[Peace-discuss] "Critical Hope: Radical Citizenship in Reactionary Times" - Robert Jensen - from IMC newswire

[John Wason]

If some of you came across this article on the IMC newswire or in some other
forum I apologize for cluttering up your inbox.  I just thought it was
somewhat enlightening.

John

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   Critical Hope: Radical Citizenship in Reactionary Times 
   by Robert Jensen 10:05am Mon Dec 17 '01 article#3469
   
     [A talk to Independent Allies, San Antonio, TX, December 6, 2001]
     
   After a recent antiwar talk in which I sharply criticized U.S. foreign
   policy, a student asked me, "Don't you find it hard to live being so
   cynical?" When I responded that I thought my comments were critical
   but not cynical, he looked at me funny and said, "But how can being so
   critical not make you cynical?"

   The student was equating any critique of injustice produced by
   institutions and systems of power with cynicism about people. His
   question made me realize how easy is cynicism and how difficult is
   sustained critique in this culture, which shouldn't surprise us.

   People with power are perfectly happy for the population to be
   cynical, because that tends to paralyze people and leads to passivity.
   Those same powerful people also do their best to derail critique --
   the process of working to understand the nature of things around us
   and offering judgments about them -- because that tends to energize
   people and leads to resistance.

   Understanding the difference between critique and cynicism -- and the
   difference between hope and optimism -- is crucial to the future of
   any struggle against injustice. At this moment in history, those
   struggles must not only be about trying to win changes in policies but
   also about the reinvigoration of public life -- a call for
   participation, for politics, for radical citizenship in reactionary
   times.

   I don't use radical and reactionary in this case to describe specific
   political positions, left versus right. I am talking instead about an
   approach not just to politics, narrowly defined, but to the central
   questions of what it means to be a human being in connection with
   others. I think the world we live in is reactionary because it is
   trying to squeeze those important human dimensions out of us in the
   political sphere and constrict the range of discussion so much that
   politics does seem to many to be useless. I want to argue that our
   only hope is to be radical, to be political, and to be radical in
   public politically.

   To do that, I will talk about my own journey from cynicism to hope, my
   own struggle both for greater understanding of my self and an
   understanding of something greater than me. I am going to talk about
   love and justice. I am going to risk being seen as naive or
   self-indulgent or just plain silly. That's OK; I'm just a good-natured
   hick from North Dakota. We're generally plodding and slow and often
   don't realize we're being naive, or when people are making fun of us
   for it.

   Let me start the story when I was younger, in my teens and 20s. I saw
   that the world was in pretty awful shape. When I looked around at the
   world, I saw a whole lot of pain. The United States had just ended its
   terrorist campaign in Southeast Asia -- what we commonly call the
   Vietnam War -- and was pursuing another by proxy in Central America;
   rich people seemed unconcerned that their luxury was built on the
   backs of the suffering of literally billions of poor people around the
   world; people all over the place were still getting kicked around
   simply because they were women or non-white or gay or different in
   some fashion; and many people seemed not to care that the ecosystem
   that sustained our lives was in collapse.

   I looked around at all this, and I got cynical. Human beings, it
   seemed to me, were pretty unpleasant creatures. Human nature, I
   assumed, had to be pretty rotten for all this suffering to go on and
   on, generation after generation. Even with the advances in social
   justice -- and there have been advances, such as the end of slavery,
   greater recognition of the basic rights of women, etc. -- it is hard
   to be upbeat moving out of the 20th century, one of the most brutal
   and bloody in human history, into the 21st century, which promises to
   be just as, if not more, brutal.

   Being cynical appeared to have some advantages. I could step back from
   all the chaos and be hip. I could make jokes about how stupid people
   were. I could pretend not to care. I could turn away from the
   suffering of others because I, one of the hip and cynical, understood
   just how pathetic a species we were. I thought I was the one who saw
   it all so clearly.

   I stayed cynical, and disengaged, for some time. The fact that I was
   working at newspapers didn't help; for journalists, cynicism is an
   occupational hazard that takes great intelligence and maturity to
   resist, and I didn't possess either quality in adequate amounts. So
   cynical I stayed, until I went to graduate school and was given the
   luxury of time to read, think, and study. Lots of people go to
   graduate school and become cynics, or their cynicism deepens;
   universities can do that to people. But I got lucky and met some
   exceptional people -- many of them outside the university -- who
   helped me see another way.

   For me, that way began with feminism. I read a lot and listened to
   women. I started to not only learn about gender and sexism, but I also
   picked up a new way to understand the world, a new method of inquiry
   for examining the ideas and institutions that shape our world. I
   learned to look at how systems and structures of power operate. I
   learned to see past the surface to the core elements of those systems
   and structures. When I did that, I realized that things were far worse
   than I had thought -- the world was in more trouble than I had ever
   imagined. I learned about new levels of suffering and oppression.

   That's when I stopped being cynical and began to feel full of hope.
   That may seem counterintuitive. How did a deepening sense of the scale
   and scope of injustice and suffering make me hopeful? The answer is
   simple. For all those years, I was cynical for two basic reasons: I
   had the wrong view of human nature, and I didn't understand how the
   world worked. I thought the evil and stupidity all around me were the
   product of an inherently evil and stupid human nature, and therefore I
   didn't see any way to fight against injustice. It all seemed beyond
   our control.

   Once I started to understand the nature of illegitimate structures of
   authority, I realized that in fact people (including me) were not
   inherently evil or stupid, and that human nature (including mine) was
   complex and sometimes maddening, but not inherently aimed at the
   destruction of the world. I came to realize that the authority
   structures that so bent our lives were powerful and deeply entrenched.

   I also realized that most of the channels that the dominant culture
   offered us for working to make the world a better place were
   themselves deeply embedded in those authority structures, so that
   often the solutions were part of the problem. I realized that the
   analysis and action that could save us had to be more radical than I
   ever could have imagined. I also realized that at the moment in
   history in which I lived, there were relatively few people who would
   agree with any of this: People had begun to talk about a
   "postfeminist" age; the attacks on affirmative action and ethnic
   studies were emerging; the fall of the Berlin Wall "proved" that
   capitalism was the only possible economic system; and the United
   States was celebrating the slaughter of the Gulf War.

   So, at the moment I realized the depth of the problem and the forces
   stacked against justice, I got hopeful. The hope comes not from some
   delusional state, but from what I would argue is a sensible assessment
   of the situation. Cynicism might be an appropriate reaction to
   injustice that can't be changed. Hope is an appropriate response to a
   task that, while difficult, is imaginable. And once I could understand
   the structural forces that produced injustice, I could imagine what a
   world without those forces -- and hence without the injustice -- might
   look like. And I could imagine what activities and actions and ideas
   it would take to get us there. And I could look around, and look back
   into history, and realize that lots of people have understood this and
   that I hadn't stumbled onto a new idea.

   In other words, I finally figured out that I should get to work.

   So hope emerged out of cynicism. I began to see the power of radical
   analysis and the importance of collective action. I began to take the
   long view, to see that we face a struggle, but that it is not a
   pointless struggle. The exact choices we should make as we struggle
   are not always clear, but the framework for making choices is there.

   Hope and optimism

   I have hope, but that does not mean I am optimistic.

   Just as we have to distinguish between critique and cynicism, we have
   to realize that hope is not synonymous with optimism. I am hopeful,
   but I am not necessarily always optimistic, at least not about the
   short-term possibilities. These systems and structures of power, these
   illegitimate structures of authority, are deeply entrenched. They will
   not be dislodged easily or quickly. Optimism and pessimism should hang
   on questions of fact -- we should be optimistic when the facts argue
   for optimism.

   For example, I am against the illegitimate structure of authority
   called the corporation. I want to see different forms of economic
   organization emerge. I am hopeful about the possibilities but not
   optimistic that in my lifetime I will see the demise of capitalism,
   corporations, and wage slavery. Still, I will do certain things to
   work toward that.

   The same can be said of the problem of U.S. aggression against
   innocent people in the rest of the world, particularly these days in
   Afghanistan, where the aggression is most intense. Given the bloody
   record of the United States in the past 50 years and the seemingly
   limitless capacity of U.S. officials to kill without conscience, I
   must confess I am not optimistic that such aggression will stop
   anytime soon, in large part because those corporate structures that
   drive the killing are still around. But I will do certain things to
   work against it.

   Or take the large state research university. I am concerned about how
   the needs of students are systematically ignored and the needs of
   corporate funders are privileged, how critical thinking is squashed
   not by accident but by design. I am concerned about the illegitimate
   structures of authority that I work in and that compel me to act in
   ways against the interests of students. I am not optimistic that the
   structure of big research universities is going to change anytime
   soon. But I will do certain things to work against the structures.

   So, why would I do any of those things if my expectations of
   short-term success are so low? One reason is that I could be wrong
   about my assessment of the likelihood of change. I've been wrong about
   a lot of things in my life; the list grows every day. For all I know,
   corporate capitalism is on the verge of collapse, and if we just keep
   the pressure on it will start to unravel tomorrow. Or perhaps public
   discontent with murderous U.S. foreign policy is just about ready to
   crystallize and mobilize people. Or perhaps the contradictions of
   these behemoth universities are becoming so apparent that the
   illegitimate structures of authority are about to give way to
   something that deserves the label "higher education."

   History is too complex and contingent for any of us to make
   predictions. We simply don't have the intellectual tools to understand
   with much precision how and why people and societies change. History
   is a rough guide, but it offers no social-change equation. Still,
   there's really no reasonable alternative except to keep plugging away.

   Basically, there are two choices, which are common sense but that I
   didn't figure out until I heard them articulated by Noam Chomsky: We
   can either predict the worst -- that no change is possible -- and not
   act, in which case we guarantee there will be no change. Or we can
   understand that change always is possible, even in the face of great
   odds, and act on that assumption, which creates the possibility of
   progress. (See Chomsky's interview with Michael Albert at
   http://www.zmag.org/chomsky/interviews/9301-albchomsky-2.html)

   Every great struggle for justice in human history began as a lost
   cause. When Gabriel Prosser made plans to take Richmond, Virginia, in
   1800, the first large-scale organized slave revolt, he was fighting a
   lost cause, for which he was hanged. When eight Quakers got together
   in 1814 in Jonesboro, Tennessee, to form the first white anti-slavery
   society in the United States (the Tennessee Society for the
   Manumission of Slaves) they were fighting a lost cause. A lost cause
   that eventually won.

   But that can't be the only answer to the question "why should I be
   politically active." We are human beings, not machines, and we all
   have needs. It is hard to sustain yourself in difficult work if the
   only reward is the possibility that somewhere down the line your work
   may have some positive effect, though you may be long dead. That's a
   lot to ask of people. We all want more than that out of life. We want
   joy and love. At least every now and then, we want to have a good
   time, including a good time while engaged in our work. No political
   movement can sustain itself indefinitely without understanding that,
   not just because people need -- and have a right -- to be happy, but
   because if there is no joy in it, then movements are more likely to be
   dangerous. The joy -- the celebration of being human and being alive
   in connection with others -- is what must fuel the drive for change.

   People find joy in many different ways. As many people over the years
   have pointed out, one source of joy is in the struggle. I have spent a
   lot of time in the past few years doing political work, and some of
   that work isn't terribly fun. Collating photocopies for a meeting for
   a progressive political cause isn't any more fun than collating
   photocopies for a meeting at a marketing company. But it is different
   in some ways: It puts you in contact with like-minded people. It
   sparks conversation. It creates space in which you can think and feel
   your way through difficult questions. It's a great place to laugh as
   you staple. It provides the context for connections that go beyond
   superficial acquaintanceships.

   The joy is in the struggle, but not just because in struggle one
   connects to decent people. The joy is also in the pain of struggle.

   Joy is multilayered -- one key aspect of it is discovery, and one way
   we discover things about ourselves and others is through pain.
   Struggle confronts pain, and confronting pain is part of joy. The pain
   is there, in all our lives; there is no human life without pain. Pain
   can become part of joy when it is confronted. Struggle confronts pain.
   Struggle produces joy.

   The joy is in the struggle. The struggle is not just the struggle
   against illegitimate structures of authority in the abstract. The
   struggles are in each of us -- struggles to find the facts, to analyze
   clearly, to imagine solutions, to join with others in collective
   action for justice, and struggles to understand ourselves in relation
   to each other and ourselves as we engage in all these activities.

   I realize that this struggle doesn't seem appealing to many. I have
   heard lots of people lately say that they can't cope with the
   complexity of politics. It seems too much, too big, too confusing. All
   they can handle, they say, is to focus on their individual lives and
   do the best to fix their lives. I think these folks misunderstand not
   just their moral obligation but the nature of progress, individual and
   collective. We don't fix ourselves in isolation. We don't build decent
   lives by cutting ourselves off from problems just because they are
   complex. Yes, there are times when difficult situations force us to
   turn inward and deal with pressing problems in our lives. I have done
   that, and I see no need to apologize for it. But I am arguing against
   the permanent division of our lives into these artificial categories.
   Our problems are never wholly individual, and hence they can't be
   fixed in individual ways. Part of the solution is always to be found
   in the bigger struggle, in which we all have a part.

   I have learned that there is great joy in that bigger struggle. And
   that leads us back to the abandonment of cynicism and the embrace of
   hope. Cynicism is a sophomoric and self-indulgent retreat from the
   world and all its problems. Hope is a mature and loving embrace of the
   world and all its promise. That does not mean one should have
   unfounded or naive hope. Wendell Berry reminds us that history shows
   that "massive human failure" is possible, but:

   "[H]ope is one of our duties. A part of our obligation to our own
   being and to our descendants is to study our life and our condition,
   searching always for the authentic underpinnings of hope. And if we
   look, these underpinnings can still be found." [Sex, Economy, Freedom
   & Community (New York: Pantheon, 1993), p. 11.]

   Hope is one of our duties. But that does not mean it is always easy.
   There are many times, especially since September 11, that I have had
   to struggle to hold onto hope. The combination of seeing the World
   Trade Center towers fall in an instant and then watching the
   unfolding of an illegal and immoral war on Afghanistan has tested my
   own sense of hope. I managed to hold on for a couple of months, but in
   the few days before I sat down to write this I could feel my sense of
   hope fading. At the same time that I have been writing and thinking
   about the war, I also have been continuing my work on sexual violence
   and pornography. Both spark the same feeling in my gut -- despair over
   how cruel people, especially men, can be. When I have to face humans'
   willingness to inflict pain -- and ability to find pleasure in
   inflicting pain -- whether in the realm of the global or the intimate,
   some part of me wants to die; I can't bear it. Maybe some part of me
   does die.

   In the few days before I wrote this, I especially was having trouble
   in the mornings; lying awake in bed in the dark; trying to reclaim
   that sense of hope so that getting out of bed would make sense; trying
   not to think about the war but realizing that not thinking about it
   would be even worse; dying a little bit inside every morning, in the
   dark.

   But those authentic underpinnings of hope remain. On the day I wrote
   this, I had a meeting with a student on my campus who had read
   something I had written about the war and wanted to talk. She said she
   didn't have anything in particular to ask me. She just wanted to talk
   to someone who didn't think she was crazy. All around her at work and
   school, people -- pro, con or neutral -- were refusing to talk about
   the war, she said. So we talked for a bit. We did politics, in a small
   way, the way politics is most often done. We talked about how she
   might organize a political group on campus. But maybe more important,
   we shored up each other's sense of hope. We could talk about the pain
   and craziness of the war without turning away.

   Real hope -- the belief in the authentic underpinnings of hope -- is
   radical. A belief that people are not evil and stupid, not consigned
   merely to live out pre-determined roles in illegitimate structures of
   authority, is radical. The willingness to act publicly on that hope
   and that belief is radical.

   We all live in a society that would prefer that we not be radical,
   that we not understand any of this. We live in a society that prefers
   productive but passive people. I work at a university that is part of
   that society, and has many of the same problems. Many classes at the
   university are either explicitly or implicitly designed to convince
   students that everything I have argued here is fundamentally loony.
   The same goes for much of what comes to us through the commercial mass
   media. Some of what I say indeed may be misguided; as I said, I
   understand that I could be, and often am, wrong.

   But, even if I'm wrong in some ways, I'd rather be wrong with hope
   than cynicism. I'd rather be naive than hip. I'd rather work for a
   just and sustainable world and fail than abandon the hope. I
   understand that this position is not wholly logical; it is based on a
   sense of how we can best make good on the gifts that come with being
   part of the human community. It is based on a faith in something
   common to us all, a capacity that is difficult to name, but which is
   perhaps best summed up by a phrase once used by the Brazilian educator
   Paulo Freire. Our task simply put, Freire said, is "to change some
   conditions that appear to me as obviously against the beauty of being
   human." [Myles Horton and Paulo Freire, We Make the Road by Walking
   (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1990), p. 131.]

   In the end, that is the central hope: We can join together to help
   build not a utopia but a world in which we can struggle --
   individually and collectively, through the pain and with joy -- to get
   as close as we can to the beauty of being human.

   Robert Jensen is a professor of journalism at the University of Texas
   at Austin, a member of the Nowar Collective, and author of the book
   Writing Dissent: Taking Radical Ideas from the Margins to the
   Mainstream. He can be reached at rjensen at uts.cc.utexas.edu. Other
   writings are available online at:
   
   uts.cc.utexas.edu/~rjensen/home.htm