Watching History Recede
A number of my friends got on my case for offering a modicum of respect to Christopher Hitchens on his passing. With good reason. From his swing to militant neoconservatism to his zealous and condescending stance on atheism, he and I had very little in common philosophically, save for perhaps his stalwart championing of poetry over the years. Still, I found him to be an interesting man, and an interesting writer, and I'm afraid I just don't share the belief that those who think differently than I do are in some way mentally deficient or evil. (Alas, yet another thing I probably differed with him on.) I found it fascinating that he could balance all of those ideas in his head, a conservative ideology that was devoid of religion and yet fully embraced culture. It's a rarity in this world, especially as the contemporary conservative movement condenses more and more. And yet, in his uniquity, he also struck me as indicative of another trend, the way one rigid ideology gives way easily to another. Hitchens, like many neoconservatives, moved to that viewpoint from Marxism, a seemingly irrational jump until you see the desperate need for ideological rigor, how it causes one piece of information to radically transform a point of view rather than mellow or complicate it. For some people, ideologies are all or nothing affairs, with little room for ambiguity. Often, I fear I only see ambiguity, so naturally I find ideologues bewildering, and fascinating.
My Republican uncle, whom I love dearly, will occasionally pull out the old chestnut (Orwell, I think, but I can't be bothered to look it up), that if you're not liberal when you're young, you have no heart, and if you're not conservative when you're old, you have no brain. It's one of those maxims that's incredibly clever sounding, but there's not really a lot of truth in it. I like to think, for the most part, you either become more rigid as you grow older, or more flexible, the coin flip of which depends on your circumstances, the narrative of life that's brought you to that point. I find I've gotten no more conservative over the years, even as I careen toward 40, but I have become more practical, and more patient. Small political battles don't irk me the way they used to, especially ones where I feel I can see the tide of history taking its course, no matter which arbitrary side of the political spectrum wins a minor judicial or legislative battle. Please don't confuse this with apathy. It's more like déjà vu.
Hitchens' death had all of this much on my mind, if only because I'm always happy to entertain the idea that I'm wrong about things, that the world works in ways far different than my experience and education lead me to believe. I like a good argument, and Hitchens made many, although ultimately I found his worldview far too narrow, and like most conservative ideologies, far too driven by hubris and xenophobia for my taste. Still, I respected him, and that counts for something in my book. It's alright to respect people you disagree with. Indeed, I wish it happened more often.
All of this was coalescing in my head when Vaclav Havel died. I was a student in England in the time shortly after the fall of the Berln Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Consequently, I have no equivocations in my admiration for Havel. He was an easy figure to admire -- a writer and thinker who galvanized a nation to overthrow a dictator in a bloodless revolution. That's the sort of thing that makes an impression. Never mind that there had been plenty of Czech blood spilled in the years leading up to the demise of Communism, it was a marvel to see this writer, this man whose only weapon was language, bring about so much positive change. It was an inspiration, and one I cling to to this day. Moreover, over the years, I was struck by how much his role leading his country was thrust upon him, how it never seemed to fit well. He had never pursued power, and if he lead, it's because he was the person there when it needed to be done. As I admired his accomplishments, it was that sense of pragmatism and self-sacrifice that always struck me as most noble. Power only wears well on those who don't want it, and it was very clear he didn't. Even in America, where our politics have become a sort of reality television spectacle that seems largely divorced from its own day-to-day consequences, there is something uncomfortable about a politician who leads by assumption, taking it for granted that they, indeed, should be in charge. We've seen enough of those in both Republican and Democratic political candidates, and through the lens of hindsight, it's amazing how clearly that assumption was at the core of their defeat. "Power corrupts," as the cliché goes, and there's some truth to that. The only way for it not to corrupt is to have some humility in the face of it, to understand that leadership is not a reward, it's a responsibility ... an onus, even. A necessity, at best. Havel saw that, and that puts him squarely in the minority of anyone who's ever lead a country.
I'm the sort of person who prefers some time to sort out my feelings about big issues and big events. I'm not enamored of leaping into an immediate reaction to the daily news, preferring instead to meditate on events' ramifications. I see very little as unambiguously good or evil. But this week hasn't really allowed for that, as the passing of Hitchens and Havel gave way to today's big news, the death of North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il. It's difficult to imagine a more stark counterpart to Havel's high-minded nobility, or more glaring caution to the dangers of corruption and rigid ideology. I can find no argument to dissuade me that Kim was anything more than a monster. And yet, with this year's deaths of Osama bin-Laden and Muammar Gaddafi, we seem to be in a mean season for monsters. There seems a sense, where the battles we've all been fighting around the world have begun to recede into history, and that the pain we're feeling now -- the burbling discontent that we're seeing everywhere, from the Arab Spring to Occupy, to the protests peppering Europe and Russia, are indicative of something new, a rejection of old systems that force us to conform to rigid ideologies that seem better suited to the 20th century. There is a very real sense, to me at least, that all of this turmoil is the pain of beginnings, not endings. Perhaps I'm simply an optimist. I'm willing to entertain that idea, although I find it unlikely. But somewhere, in the death of heroes and monsters and the cascading chorus of voices on streets across the planet, I find it difficult not to see something taking shape. I have no idea what that something will be. It's what we are on the other side of history, and just what that is we'll find out when we arrive.
My Republican uncle, whom I love dearly, will occasionally pull out the old chestnut (Orwell, I think, but I can't be bothered to look it up), that if you're not liberal when you're young, you have no heart, and if you're not conservative when you're old, you have no brain. It's one of those maxims that's incredibly clever sounding, but there's not really a lot of truth in it. I like to think, for the most part, you either become more rigid as you grow older, or more flexible, the coin flip of which depends on your circumstances, the narrative of life that's brought you to that point. I find I've gotten no more conservative over the years, even as I careen toward 40, but I have become more practical, and more patient. Small political battles don't irk me the way they used to, especially ones where I feel I can see the tide of history taking its course, no matter which arbitrary side of the political spectrum wins a minor judicial or legislative battle. Please don't confuse this with apathy. It's more like déjà vu.
Hitchens' death had all of this much on my mind, if only because I'm always happy to entertain the idea that I'm wrong about things, that the world works in ways far different than my experience and education lead me to believe. I like a good argument, and Hitchens made many, although ultimately I found his worldview far too narrow, and like most conservative ideologies, far too driven by hubris and xenophobia for my taste. Still, I respected him, and that counts for something in my book. It's alright to respect people you disagree with. Indeed, I wish it happened more often.
All of this was coalescing in my head when Vaclav Havel died. I was a student in England in the time shortly after the fall of the Berln Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Consequently, I have no equivocations in my admiration for Havel. He was an easy figure to admire -- a writer and thinker who galvanized a nation to overthrow a dictator in a bloodless revolution. That's the sort of thing that makes an impression. Never mind that there had been plenty of Czech blood spilled in the years leading up to the demise of Communism, it was a marvel to see this writer, this man whose only weapon was language, bring about so much positive change. It was an inspiration, and one I cling to to this day. Moreover, over the years, I was struck by how much his role leading his country was thrust upon him, how it never seemed to fit well. He had never pursued power, and if he lead, it's because he was the person there when it needed to be done. As I admired his accomplishments, it was that sense of pragmatism and self-sacrifice that always struck me as most noble. Power only wears well on those who don't want it, and it was very clear he didn't. Even in America, where our politics have become a sort of reality television spectacle that seems largely divorced from its own day-to-day consequences, there is something uncomfortable about a politician who leads by assumption, taking it for granted that they, indeed, should be in charge. We've seen enough of those in both Republican and Democratic political candidates, and through the lens of hindsight, it's amazing how clearly that assumption was at the core of their defeat. "Power corrupts," as the cliché goes, and there's some truth to that. The only way for it not to corrupt is to have some humility in the face of it, to understand that leadership is not a reward, it's a responsibility ... an onus, even. A necessity, at best. Havel saw that, and that puts him squarely in the minority of anyone who's ever lead a country.
I'm the sort of person who prefers some time to sort out my feelings about big issues and big events. I'm not enamored of leaping into an immediate reaction to the daily news, preferring instead to meditate on events' ramifications. I see very little as unambiguously good or evil. But this week hasn't really allowed for that, as the passing of Hitchens and Havel gave way to today's big news, the death of North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il. It's difficult to imagine a more stark counterpart to Havel's high-minded nobility, or more glaring caution to the dangers of corruption and rigid ideology. I can find no argument to dissuade me that Kim was anything more than a monster. And yet, with this year's deaths of Osama bin-Laden and Muammar Gaddafi, we seem to be in a mean season for monsters. There seems a sense, where the battles we've all been fighting around the world have begun to recede into history, and that the pain we're feeling now -- the burbling discontent that we're seeing everywhere, from the Arab Spring to Occupy, to the protests peppering Europe and Russia, are indicative of something new, a rejection of old systems that force us to conform to rigid ideologies that seem better suited to the 20th century. There is a very real sense, to me at least, that all of this turmoil is the pain of beginnings, not endings. Perhaps I'm simply an optimist. I'm willing to entertain that idea, although I find it unlikely. But somewhere, in the death of heroes and monsters and the cascading chorus of voices on streets across the planet, I find it difficult not to see something taking shape. I have no idea what that something will be. It's what we are on the other side of history, and just what that is we'll find out when we arrive.
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