The cheapening of Arab blood by the West and the blatant racism

"Traveling now…to Iraq? But the war is over – hallas – they’ve won," responds an Egyptian friend when she learns of my plans. My explanations, of which she’s very aware, of the need for the continuation of independent witnessing to give voice to the unspoken narratives, of the fact that there has never been a benign occupation, that advocacy for Iraqi human rights – the right to live –does not end with the ending of the sanctions or the bombing, of the need for long-term accompaniment, of representing some sort of alternative face of the West, fail to sway her skepticism of the possible efficacy of a continued presence in Iraq.

Nawal’s resignation, reflected in many other conversations with other friends and with people on the street, was heavy, but masks a corrosive sense of pain,regret and anger – another violation, another occupation – which was evident in the face of every demonstrator who took to the streets of Egypt, Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, Yemen and Jordan. There was no equivalent in the images of demonstrations in Europe and the United States. The bombing, the immediacy of it, the images of warm, throbbing flesh, of life, shredded by shrapnel, of grief, cut to the very marrow of Nawal’s bones. The pain, which she felt – the anger, love, helplessness, has subsided somewhat. But scratch the surface and it’s there. The reeling, shaking feeling of physical bombardment she describes she felt while watching the news transcends empathy. It is something – almost long-distance torture – that people all over the Middle East have suffered and continue to suffer.

The steady cheapening of Arab blood by the West, the blatant racism, the attempts to nullify the crime of war and continual violations of a people, a culture, with token gestures of humanitarian aid – all expressed in a language hijacked from the peace and social justice movement – and subsequently bastardized. The re-writing of history – cloaking it in the palatable language of emancipation; all of this is blatantly evident to a child here.

So, too, however, is the awareness of the deep ignorance of the Middle East – of its past, present and future, its culture, its sophistication, its politics,its complexities, its strength – present in the anti-war movement in the West. There is recognition of the good will, of the courageous acts of resistance, that many Westerner activists undertook. There is awareness of the unprecedented numbers, of the fact that many people marched who had never marched before, out of a vague sense that this war was wrong. And for these demonstrations of solidarity, many friends here express gratitude. But there is also awareness that the critical mass nearly reached - a fraction of a second too late for Iraq – will not be sustained. And that it lacks the cohesion, sophistication, strategy and real politicization to be able to sustain the demoralization and doubt following the "liberation" of Iraq.

This war (which never really ended – and perhaps has no solidly fixed beginnings – as is the ephemeral nature of slow-drip genocide) has shattered communities and served as a grand example of a massive setback for humanity. It has also highlighted a whole plethora of issues that the West tries to ignore as we rush into condemnation of the more blatantly visible players. We – the alternative – in our finger pointing, our doling out of blame to the figureheads, the passing array of politicians "responsible" for how far astray the human race has gone, have somehow missed one of the lessons so blatantly obvious in all of this: that introspection and reflection, and admission of our own complicity within this, is vitally important if we are to move forward with any sort of cohesion as a movement. That in the "shaming," in the blaming of the other (who really aren’t like us at all, because we care), perhaps we should be saying shame, too, on us – for twelve years of not managing to break the sound barrier; shame for the suffocating silence surrounding genocidal sanctions; shame for every victim of Israeli apartheid in occupied Palestine;shame for the slow and painful or quick deaths and the lives never given voice, never fought for, never honored; shame for every victim of state-sponsored terrorism; and shame for the memory of every Iraqi man, woman and child who lived with a virtual gun to their heads for far too long.

It is time – perhaps it has always been and always will be –to reclaim our language, the silenced narratives, to re-inhabit the words "dignity," "solidarity," "courage," and "liberation." It is time to take the anti-war movement past the mantras; the absent and sterile reasoning of "success" or "failure." It is time to channel that passion into something intensely more politicized and something able to accompany Iraqis and Palestinians and Timorese and Chiapas with a commitment that runs deeper than sympathy. With something that recognizes their tremendous strength and beauty and capability and existence before our governments decisions to attempt to annihilate them. We must, as a community, do this now – because if we fail to, we die a collective death.