An Editorial
2004-09-16, 4:41 p.m.

I had to post this editorial. It's one of the best things I've read in weeks.

International Herald Tribune

PARIS As a 10-year-old in Saigon in 1964, I had only a child's understanding of my father's work. I was just a foreign service brat. He was a development economist for the U.S. government, and we were in Vietnam to help the Vietnamese build roads, schools, hospitals and things like that.

.

My parents asked us, the Doggett kids, to consider ourselves "little ambassadors" and to behave accordingly. That urging rankled some of my siblings, but I always took it to heart: as a little ambassador of my country, I was to incarnate America's good will toward the world, and, yes, its values of freedom, justice and democracy.

.

"Counterinsurgency" - another project with which the U.S. government was assisting the South Vietnamese - was too big a word for me, but monks immolating themselves on street corners, and the multiplying Viet Cong attacks on American targets, were all too real. Eventually, in early 1965, we were evacuated along with hundreds of other "nonessential" American civilians. We went to Bangkok, which became the fourth of my five childhood homes abroad.

.

At the time, "The Ugly American," first published in 1958, had become a best seller for its expos� of American arrogance, incompetence and corruption in Southeast Asia.

.

In my pre-teen mind, we Doggetts, and other overseas Americans like us, were the antidote to the "ugly american." People like us embraced foreign cultures and languages, and made local friends while helping in development, trade or exchange projects.

.

Today I find myself an expatriate once again. I have lived in Paris since 1992, working as a journalist. I have had few illusions about the enduring ravages of the "ugly american," but when the horrors of the abuses of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib came to light, I knew a dangerous corner had been turned, and irrevocably.

.

I could not stop crying over the betrayal I felt at the sight of those pictures of American soldiers - who had ostensibly been sent to liberate Iraq - torturing and humiliating its people. How did this come to pass? What kind of monster has my country become? Is the "ugly american" the only face left of the American citizen abroad?

.

Then came New York. I went to the Big Apple to celebrate my 50th birthday in style. Instead of taking a champagne cruise or performing a sky dive, I wanted to do something meaningful: take part in the demonstrations against President George W. Bush during the Republican National Convention.

.

I marched joyfully with half a million others on Aug. 29, my birthday. I took part in related events the next day.

.

It was on Aug. 31 that things turned nasty. More than 1,500 protesters were arrested in a preplanned, highly organized police operation, and I found myself in the slammer for 28 hours.

.

The vast majority of the arrests were unlawful - we were herded into police snares and not allowed to disperse, though my charge sheet stated that we refused to disperse. We were held in crowded, unsanitary conditions at Pier 57 and the Central Booking Office, many for well beyond the statutory 24 hours.

.

My French friends here in Paris were alternately amused and amazed by my story. My affectionate nickname, "L'Americaine," has changed to "La Prisonni�re." But my personal shift has been from "little ambassador" to "political exile."

.

I can simply no longer see myself representing a country that would so blatantly trample on the rights of hundreds of free-speechers, let alone wage a senseless war that has shattered the lives of countless defenseless Iraqis.

.

Gina Doggett works as a news agency journalist in Paris. PARIS As a 10-year-old in Saigon in 1964, I had only a child's understanding of my father's work. I was just a foreign service brat. He was a development economist for the U.S. government, and we were in Vietnam to help the Vietnamese build roads, schools, hospitals and things like that.

.

My parents asked us, the Doggett kids, to consider ourselves "little ambassadors" and to behave accordingly. That urging rankled some of my siblings, but I always took it to heart: as a little ambassador of my country, I was to incarnate America's good will toward the world, and, yes, its values of freedom, justice and democracy.

.

"Counterinsurgency" - another project with which the U.S. government was assisting the South Vietnamese - was too big a word for me, but monks immolating themselves on street corners, and the multiplying Viet Cong attacks on American targets, were all too real. Eventually, in early 1965, we were evacuated along with hundreds of other "nonessential" American civilians. We went to Bangkok, which became the fourth of my five childhood homes abroad.

.

At the time, "The Ugly American," first published in 1958, had become a best seller for its expos� of American arrogance, incompetence and corruption in Southeast Asia.

.

In my pre-teen mind, we Doggetts, and other overseas Americans like us, were the antidote to the "ugly american." People like us embraced foreign cultures and languages, and made local friends while helping in development, trade or exchange projects.

.

Today I find myself an expatriate once again. I have lived in Paris since 1992, working as a journalist. I have had few illusions about the enduring ravages of the "ugly american," but when the horrors of the abuses of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib came to light, I knew a dangerous corner had been turned, and irrevocably.

.

I could not stop crying over the betrayal I felt at the sight of those pictures of American soldiers - who had ostensibly been sent to liberate Iraq - torturing and humiliating its people. How did this come to pass? What kind of monster has my country become? Is the "ugly american" the only face left of the American citizen abroad?

.

Then came New York. I went to the Big Apple to celebrate my 50th birthday in style. Instead of taking a champagne cruise or performing a sky dive, I wanted to do something meaningful: take part in the demonstrations against President George W. Bush during the Republican National Convention.

.

I marched joyfully with half a million others on Aug. 29, my birthday. I took part in related events the next day.

.

It was on Aug. 31 that things turned nasty. More than 1,500 protesters were arrested in a preplanned, highly organized police operation, and I found myself in the slammer for 28 hours.

.

The vast majority of the arrests were unlawful - we were herded into police snares and not allowed to disperse, though my charge sheet stated that we refused to disperse. We were held in crowded, unsanitary conditions at Pier 57 and the Central Booking Office, many for well beyond the statutory 24 hours.

.

My French friends here in Paris were alternately amused and amazed by my story. My affectionate nickname, "L'Americaine," has changed to "La Prisonni�re." But my personal shift has been from "little ambassador" to "political exile."

.

I can simply no longer see myself representing a country that would so blatantly trample on the rights of hundreds of free-speechers, let alone wage a senseless war that has shattered the lives of countless defenseless Iraqis.

.

Gina Doggett works as a news agency journalist in Paris. PARIS As a 10-year-old in Saigon in 1964, I had only a child's understanding of my father's work. I was just a foreign service brat. He was a development economist for the U.S. government, and we were in Vietnam to help the Vietnamese build roads, schools, hospitals and things like that.

.

My parents asked us, the Doggett kids, to consider ourselves "little ambassadors" and to behave accordingly. That urging rankled some of my siblings, but I always took it to heart: as a little ambassador of my country, I was to incarnate America's good will toward the world, and, yes, its values of freedom, justice and democracy.

.

"Counterinsurgency" - another project with which the U.S. government was assisting the South Vietnamese - was too big a word for me, but monks immolating themselves on street corners, and the multiplying Viet Cong attacks on American targets, were all too real. Eventually, in early 1965, we were evacuated along with hundreds of other "nonessential" American civilians. We went to Bangkok, which became the fourth of my five childhood homes abroad.

.

At the time, "The Ugly American," first published in 1958, had become a best seller for its expos� of American arrogance, incompetence and corruption in Southeast Asia.

.

In my pre-teen mind, we Doggetts, and other overseas Americans like us, were the antidote to the "ugly american." People like us embraced foreign cultures and languages, and made local friends while helping in development, trade or exchange projects.

.

Today I find myself an expatriate once again. I have lived in Paris since 1992, working as a journalist. I have had few illusions about the enduring ravages of the "ugly american," but when the horrors of the abuses of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib came to light, I knew a dangerous corner had been turned, and irrevocably.

.

I could not stop crying over the betrayal I felt at the sight of those pictures of American soldiers - who had ostensibly been sent to liberate Iraq - torturing and humiliating its people. How did this come to pass? What kind of monster has my country become? Is the "ugly american" the only face left of the American citizen abroad?

.

Then came New York. I went to the Big Apple to celebrate my 50th birthday in style. Instead of taking a champagne cruise or performing a sky dive, I wanted to do something meaningful: take part in the demonstrations against President George W. Bush during the Republican National Convention.

.

I marched joyfully with half a million others on Aug. 29, my birthday. I took part in related events the next day.

.

It was on Aug. 31 that things turned nasty. More than 1,500 protesters were arrested in a preplanned, highly organized police operation, and I found myself in the slammer for 28 hours.

.

The vast majority of the arrests were unlawful - we were herded into police snares and not allowed to disperse, though my charge sheet stated that we refused to disperse. We were held in crowded, unsanitary conditions at Pier 57 and the Central Booking Office, many for well beyond the statutory 24 hours.

.

My French friends here in Paris were alternately amused and amazed by my story. My affectionate nickname, "L'Americaine," has changed to "La Prisonni�re." But my personal shift has been from "little ambassador" to "political exile."

.

I can simply no longer see myself representing a country that would so blatantly trample on the rights of hundreds of free-speechers, let alone wage a senseless war that has shattered the lives of countless defenseless Iraqis.

.

Gina Doggett works as a news agency journalist in Paris.

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