selective commotion

Malak Mattar (Palestine), Gaza, 2024.
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By SALEM NASSER*

What does it take for someone to see, to perceive, a genocide in progress?

1.

To the classic question of whether a tree makes a noise when it falls without anyone there to witness it, I always answered in the affirmative, not without a trace of irritation. I was bothered by the assumption that the sound was only produced for human ears; it was, to me, a manifestation of our arrogant anthropocentrism.

If someone is nearby while the tree falls, their senses will be touched by the greater or lesser spectacle, by the thunderous or delicate sound, by the sight of the fall that starts slowly and then accelerates, by the tremor of the ground... And soon perhaps some emotion will emerge, faced with the experience of witnessing, for example, the end of a living being... And, finally, perhaps we will reflect on the inevitability of death, or on desertification and climate change... Perhaps we will even decide to do something about it.

If, however, faced with the fall, simultaneous or not, of two different trees, the same observer only hears the noise of one of them, only sees the fall of one of them, and only becomes emotional and immediately reflects on one of the two phenomena, the explanation for this “relative blindness” needs to be sought in the human being who is this observer, and in the social environment in which he or she is inserted.

Let us now return: what does it take for someone to see a genocide in progress or, conversely, for someone to stop seeing a genocide in progress?

I know that the example of genocide is extreme and that there are many things between that and the fall of a tree that could serve as a reflection on the blindness and selectivity of our senses and emotions. However, at the time of writing, there is in fact a genocide underway and few people seem willing to see it! What is more, if I can support my argument for genocide, this phenomenon that, in principle, should impose itself on the senses and emotions of everyone, as well as on all living consciousnesses, then its relevance will be proven for all other things.

It is difficult to conceive of an observer who is or has been a direct witness to two processes of systematic destruction of peoples, even if they may exist, as being our typical observer. To understand the phenomenon I want to point to, we must bear in mind the observer to whom the news of the events, the narratives, the images, the texts, the films, the analyses reach.

It is obvious, therefore, that if we want to understand the relativity or selectivity of perceptions and judgments, we need to combine what is in the socially located human being himself with what is, or is not, in the narratives that reach him.

Narratives may be diverse and may be in competition, but neither multiplicity nor conflict is immediately perceptible as such to the average observer. Somehow, there seems to be a tendency for some narratives to be given free rein and seen as the “naturally true” ones, while alternatives are perceived as marginal, divergent, and deserving of less credit.

2.

In my personal experience, the existence of competing narratives for the prerogative of representing what would be the truth became apparent very early on and became a central and permanent concern. In the face of major events in international life, revolutions, wars, interventions, I invariably encountered two opposing narratives that claimed to be exclusively true: one circulated in the newspapers and on the television news – and soon among teachers and schoolmates, as well as shop customers and passers-by – and the other dominated the family and community environment. Sometimes, two narratives were not enough, since nothing prevented the neighbor and his group from having their own truth.

Very early on I realized that it was possible to transform the hero into the villain, the executioner into the victim, and vice versa, that it was possible to decide the beginning and the end of stories, that one could invert reasons and consequences. All of this was problematic for those who still had some illusion about the existence of objective truths.

But even more problematic was the effect that divergent narratives have on the location of justice.

This is how, gradually, the related themes of competing narratives and naturalized narratives, of selective blindness and selective emotion, became what I could call “my big question.”

Some accidents contributed to the expressions becoming consolidated in my mind and relating to each other. First, when the French satirical newspaper was attacked Charlie Hebdo I wanted to react in text and decided that the title should be “Selective Commotion”. Many tragic things were happening in those days, an absurd war in Syria, attacks in Egypt, Tunisia, Niger, refugees shipwrecked and washed up dead on beaches. Nothing, however, could compete, in terms of the emotion felt and expressed, with the attacks on Charlie Hebdo.

One fine day, I decided to collect texts written by me and published over the course of two or three years, and I decided that the best name for the collection would be “Selective Commotion.” Among the articles, more than one referred to Edward Said, to his concern with the narratives and representations of the other, an other who is not allowed the privilege of telling his own story, and also to his reference to the specific blindness of great intellectuals and great humanists, who saw everything, or almost everything, but were incapable of seeing the Palestinians as a people and their tragedy as a great historical injustice.

A good friend, an editor, read the texts with great generosity and told me that the whole thing could very well be called “Selective Blindness” and that this would perhaps be more appropriate.

I am, therefore, indebted to my friends, to the accidents and exchanges that cement in us the ideas we think we have.

And there is no doubt as to the “Saidian” inspiration of my reflections. The idea of ​​a West that keeps for itself the prerogative of representing the other, the Eastern or, in general, the non-Western, is an extremely powerful discovery. It carries within itself the image of competing narratives, of naturalized narratives, of impossible narratives.

A small detour, to refer to the impossibility of telling, of making one's own voice heard: if I knew how to draw, I would produce a Palestinian telling his story against a strong wind; the wind would push his words behind the speaker and no one would be able to hear him.

The image of the blind man who sees everything except the Palestinian issue, despite seeming more banal, emerges for me as especially frightening, because it is a very particular and specific case of selectivity and because it affects critical thinkers who, in principle, have a genuine concern with the themes of justice, power... Suffice it to say that among the examples listed by Edward Said are names such as Isaiah Berlin and Michel Foucault.

I know, of course, that the adjective “selective” that I use to accompany blindness and commotion can carry the meaning of a voluntary, purposeful, conscious selectivity. What is more interesting, however, is the occurrence of blind spots and biases, of vision and feelings, as an involuntary phenomenon, as a natural movement, so to speak.

Of course, as we seek the reasons for what we see and what we do not see, and as we seek to understand the process of naturalization of dominant narratives, and as we look at the observer, at the society in which he or she is inserted, and at the way in which the narratives reach him or her, we cannot rule out the possibility that the results, the blindness and the naturalization, arise from an intention that is not in the observer. The possibility of a controlled process cannot be ruled out.

3.

Noam Chomsky, a long-time interlocutor of Edward Said, is one of the main thinkers trying to reveal the process through which power holders produce consensus and the role that the media plays in this construction.

And it was precisely in Noam Chomsky that I found a concept related to my concerns about the selectivity of our perceptions and the dominant nature of some narrative-producing mechanisms. On one occasion, I heard Noam Chomsky say that the idea that there was freedom in the field of political debate in the United States was an illusion. Despite the appearance of total freedom, anyone who looked carefully would see that the margins within which it was possible to disagree were clearly drawn. Anyone who wanted to challenge these margins would not necessarily be silenced, but would be condemned to speak for the very few, the marginalized, those excluded from the main marketplace of ideas.

The concept I found, related to this universe of arguments, is the “Overton Window”. Conceived by a political scientist, the window in question expresses the idea that, contrary to what one might expect, political actors do not act as bearers of their own political opinions that they submit to the consideration of the electorate; they, in fact, adjust their discourse to the political space that they perceive to be present in the place and time. The window and the boundaries of possible discourse and debate are given.

The inescapable question, to which only tentative answers can be given, is this: to what extent is the process by which borders and limits are drawn natural and spontaneous, and to what extent is it possible for someone to determine the margins and the ideas that can circulate between them?

When I think about this, I have always tended to see, as a definitive example of the truth of this thesis, the fact that it is virtually impossible to defend communism and be heard in the United States, let alone participate in the country's political life. Today, a more current example would be the impossibility of being a dissenting voice in relation to the defense of Israel.

All of this places us before a set of existential questions that are difficult to answer: how much do we learn from the reality that surrounds us, and how much of what we perceive is actually reality? Is it possible to speak of truth, and is it possible to know any truth?

I know there must be limits to the references one makes to popular culture if one is to preserve some respectability, but I am taking a calculated risk here. I have in mind the dilemma that dominates the film Matrix: to what extent do we live an illusion, or a lie, built by an architect unknown to us, and which can only be faced at the cost of a clandestine life in the dark basements, with rags for clothes and tasteless porridge as the only food?

This is not a false question. In our real lives, what are the real possibilities for challenging the dominant narratives? With what chances of success? At what cost?

It occurred to me recently that, just as I cannot believe what those great spirits who simply do not see the Palestinian tragedy claim to see, I find myself forced to question the official history of the great events of the past since, in the face of the great events of present history, I see that today, under my gaze, the fictional narratives that will serve as official history in the future are being constructed.

I have in mind, when I say this, two great processes that at the same time illustrate the phenomena of naturalized narratives, selective blindness and selective commotion, and reveal the true face of a West that still intends to reserve for itself the exclusive privilege of representing the other and the world, for itself and for the world.

I am referring to the war in Ukraine and the war in Palestine (the latter is a generic term that encompasses the ongoing genocide that is affecting the population of Gaza, but also includes armed actions that extend beyond Palestine and involve other actors). The concomitance of the two events is especially relevant because it allowed us to discover the different weights and measures mobilized in the construction of the narratives and present in the supposed commotion felt.

Just as we can question the processes of understanding reality and doubt the possibilities of any truth, it is worth pointing out the selectivity of our emotion, our outrage, our revolt, in the face of what we perceive as unjust or inhumane.

Ultimately, just as we ask ourselves whether we are immersed in an entire fictional life, we can also ask ourselves whether we truly feel. If each of us, as an individual, can identify the instances in which, for example, our emotions and empathic capacities are mobilized in the face of a child's suffering, and the instances in which the suffering of another child leaves us indifferent.

Our emotion, when it occurs, is genuine, or at least it can be—I do not have in mind those who pretend and lie. To the extent that it manifests itself selectively, however, we may doubt what its connection with injustice, with suffering, with a sense of humanity should be. All this is imposed on us when we refer to the emotion that manifests itself in the individual.

It is important to note, however, that we often speak of selective emotion or equivalent concepts, attributing this selectivity of weights and measures, and of feelings, to institutions, to States, to international organizations, to courts… This is especially true in circumstances such as those I mentioned above, wars, genocides, war crimes and crimes against humanity…

We say, then, that the United States, France, this or that other State, the UN, the International Criminal Court, demonstrate selective emotion. We know, of course, that these entities are devoid of feelings, and that, in principle at least, the people who speak and act in the name of these institutions are capable of feeling. The confusion and imprecision with which we refer to the behavior of States and other entities arise, at least in part, from the fact that those who speak in their name, despite having exclusively political reasons in mind, place themselves emphasizing arguments of a moral nature, affirming the love of justice and humanity.

4.

For a more attentive observer, the inconstancy of the affirmed values, their contradiction with behaviors, and the selectivity with which they are applied become evident. For everyone else, once again, the erasure of contradictions and selectivity is due to well-constructed and naturalized narratives, narratives that do not reveal their own plot holes and that do not allow for any longer-term memory.

As I suggested above, the coincidence in timing of the wars in Ukraine and Palestine provides us with a unique opportunity to reveal the true nature of the game. And this is because the part of the world that some today call the Collective West or the Global North – that is, the United States and its allies – felt forced to move in two opposite directions at the same time, and even to go to extremes in both directions: simultaneously demonizing Russia and justifying Israel’s criminal actions.

It is in this sense that we can say that at this historical moment the masks have fallen. And the power of this fact cannot be underestimated. As the masks of the West fall, it is not only the faces of individual actors that are revealed; this is rather the announcement of the possible undoing of the international system, created by the West in its own image and likeness, and of its institutions.

The system, we are told, had claims to universality, but the various selectivities I have been pointing out deny any truth to this claim. One can see, looking at recent events within the UN and other international organizations, as well as in international courts, how institutional structures threaten to collapse in the face of the tension between their principled orientation towards universalism and the difficulty of acting contrary to the interests of their creators.

The case of Palestine perhaps serves like no other to illustrate the themes of selective blindness, selective commotion, dominant and naturalized narratives and the crisis of the international system built on a set of narratives advanced by the West.

Before being an instance of a dominant narrative, Palestine is a geographical, mental and symbolic place of many and diverse narratives, the biblical one, as the heart of monotheisms, the historical and geographical one, as part of the heart of the world and the cradle of civilizations, the biblical one resurrected in Protestant Europe and in European Zionism, the colonial one of the great empires that divided the world between themselves…

After more than a hundred years of a Palestinian Question that could be narrated as a resistance struggle of a people who want to preserve their territory and their identity, the narrative that prevails is another: there was anti-Semitism in Europe and there were violent pogroms that victimized European Jews; this was combined with a long history of persecution against the group; because of this, it was concluded that the group would only be safe if it had a State of its own; taking into account the biblical account, the establishment of this State in historic Palestine would be like a return to the home promised by God; the genocide of European Jews during the Second World War only confirmed this thesis; the territory of Palestine would not have a people and the Palestinians would not be a people; before Israel, everything was backward, and after, everything was progress; all the wars were the fault of the Arabs and they only lost territories because they did not accept the agreements; that today the fair solution would be a two-state solution in which Palestine would be something less than sovereign…

What did not appear, before this war in which, as has been said, many masks fell, in the narrative, was the reality of the occupation of the territory destined to be Palestine, in principle, according to the supposed consensus, it was the reality of the system of segregation and apartheid, was the reality of ethnic cleansing.

These aspects of reality were, to anyone who cared to look, indisputable. And yet no one wanted to see; no one wanted to pay the price of supporting narratives that revealed this truth; and it seemed that no one was willing to be moved.

What mystery could this be? I propose the following key, if not to unravel the enigma definitively, at least to illuminate our path a little. I feel that, in truth, despite the profusion of narratives that try to prove the contrary, we have not strayed that far from the 19th century.

Essentially, the Palestine Question belongs to the time when the so-called civilized West allowed itself to dominate and exploit non-Westerners, barbarians. It is a typical case of colonization by settlement and population replacement. In part, then, it is because the lives of barbarians are not worth the same as those of civilized people, who are not or do not need to be seen, do not deserve a narrative that tells them and values ​​them, do not make us feel, much less act. But that is part of the reason, not all of it. There is certainly more. Who dares to tell the rest?

* Salem Nasser He is a professor at the Faculty of Law at FGV-SP. Author of, among other books, Global law: norms and their relationships (Alamedina). [https://amzn.to/3s3s64E]


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