Ten years is a long time in anyone’s life.
The events of recent days have us looking back to that day ten years ago, when we were smacked out of complacency by violence that, for the first time—at least for my generation—was happening, not to someone faraway, but to us.
Then in our early twenties, we responded with fervor—we were prepared to defend our country and our values. We hung flags outside our homes and spoke in slogans dripping with patriotism. We were mesmerized and emboldened by an idea of ourselves as victims.
There was little appetite for questioning. Fury was hurled at those who dared to consider the broader issues raised by the attack. This response was understandable in those early days—and dangerous. It laid the foundation of support for the violent wars we were about to wage.
Years went by. There were invasions and casualties. Men convinced of their moral superiority hunted for other men convinced of the same.
Eventually, our fervor waned. My generation grew up, married, had kids, got jobs and degrees. We became accustomed to vague, protracted wars in distant lands, which became abstractions, mere headlines flickering on our computer screens.
Then, the moment. An assassination, a reckoning.
Once again, there are spontaneous gatherings in the street, flags waving, sirens ringing out—only this time there are no tears. This time it is jubilation that we feel.
And a narrative is formed (correct or not): a gun fight, innocent women used as shields by evil men, the necessity of the kill.
Our decency is confirmed again.
Ten years ago I wrote on these pages a short note to my generation—the generation that would be shaped by this ongoing crisis—that we had a responsibility. In the wake of September 11, we had a responsibility to confront the wrongdoings of our nation—to not only talk about American values, but to fight to make them real. This was our jihad, I said, our struggle.
Ten years have passed.
And though there have moments of national reflection, of change and great hope, we remain, for the most part, bystanders to history.
Meanwhile, the world is changing all around us.
Revolutions are bubbling up to overthrow the slovenly, morally bankrupt stooges—the dictators of the Middle East—drunk on their own power, in bed with Western powers. And what is so extraordinary is that they are succeeding, in some places, not because of the violence of a high-profile terrorist organization, but because of the peaceful and persistent demonstrations of ordinary people.
This should resonate deeply with Americans. We are a country marked by a deep belief in equality and freedom for all. We are a people with a fierce commitment to the idea that all people have the right to live free from oppression, free from fear, free to believe and speak what they want.
But instead of resonating, these revolutions seem rather to lay bare the tragic contradiction of our country—our soaring values and fearful practice.
We believe in peace, but not when war is necessary to maintain it. All people are born free, except for those who live in countries where our interests supersede those inalienable rights. Unsavory dictators should be overthrown, but there are exceptions. Democracy is the best form of government, but only for people who will vote our way. Justice is impartial, but not for everyone. Targeted assassinations and frontier justice are criminal, but not when they are carried out by the nation who suffered the pain of the September 11th terrorist attacks.
My generation has submitted to these plausible lies, which force us to become involved in greater and greater contradictions about who we are.
It need not be this way. What my generation lacks is not belief in freedom and justice for all, but rather, the hope that our efforts can make a difference.
We’ve gotten older, maybe even a little tired, a little cynical (yes, even at thirty). We’ve found ourselves deriving a strange satisfaction from resignation, from the assumption that some things will never change.
But then like a drop of water from a tap you thought had gone dry. Like a door blown slightly ajar by the wind. Like hearing a sound in a disused room, you turn your head.
It's the sound of people cheering, of flags flapping in the wind, of feet stomping on the ground they refuse to leave.
These are not the celebrations of death we have witnessed in this country over the last week. Real hope can’t be found there.
These are the celebrations—and demands—for freedom in capitals all over the Middle East. They are a reminder that it is still possible—for average people to disrupt the quantifiable order of things.
Who would have ever thought?
###
As published in the San Diego Union-Tribune on May 8, 2011. I worked at the Trib from 2004-2005.
0 comments:
Post a Comment