Practicing Abolition Means Opposing Violence

Even when it's hard

It comes as no surprise that institutions hell-bent on justifying violence will continue to justify violence. In the past few weeks, policing agencies have rallied to the cause of explaining away war and killing. They have supported surveillance, arrests, and the silencing of speech under rubrics of “hate crimes” and “terrorism.” War is fuel to the fire.

While I have more to say about this phenomenon specifically, I wanted to give a more personal explanation of my thoughts at this time. I urge people to listen to this and read this and this.

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Nearly two decades ago, in an era of exploring my part-Jewish heritage, I attended a fundraiser that I understood to be “for Israel.” It was, in fact, an IDF fundraiser. There I was, standing next to the chocolate fountain, when screens on three sides of the ballroom filled with images of fighter jets soaring over a desert landscape. Men and women of the Israeli Defense Forces decked out in the latest of killing technology completed training missions. I realized all of a sudden that the IDF was not a defense force. It was an active military operation, and I knew who they thought the enemy was.

My heart dropped and I felt sick. I went outside to smoke a cigarette.

When I returned, my friends seemed the same as before, unaffected. In retrospect, I should have known what I was getting myself into. I was in the thralls of self-centered self-exploration. Growing up, I knew so little about my family heritage, like many descendants of Eastern European immigrants. What little I did know seemed vague, interesting, and – dare I say – romantic. As a child, I wrote stories about the immigrant foremothers I imagined were mine, beautiful women sailing to Ellis Island, the optimism of American Tail crossed with the fatalism of Anastasia.

After moving to New York, the IDF fundraiser was part of my tentative exploration into what it might mean for someone who knew nothing of religion to be Jewish. I had no real connection to Israel, had never been there, did not engage in a birthright trip. But I realized that much of what it meant to be Jewish, even “culturally Jewish,” was to support Israel, at least in some vague and undefined way. That night, it became clear to me that it was not vague. These were not hypothetical enemies. They were real people in a part of the world where I had never been.

While I was not yet a writer by profession, I wasn’t stupid. 9-11 happened when I was in law school, the day I had a class on “International Human Rights,” in fact. I had previously done a project on Muslim women fighting for Algerian independence and was continuing the same theme by looking at how the International Criminal Court was prosecuting the rape and torture of women as a form of genocide. I opposed the Iraq invasion and the war in Afghanistan; I opposed them deeply because I was right in the middle of researching just how bad war was for women and children. But there was little space to express those feelings, even at an academic institution, except in casual conversations among friends. I read Susan Sontag in The New Yorker – “The disconnect between last Tuesday’s monstrous dose of reality and the self-righteous drivel and outright deceptions being peddled by public figures and TV commentators is startling, depressing” – and heard the roars of disapproval. I was scared. Who wasn’t? A plane crashed in Queens. My class was evacuated because of an anthrax scare.

I was also cowardly. I was not a journalist then. I did not see myself as writing for a living. I did not think that what I said mattered. I finished my paper on genocide and graduated, listening to Alberto Gonzalez give our commencement speech. (Gonzalez would go on to write memos justifying torture.)

After the IDF fundraiser, I was invited to another. I told my friends, no, I cannot go. They did not understand. I was afraid of causing a rift, but eventually told my closest friend that I could not attend any events glorifying war. Bad enough, I thought, that I was supporting wars in an indirect way by living in the United States. I could not stomach the fighter jet videos again.

My friend did not understand, but we came to a silent agreement not to discuss the topic, as friends often do.

There was a seed of something then, but I was not very brave. I did not think that my words meant much. They still don’t.

But here is what I do know. I live my life full of the belief that we can make decisions every day that move us closer to something more true, more compassionate, more faithful.

I did not support the fighter jets then. But it is not enough to just leave the room. Now, I know a little bit better and try to be a little less afraid. Israel’s war on the people of Palestine has wrought devastating destruction and more deaths than I can bear to stomach. I add my voice to those who ask for it to stop. American leaders need to use their political power to demand a ceasefire. As journalists, we need to learn from our personal mistakes and do our best to follow the voice that calls, often faintly, for us to step outside of the siren calls of propaganda. Every day, we can decide to be more compassionate.