Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
David T. Cloft 
The failure of the Israelites to fully carry out God’s command regarding the Amalekites has been cited as a contributing factor to continued chaos and disorder in the Middle East, echoing throughout history as a lesson in the consequences of disobedience to divine instruction.
There’s a comfortable lie Americans like to tell themselves: that we are too smart, too informed, too free to be manipulated at scale. That propaganda is something that happens in other countries, to other people, under other flags. Then you dig up a grainy black-and-white relic like Reefer Madness and realize—no, we ran one of the most effective information operations in modern history… on ourselves.
There was a time—not that long ago—when a man who couldn’t tie a knot was considered about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Today, we’ve got people carrying $1,200 smartphones, satellite GPS, and enough titanium gadgets clipped to their belt to look like a walking REI catalog… and they can’t tie a loop that won’t slip under load.
There was no declaration. No troop movement you could point to on a map. No shock-and-awe campaign lighting up the night sky. And yet somewhere around 2019, the world shifted—and it hasn’t felt normal since. That’s because the battlefield changed. We are now living inside what military thinkers call Fifth-generation warfare. And unlike every war that came before it, this one isn’t being fought over land. It’s being fought over you.
The romantic image of armored columns rolling forward under cover of smoke and artillery has been replaced by something far less cinematic: vehicles hiding, dispersing, and moving like hunted animals under constant aerial surveillance. Cheap drones—$500 quadcopters and $20,000 FPV kamikazes—are hunting million-dollar platforms with ruthless efficiency. The lesson is not subtle. If you can be seen, you can be targeted. If you can be targeted, you can be killed.
Following Mao’s death in 1976, China entered a new phase of development under Deng Xiaoping’s leadership. Deng’s reforms, known as “Socialism with Chinese Characteristics,” emphasized economic liberalization, market-oriented policies, and opening up to the global economy. The era of reform and opening unleashed rapid economic growth, modernization, and urbanization, transforming China into an economic powerhouse.
Mao Zedong’s leadership from 1949 until his death in 1976 reshaped China’s political, social, and economic landscape in profound ways. Central to Mao’s vision was the concept of the People’s Democratic Dictatorship, a term he used to describe a communist political system based on Marxist-Leninist principles adapted to Chinese conditions. Mao believed that a dictatorship of the proletariat, led by the Communist Party, was necessary to combat capitalist forces, achieve social equality, and transition to socialism.
We’ve seen this movie before, and the lesson was written in blood during the Vietnam War. The United States didn’t lose because it ran out of bombs, bullets, or body armor. It lost because it ran out of public will. The battlefield shifted from the jungle to the living room, and once the American people stopped believing, the strategy collapsed under its own weight. Since then, every adversary worth their salt—from insurgent groups to near-peer competitors—has studied that vulnerability like it’s the Rosetta Stone of defeating the United States: fracture the narrative, erode domestic support, and time will do the rest.
China’s history before Mao Zedong’s leadership was characterized by centuries of imperial rule, followed by attempts at modernization and political transformation. The Qing Dynasty, ruling from the mid-17th century until 1912, faced internal rebellions, foreign invasions, and economic challenges that weakened its authority. By the early 20th century, calls for reform and revolution grew louder, culminating in the Xinhai Revolution of 1911 and the overthrow of the Qing Dynasty.
In the quest to emulate godly attributes, men often find themselves at a crossroads: to transform chaos into order or to unleash chaos upon order. This dichotomy, inspired by the insights of scholar Michael Heiser but infused with my own perspective, delves into the essence of human nature and the paths we choose.
Seth Harp’s The Fort Bragg Cartel is built around a real, unsettling case that anchors the entire narrative: the December 2020 deaths of two soldiers at Fort Bragg—Master Sgt. William “Billy” Lavigne, a Delta Force operator, and Chief Warrant Officer Timothy Dumas, a logistics (quartermaster) officer tied to Special Forces units. Both were found shot in a remote training area. The pairing alone raises eyebrows inside the military: one man from the most elite operational tier, the other from the supply and accountability side of the house. Those lanes don’t normally intersect socially, much less end together in a homicide scene.
There are Olympic stories about grit, discipline, and the triumph of the human spirit—and then there’s the one about Matthew Emmons, whose rifle got mysteriously vandalized right before the biggest competition of his life. Not misplaced. Not dropped. Not “oops, I leaned it against the rack wrong.” We’re talking deliberate, tool-in-hand, someone-wanted-this-gun-dead sabotage at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs. In a sport where competitors track wind shifts measured in whispers and bullet holes measured in decimals, somebody decided to go full blunt-force caveman on precision equipment. And just like that, Olympic-level marksmanship briefly turned into a low-budget whodunit.
In 1941, the Soviet Union was being dismantled at industrial speed. Entire armies vanished. Cities fell. Aircraft factories were evacuated east while German armor drove forward. There was no time for elegance. The Red Army needed pilots, aircraft, and pressure on the enemy—immediately. So they did something profoundly unromantic and brutally practical: they took civilians who could fly and turned them into combat airmen.
Somewhere far above the planet, an unnamed adversary (or possibly a very angry solar flare with a sense of humor) popped off an EMP that politely but firmly unplugged every satellite we’d been leaning on since the late 20th century. GPS—born in the 1970s as a military system and later handed to civilians like candy—vanished in a blink. Along with it went the internet, streaming music, weather apps, and that calm, robotic voice that had spent decades telling Americans when to turn left.
We’ve got a new toy. It’s sleek, fast, doesn’t get tired, doesn’t argue, and it can chew through more data in a minute than a staff section could in a week. We bolted it onto the most capable military on earth and told it to help us find targets. Then we dropped it into a live fight in one of the most complex battlespaces on the planet and acted surprised when the results were… mixed. Welcome to the world’s first real AI war.
If we trust a service member overseas with a loaded rifle, real rules of engagement, and life-and-death decisions in a combat zone, it makes no sense to suddenly treat that same disciplined professional like a liability the moment they step onto a stateside installation; this policy correction acknowledges a simple truth long overdue—responsibility doesn’t evaporate at the gate. The men and women we entrust to defend the nation are trained, vetted, and held to standards far above the civilian baseline, and if we truly believe in that system, then extending reasonable trust for personal defense at home isn’t radical, it’s consistent. And if someone genuinely cannot be trusted with a firearm under controlled conditions on base, then the harder question isn’t about policy—it’s about why they’re in uniform in the first place.
We like to pretend we live in a fierce two-party system. Red vs. blue. Left vs. right. Cable news gladiators screaming like it’s the Super Bowl of righteousness. But step back far enough and the illusion fades. What you actually see is one bird with two wings—and that bird doesn’t care about your values, your vote, or your virtue. It worships one thing: money.
Somewhere in the Pentagon filing cabinets sits a 2017 document that reads less like doctrine and more like a warning label we ignored. The Joint Concept for Access and Maneuver in the Global Commons (JAM-GC) laid it out plainly: the United States wins wars because we can show up anywhere on earth, kick in the door, and maneuver freely across air, sea, space, and cyber. That’s our superpower. Not just firepower—access. And the bad guys figured that out.
If you want a glimpse of how modern pressure can scale fast, look north to the winter of 2022 and the protests known as the Freedom Convoy. What began as a cross-country movement of truckers opposing cross-border vaccine requirements turned into a broader protest against mandates and restrictions. The response from the Canadian government under Justin Trudeau was decisive: emergency powers were invoked, certain financial accounts connected to the protests were frozen, and law enforcement moved to clear blockades. Supporters called it necessary to restore order; critics saw it as a warning shot—how quickly financial access and mobility can be restricted in a modern, digitally connected system.
By late 2020, vaccines arrived under emergency authorization. That should have been the turning point—the moment where risk became individualized again. Instead, the dial kept turning in one direction: more control, more pressure, more compliance. By September 2021, the federal government, under Joe Biden, pushed for sweeping mandates, including a requirement aimed at large employers through OSHA. It was framed as necessity. It was enforced as urgency. And it was received, in many corners, as coercion.