Does an Anti-War Stance Suffice in Syria?

[People gathered to protest a potential attack on Syria in Istanbul. © Adnan Onur ACAR / Nar Photos.] [People gathered to protest a potential attack on Syria in Istanbul. © Adnan Onur ACAR / Nar Photos.]

Does an Anti-War Stance Suffice in Syria?

By : Foti Benlisoy

There is no need to beat around the bush and no need to preach to the choir about this subject, about which so much has already been written. The thesis of “humanitarian intervention,” also known as “military humanism”—which consists of the argument that when faced with grave human violations committed at the national level, the “international community” reserves the right to undertake a military intervention—is an argument that has been used to legitimate a series of military initiatives taken by the United States, first in Bosnia and Kosovo, and then in Afghanistan and Iraq. More generally, premises such as “humanitarian intervention” and “the responsibility to protect” serve as rhetorical tools for garnering support for the United States as the hegemon of international capitalism.  

In the immediate aftermath of the Cold War, in rejuvenating the myth of “benevolent imperialism,” or to put it differently, “the white man’s burden,” deliberations about “humanitarian intervention” and “the responsibility to protect” have played a key role. The weakness of the socialist movement on a global scale, coupled with the humanitarian disasters generated by international crises, have unfortunately compelled some segments of the left to view such interventions of the “international community” in a relatively positive light.

These deliberations over “humanitarian intervention” have reemerged with the wave of Arab revolutions, first in Libya, and now in Syria, along with the use of chemical weapons in the latter case. Of course, a large segment of the Left, especially in the aftermath of the US occupation of Iraq, which resulted in a massive humanitarian disaster, is quite clear about the hypocrisy behind the arguments about “humanitarian intervention” or “the responsibility to protect.” Yet what is problematic is the fact that fundamental differences between the devastating aggression the US directed at Afghanistan and Iraq, on the one hand, and the imperialist interventions executed in Libya and still being deliberated over in the case of Syria, on the other hand, are not sufficiently discussed. In other words, we have not had a serious debate about the specific conjuncture in which imperialist aggression is taking place, and about the particular shifts in power relations that are shaping this conjuncture.

A significant part of the Left has viewed the current situation in Syria (and in some cases, even the entirety of the “Arab Spring” process) as a continuation of the attempt by the United States to “recolonize” the region—that is, as a “sequel” to the 2003 Iraq War. As will be remembered, imperialist aggression against Afghanistan, and especially against Iraq, had mobilized the Left on a world scale, provoking a truly global and massive anti-war movement. Quite a few would still claim today that the main responsibility of the Left consists entirely in building a barricade against US aggression and imperialist interventionism in “the region.”

Such an assessment is incorrect, however, not because imperialism has suddenly disappeared or because the sun of imperialist interventionism has set for good on Middle Eastern horizons. It is incorrect because we currently find ourselves, not in the post-9/11, but instead in the post-Tahrir conjuncture. At present, we are not confronted with a political landscape where Arab peoples are simply the passive victims of imperialist aggression; rather, they have themselves risen up, with all their constraints, problems, and regressions. Of course there will be imperialist interventions against this process; however, what characterizes this period are not the pre-emptive imperialist interventions, but the people’s movements that provoke them.

In other words, the matter is not simply about emphasizing imperialist interests, manipulations, and aggressions. Rather, it is about refusing to transform this just emphasis into a “memorized slogan,” independent of the concrete conjuncture and of the particular social struggles that are a part of existing power relations. To paraphrase Lenin, ignoring the specific historical conditions of political and strategic relations, and repeatedly invoking the word “imperialism” without discrimination in assessing particular situations, is anything but Marxism. In other words, failing to take account of the particular constellation of power relations in which imperial aggression is staged means underestimating anti-imperialist struggles themselves.

To put it bluntly, the Afghanistan and Iraq wars are best understood as interventions aimed at consolidating the US control over fossil fuel resources, hence deepening its already hegemonic position against potential rivals in a very wide region. Libya (and, in a limited and more indirect manner, Syria) is, on other hand, better approached as pre-emptive actions to manage and take control over a wave of uprisings developed outside the frame of imperialism. The purpose of the Libya intervention, legitimized on “humanitarian” grounds, was not to take control of fossil fuel resources (they were already “under control”). It was rather to establish control over the political and social turbulence in the region, and to smother the wave of people’s movements and uprisings, under the framework of imperialism.

Another important point is that the interventions in Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan were forged while the US was at its imperial climax, during “a moment of singular polarity” when it had emerged out of the Cold War as the victorious Imperium. The deliberations over an intervention in Syria, on the other hand, are taking place at a time when an international crisis of capitalism has rippled through the imperial chain, and when changes in the hierarchical sequence of that chain seem more than likely. (It is on these grounds, and not because of Obama’s lack of perception or Putin’s diplomatic talent, that the US has been facing serious difficulties as far as this intervention in Syria is concerned—but that constitutes the topic of a different article.)

Taking stock of the vast differences between the interventions carried out when the capacity of the United States was at its climax, on the one hand, and those executed or deliberated at a time when the US is confronted with an indecisive and relative decline, on the other, is crucially important in enabling a revolutionary-radical Left to develop a regional strategy. If our task is to reach some political interpretations, representing and analyzing atrocious examples of imperialist interventionism that were carried out in two drastically different world-historical eras as if they are extensions of the same process of imperialism constitutes a grave mistake. Characterizing the already-executed intervention in Libya and the still-being-deliberated one in Syria as simple or unmediated extensions and continuations of the interventions in Iraq and Afghanistan, in other words, ignores and sidelines the concrete situation on the ground, shaped by the generative forces of a variety of factors (especially given the surfacing of mass-scale people’s movements).

Ten years ago, the construction of an anti-war movement was a fundamental and defining factor in the struggle against US imperialism. Given the new situation in the region today, however, the construction of an anti-war movement could only be imagined in light of other “functions” of such a movement. The Post-Cold War Left across the region has found itself in a state of hopeless self-defense. With the current crisis of capitalism and the relative decline in the United States’ effect and capacity in the region, as well as the blossoming of popular uprisings and dissent, truly new and previously non-existent political spaces are being opened up.

Under these circumstances, it is no longer possible to retain only a defensive stance aimed at maintaining the present conditions in the face of imperialist intervention, as it was done in the early 2000s. The era in which we find ourselves (one that we became a part of in Turkey, through the rise of the Gezi Resistance) opens up a new political space that is imbued with the possibility of upsetting taken-for-granted power relations, leading to sudden and “unexpected” social uprisings. Therefore, we cannot make do with defense alone. The task we are confronted with now should compel us to show the skills of uniting in solidarity the labor union organizing of unemployed youth in Tunisia, the labor movement in Egypt, the human rights activists in Bahrain, local organizational initiatives in Syria (however weak they might seem), and, most critically, the social awakening and uprising in Rojava. What has been happening in Egypt over the course of the past month and a half should make it clear to us all how tightly the fates of all struggles in the region are imbricated with one another. In brief, we need, today more than ever, a regional analytic horizon, a regional strategy that includes some spatial attacks as well as defense, and a “practical” internationalism.

Since we are on the topic of “humanitarian intervention,” it might be helpful to open a parenthesis here: the real and potential stances of socialist movements toward anti-imperialist intervention often take shape based on a highly problematic political conceptualization. To put it plainly, an overwhelming majority of such stances rest on arguments crafted through the inherited jargon of the post-Westphalia inter-state legal order. Socialists’ opposition to international intervention, in other words, rests more often than not on the concept of “national sovereignty.” The principles of such an order include, among others, the inalterability of international borders, as well as non-interference in the internal affairs of a sovereign state—principles that are being invoked in the case of Syria, for instance.

But the fundamental premise of a socialist movement’s opposition to imperialist intervention should not be the state or the nation, but rather class relations on national and international scales, and the power relations that the former generates for the latter. Let me be clear: Some principles of international law should definitely be invoked when one is confronted with clear imperialist aggression, in order to exhibit and reveal the underpinning dynamics of such imperialism. That said, the socialist stance should not be defined through national borders that have been constructed by the rules, principles, and organizations of the inter-state legal order. Neither the principle of the inalterability of borders nor that of non-interference in internal affairs should emerge as the crowning principles of a socialist opposition. A revolutionary stance that truly deserves the adjective of “internationalist,” more often than not, has necessitated and will again necessitate the violation of such principles. Hence the fundamental parameters of the socialist movement cannot, should not, rely on the premises and principles of an inter-state legal order—which itself needs to be defined in the last instance with the adjective “bourgeois.”

[An earlier version of this article was first published, in Turkish, on fotibenlisoy.tumblr.com; it can be found here. It was translated from Turkish by Emrah Yildiz.]

Occupy Gezi as Politics of the Body

Since the Gezi resistance started with bloodshed on 31 May, it has had an “anti-depressant” effect, as a friend of mine puts it, as much as it has been nerve-racking. During this period where each day has been prone to new crises and normalcy was completely disrupted, we simultaneously experienced the peaks of ecstasy and the depths of sorrow.

Analyzing such an intense event naturally requires taking some distance. Pending systematization, however, the vivid memory of each day impels one to put on paper multifarious ideas that resonate well with the resistance. Each morning, many bodies with sleep deprived eyes wake up in Istanbul, Ankara, Antakya, Urfa, and Denizli to take to the streets once again, after having quickly checked the latest news in the social media. They are astonished and impressed that they can still walk, run, stand up, and carry provisions for those in the parks. Exhausted bodies rejuvenate with every new threat that the government utters, and with thousands, tens of thousands of others they begin flowing to Taksim, Kızılay, Kuğulu Park, Gündoğdu, Abbasoğlu, and Yeniköy Park carrying home-made gas masks, swimmer goggles, anti-acid solutions, and whistles.

No one does or can govern these bodies. The masses that gather in public spaces are not formed by virtue of transferring tax money into the wallets of partisans. No one provides shuttle buses for them; no one gives them flags, or feeds them with sandwiches. No one assigns them the slogans they shout out during the demonstrations. Bodies that take heart from knowing that they are not alone do not count, or count on, numbers to meet with others in communal or virtual spaces. One standing man suffices for thousands of others to take to the streets. After all, “one” is also a number…

The government, whose tactlessness prompts these resisting and standing bodies to convene again and again every single day, could not have missed the significance of this body politics. These bodies naturally do have a language, even a few languages that are at times congruent and at others incongruent; however, as a whole, they constitute a politics of the body. The rage and dreams that have been embodied in tweets and graffiti since 31 May turn into material realities through the physical existence, visibility, and endurance of the bodies. If history is being rewritten, then its subject is the body.

Four of these bodies lost their lives during this war that the government has waged on society. Thousands of bodies have been beaten up: some lost their eyes, some received irretrievable injuries. Skins were burnt under the water from the cannons, “laced” with chemicals for maximum harm; lungs were choked with tear gas. Pounded arms, legs, and heads got crushed and broken. The long-term effects of the tons of chemicals dumped on bodies are still unknown. What is known, however, is that these chemicals killed hundreds of cats, dogs, and birds, and that they did harm to countless insects, butterflies, and other smaller organisms.

The apparatuses of the state, and the vehicles of death that responded to Gezi’s politics of the body, attempted to imitate the life force that they failed to extort. In response to the huge numbers that filled the parks and squares and astonished everyone without exception, they hoped to gather partisans together in scripted rallies. They began comparing head counts; they calculated representative percentages. When the calculations did not match, they increased the number of police in body armor and helmets and moved them from protest to protest. They built walls of flesh and steel against the wave of resisting flesh. When that did not work, they offered these bodies—which have been in contact with each other physically and virtually through meetings, banners, and tweets—a mise en scène of dialogue, the conditions of which were more or less already determined. They could not even wait for this attempt to yield fruit; two warnings and a command were enough to launch an assault to remove the bodies that produced an alternative sociability from the park, from the space in which physical resistance could be transformed into a life style. They freed the public space of the public. They collected all the banners, pictures, and colors one by one to erase them from social memory. They stripped all the trees, each dedicated to victims of state violence; they appropriated the barricades that were named after tens of people who had undergone physical and psychological torture, and they tore them to tatters. They destroyed the efforts to keep alive the memories of Fikret Encü, who was a victim of Roboski; Metin Göktepe, who was tortured and killed in detention; Dicle Koğacoğlu, who could not take all the sorrow inherent in this society any more; and the Surp Hagop Armenian Cemetery, which was destroyed by Turkish racism.

The only thing that remains is a politics of the body—but the bodies that produce this politics differ from what Giorgio Agamben calls “bare life.” They are not “mere” bodies that the arbitrary will of a sovereign can isolate from society, oppress unceremoniously, or push to the margins of the symbolic world. Rather, they evoke what Ernst Bloch calls “the upright man,” the collective Prometheus. Bloch writes:

Nothing is more fortifying than the call to begin from the beginning. It is youthful as long as it is; to it there belongs a young and aspiring class. It is innocent of the bad things that have happened, for it has never had a real opportunity to be guilty. When this happens, justice has the effect of a morning; it opposes itself to that eternal sickness which was handed down before it. Beginning anew is freshness through and through; it is a first if it appears completely ahistorical, and if it seems to lead back to the beginning of history….It carries the image of the pastoral mood, of the shepherd, of the simple and upright man; one can play with it even in the dark.[1]

Gezi is the struggle of disorderly bodies, those who do not have any dispositif other than their own bodies, against the death machines. If the machines are regulatory instances that follow commands and extort public spaces of mobility with force and violence, then the force they face is the resistance of life itself. Life flourishes at the most unexpected moments and places, just like weeds that crack the concrete and spring out of it. No apparatus of the state can succeed in dominating life absolutely.

The state seeks order; it can control only those whom it orders. It cannot cope with the demand of "freedom"; it has to ask questions such as “freedom for whom,” “freedom for what,” or “freedom under what circumstances” in order to tuck freedom into neat boxes. Order draws borders, fixes identities, and defines. It attempts to establish a hierarchy. By telling parents to take their daughters and sons home from the park, it both brands the resisting bodies as "children" and tries to trigger into action the nucleus of society: family. Through its rhetoric of security, it attributes the risks of its own making to the resisting bodies. It hangs its own flag or banner on the bodies that it prefers knocking down rather than protecting. It punishes those who do not obey; it uses punishment as retaliation. It operates through censorship, threats, and propaganda.

Life, on the other hand, is a constant flux. It challenges borders and moves beyond them. It opens up to circulation those spaces that are closed off due to construction; it paints such destructive vehicles as bulldozers pink; it transforms steps into tribunes, pieces of iron into wish trees, and trees destined to be cut down into monuments. It walks on highways and bridges that are closed to pedestrians. It does not like the empty and the sterile; it covers them up with banners, slogans, tents. It leaves its mark on every surface. It disrupts silence at times with pots and pans, and at other times with a tune from a piano. It plays with identities and definitions; it makes them fluid; it renders them indistinguishable. It can make fun of both itself and the established order thanks to its humor. By changing one single letter in a word, it can ridicule the heaviest of symbolisms. When the state apparatus sends a riot-intervention vehicle to pour tear gas on it, life stops to catch its breath for a while and goes right back to resisting. When a body grows tired, it gets replaced by a reinvigorated one. Life turns into thousands of fingers that tweet and take photographs when the state apparatus sends down vehicles of propaganda. It stops its wheelchair to grab the flag that fell on the ground while escaping from tear gas. It apologizes when it steps on someone`s foot while running; it calms down those who panic.

It is obvious that these bodies that fascism wants to militarize will not assume any ideological identity. When they do not drink alcohol, they ridicule conservatism; when they lie under a TOMA, they make fun of liberalism, which claims that life is the most valuable good. Orthodox Marxism cannot decide under which class struggle these "çapulcu" bodies are to be subsumed. As long as they stay in physical contact, as long as they remain as collective Prometheuses, as long as they—have to—continue the resistance, they grow accustomed to each other`s colors, languages, and genders. They disrupt the behavioral rules that ideologies and institutions expect from them. The natural or moral instinct of protection that has been attributed to mothers loses ground when female bodies participate in the resistance alongside their children. The nationalist and the Kurd exchange anti-acid solutions in gas-filled hotel lobbies. The upper-class college kid drinks the water handed over by the kid with an Anonymous mask without needing to ask what neighborhood he’s from. Soccer fans save their curses for the police rather than for their rivals.

What comes out of all this is trust, not chaos. That`s why the bodies multiply with every gush of tear gas, spaces expand with every police attack, and the quality of contact among the bodies increases with every propaganda speech. The life woven together by bodies born in Gezi is so tenacious that the government is right in fearing it. The power of these bodies stems from their capacity to mutualize endurance, rather than vulnerability (as Judith Butler envisioned they would). One would need to look into the extensive interstices of this politics of the body, rather than into macro-level discourses, to begin deciphering it.

NOTES

[1] Ernst Bloch, Natural Right and Human Dignity (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987), 61.

[An earlier version of this article was published on 26 June 2013 on BIA ("Independent Communication Network"). The link to that version can be found here. This article was translated from Turkish by Gülfer Göze.]