I was at work on a post inspired by the discussion at the League of Glenn Greenwald’s post on the Obama administration and the assassination of American citizens, but I’m not going to be able to add anything other than the obvious; and my Akhilles analogies in an attempt to rebut Adam Kirsch on the Classics aren’t quite working out — yet.
And then I realized, that in my year-long blog detox which limited my regular online reading to the Daily Dish and only a few other sources, I had heard nothing of this until today. So I checked, and Sullivan has just a single post about the Awlaki situation — and that was a commentless quotation of Spencer Ackerman.
Now, I really doubt that Sullivan’s going to stumble onto anything I say here (though it did happen once before! Hey — a boy can dream, can’t he?), but this is bothersome, given his stridency in hammering home the Bush administration’s record on torture and civil liberties. Which is to say, I trust him to call out Obama on the same types of issues — and (in a post shortly after the election which I can’t find but recall clearly), he essentially promised to. And I can’t be the only one whose sense of the day’s news is shaped in large part by the Dish.
I worry, in short, that the issue didn’t simply slip under the rug (because how could it?) and that it’s being ignored, for one reason or another. So, from my little barstool in the far outskirts of the interwebs, I’m going to call him out on it and hope that he will, in the future, be just as vigilant now as he was when Bush was sitting at the big desk.
August 31, 2010
“And on one of the longest walks we ever took from Combray there was a spot where the narrow road emerged suddenly on to an immense plain, closed at the horizon by strips of forest over which rose and stood alone the fine point of Saint-Hilaire’s steeple, but so sharpened and so pink that it seemed to be no more than sketched on the sky by the finger-nail of a painter anxious to give such a landscape, to so pure a piece of ‘nature,’ this little sign of art, this single indication of human existence. As one drew near it and could make out the remains of the square tower, half in ruins, which still stood by its side, though without rivalling it in height, one was struck, first of all, by the tone, reddish and sombre, of its stones; and on a misty morning in autumn one would have called it, to see it rising above the violet thunder-cloud of the vineyards, a ruin of purple, the colour of the wild vine.”
—Swann’s Way, “Combray,” p. 48 (2 vol. Random House ed., trans. Moncrieff)
August 29, 2010
I propose that the core assumption that remains unchallenged and unquestioned through all the variations within the diverse traditions of “modern” thought is that the experience and testimony of the individual mind is to be explained away, excluded from consideration when any rational account is made of the nature of human being and of being altogether. In its place we have the grand projects of generalization, solemn efforts to tell our species what we are and what we are not, that were early salients of modern thought. – “On Human Nature,” p. 22
…the beauty and strangeness of the individual soul, that is, of the world as perceived in the course of a human life, of the mind as it exists in time. – “The Strange History of Altruism,” p. 35
The accuracy of Robinson’s claims about modern thought in these short excerpts is less important than what it tells us about her purposes in Absence of Mind—and, perhaps more importantly, in her fiction (especially the recent novels Gilead and Home). The collected product of the subjective experience and life of the individual human mind, she writes elsewhere, is culture, literature, and art. Elsewhere, she indicates that the exploration of the subjective experience is the purpose, and, successful, the highest calling, of the novel. Speaking of Paul Harding’s novel, Tinkers, she writes, “It confers on the reader the best privilege fiction can afford, the illusion of ghostly proximity to other human souls.”
What does this have to do with her own fiction, particularly the joint project of Gilead and Home? To begin, let’s explore what makes them a “joint project.” They explore lives in the same time and place, of people who know each other, shifting the center of gravity slightly, creating different novels. On this level, there is a similarity between her Gilead, Iowa, and Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha, Berry’s Port William, or even Joyce’s Dublin. Yet there’s something different: unlike Faulkner or Berry, she isn’t very concerned with the town/county as such: it’s just the place, not a character. And unlike Joyce, there’s more than just the busy beehive weaving of human interactions bringing the stories of the various characters into novelistic collision.
Robinson, in Gilead, offers what is, quite literally “the testimony of the individual mind”: John Ames’ long letter his young son. It is supposed to testify on his behalf, and on behalf of his life, when he is no longer alive to do so. Home offers the testimony of the same time and place through another mind, that of Glory Boughton. From both perspectives, there are explorations of Ames’ wife, the Rev. Boughton, and—most importantly—Jack Boughton. Either book, alone, is successful in offering that “testimony of the individual mind,” that “illusion of ghostly proximity to other human souls,” but what they do together—their joint project—is something greater than either could offer in solitude.
That is, they explore the subjectivity of that testimony. The clearest example, perhaps is a conversation on Boughton’s porch—if for no other reason than all the central characters are present, and it is a scene in both novels. From the beginning, we see what might be expected: minor differences in diction, remembering things from slightly different angles, telling the story to different audiences. Yet something about Ames’ version strikes the reader as a more relaxed conversation, a bit of jousting on the porch on a pleasant evening; as depicted in Home, it seems somehow more a more earnest inquiry.
And at the end of the conversations, we see:
But your mother spoke up, which surprised us all. She said, “What about being saved?” She said, “If you can’t change, there don’t seem much purpose in it.” She blushed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You’ve made an excellent point, dear,” Boughton said. “I worried a long time about how the mystery of predestination could be reconciled with the mystery of salvation. I remember thinking about that a great deal.
“No conclusions?” Jack asked.
“None that I can remember.” Then he said, “To conclude is not in the nature of the enterprise.”
“Jack smiled at your mother as if he was looking for an ally, someone to share his frustration, but she just at very still and studied her hands.
“I should think,” he said, “that the question Mrs. Ames has raised is one you gentlemen would approach with great seriousness. I know you have attended tent meeting only as interested observers, but— Excuse me. I don’t believe anyone else wants to pursue this, so I’ll let it go.”
Your mother said, “I’m interested.”
Old Boughton, who was getting a little ruffled, said, “I hope the Presbyterian Church is as good a place as any to learn the blessed truths of the faith, including redemption and salvation first of all. The Lord knows I have labored to make it so.”
“Pardon me, Father,” Jack said. “I’ll go find Glory. She’ll tell me how to make myself useful. You always said that was the best way to keep out of trouble.”
“No, stay,” your mother said. And he did.
There was an uneasy silence, so I remarked that he might find Karl Barth a help, just for the sake of conversation.
He said, “Is that what you do when some tormented soul arrives on your doorstep at midnight? Recommend Karl Barth?”
I said, “It depends on the case,” which it does. I have found Barth’s work to be full of comfort, as I believe I have told you elsewhere. But in fact, I don’t recall ever recommending him to any tormented soul except my own. That is what I mean about being put in a false position.
Your mother said, “A person can change. Everything can change.” Still never looking at him.
He said, “Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”
So that was the end of the conversation. We went home to supper.
—Gilead, pp. 152-3
Lila said, “What about being saved?” She spoke softly and blushed deeply, looking at the hands that lay folded in her lap, but she continued. “If you can’t change, there don’t seem much point in it. That’s not really what I meant.”
Jack smiled. “Of course I myself have attended tent meetings only as an interested observer. I would not have wanted to find my salvation along some muddy riverbank in the middle of the night. Half the crowd there to pick each other’s pocket, or to sell each other hot dogs—”
Lila said, “—Caramel corn—”
He laughed. “—Cotton candy. And everybody singing off key—” They both laughed.
“—to some old accordion or something—” she said, never looking up.
“And all of them coming to Jesus. Except myself, of course.” Then he said, “Amazing how the world never seems any better for it all. If I am any judge.”
“Mrs. Ames has made an excellent point,” Boughton said, his voice statesmanlike. He sensed a wistfulness in Ames as often as he was reminded of all the unknowable life his wife had lived and would live without him. “Yes, I worried a long time about how the mystery of predestination could be reconciled with the mystery of salvation.”
“None that I can recall just now.” He said, “It seems as though the conclusions are never as interesting as the questions. I mean, they’re not what you remember.” He closed his eyes.
Jack finally looked up at Glory, reading her look and finding in it, apparently, anxiety or irritation, because he said, “I’m sorry. I think I have gone on with this too long. I’ll let it go.”
Lila said, never looking up from her hands, “I’m interested.”
Jack smiled at her. “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Ames. But I think Glory wants to put me to work. My father has always said the best way for me to keep out of trouble would be to make myself useful.”
“Just stay for a minute,” she said, and Jack sat back in his chair, and watched her, as they all did, because she seemed to be mustering herself. Then she looked up at him and said, “A person can change. Everything can change.”
Ames took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt a sort of wonder for this wife of his, in so many ways so unknown to him, and he could be suddenly moved by some glimpse he had never had before of the days of her youth or her loneliness, or of the thoughts of her soul.
Jack said, very gently, “Why thank you, Mrs. Ames. That’s all I wanted to know.”
—Home, pp. 226-8
Jack and Mrs. Ames are both revealed to be different than Ames’ version of the conversation might make it seem. It is possible that Ames is suppressing that moment—he is afraid of Jack and his possible influence on his wife and son. Then again, how are we to know that the narration has not simply lingered too close to the irritated Glory, and that her mind associates the strange, slightly bumpkin Mrs. Ames with such carnivals. And the Barth? Ames is old after all—maybe he thought he recommended Barth.
It is likely that the version of the conversation given in Home is closer to the “empirical” truth than that in Gilead, if for no other reason than Ames’ version is significantly shorter: around four pages compared to the 8.5 in Home. And while what remains in Gilead is a chance for Ames to give some of his thoughts on predestination—and show the grace of his wife—to his son, what occurs in Home is a more tense conversation, centering on Jack’s worry that he is, in fact, destined to be evil, to be a sinner.
The accuracy of the individual testimony is clearly limited—it is, as Robinson admits, subjective. But that much is not her entire point. That scene—a pivotal one, certainly—is quite different in both novels: but is either novel any less true for it? Ames remembers events one way; Glory sees them another; perhaps one or both are actively suppressing or inventing. But if the latter is the case, they aren’t merely deceiving the reader—they’re deceiving themselves, also; the deception, the would-be-“lie”, becomes a part of their testimony.
The joint project of Home and Gilead is to explore that subjective testimony of the individual life, to highlight the subjectivity of it by juxtaposing each novel with the other, but then to refuse to dismiss or condemn that testimony as flawed or limited. Robinson celebrates the limitations and subjectivity, because they bring us closer to the reality of the human soul. It is, in a way, a rejoinder to the idea of a narrator so fallible that the novel cannot even be trusted on the terms it sets forth—it doesn’t matter if nothing in these novels happened as it is narrated: they are not explorations of history, but a celebration of “the beauty and strangeness of the individual soul, that is, of the world as perceived in the course of a human life, of the mind as it exists in time.”
August 27, 2010
I’ve spent the last few months watching (and finally finishing) The Sopranos, the end of which I had missed off at college and the first few seasons I was too young to really appreciate (except my vivid, scene-by-scene memory of the pilot). It really is brilliantly done, and from time to time I’m going to be throwing out my thoughts on it’s vision of contemporary America. There are some mild spoilers in this post (and probably will be in all my Sopranos posts — if it’s anything major, I’ll note it in the text). You’ve been warned.
Part of the show’s genius is the way it positions itself to offer commentary/criticism regarding late 20th/early 21st century American life. It isn’t simply that it took a new angle on the mob flick by showing the bourgeois ordinariness of large chunks of their life (barbeques, college trips, Paulie’s plastic-coated furniture, Sil carefully re-assembling antique lamps in his office at the Bing), but that it juxtaposes that ordinariness and what — to Tony and A.J. especially — seems like its core emptiness, with a more archaic honor-bound system. So it’s not really a critique of contemporary American lifestyle; it’s a critique of contemporary Americans trying and failing to incorporate older ideals into their lives. For the men, it’s the mafia; for the women, the Catholic Church.
As Christopher says when discussing the 12-Steps: he always had trouble with the idea of the Higher Power, so he decided to make the oath he took when he was made that power. And, he implies, its the corruption of that oath by others — who may or may not realize it — that drives him to use again. AJ, spiraling into a depressed angst quite similar to his father’s, attempts to seek refuge first in criminal life (the attempt on Junior’s life — for honor‘s sake; his brief friendship with the Two Jasons, essentially college-age gangsters) and later in a briefly-considered idea of joining the Army.
On the other hand, the wives are all strikingly religious (if not strikingly orthodox in their practice): Carmella is concerned from the beginning with Hell and salvation; Paulie’s mother wants him to be more penitent; her sister was a nun; Ginny Sacrimone is involved with Opus Dei; the only characterization given to Phil Leotardo’s wife is that her religion is perhaps genuinely (and deeply) conservative; the wives — even the less religious — are regularly shown interacting as members of a pastoral family/community (as the men are part of their own “Family”). Tony’s sister’s New Age spiritual-not-religious thought is treated quite harshly by the show. On the other hand, priests and psychiatrists seem equally incompetent.
The important thing is, however, that these honor systems can’t effectively survive in contemporary society. Tony talks about the old days: Strong silent types who didn’t turn informant; today, he’s constantly looking over his shoulder to see who might flip. The old system fails to check rage: Tony’s, Tony B’s, Phil’s, etc. The women tend to go through the motions of Catholic practice more than live a Christian life, despite trying sincerely from time to time. Carmella and Tony separate, and she’s willing to sleep with another man; Paulie’s family is not as perfect as he thinks, or they pretend to be — as they want to be seen. And all of these women are raising families with men they know to be murderers. No one, faced with a hollow contemporary world, is able to successfully integrate a system capable of imparting meaning into their lives. The mafia and the Church become just as empty as bourgeois ordinariness.
There are, however, two characters who straddle the worlds of mob and religion: Paulie Walnuts and Christopher Moltisanti. I need to give them some more thought before really fleshing this line out, but in brief: Paulie was an altar boy; he serves as secretary of a church foundation; he’s superstitious; he believes in the sanctity of nuns and priests; he’s affected by calls to make confession; he has a vision of the Virgin Mary. And until he has the vision, he doesn’t see any conflict between the two systems. (It may also be relevant that Paulie is, frankly, the most effeminate male character on the show: unmarried, obsessed with his hair, white shoes, and physical appearance, clearly and openly a “mama’s boy,” his home resembles a spinster’s apartment more than a mobster’s residence — there’s plastic on all the furniture!)
Christopher is shot and goes into a coma in the first season. When he awakens, he tells Tony that he had a vision of his father and several other mobsters in Hell, and was made aware that this was where he would be when he died. A man he had murdered gives him the message, also to be given to Tony and Paulie: Beware of 3 o’clock. (Paulie is terrified — perhaps the 3 is the Trinity; perhaps I’m overreading; Tony couldn’t care less.) Christopher has no other religious expressions in the show — except his remark, made several times, that “Tony Soprano is the man I’m going to Hell for.” Unlike Paulie, he’s not religious, though he seems (despite his statement about the Higher Power) to believe in God, Heaven, and Hell — but unlike the religious Paulie, he knows the system he has chosen is wrong, that it can’t impart meaning because it is sinful: and he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.
August 26, 2010
So when I came back to this blogging thing I told myself I was going to try to talk about things like literature, culture, and society, and instead I’m rattling off consecutive posts about war and language and torture. (Which is basically the same thing that happened when I first began.) But Drezner got all thought-provoking and wants to hear what twenty-somethings think about intervention:
“As I think about it, here are the Millennials’ foundational foreign policy experiences:
1) An early childhood of peace and prosperity — a.k.a., the Nineties;
2) The September 11th attacks;
3) Two Very Long Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq;
4) One Financial Panic/Great Recession;
5) The ascent of China under the shadow of U.S. hegemony.
From these experiences, I would have to conclude that this generation should be anti-interventionist to the point of isolationism.”
Since I qualify, and since I think this might help make further sense of why I’ve spent the last 48 hours complaining about the rhetoric of a WSJ op-ed and Commentary blog post, I’ll take a stab at it before moving on to talk about “culture” (whatever that is).
First, though, I have to take issue with the sequence/narrative Drezner is offering. It’s not quite so simple as (1) interrupted by (2) resulting in (3) followed by/resulting in (take your pick, I suppose) (4) and (5). (China, in fact, I don’t think is a major consideration for many people my age—at most, it is a subsidiary of economic concerns, distant thoughts about debt and what things will be like when we are our parents’ age.)
(1) “An early childhood of peace and prosperity – a.k.a., the Nineties” did not exist in quite this formulation. Yes, there was something of “peace and prosperity,” but it wasn’t outright peace, and it wasn’t outright war. One of my earliest memories if of Peter Jennings announcing, I believe, the end of the Gulf War as we were sitting at the dinner table. (I asked why we were fighting, and my father told me it was because the bad guys had gone into Kuwait to steal their money and food. I was three.) But it was a childhood not of “peace and prosperity,” but of prosperity and more or less successful humanitarian intervention. I knew the Gulf War, and the Balkans, and saw Clinton take an active role in the Israel-Palestine peace process—and, in the way it was seen by those around me, come within a half-inch of success. (I didn’t know from Somalia until Black Hawk Down was released.)
(2) “The September 11th attack” – yes, this broke, dispelled, shattered, the relative (albeit semi-militarized) calm of (1).
(3) “Two Very Long Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq”
How are we to understand this not as a misadventure in itself, but in relation to those early foreign policy lessons from (1)? I opposed the Iraq War, but was a believer in what, for better or worse, we’ll call the Clinton foreign policy. Iraq and Afghanistan undermined two important premises of both the Clinton and Bush-43 foreign policies: that “winning” can be easily measured, and that the populace of the intervened country want us there, and to win. (The latter has been shown to not necessarily be the case—certainly some, perhaps many, do want us in Iraq and Afghanistan, but a vocal and sometimes violent segment do not. How many times did we hear about this in the Balkans?)
But there was a third premise underlying the limited intervention of the 1990s: the feeling of an obligation to intervene, and to win—because, in short, we were The Good Guys. Iraq and Afghanistan can’t disprove a sense of moral obligation to do something—even if they can indicate that full-on invasion is not the answer. Let’s go back, briefly, to 2003, even with the hindsight of 2010: does an opposition to invading Iraq also require that one believe we should abandon enforcing no-fly zones, or risk incoherence? I don’t think we can say this is a clear yes.
And this, perhaps, might explain the number of commenters on Drezner’s post saying that the lesson is not to be anti-intervention, but to be in favor of “smart intervention”—which I take to be something like the Clinton policy, perhaps more cautious. It might also explain the number of my friends who have adamantly opposed wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, yet have expressed a desire to see American military intervention of some sort in response to Darfur. The key words in this scenario are generally “air support” without any commitment of American ground troops—that’s what the UN is for. I’ll admit—at one point, thinking of how we essentially deposed Milosevic using only the Air Force, this was my line of thought.
But why is it no longer my line of thought? It is not related especially to (4) The Great Recession, because even if you view this as a result of Iraq/Afghanistan/our broader foreign policy, I don’t think it necessitates that you oppose “smart intervention.” Seeing the entanglement of our economic/fiscal future with long-term, large-scale occupations, I think precisely that is what people will tend to oppose—perhaps a wider range of intervention, but judging from my non-scientific friend and peer group, I doubt it.
What has turned me into, in some degree, an anti-interventionist, is the realization of the moral cost of war, especially prolonged war (or war-like states). And, frankly, the moral cost is lost in schemas like that which Drezner has offered. But while we could go around in circles in perpetuity on the economic and geopolitical cost-benefit analysis of “Clinton-esque” and “Bush-43” interventionisms, we either are or are not going to agree that war—especially prolonged war—poses a danger to (take your pick) the human soul, psyche, and/or moral core. (Don’t they teach The Things They Carried to high schoolers and college kids, like, everywhere now? Are people completely missing the point of Tim O’Brien’s entire literary career? That it’s an exploration of the implications of war for the ability to be human?) And denying that there is a moral toll of war—on society as well as on soldiers—is to forget how terrible war is, and to learn to love it too much.
For me, it has been the revelation of the corruption of this Forever War: torture, hollowing of language, subversion of core rights—those are the three key elements for me, in descending order of importance. Torture is a moral rot distinct from all others. For the Austrian/French intellectual Jean Amery, whose essay on torture should be required reading by anyone who wants to discuss, let alone debate, the subject, “torture is the most horrible event a human being can retain within himself.”
When arguments are offered defending torture as an essential part of the war effort, when torture and the broader war effort are corrupting our language, and when, over the course of The Forever War, we see a steady increase in the support of torture—until most of the nation, apparently, supports it—the only response I can muster is to say it is too much. If The Forever War feeds not just moral rot, but this breed of moral rot, then it is time to quit. One day, I will have children, and I fear for their growing up in a nation that practices and accepts torture more than in a world where Iran has a nuclear weapon.
The revelation of torture and the vehemence of its supporters is the revelation that the United States is not inherently good, but is good only by choice. We can choose to be bad, to make the world a worse place, and perpetual war leads us in that direction. Humanitarian intervention may at times be justified, may at times be necessary, but as a course of policy, the “smart intervention” of the 1990s only paved the way for The Forever War of the 2010s and beyond. I don’t know whether this makes me “anti-interventionist to the point of isolationism.” I can only hope that my opposition to intervention would crumble in the face of an Auschwitz—it would be my moral failure were it not to. But even a just war will not leave the soul untouched, and responding with military force to every humanitarian crisis we as a nation witness will change us at our core. It already has.
August 26, 2010
“Well, this would seem equally apt for the Thirty-One Years War that Iran has waged against the U.S. and the West more generally. Multiple administrations have done nothing as it waged a proxy war through terrorists groups against the West. Neither the Bush administration or the current one has responded to the deaths of hundreds of U.S. soldiers (and Iraqi allies as well) killed by Iran’s weapons and operatives in Iraq. Iran too has committed human-rights atrocities against its own people and defied UN resolutions.
So now we are faced with the threat of a nuclear-armed Iran that would, if it possesses nuclear weapons, certainly be emboldened to continue and step up its war on the West. The question for the Obama administration is whether to finally engage the enemy, thwart Iran’s nuclear ambitions, and commit ourselves to regime change. The chances are slim indeed that this president would rise to the occasion. But perhaps, if Israel buys the world sufficient time (yes, we are down to whether the Jewish state will pick up the slack for the sleeping superpower), the next president will.”
She’s jumping and running with the same two fallacies I noted in Stephens’ article: that there is no difference in kind between US-Iran relations from 1979-2010 and the kind of relations the two states would have after the beginning of outright war; and that it was clearly inevitable from the regime’s beginning that it would come to war—that, in other words, war was immediately and transparently inevitable from the beginning.
As with Iraq, these pre-war years have not been true “peace”: Iranians have taken Americans hostage, funding terror cells that have killed Americans, pursued WMD, and threatened a genocidal war against Israel. The United States has sparred with Iran from time to time; has enacted an embargo; has condemned the regime as evil. Perhaps this is war. If it is, it’s a cold war.
And therein lies my problem with the rhetoric she and Stephens employ. For 45 years, the United States went to great pains to keep the cold war with the USSR from turning hot. Why? Because there was an inherent, fundamental difference between the two: economically, practically, morally, and in simple terms of human life. The adjective “cold” is in place for a reason: a cold war is something other than outright war.
This “cold war” between Iran and the US does not, of course, operate under the shadow of mutually assured destruction. But an invasion of Iran would, let us say, be at least as bloody, at least as costly, at least as long, and at least as likely to not succeed (not to fail, mind you—simply not to succeed, to land in some weird grey area) as the war in Iraq. From my best amateur’s guess, it would likely as not be significantly more so in most if not all categories.
Claiming that we have been at “war” with Iran for 31 years, eliding cold war and hot war, is an attempt to make irrelevant the questions: “Are the costs of entering into war with Iran too high? What will we gain by doing so? Is it truly necessary?” If we’re already at war with Iran, those questions are irrelevant: they are questions to ask before the war. The rhetoric strives to get us into war by pretending that we’re already in the same war that would occur were we to attack Iran. After all, if we’ve been at war since 1979, then the debate over whether to start a war is moot. We might as well just end the damn thing; it’s taken long enough, no?
* * *
I should make one comment: the reason I’m interested in this point is not because I want to go around shouting that Rubin and Stephens are being disingenuous, or that I’m concerned particularly with what either of them think. It’s the language that I’m interested in, and that I find so striking—and, as far as I know, Stephens’ article — appearing on the not-quite-obscure WSJ Opinion page — was the first to push this linguistic version of events in Iraq (keeping one eye on Tehran), and Rubin, in addition to showing up conveniently in my Google Reader feed, makes the implicit explicit.
I’m concerned, that is, with what has concerned others before me: the hollowing of language by war. It is still perhaps the most striking concern of Thucydides’ great work:
“Words had to change their ordinary meaning and to take that which was now given them.” (3.82.4)
August 25, 2010
According to Bret Stephens in the Wall Street Journal, the United States has been at war, essentially, for my entire life; according to Jennifer Rubin at Commentary, we’ve been at war since the Iranian hostage crisis (if not slightly earlier). While I’m not at all displeased to see even the supporters of The Long War inching towards acknowledging it for what it really is, there’s a problem with this line of conversation.
First, let’s look at Stephens’ definition of “war by another name”:
“In that box, he killed tens of thousands of Iraqi Shiites, caused a humanitarian crisis among the Kurds, attempted to assassinate George H.W. Bush, profited from a sanctions regime that otherwise starved his own people, compelled a ‘no-fly zone’ that cost the U.S. $1 billion a year to police, defied more than a dozen U.N. sanctions, corrupted the U.N. Secretariat, evicted U.N. weapons inspectors and gave cash prizes to the families of Palestinian suicide bombers.”
The worst of these are crimes against humanity, and shouldn’t be trivialized. The no-fly zone, yes, was an example of the growing role of the United States as the world’s police during the 1990s. On the other hand, a billion a year compared to the $2 trillion price tag of invasion, occupation, and security seems like pocket change.
That price tag is indicative of something important running through the piece: a refusal to acknowledge a difference in kind by re-labeling what occurred during the 1990s. This is revisionism. Stephens pretends that there is no difference—in terms of human and capital cost, in terms of social change, in terms of government—between a “military effort designed to contain Saddam Hussein and a military effort designed to replace him.” Enforcing no-fly zones and an invasion-turned-occupation that is in its eighth year are essentially different. Perhaps we have been at war with and in Iraq for essentially my lifespan; but the “war” that ran through my elementary school years was nothing like the war that began shortly after I entered high school.
(That I feel it necessary to use scare-quotes around one use of the word “war” in the previous paragraph points toward something particularly sinister about, among other things, The Long War: its corruption of language. How do we distinguish between the War in Iraq and the semi-militarized 1990s — which saw American troops in Iraq, the Arabian peninsula, the Balkans, Somalia, etc.? It was “peacetime,” I suppose, but with something wholly other lurking at the horizon.)
Stephens’ commits himself to another such assumption in the piece: that there was, really, no choice in the matter when it came to the 2003 invasion. This is already implied by the idea that there is no difference between 1992-2003 and 2003-present. The way that it had to end was with a full-on invasion and replacement of Saddam Hussein. This is patently false. Consider Cuba and Fidel Castro—admittedly not a Saddam Hussein, but he has starved his own people, attempted to acquire WMD, and, at one point, was subjected to, essentially, a “no-sail zone” around his island. Our policy since the Bay of Pigs, for better or worse, and in varying forms, has been one of containment, content to wait on the natural regime change of human mortality. (Is that the best policy? That’s not the question at the moment.) But there is a choice – and that makes all the difference in the world when one attempts to assess the landscape and create future policy. Only in a world where there was no true choice in 2003 could this paragraph be written, with one eye on Tehran:
“One thing is clear: The Twenty Years’ War lasted as long as it did because the first Bush administration failed to finish it when it could, and because the Clinton administration pretended it wasn’t happening. Should we now draw the lesson that hesitation and delay are the best policy? Or that wars are best fought swiftly to their necessary conclusion? The former conclusion did not ultimately spare us the war. The latter would have spared us one of 20 years.”
Stephens’ history, Rubin’s post, and their implications concerning Iran will be the subject of a near-future post.
August 25, 2010
So here I am – again, for anyone who has cared to stumble back onto this page; and, even for those who are themselves here for the first time, it’s obvious this is not my first time here.
I first began this blog way long ago (October 2008; just check the right-hand column of this page) because I wanted to jump into the conversation. Those were the heady early Autumn days of Culture11 and Obamaconism, when I still thought I would grow up to be a professional Classicist. And, through some internet journeys that swept me here, there, and to Upturned Earth in its several locations, that was my reason for staying in the game.
I left for a variety of reasons—among them that I finally managed to tack on enough academic obligations to overwhelm myself. But more than anything, even before those obligations came due, was that I didn’t know who I was talking to anymore, or what about.
But I’ve had a year to read, to write, to get confused and lose bearings more than once. I admit, I haven’t read too much of the internet since I left it – I had to go cold turkey for a while, and it was marvelous. Which leads to the important question: after that much time, what the hell am I doing here of all places.
Well, frankly, it’s because I miss the conversation. I still harbor my doubts about blogging as the type of writing best suited for me; my concern that it may, in fact, undermine my focus on the kind of writing that, as a form, as a vocation, I truly care about – but as a tool of conversation, I can’t help but think that it’s magnificent.
My concern for politics has continued to atrophy; but my concern for society, for culture, for literature, for knowledge, faith, and art has not. So we’ll talk. About those things; about whatever. So the words will probably just fade noiselessly into the abyss – but don’t they all? Isn’t the point of it to transform words into – wait for it – something closer to a set of phaidimoi logoi?
So here I am, one more in a long line of Nice Jewish Boys who haven’t realized the trouble they’re getting themselves into with that phrase.
August 19, 2010
What I believe is the unabridged collection of posts written in the estimable company of John Schwenkler and his blog. In the interests of being as accurate as possible, posts before May 14, 2009 (I think) appeared originally at the WordPress version of the blog; from that date on, at its home at The American Conservative. Not sure how they read a year later, but anyway, beginning with the earliest: