Brewing Violence: the Political Ferment
Why is everyone reluctant to call the killing of six people in Arizona and the critical wounding of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords what it is: mass political assassination and an act of terrorism? The shooter made very clear statements online about his political views, and while they may have been more than two standard deviations from the mean for most of us, they are not far out of line for the Tea Party, a very successful force in the last election.
Jared Lee Loughner's motives are obvious, but admitting that he is indicative of an incredibly dangerous and violent political minority would force us also to admit that top-down organization is not necessary for terrorism to flourish; in fact, it's more effective without it. Our experiences with al Qaeda over the past decade should tell us this, but then we'd have to admit that our military actions against them are futile, and that would hurt our collective pride.
People like Loughner and the assassin of Kansas doctor George Tiller, Scott Roeder, and the pilot who crashed his plane into an Austin IRS office, Andrew Joseph Stack III are reacting to a perceived threat. They are acting alone, but they are spurred to act by a political perspective that has been carefully cultivated by some incredibly rich and powerful people, from Rupert Murdoch to the Koch brothers, who maintain their power not only by getting their people elected to congress but also by chilling their opponents through fear of financial, professional, and now physical consequences. By avoiding organization, there is plausible deniability, and while they may not wish that domestic terrorism to develop exactly, they certainly do little to prevent it. Sarah Palin went so far as to use the graphic of the crosshairs of a rifle's scope on her website to target Giffords and other Democrats she wanted gone after this last election cycle. There is more than a rhetorical difference between using words like “target,” or “set your sights on” and using a graphic representation. The former requires one's imagination to be engaged, and by so doing, invites reflection. The latter may be intended symbolically but presents the content is a way that does not invite reflection, that creates an immediate, seeable reality, working directly and instinctively.
For the political Right to admit that they are creating an environment for these sorts of things to happen and thrive is to admit some degree of culpability, and that would never do, so John Boehner says that there's “no place” for this sort of thing, then, as sure as you're born, will come right out with the same rhetoric during the next round of political debate. To admit that we have some degree of power over the cultural and political environments we create would also force us to admit that we contribute to the discontent in the Muslim world that has led to al Qaeda, that we contribute to the drug-trade-fueled violence just across Arizona's border in Mexico. In other words, to admit our culpability would also be to admit that our actions are wrong and that they should change, to admit that making things better might actually cost us something in terms of our lifestyles and our ideas about ourselves.
These situations also point out how ill-equipped we are as a nation to wield the tremendous power of free speech. It is necessary for self-government, but, like any other power, it requires responsibility not just on the part of the speaker but also on the part of the audience; we must be intellectually equipped to deal with propaganda and BS. To be responsible enough to be part of our own governance, we need to be equipped to sort out reasonable messages from unreasonable ones and to research that about which we are ignorant. Unless and until we are collectively ready to live up to the responsibilities of self-government, expect more violence, more desperation, and the retrenchment of those who foment it.