“You are sixteen students, an even number,” I said. “If half of you decide one way and the other the opposite, you may also need my vote. However I vote, some of you would not be happy. Those who are not happy can still join the discussion, accepting the dialogue as a compromise. Or they can leave the room and even blow up the building.” A prolonged, tense silence followed. The majority of the students were still in shock. Finally, they chose dialogue. For some of them, it was indeed a compromise. This seemingly trivial situation mirrored the global alternative, the essential choice: democracy or war against it.
Democracy is, in fact, an often tedious search for compromise, a complicated enterprise in domesticating aggressiveness. Compromise is not acceptable to everyone, as the nihilistic “messengers” had proved that morning. Their answer had been crime, the urge to blast the world apart.
Democracy is not a utopian project and is not Paradise; even religious fanatics locate Paradise in heaven, not on earth. It’s not at all surprising that one of the obvious results of democracy is incoherence — a form of freedom, probably. The unavoidable contradictions and conflicts, the inequalities and frustrations of democracy — of freedom — as well as the widespread resentment of the “demonic” and much-envied America may explain, at least partially, that terrible September 11 event.
Religious, as well as many non-religious, militants keep reciting America’s shortcomings and the disaster of future “globalization.” For better or for worse, globalization is already part of our everyday life, through television, computers, antibiotics, exotic travel. In many underdeveloped and poor countries, or in countries with authoritarian, oppressive rule, quite often the resentment seems not against globalization, but against the lack of it. Globalization doesn’t mean ethnic, ideological, or political unification, but a metageographical network with all its promises and risks. It would be useful and important to debate such issues, not blindly to reject the concept itself with simple-minded militancy.
In their own way, the fundamentalists are also suggesting a kind of globalization. Not a democratic one, of course, but a totalitarian one. The real question remains as to what kind of “globalization” might be offered as an alternative. Surely not the mystical, totalitarian patriarchy of the Middle Ages that negates dialogue, difference, dissidence. The “holy” war for the restoration of obsolete, collectivist traditions is part of Islam, but also part of Christianity and Judaism and the fundamentalism of other religions. It is only due to the large number of Muslims and the role of the Mosque as a guide for many illiterate believers that the danger in the Muslim world seems greater.
Yet, I think we should avoid the idea of an irreconcilable battle between the Christian-Jewish tradition that celebrates human life, with all its ideals and warts, and the Muslim fanatics, to whom death appears the holiest fulfillment. We should hope, rather, for a structural change in the Muslim world, for a gradual and essential modernization of its social landscape, and do our best to accelerate such a change.
The cult of death is not strictly a Muslim phenomenon. Extremists of the European right celebrated it before 1945. We are now as familiar with the reactionary nationalistic revolution of fascism and Nazism as with the communist one, known as “progressive” and internationalist. It isn’t difficult to imagine where the return to such projects may lead. The question about Islam is still more puzzling: do we really know Islam?
I suggested to my students that they start a dialogue with their Muslim colleagues. It is important that Muslims themselves, not followers of other faiths or atheists, explain whether the belief in Allah implies an apocalyptic war against all “infidels”; or was the terrorists’ clever use of religious slogans an excuse for their criminal undertaking?
In these horrible times, New York was damaged, shocked, traumatized. They were days of siege and emergency. But the citizens and institutions of this great city remained courageous, and the incomparable metropolis gradually began to pulsate, to return to its old rhythm. I truly felt American, even more so than when I was granted citizenship, and I truly felt a New Yorker, deeply connected to the daily life and the symbols of my new domicile. This modern Babylon — with a large Chinatown, with large Russian, Jewish, Italian, and Indian enclaves — symbolizes not only America and its ideals, but the entire modern world. It is not accidental that people from eighty countries died in the Trade Center.
More than a few, in America and elsewhere, are demanding that America submit itself to the strongest criticism for its sins and disasters, its arrogance and superficiality, its materialism, vulgarity and wealth. Self-scrutiny and self-criticism should be undergone as a matter of course for every sound nation. But whoever believes that “America” consists of a horde of arrogant and domineering “patriots” does not understand that at every level it is made up of countless Americas. Its unyielding diversity often confuses strangers, and even Americans, forcing them to adopt a childish reductionism. To use simplistic “emblems” of anti-Americanism means to ignore the great American scientific, cultural, economic, and social achievements and its past and present indispensable contribution to world democracy. Would our planet be better without America? I doubt it. I rather hope that in the near future the American Muslim population will become the point of reference for the Muslim world, as has happened with Jews, Latin Americans, Koreans, and many others in this country.
I recall a writers’ conference in Amsterdam, at the beginning of the 1990s. Since I was the only participant from the United States, I was taken for a “Yankee,” although then I did not even have American residency. After my speech, a renowned Arab author from Israel mentioned a few incidents of discrimination against his fellows in America, then turned to me and asked in front of the audience: “Is that a democracy, sir?” I was tempted to ask him, in turn, what he was comparing America with. With Arab states, for instance, corrupt monarchies and brutal dictatorships? But I only told him that I was speaking for myself, as always, not for any group or country. “Yes, I think America is a real, often trivial, essential democracy,” I said. “A popular, dynamic democracy that forever reinvents itself. But it is not a perfect country.” And I added, “I spent most of my life in a faraway country in a society that claimed to be perfect. I would prefer never again to share such a privilege. I am glad to live in a country that is as imperfect as its citizens are.” When I finished, I suddenly remembered that the one American novelty I really was enthusiastic about from the start was the absence of identity cards.
America has, of course, not a few disturbing sides, but in the history of world powers it doesn’t find itself in too bad a place. A comparison with the Ottoman Empire, the Tsarist Empire, or the Soviet Union and the Third Reich suffices. Certainly, America provokes frustration, envy, injustice, and even hatred. But its principles are deeply humanistic, supported by a sort of religion of dialogue and pragmatic compromise. The American spirit furthers competition, often tough competition — but it asks of the victor not to allow the loser to sink too low. America has helped many peoples and countries, even former enemies. It is hoped that this will happen in Afghanistan, as well, to speed up a drastic social and political change.