A man and a word

Standard

I am currently reading A Problem From Hell by Samantha Power, the US Ambassador to the UN. Her book, published in 2002, is about genocides in the 20th century and America’s respons as they were happening. In it, she writes about Raphael Lemkin, the man who coined the term genocide. His life story is incredibly inspiring, and so I decided to write a brief summary of his life, focusing on his efforts to ban genocide. 

Raphael Lemkin was a Polish Jew born at the advent of the 20th century; a century defined by violence on an unprecedented global scale. Not only did Lemkin’s life serve to provide his contemporaries and subsequent generations that follow with a word to describe much of the tragedy that unfolded in the bloody century, he himself came close to having his own blood shed, as a Jew fleeing the persecution of the Nazis during WWII. It is this pertinent mixture of personal struggle with a wider international tragedy of needless suffering that imbued his life’s endeavours with an extra sense of urgency and meaning.

As a young boy growing up in eastern Poland, Lemkin was fascinated by stories depicting barbaric violence and murder. His own experience of harmonious existence with his many Christian neighbours was a far cry from how Roman emperor Nero persecuted Christian converts in the 1st century, a story he read about in Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis? Not only did Lemkin as a curious, young boy provide an intimation of his developing literary prowess, it also foreshadowed the fixation that would remain constant throughout his adult life in one particular subject oft-explored by writers throughout history – mass slaughter of citizens by those tasked with protecting them.

Lemkin’s seemingly precocious fascination with stories of extreme violence and barbarity shouldn’t come as a surprise. After all, his family was not immune to the conflicts ubiquitous in Europe during his childhood years. During WWI, the fighting between the Germans and the Russians destroyed the farmhouse in rural Poland that his family called home. Desperate to protect their children, Lemkin’s parents buried their family valuables and books and took their children into the forests surrounding their property, fleeing the artillery fire raining down from above. His brother, Samuel, died of pneumonia and malnourishment whilst they hid in the woods. Lemkin knew from a young age what war means for those most undeserving of its tragic consequences.

He first enrolled in the University of Lvov in Poland (now called Lviv University and in Ukraine) to study philology  – the study of the history and evolution of language. He spoke seven languages before he reached the age of 20, and was planning to add Arabic and Sanskrit to his linguistic portfolio. His study of languages gave him an understanding of the power that language has – the value of apt descriptions, the power of names. But it was not long before he had transferred to law school, beginning a love affair with the law that would last his entire lifetime – a field of study where precision and clarity in the use of language is of paramount importance.

The conversion from the study of language to that of law came about after he read about the story of Soghomon Tehlirian, the Armenian who in 1921 murdered Talaat Pasha, the chief orchestrator of the persecution of Armenians domiciled in the Ottoman Empire during WWI. Talaat was never prosecuted for his crimes, and was living in post-war Germany as an ordinary citizen, his life untainted despite being responsible for the deaths of more than a million lives. Lemkin was aghast when he read about Tehlirian’s story. He couldn’t understand why Tehlirian was being prosecuted for the murder of one man, when that man had murdered more by orders of magnitude and was never held accountable.

In 1933, Lemkin prepared a paper to present to an international law conference in Madrid. Alluding to the plight of the Armenians under the Ottoman Empire whilst highlighting the rise of the nascent Nazi Party in Germany, Lemkin warned his colleagues that there was no guarantee that the demons of the past will not rear their ugly heads again. The problem was that notions of sovereignty gave rise to impunity for those who committed heinous crimes, as long as those crimes were committed by agents of the state operating within their sovereign boundaries.

The “sovereignty” defence was what made possible Talaat’s and other Ottoman Turks’ successful evasion of legal prosecution. The solution Lemkin posited was a new international law that would punish perpetrators of mass slaughter, regardless of national boundaries, legal jurisdictions and other national and judicial considerations. But Lemkin never made it to the conference; he was not allowed a permit to travel to Madrid. The Polish authorities were eager to avoid upsetting the charismatic but threatening new Chancellor in bordering Germany, whose impressive oratory and rhetorical skills were effectively stoking nationalist sentiments (it is somewhat fitting that Hitler hampered Lemkin’s first efforts to popularise his ideas, because he certainly helped Lemkin later on by orchestrating the second genocide of the century).

Besides, Lemkin’s proposal of a new international law was not popular when it was read out at the conference. In fact, it was an early indication of the kind of reaction his proposals would receive throughout his life. His radical ideas, underpinned by the principle of universal jurisdiction, threatened entrenched traditions of international law, specifically those concerning sovereignty and the rights of states to do what they wished within the boundaries in which they governed. As such, it was to be expected that Lemkin was met with hostility and ridicule, a trend that continued for much of his life but which never deterred him..

The outbreak of WWII sparked a protracted journey that took Lemkin across the continent and the Atlantic to the United States. The German invasion of Poland in 1939 impelled him to flee – first to Soviet-controlled Poland, then to his family in Eastern Poland, then to Lithuania, and finally Sweden where he taught at the University of Stockholm. However, Lemkin was not satisfied with life there, despite the security and comfort that neutral Sweden offered. Keenly aware of where power resided in the world and where change was most likely to come about, he longed to move to the United States. After a strenuous journey from Sweden to Russia then to Japan and Canada, Lemkin arrived at Duke University in North Carolina, where he had secured a professorship to teach international law.

Again, despite the comfort and security that life at Duke afforded him, Lemkin didn’t stop his efforts to establish a new international law that would make criminals like Talaat pay for their crimes.  However, he was often left frustrated with the lack of success in his efforts to mobilise support for outlawing the specific type of crime he was trying to eradicate – the crime committed by the Ottoman Empire during WWI against the Armenians and about to be underway in Europe under the direction of the Nazis.

Lemkin saw that a reason for his failure to generate public support was that the crime did not have its own name. When referred to, it was subsumed under the broad category of crimes against humanity. A lot of people were aware of and understood the intricacies of the crime, but it had yet to be linguistically articulated in any satisfactory way. Advocacy against the crime was inherently handicapped by its opponents’ inability to pinpoint exactly what was being fought against.

And so, combining his love for the law and his love for language, Lemkin sought to create a name for the crime. The name he envisioned would convey precisely the barbarity, depravity and totality of the crime. After much thought, he settled on the word that we today still use and a word that still evokes a wince or shudder when heard: “genocide”.

In Greek, geno means “race”. In Latin, cide means “killing”.

Race killing. Or as Henry Morgenthau Sr., the outspoken American ambassador to the Ottoman Empire during WWI, put it: race murder. 

Eager to popularise his new word, Lemkin flew to Germany to attend the Nuremberg Trials at the end of WWII. Once there, he aggressively lobbied anyone of importance, hoping to get the word “genocide” included somewhere – anywhere – in the proceedings. Although he failed to have it included in the eventual convictions, it did feature in the indictments of the defendants.

Buoyed by his minor success, Lemkin then flew to New York, where the newly created United Nations had begun constructing its first autumn agenda. Just as in Nuremberg, he incessantly patrolled the corridors around the meeting rooms in the hopes of persuading lawmakers to adopt a resolution condemning genocide. His efforts were rewarded in 1946, when the UN General Assembly unanimously passed a resolution condemning genocide, and created a committee tasked with drafting a treaty banning the crime.

Not long after, the Genocide Convention was born. Remarkably, it was the first human rights treaty the United Nations adopted, and the definitive legal document outlawing the crime to which we still refer to today – a testament to the tenacious nature of Lemkin’s work behind the scenes. But his work did not end there. The treaty still had to be ratified by twenty member states in order to become official international law. This goal was met not long after, in 1950, an achievement again owing much to Lemkin’s unrelenting lobbying efforts. He would make good use of his polyglotism and fire out letters and memos to lawmakers in different countries, all written in their native languages, urging them to ratify the convention with great haste.

More significantly, the larger and arguably more important task was to get the United States to ratify the treaty, which would ultimately be impotent without the biggest superpower in the world backing it. Unfortunately, there was considerable resistance domestically against ratification. A chief concern amongst lawmakers, particularly from the South, was that the treaty could potentially implicate those responsible for the eradication of Native American tribes in the previous century as well as those who support the then ongoing policy of segregation. These concerns dominated opposition to ratification despite the convention explicitly not being retroactive in its application. After several years of political wrangling, the dispute was settled in 1953, when incoming President Eisenhower made a deal with the paranoid Southern lawmakers, pledging not to ratify the Genocide Convention, nor any other international human rights treaties, in exchange for their support in Congress.

Determined to reverse Eisenhower’s decision, Lemkin dedicated the rest of his life to bringing about United States ratification of the convention. He wrote innumerable letters to grassroots groups, including the American Jewish Committee, the American Zionist Council and every other influential interest group who would conceivably have a dog in the fight. But his efforts were not rewarded. After 25 years dedicated to fighting genocide, creating the word itself and then embedding it in international legal lexicon, Lemkin died of a heart attack in New York City. He died without the United States having ratified the Genocide Convention, nor ever coming close to doing so during his lifetime.

What is Lemkin’s legacy? Some say: not much. Even though, arguably, signatories to the convention are mandated to act “to prevent or punish” acts of genocide, the convention was not invoked during genocides subsequent to its passing, such as the genocide of the Kurds in Iraq orchestrated by Saddam Hussein, the genocide of Cambodians by Pol Pot and Khmer Rouge, or the genocide of Darfuris by Sudanese authorities. However, the ineffectiveness of the convention to prevent genocides is not the fault of Lemkin or those who penned the law back in 1948. It is the fault of those international leaders who choose to sit idly by whilst genocide is perpetrated – those who are unwilling to wield the legal means afforded to them by Lemkin to stop the heinous crime of genocide from occurring.

lemkin grave

 

 

 

 

 

 

Migrants fleeing Africa – Balancing instincts and reason

Standard

I listened to Katie Hopkins’ guest slot on LBC last Sunday. One of the topics she discussed was the increasing number of migrants from North Africa who are dying in the Mediterranean sea as they desperately seek for a new life in Europe.

In a conversation with a passionate caller named “Ronke”, Hopkins outlined her plan to deal with the influx of migrants: implement a Australian-style policy, where boats are towed back to their origins with “gunships”. Her position was that saving migrants will only encourage more to take the perilous trip to Europe, an unsustainable reality. Ronke furiously lambasted Hopkins for her “disgusting” position, reminding her that the migrants are human beings, with families, friends, children etc. We have a duty to help them, she said.

When asked to delineate a plan for dealing with these migrants however, Ronke seemed flustered. She proposed “not calling them cockroaches”, not dehumanise them and “to speak” to the North African governments. Hopkins gave a unrelenting rebuttal: “If you are going to trot off and have a word with their governments, if you think that’s a solution for those 700 people who can’t swim who were in a boat that capsized, I think you need to get back and read a bit more of your Guardian newspaper.” Harsh, but fair. Ronke’s call was all well and good when it came to displaying compassion for the migrants; her argument fell apart when a clear plan was demanded.

In many ways, Hopkins and Ronke’s debate on the issue of migrants encapsulated the problem European countries face today. On one hand lies the human instinct of compassion, and on the other the harsh reality of cash-strapped European countries unwilling to receive what could potentially be hundreds of thousands of migrants fleeing North Africa.

To solve this problem of African migrants dying at sea therefore requires a compromise between the unrealistic vision of rescuing all migrants and the immoral position of ignoring the plight of so many North Africans. What needs to be done is European leaders must recognise that the source of the problem is two-fold.

First off, it is important to remember that North Africans are being forced to make the perilous trip because of dire situations in their countries. They are being terrorised by war, persecution and starvation, and their lives are so bad that they are willing to jump onto a boat which will traverse an element that will surely claim their lives should they fall into it. The only way migrants will stop resorting to risking their lives at sea is if their conditions at home improve. European countries now unquestionably have a direct stake in these people’s welfare, because of the many migrants perishing in its waters. European leaders must therefore exert diplomatic pressure on the African governments, who are clearly failing in their responsibilities to their people. Pressure should be put on them to improve the conditions of its people, and to provide assistance to those who are in need of help. Pressure should come in the form of clear threats of economic punishments, such as trade quotas and tourism bans, their implementation dependent on, let’s say, migrant numbers continuing to increase in the next year.

But, migrants will inevitably try to reach the shores of Europe, which is why governments should maintain an official policy of not accepting migrants to its shores. The priority should undoubtedly be the lives of North Africans, which is why all must be discouraged from making the trip. Although this might seem a morally questionable plan, one that Ronke undoubtedly abhors, it is the only way that migrants will be saved from drowning in the Mediterranean. This policy however doesn’t mean that there should be no maritime patrols looking to save migrants’ lives. Operations should be increased with extra funding and an increase in personnel.

The number of migrants must be monitored then used as pressure on North African governments. A ruthless and uncompromising attitude must be taken to these governments. With every migrant, the economic burden on Europe increases, so this burden must be shifted to the African countries themselves in the form of sanctions. Only then will their governments regard the welfare of potential migrants as important, and only then will the number of migrants decrease.

Clegg v. Farage: A Battle of the Pronouns

Standard

ImageI’ve only just had the chance to listen to the whole Farage-Clegg debate, as I’ve been busy with my EPQ this whole week, so forgive me for being rather late with my reflection on the debate.

Wednesday night’s debate between the leaders of the Lib Dems and Ukip, two parties who hold completely antithetical views on the EU, was enthralling and long-overdue at best, tedious and trivial at its worst.

Both had their moments. Farage opted for Clegg to bat first, but ultimately struck the first blow of the night with his populist jibe at Clegg who he described as another European bureaucrat defending a “tired status quo”. Clegg responded aggressively, whipping out a Ukip leaflet that said that 29 million Bulgarians and Romanians will come and live in Britain, then proclaiming that there aren’t even 29 million Bulgarians and Romanians in Bulgaria and Romania! This was a guaranteed zinger, and Clegg delivered it with perfection.

As the debate heated up, clear fundamental themes of both sides rhetoric began to reveal. Farage, eager to portray himself as the every-day, relatable man from down the pub, was quick in denouncing Clegg as one of “them”, namely the Camerons and the Milibands, and thatClegg’s just another mouthpiece of a failed establishment. Clegg, equally quick in recognising Farage’s ploy, was determined to convey a sense of unity, often including himself in the descriptions of the British people with the pronouns “we”, “us” and “together”. Farage was interactive with the audience, making frequent eye-contact with the particular person asking the question, while Clegg was more concerned with making his arguments heard by the people by the radios and TVs.

In many ways, the two leaders conducted themselves in manners that embody the current state of their respective parties. Lib Dem’s Clegg, the smooth debater with a calm and calculated presence, but whose experience over the past four years in coalition government seems to have had the effect of weakening the credibility of his arguments. Ukip’s Farage, often the blubbering and incoherent idiot that his foes accuse him to be, yet weirdly relatable and seemingly in-touch with the public’s concerns. 

Throughout the night, Farage referred to “they” and “them” more than 100 times. One can deduce that Farage defeated Clegg in this battle to depict oneself as the man on the public’s side, as reflected by the polling results afterwards that ultimately showed that Farage had won the debate in the public’s eye.