Confessions of an Economic Hit Man reveals a game that, according to John Perkins, is as old as Empire but has taken on new and terrifying. Reason and Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul. “Perkins One is intent on preserving systems The New Confessions The New Confessions of an Economic. John Perkins: The New Confessions of an Economic Hitman Description False economics. Threats, bribes, extortion. Debt, deception, coups.
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Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins, , Berrett Koehler Publishers, Inc., San Francisco edition, in English. Shocking Bestseller: The original version of this astonishing tell-all book spent 73 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, has sold more than 1. I do have an ACTIVE LINK for those who are searching so that you can get The New Confessions of an Economic Hit Man instantly and begin reading within just .
Fear and debt drive the EHM system. We are hammered with messages that terrify us into believing that we must pay any price, assume any debt, to stop the enemies who, we are told, lurk at our doorsteps. The EHM system-employing false economics, bribes, surveillance, deception, debt, coups, assassinations, unbridled military power-has become the dominant system of economics, government, and society today.
It has created what Perkins calls a Death Economy.
But Perkins offers hope: he concludes with dozens of specific, concrete suggestions for actions all of us can take to wrest control of our world away from the economic hit men, and help give birth to a Life Economy. With unflinching honesty, John Perkins narrates his moral awakening and struggle to break free from the corrupt system of global domination he himself helped to create.
This book possesses an immediacy which separates it from the numerous studies we already have of American Empire. Published in: Full Name Comment goes here. Are you sure you want to Yes No. Be the first to like this. No Downloads.
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The scenes that greeted us on the bus ride into town were even worse — tattered beggars hobbling on homemade crutches along garbage-infested streets, children with horribly distended bellies, skeletal dogs, and shantytowns of cardboard boxes that passed as homes.
The bus delivered us to Quito's five-star hotel, the InterContinental. It was an island of luxury in that sea of poverty, and the place where I and about thirty other Peace Corps volunteers would attend several days of in-country briefings. During the first of many lectures, we were informed that Ecuador was a combination of feudal Europe and the American Wild West.
Our teachers prepped us about all the dangers: venomous snakes, malaria, anacondas, killer parasites, and hostile head-hunting warriors. Then the good news: Texaco had discovered vast oil deposits, not far from where we'd be stationed in the rain forest. We were assured that oil would transform Ecuador from one of the poorest countries in the hemisphere to one of the richest. One afternoon, while waiting for a hotel elevator, I struck up a conversation with a tall blond man who had a Texas drawl.
He was a seismologist, a Texaco consultant. When he learned that Ann and I were poor Peace Corps volunteers who'd be working in the rain forest, he invited us to dinner in the elegant restaurant on the top floor of the hotel. I couldn't believe my good fortune. I'd seen the menu and knew that our meal would cost more than our monthly living allowance.
That night, as I looked through the restaurant's windows out at Pichincha, the mammoth volcano that hovers over Ecuador's capital, and sipped a margarita, I became infatuated with this man and the life he lived.
He told us that sometimes he flew in a corporate jet directly from Houston to an airstrip hacked out of the jungle. When I expressed amazement that progress could happen so rapidly, he gave me an odd look. I didn't know how to respond. I've seen it in Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. Now here. Seismology reports, combined with one good oil well, a gusher like the one we just hit. I'd grown up in a New Hampshire town named after a man who'd built a mansion on a hill, overlooking everyone else, using the fortune he'd amassed by selling shovels and blankets to the California gold miners in And today, the big corporations.
We get a lot more than permission to land planes without customs formalities. We pay their salaries and download them their equipment. They protect us from the Indians who don't want oil rigs on their lands.
In Latin America, he who controls the army controls the president and the courts. We get to write the laws — set fines for oil spills, labor rates, all the laws that matter to us. Or your daddy does.
The American taxpayer. Remember, countries like this have long histories of coups. If you take a good look, you'll see that most of them happen when the leaders of the country don't play our game. He laughed. They threaten American interests and democracy. The CIA doesn't like that. Ann and I spent the next months stationed in the site rain forest.
Then we were transferred to the high Andes, where I was assigned to help a group of campesino brick makers. Ann trained handicapped people for jobs in local businesses.
I was told that the brick makers needed to improve the efficiency of the archaic ovens in which their bricks were baked. However, one after another they came to me complaining about the men who owned the trucks and the warehouses down in the city.
Ecuador was a country with little social mobility. A few wealthy families, the ricos, ran just about everything, including local businesses and politics. Their agents bought the bricks from the brick makers at extremely low prices and sold them at roughly ten times that amount.
One brick maker went to the city mayor and complained. Several days later he was struck by a truck and killed. Terror swept the community. People assured me that he'd been murdered. My suspicions that it was true were reinforced when the police chief announced that the dead man was part of a Cuban plot to turn Ecuador Communist Che Guevara had been executed by a CIA operation in Bolivia less than three years earlier. He insinuated that any brick maker who caused trouble would be arrested as an insurgent.
The brick makers begged me to go to the ricos and set things right.
They were willing to do anything to appease those they feared, including convincing themselves that, if they gave in, the ricos would protect them. I didn't know what to do. I had no leverage with the mayor and figured that the intervention of a twenty-five-year-old foreigner would only make matters worse. I merely listened and sympathized. Eventually I realized that the ricos were part of a strategy, a system that had subjugated Andean peoples through fear since the Spanish conquest. I saw that by commiserating, I was enabling the community to do nothing.
They needed to learn to face their fears; they needed to admit to the anger they had suppressed; they needed to take offense at the injustices they had suffered; they needed to stop looking to me to set things right.