I’ve been looking for a way into the Little Green Footballs v. Daily Kos issue, and it’s hard.
We’re dealing with pretty visceral emotional reactions at the same time that we’re trying to maintain some sense of moral clarity, and those are not easy things to do.
But I thought of something that happened this weekend, and it shed some light on the question, so I’ll open with a brief story.
TG took a motorcycle riding class held on a racetrack here in Southern California (I’ll be slightly evasive on exactly which one, where, so forgive me, but we’ve been to most of the big schools), and I was her pit crew (and I’m not bitter about not getting to ride, no I’m not at all bitter…). This involved hanging out, reading two good books, intermittent flurries of activity on her behalf, worrying a lot (there’s an interesting post on that), and chatting with folks, as I tend to do.One guy I chatted with was the father of an AMA professional road racer who has recently retired, whose son – a 15-year old – was interested in following in his father’s footsteps. The boy had a successful career in other kinds of motorcycle racing, and was ready to start roadracing, and so was at the class polishing his skills (he was, thank God, in a more advanced group than TG was). The grandfather was an unbelievably neat guy; he called me on my anxiety when TG was out on the track, and got me to sit back and relax and enjoy myself, and we chatted about racing and kids and marriage and life for much of the day.
At the end of the day. when we’d packed the bikes onto the trailer and were headed home, I stopped by his motor home and said goodbye, and wished him and his grandson success. I complimented him grandson, pointing out that he was amazingly polite, helpful, and just overall a good kid.
“Yeah, he is,” the grand-dad said proudly. Then his face changed, and he added, “but I worry that he’s too nice to succeed as a racer, and that’s something he really wants to do.”
Too nice to succeed. An interesting thought. But it makes sense to us; you automatically understand what it means, and it helps me put a frame around the questions that I’ve been wrestling with for the last few days.
Looking at the discussion we’re having – the criticism I leveled at Kos, and the responses from commenters here, Nathan Newman and others – it seems like we’re really talking about three things.
First, why is it OK for us to be cruel, and not OK for them?
Next, what is the place of anger in conflict?
Finally, is it legitimate for us to be angry at the Arab world or elements of the Arab world?
This is turning out to be longer and messier than I’d intended, and I don’t have time to do as good a job of editing as I’d like, so let me just jump into the first question today, and follow up with the others tomorrow.
Nathan Newman challenged those who criticized Kos by posting a graphic image of a dead child and asking why that child’s death didn’t spur the same level of outrage as the deaths of the American civilian guards, and by extension, why the deaths of Iraqi civilians in the crossfire in Falluja last week didn’t outrage us.
The answer to Nathan’s question is, in no small part, that we’re not that nice. We don’t value all lives lost the same way; we value ours more than theirs, those murdered more than those killed in accidents, and so on.
And the reality is that it’s impossible to value all lives equally.
If we did, we could never go to war. Some people might think that’s a good thing; but there are other people in the world who aren’t that nice, and they would then win; they would force us to do their will and we’d be back where we started. I believe that; others disagree; they see our not-niceness as the cause of the conflicts, not a defense against them, and in large part, that defines the boundary between the two sides in the conflict over this war.
But it’s not only war. If we valued all lives, no one would smoke, or drink, or engage in risky sports, or eat anything except tofu and lentils.
Every decision we make kills someone. Every dollar we spend is a dollar that doesn’t save a starving child, everything we buy leaves a trail of pollution, exploitation and death behind.
My father built high-rise buildings. He probably lost a worker on every third or fourth project; he was devastated when it happened. We would go to the funerals. But it isn’t possible to build buildings like that without risk.
I ride motorcycles; in my circle of fifty or so riding acquaintances, we’ve had 4 deaths in six years.
My oldest son wants to join the military and fly jet fighters. In reality, flying them is riskier than fighting in them.
I value TG more than myself; I know that I would die to protect her. And yet I sat by when she took her motorcycle out onto a racetrack and rode. I did that because there are some things more important than life itself; the freedom to express yourself and to act, for one.
So we do accept deaths as a consequence of what we do.
Making political decisions involves accepting deaths, too.
How much will we spend on emergency medical care versus home heating subsidies? How much will we spend on food stamps for the elderly versus prescription drugs? How much energy will we spend on creating jobs and how much on preserving the environment? Each decision means deaths; from disease or injury, from cold, from malnutrition (the elderly poor still suffer from that); from uncontrolled illness, from unemployment and descent into poverty, from illness caused by environmental conditions.
I’ve made a point of criticizing much of the modern left because of it’s desire for purity; for the belief that they can, somehow, stand apart from what Sartre called ‘the filth and the blood’ of living in the world. I said:
A long time ago, I talked about the moral importance of hunting… that I felt it somehow wrong for people to both eat meat that they buy in the store and yet somehow they deny their responsibility for the life that was taken for their consumption. For me, having hunted somehow solves this problem…I have taken the responsibility, I have had my hands up to the elbows in the bloody mess, and changed something from an animal to meat for my table.
But when I read much of what comes from the left, I’m left with the feeling that they want to consume the benefits that come from living in the U.S. and more generally the West without either doing the messy work involved or, more seriously, taking on the moral responsibility for the life they enjoy.
We enjoy this life because a number of things happened in the world’s (our) history. Many of them involved one group dominating (or brutalizing or exterminating) another, or specific actions (Dresden, Hiroshima) whose moral foundation is sketchy at best.
“Do you think one can govern innocently? Purity is a matter for monks, clerics, not for politicians. My hands are dirty to the elbows. I have shoved them in filth and blood,” Hoederer says in Sartre’s ‘Dirty Hands’.
Part of political adulthood is the maturity to realize that we are none of us innocents. The clothes we wear, money we have, jobs we go to are a result of a long, bloody and messy history.
I see my job as a liberal as making the future less bloody than the past.
But I accept the blood on my hands. I can’t enjoy the freedom and wealth of this society and somehow claim to be innocent. I don’t get to lecture people from a position of moral purity. No one spending U.S. dollars, or speaking with the freedom protected by U.S. laws gets to.
I want to make the future less bloody than the past; that may mean accepting my responsibility for the blood shed today.
That’s not a nice position to take.
But it doesn’t put me on a par with Islamists, and that matters.
It doesn’t for two reasons. First, because on a basic level, the world is divided into teams. One point I’ve also made in the past is the attachment of the modern left to cosmopolitan values, as opposed to patriotic ones.
On one level, that’s a good thing. Sharing the humanity of the rest of the world means something, and means something good. But as I’ve also talked about, there is a real value in patriotism, particularly the unique patriotism of America, which is based on shared values and not blood and soil.
Many on the left reject it, as Schaar pointed out:
Opponents of patriotism might agree that if the two could be separated then patriotism would look fairly attractive. But the opinion is widespread, almost atmospheric, that the separation is impossible, that with the triumph of the nation-state nation. Nationalism has indelibly stained patriotism: the two are warp and woof. The argument against patriotism goes on to say that, psychologically considered, patriot and nationalist are the same: both are characterized by exaggerated love for one’s own collectivity combined with more or less contempt and hostility toward outsiders. In addition, advanced political opinion holds that positive, new ideas and forces–e.g., internationalism, universalism; humanism, economic interdependence, socialist solidarity–are healthier bonds of unity, and more to be encouraged than the ties of patriotism. These are genuine objections, and they are held by many thoughtful people.
And those thoughtful people, by virtue of their attachment to the wider world, cannot take sides; they can’t view the tragedy of an American soldier’s death as deeply different than the tragedy of an Iraqi soldier’s death. They are one and the same; and so are paralyzed. They can’t make a decision because all deaths weigh the same.
They don’t weigh the same to me.
I value ours more than I do theirs; I value them most of all because they are fighting for me and the values which have created me and given me the life I enjoy. Yes, I value them because they are ‘like me’ as well, but the Pakistani troops who die fighting Al Quieda are, in the context of their own politics, fighting for me and my values as well. I don’t see the sides as morally equivalent, and even if I had opposed the invasion of Iraq – which I almost did – I wouldn’t see them as morally equivalent.
I feel for the deaths done to innocents; to children, woman, and men whose only wrong was to be in the wrong place in the wrong time. To me the enterprise of war is inherently tragic, and that tragedy is nowhere more represented than in these deaths.
But like the deaths we choose when we decide on healthcare policy – which are no less tragic for being less visible and shockingly photogenic – they are an inevitible consequence of the decisions we make. I’ve read a lot of history, some of which was military history, and I’ll point out that in all wars, from Attic Greece forward, innocents have suffered.
I’m proud of our military that they work so hard, and take such risks to minimize that suffering.
I’ll note here that there’s an interesting (if frighteningly depressing) theory that one reason why we will have so much trouble rebuilding Iraq is that we didn’t damage the civilian infrastructure enough, and that the civilians didn’t suffer enough. I’m a ways away from that position, but at some point, it’ll be something worth discussing.
But the reality is that there’s no way to pick apart what we want (and I think need) to accomplish and some quantity of suffering. Personally, I want to minimize the aggregate quantity of it.
But if there is a trade between ours and theirs, I’ll take theirs. Because I do believe that there is a ‘them’ and an ‘us’.
Next, the place of anger.