My Rights are Your Rights

I've just finished reading a New Yorker article about the furor regarding Attorney General Eric Holder's decision to try Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in United States criminal courts.

The timbre of the article leaves me with an image of the writer, Jane Mayer, with one hand on her hip and the other pointing particularly at a phrase in the Declaration of Independence.

She hopes you'll recall that many of the men who sculpted the constitution also signed, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights," with emphasis on "all men" and "Creator-endowed unalienable Rights."

I'll briefly summarize and provide context. Eric Holder's first argument for holding the cases in federal criminal courts, rather than by military commission, reduces to the fact that his prosecutors have a better case than the military does. They have produced evidence without resorting to torture. Evidence via torture is just about all the military prosecutors have, and they hardly have that.

As Amy Jeffress, Holder's national-security adviser, is quoted in the article, "There was no file for each detainee. The information was scattered all over the government. You'd look at what the Department of Defense had, and it was something, but, as a prosecutor, it wasn’t what you’d like to see as evidence. . . . It was pretty thin stuff."

Holder's second argument is simply sound public relations: much of the world considers the military commission system established by George Bush to be illegitimate, and certainly the Islamic world is concerned about convictions based on evidence obtained via torture.

As Holder is quoted, "Values matter in this fight. We need to give those who might follow these mad men a good sense of what America is, and what America can be. We are militarily strong, but we are morally stronger."

The legal argument against holding the cases by military commission rather than in criminal courts, where the defendants will be afforded all rights under the constitution, is that Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, et al, are enemy combatants and therefore needn't be afforded said rights.

The article quotes Andrew McCarthy, the former Chief Assistant U.S. Attorney who led the prosecution of the 1993 World Trade Center attacks, declaring that Holder didn’t "understand what rule of law has always been in wartime." He said, "It’s military commissions. It’s not to wrap our enemies in our Bill of Rights."

Or as Scott Brown's campaign asserted, "Some people believe our Constitution exists to grant rights to terrorists who want to harm us. I disagree."

Some common people agree with McCarthy and Brown. Ms. Mayer quotes a protestor, Carolyn Walton, "How can someone who is not an American have any right to our rights? Holder wants to help the terrorists."

America is Universal Rights

But our American identity depends on the idea that our country upholds Rights we profess are universal ("all men") and absolute ("inalienable", "endowed by their Creator"). We believe we were given these Rights not because we are American, but because we are Human.

We love our country because it is one of the few that exists precisely to protect those Rights. America is not merely a space of land: it's a set of ideas that hold all people as created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights. That set of ideas, and not our territory or economic might, has justified our intervention in the affairs of the world.

The United States crossed oceans twice to defend the inalienable Rights of humanity against dictators who sought absolute power. The United States stood against the spread of Stalinism, because Stalin spit on Russians' Creator-endowed Rights. The United States intervened in Kuwait when a dictator extended his reach.

The United States assisted Afghanis twice: once to defend civilians against Soviet aggression, and once to free citizens from the grip of totalitarians who stripped them of their Rights. The United States supported Iranians last summer as their government violated their Creator-endowed Rights to speak freely, to gather and to govern themselves.

We act contrary to our American identity when we avert our eyes to abuse of inalienable Rights or when we support dictators who impinge the very Rights we uphold (Pinochet, Noriega, Maximilio Hernadez). We disgrace ourselves when we treat prisoners in a way that implies, "We will summarily rob you of your Creator-endowed Rights to assure ours."

We disgrace ourselves if we say, "All men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, if by 'all men' you mean US Citizens."

If we are Americans, then we must not deny those Rights to any person. Not even if we believe they're a terrorist. Not even if we believe they're a war criminal. Not even if we believe they're our enemy.

Only if we prove them guilty -- by a fair trial, by a jury of their peers, with evidence not extracted by violating their Creator-endowed inalienable Rights -- may we call them felons and punish them appropriately.

If we can act justly at Nuremberg when trying some of the most depraved humans in recent history, then surely we can act justly when trying Pakistani villagers.

Answering the Skeptic

A good skeptic will ask, What if Khalid Sheikh Mohammed is found innocent? An argument for the military commissions is the relative certainty that they will convict.

But truly, if the best prosecutors in the United States cannot convince twelve Americans that Khalid Sheikh Mohammed is guilty, then maybe he is actually innocent. Few events could damage the United States' efforts to protect the Rights of humanity than if we execute an innocent foreigner.

If a military commission executes a man who is later exonerated, then for the next century, each time the United States attempts to defend the rights of humans in Cambodia or China, we will be firmly reminded of our own violations.

If the United States wishes to preserve its moral capital, it must remain above reproach.

The upside to this whole debate is that Holder's prosecutors claim they have sound evidence. If we allow the Justice Department to try Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in US criminal court and he is found guilty, he will be punished with death, just as if he were convicted by a military tribunal.

But by trying him in US criminal court, we uphold our American identity as the defender of the inalienable Rights of all humanity.


PS. To be fair, there's a very practical argument against trying Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in criminal court: the case will cost too much, with estimates ranging from a few hundred million dollars to a billion. Clearly those costs must be controlled, and decreased. Even at the low-end, 300 million dollars for a trial is absurd. On the other hand, we've spent around a billion dollars improving and servicing the detainment facilities at Guantanamo since the first prisoners arrived there eight years ago. I address money only to predict anyone who deflects the moral argument in favor of arguing finances. The financial cost will be high either way, but the longer we delay, the more the prisoners cost us.

My 2007th year of Western Culture

Inspired by Kyle, I offer a brief sketch of my past year to serve as a sort of Christmas letter and a reminder to myself of just how much I live.

In January I moved out on my own for the first time. I joined two roommates unlike any friends I'd known before. Casey sketched beautiful art on canvases littered about the room and taped emptied beer boxes to the wall in the shape of a palm tree, and bats swooping. Miles interned for the public defenders office and echoed the grandest music against my wall.

For Jan term I studied Chaos Theory applied to leadership, permanently changing the way I perceive individuals in groups. An example: when fish swim in those pulsating schools, veering from dolphins while never losing cohesion, they do not do so by any complex communication network or ordered steps like a marching band. Each fish acts as an individual guided by a few simple principles: go the same direction as the other fish, at the same speed, and don't bump into any other fish.

In Spring I undertook a pesca-ovo-vegetarian diet. I only eat meat if a host serves it, or if it would be rude to refuse it. My body had more health than ever. I also studied and accepted philosophies of community and pacifism. The philosophies' complexity befuddles me; even now I wrestle with conflicting desires for sustenance and mobility without harming others' with my food and fuel needs.

I continued my transformation into a proletariat by helping design a protest at Whitworth. It occurred on the 8th of May and its effects are continually visible. I interned at the Center for Justice. I didn't get much done, but I learned more about me (don't give me paperwork. It bewilders me).

I totaled my car. USAA, the insurance company, didn't pay for the whole car, so I'm still paying for a car I don't own.

In Summer I moved to New York City. I lived in Washington Heights and worked three food jobs. Clinton and Mike showed up the first week of August, but Mike left after three days. Clinton and I spent the rest of the month bumming around (I quit my jobs) and exploring. I left for a week on August 7th to visit Emily in Maine. I got to volunteer on an Island through Ripple Effect. I hitchhiked in four states when I left Maine, traveling through New Hampshire and Vermont and back into New York.

Fall I took a number of required courses, but did the bulk of my learning through blogs, outside readings and thinking. I wrote for the Whitworthian again.

I attended two conferences on sustainability and eucology on November 1, and November 2-5. The latter, Powershift '07, occurred outside D.C.. After panels and workshops on various topics like eco-pedagogy, green investing, mountain-top-removal and faith-based environmentalism, 3000 of the conference attendees proceeded to lobby meetings with most of the representatives and senators in congress. I met with aides from Maria Cantwell, Jim Reichart and Patty Murray's offices. I presented my learnings to Whitworth's Sustainability Committee.

On to 2008!

Home again

I'd meant to write more about the interesting things I saw and experienced in New York, but
New York just wasn't that interesting.

The interesting was astonishing beyond categorization and thus birthed poems. Essays would have been muddled. You wouldn't have understood the tastes.

My stories will emerge gradually, I'm sure.

flashes in pans

A bit of an interesting day in New York. A steam pipe exploded near Grand Central. The initial steam geyser rose higher than the Chrysler tower (77 stories). At my restaurant we turned on the news for a few minutes to figure out what happened before we switched to the Yankees game. No one was paying attention to the news.

After I got off work I was walking to the Village Ma for music when there was a shooting in Washington Square Park. I was on MacDougal street, about half a block away. It sounded like two fire crackers. A couple of people and I stopped to watch two chubby NYPD pant up the sidewalk to the park. People poured out of the park, which is a pretty popular, very safe spot next to NYU. Four of five patrol cars drove into the park, but by that time we had all moved on.

Spectacular events in New York are like boats. They leave a wake: a couple people get hurt, a few people will talk about it; but, as soon as the initial disturbance passes, the event and the affected people are absorbed into the sea.

missing misanthropy

I narrowly avoided misanthropy today.

I surely hold a kind view of humanity in general and I've been enjoying myself thoroughly as a still "innocent and wide eyed" optimist. Just last night my friend Adina explained how New York builds a cynicism into people over time. I shrugged: I haven't been calloused much at all. She explained that every time I talk to a girl, the girl will inevitably assume I'm picking her up.

That's set up. Today I was at my friend Emily's cafe. I noticed a girl reading a book on Heroes and Tombs. Having just come from the Mythical creatures exhibit at the Museum of Natural History I was curious as to whether the book was non-fiction or a novel. I asked another question, which was again politely answered. The third question received no answer and a disdainful look. I went back to sketching poems. Later I realized what I must have appeared to her as: just another guy trying to pick her up. That's when I nearly slipped into pessimism.


It fucking bugs me that this girl assumed the worst of me, considered me merely another man to fend off. And here I was, apparently one of the few guys in New York willing to take each person as a person and not a sex object. I took an interest in her because she was interesting, not because she was beautiful. And so she dehumanized me even as I attempted to humanize her. I hurl my broadsword through swaths of people, severing them with my wit. No, I have no scathing wit. To be so endowed.

The rescue: still hating every person I encountered I purchased Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray. Then I watched Ratatouille, perhaps one of the lightest, charmingest movies I've recently seen, much less endured. I'd give it 5 stars for success on all counts. So that cheered me up a bit. I went to sushi, blah sushi, but still sushi, which cheered me up more. On the subway ride home I ended up in a car full of bibliofiles, discussing literature. There were at least 5 different parties, all interacting. As I got off the subway with two of my new found neighbors, one of the girls said "Goodnight subway friends."

That's this city. The friendliest people in the world, all of them misanthropes.

Staying in

The Bronx is a ten minute walk from where I live. I've yet to go there. I haven't visited the park near my apartment. I haven't eaten at the highly rated restaurants in my neighborhood.

Mostly I work or sleep. I'm a bit of an insomniac, so when exhaustion eventually drags me prostrate, I remain there as long as possible. Often I find myself waking up at noon or one. The only thing that lifts me from bed is work or outings with friends. The outings with friends are rare, so I get up for work.

Not to say I'm unproductive: during my sleepless nights I read good books and write.

Literature. I went to the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe on Friday night. I basked in the movement of people back and forth -- the men tended to slam about politics and the women about social injustice. I've just flipped through my music collection, looking for an artist with the passion or honest eloquence I saw on the Nuyorican stage. Bright Eyes may be the only comparison; but for his whiny scrawl, substitute the cursive rhythms of east coast rap.

Here's the poem I sketched the next night about one of the poets:

this is the persuasive
sermon ... this diatribe
from the bottle of this
Atlanta acreage, bared
like this woman's chest -- with
that honesty of address.

this is the finally
ill invalid facing
her demise with shocking
regard for these invalids.

her upheld hand cups a
lucent mantel ... and a
white knife she drives through her
leather coat. Her black-skinned
blood salves bored cancers -- red
coughs do not enrage by
vague triviality.
Her blood punctually
succors small kids and plants goats.

not for the lack of tithe
in her other hand, not
for the lack of glory
in blueprints and plans, not
even for my poems of
her anonymity
she slides to her knees, casts
the mantel of light -- she
crescendos. We, all and
I, hear as she bares her
palms righteously, holies
the mic. Her eyes beg. Her
tongue heaves. She breathes -- to old
tenements and invalids.

Random collisions

The day after I visited the Pig and Whistle Pub in midtown I explored an entirely different part of the island. A door opened in front of me and one of the bartenders from the pub walked right in front of me. I was so shocked to see him that I didn't even say hello.

With the vast, anonymous movement of people throughout this city, for strangers to chance upon each other twice requires serendipity. One kind girl I met on the subway rides the same train I do every day, but the chance of us actually crossing paths is very low odds. Our train runs every ten minutes, most of the day. Our schedules differ daily. Even if we happened to end up on the same train, each train has maybe twenty cars. Each car holds maybe 60 people during off-peak and upwards of a hundred during rush hour. We could be on the same car and never see each other.

But even with the improbability of accidently happening upon the same person twice, it's happened to me twice already. There is a social network that links people. Besides running into the bartender two days in a row, I met one of my roommate's old coworkers when Andrew and I went bar hopping. Then, when I started work today at the place Andrew manages, the old coworker came in to eat. Even that occurance required chance, as I could have worked a different shift and it may have been weeks before the coworker came in again. Yet, it's clear our connection through Andrew made it more likely we'd meet again.

My friend Emily explained New York as a big city made up of small communities. Likewise, one of the bartenders at my new job mentioned she liked working there because the community was full of locals who were regulars. Perhaps people go to the same places repeatedly for the familiar faces. Perhaps it's the way to make friends.

I tried out the local bar on my own tonight, which was blocks away. I felt so uncomfortable walking into what was obviously a close knit community that I left immediately. Bar hopping on my own was not a success. I couldn't get up the nerve to actually sit and wait and order drinks alone. I forgot how draining it is to make friends.

digame

On my first night in New York my roommate Andrew took me bar hopping.

On the way down I noticed talking on the subway is like watching silent movies: you can see their lips move, but you can't hear the syllables. It's an eerie disconnect. You have to shout, even face to face. If you don't, your words are garbled by the clunk and gimbling of the car. I dart my eyes between eyes and lips to try to read what I can't hear.

Sociology students should be required to take trips on subways. I rode the A train from JFK to my stop. At the last Brooklyn stop a young Chinese man hopped aboard. As he silently took a seat, I noticed he was the only non-black person on my car, besides me. However, the first stop in Manhattan, a few Slavic whites got on. By midtown the car was evenly mixed. By my stop, the car was predominantly Hispanic and Irish white. It wasn't the race that through me off, but the progression. Is the city ghettoed? Or was it the time of day? In a city so diverse, the delineations seemed too stark.

Not that race dehumanizes much in New York. Here, the divider between people (and there seems there's always a divider) is language. In my neighborhood you'll see very dark skinned people speaking Spanish to very light skinned people. The same will happen between those speaking English. There are white people dressed in the same attire as black people, and Hispanics dressed in the same attire as Irish or Jewish people. But it seems that two people speaking a Slavic language are set apart from the three speaking French and the two chatting away in Hindi or Swahili. Race doesn't make people inaccessible, but it seems language might.

Speaking of language, I went to the UN today. Not interesting at all. I imagine it would be fascinating if you could do more than stand in the lobby or examine the gift shop.

It's a lonely city, this city is. I walked for six hours today, yet I only spoke once briefly to passers-by and once to a girl on a subway to ask for directions. When she found out this was my second day in the city, she said, "Oh that's why you look wide eyed and innocent." We chatted for a bit and her advice to me was Don't tell people where you live. You don't know who you can trust, here in New York.

off guard

I arrived at 8:20am. The weather at JFK reminded me of Oahu -- balmy and sunny. On the subway, ten stops apart, two men boarded with umbrellas. I decided it was a fashion statement. Just this morning my Dad and I talked about my ability to predict the weather. Needless to say, it's hailing now and those two fashionable men are the dry ones.

I was going to go out for groceries. I didn't even bring a raincoat... or an umbrella.