Our Tacit Approval of Torture
We need to come to terms with not just who did what, but our collective complicity with their decisions.
Jacob Weisberg
NEWSWEEK
From the magazine issue dated May 18, 2009
The use of torture on suspected terrorists after 9/11 has already earned a place in American history's hall of shame, alongside the Alien and Sedition Acts, Japanese internment during WWII and the excesses of the McCarthy era. Even liberal societies seem to experience these authoritarian spasms from time to time. It is the aftermath of such episodes—what happens when a country comes to its senses—that reveals the most about a nation's character.
Of those earlier stains, the forced confinement of Japanese-Americans after Pearl Harbor provides the most useful comparison to our current situation. As with Bush's torture policy, Franklin Roosevelt's decision to relocate more than 100,000 people, most of them citizens, to remote camps in the desert was born of collective terror following a surprise attack. Deporting those of Japanese descent from their homes was presidential policy and an expression of popular will. There was little public or congressional complaint while it was happening. In 1945 the detainees were given $25 and a bus ticket home. America understood it had done something terribly wrong and decided to forget about it. Not until 1983 did a congressional commission officially acknowledge that the detentions were "unjust and motivated by racism."
Unlike the Japanese internment, waterboarding was ordered and served up in secret. But it, too, was America's policy—not just Dick Cheney's. Congress was informed about what was happening and raised no objection. The public knew, too. By 2003, if you didn't understand that the United States was inflicting torture upon those deemed enemy combatants, you weren't paying much attention. This is part of what makes applying a criminal-justice model to those most directly responsible such a bad idea. The issue we need to come to terms with is not just who in the Bush administration did what, but our collective complicity in their decision.
The justification for torture was in the air soon after the 9/11 attacks. Time bombs began ticking on "24" in November 2001. That same month, my colleague Jonathan Alter wrote in a NEWSWEEK column (which he has since regretted) that we should be open to the idea of "transferring some suspects to our less squeamish allies." Alan Dershowitz argued for legitimizing torture through a system of judicial warrants. "It is wise for American interrogators to employ whatever coercive methods work," wrote Mark Bowden in The Atlantic, referring specifically to the treatment of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. And that's what liberals said.
(More here.)
Jacob Weisberg
NEWSWEEK
From the magazine issue dated May 18, 2009
The use of torture on suspected terrorists after 9/11 has already earned a place in American history's hall of shame, alongside the Alien and Sedition Acts, Japanese internment during WWII and the excesses of the McCarthy era. Even liberal societies seem to experience these authoritarian spasms from time to time. It is the aftermath of such episodes—what happens when a country comes to its senses—that reveals the most about a nation's character.
Of those earlier stains, the forced confinement of Japanese-Americans after Pearl Harbor provides the most useful comparison to our current situation. As with Bush's torture policy, Franklin Roosevelt's decision to relocate more than 100,000 people, most of them citizens, to remote camps in the desert was born of collective terror following a surprise attack. Deporting those of Japanese descent from their homes was presidential policy and an expression of popular will. There was little public or congressional complaint while it was happening. In 1945 the detainees were given $25 and a bus ticket home. America understood it had done something terribly wrong and decided to forget about it. Not until 1983 did a congressional commission officially acknowledge that the detentions were "unjust and motivated by racism."
Unlike the Japanese internment, waterboarding was ordered and served up in secret. But it, too, was America's policy—not just Dick Cheney's. Congress was informed about what was happening and raised no objection. The public knew, too. By 2003, if you didn't understand that the United States was inflicting torture upon those deemed enemy combatants, you weren't paying much attention. This is part of what makes applying a criminal-justice model to those most directly responsible such a bad idea. The issue we need to come to terms with is not just who in the Bush administration did what, but our collective complicity in their decision.
The justification for torture was in the air soon after the 9/11 attacks. Time bombs began ticking on "24" in November 2001. That same month, my colleague Jonathan Alter wrote in a NEWSWEEK column (which he has since regretted) that we should be open to the idea of "transferring some suspects to our less squeamish allies." Alan Dershowitz argued for legitimizing torture through a system of judicial warrants. "It is wise for American interrogators to employ whatever coercive methods work," wrote Mark Bowden in The Atlantic, referring specifically to the treatment of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. And that's what liberals said.
(More here.)
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