowers to offer, 

First I visit my child's grave.


4. Evening twilight,
Mother cow chews her cud.
Beneath her
The calf dozes.


5. Home at last
At the dinner table

My husband calls my name, But lapses into silence.

His heart, too, is full.


6. He was kind to us before,

But now—the shopkeeper

Nervously refuses to serve us.


7. Hard at work
Rebuilding our life, 

To help my husband

Today I go

To buy farm tools.


8. Glancing up,
At red-tinged mountains
My heart is softened.
A day in deep autumn.


9. Pointing out the trail to the summit
He says it's steep,

But we agree to try.


10. War and change,

My native land

Once so hard to leave, 

Is behind me now forever.


11. With determination

I sign the naturalization papers.

In my hand

The pen trembles slightly.


12. A naturalized citizen now

I have the right to vote.

So today I climb

The steps of this building.


The art in this volume of literature is painted in various voices, many painful, some plaintive, all powerful. Each voice is relevant to what is happening in the United States in 2026.


Abe and Cheung write, “Many of the voices in this volume are those of protest against incarceration. Some are those of accommodation. All are authentic. Together they form an epic narrative with a singular vision of America's past, one with disturbing resonances with the American present.”