Always, but in this moment especially, our words matter. I wrote this for LinkedIn but it was too long; I’m posting it here so I can share it there:
This will be a long post. I have done my best to write with love, and to write from my own heart and from my own experience working at the intersection of communication and genocide, atrocity, and conflict prevention. It is perhaps more a letter than a post. I have written, especially, about the importance of our words right now, as I have spent more than a decade of my career focused on the relationship between language and violence. I just ask that, if you want to engage, you please read until the end first.
There is so much grief. I am holding all those experiencing it in my heart. My heart breaks for all the lives that have been lost. It breaks for my friends who have lost people they love in the Hamas attack in Israel, the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust; for my friends who have lost people they love in the Israeli government’s attacks on Gaza and in the violence by settlers currently targeting civilians in the West Bank; and for all those who are unsure where their loved ones are or if they are safe. I feel for my Jewish friends who are acutely aware of anti-Semitism, who have inherited the loss and horror that is borne of it, and who fear further violence. I feel for my Muslim friends who have lived through a post-9/11 world in which they’ve been targeted for their identity, and who fear further violence.
Mass violence against a civilian population can never be justified. Collective punishment of an entire people cannot be justified and is a crime. This includes Hamas’ violence against Israeli civilians–elderly and children included; its taking and continued holding of hostages, including children, the elderly, and local peace activists; and its use of civilians as human shields. This also includes the Israeli government cutting off water and basic necessities for survival in Gaza; cutting off electricity to hospitals; violence that continues to kill hundreds of civilians; and large-scale forced displacement. The people of Gaza have nowhere to go and this crisis is deepening. Just as we can sharply disagree with the Israeli government but not collectively blame Israeli civilians for its actions, we can condemn Hamas and demand the release of hostages but not subject Palestinians in Gaza to collective punishment. It is my urgent plea that we all take action where we can to ensure that grief and fear are not used to further justify ongoing violence against civilians in Gaza.
Always, but in this moment especially, our words matter. Amid deep grief, fear, division, and anger, it’s easy to feel that exceptions or justifications can be made. It is in fact just the opposite. It is in these moments that our words can most directly lead to further violence. And it is in these moments that we must take the strongest care to use our words responsibly.
I’ve spent more than a decade of my career studying the types of narratives that take hold to justify violence, including genocide and mass atrocities. There are clear patterns. History teaches us that these patterns repeat across contexts and time, and fields like social and behavioral psychology teach us why and how they can move entire populations to accept previously unthinkable actions. And so I want to write about language.
Our actions and voice matter in shaping the coming days and weeks and beyond — whether we succumb to violent, dehumanizing language that justifies violence against civilians, or find compassion and unity to oppose the further loss of innocent life.
First, we must guard against dehumanization. Decades of research show that genocide does not happen without dehumanization. Dehumanization removes our own sense of moral obligations to those being dehumanized — for many, we owe less to animals than we do to fellow human beings, especially animals that we see as dangerous.
Dehumanization can be overt and it can be subtle. And it can be easy to distance and dehumanize when we are afraid of another group — in fact, it can even be a psychological instinct that, when we feel dehumanized, we dehumanize in turn. We must fight against this instinct when we feel it. We must take care with our words. And we must constantly remind ourselves of this basic truth of each other’s humanity.
As a Jew, I know that the Torah teaches us that each life contains a whole world. My Judaism teaches me to value each and every human life; my family’s and my own lived experience as a Jew teaches me the costs of dehumanization. I spoke with a Palestinian friend last weekend who asked me — how can we just find the lowest common denominator here — we are all human.
Always, always, there is threat and guilt: the narrative that an entire group of people, an entire population, is inherently threatening at an existential level; and is inherently guilty for heinous crimes. Hamas broke international law, committed war crimes, and targeted civilians, including the elderly, including children, including people who worked daily for peace and a long-term solution. But just as a Jewish child living in a kibbutz does not bear responsibility for actions of the Israeli government, neither does a Palestinian child bear responsibility for the actions of Hamas. Collective punishment, of an entire group of people for the actions of a few, no matter how horrific those actions, is never okay.
This relates directly to one of the most common but subtle ways in which violence is justified: through the assertion that we have no other options — that the threat and danger is so great, the “other” so extraordinarily inhuman, threatening, and guilty that we have no other option aside from extraordinary violence to eradicate the threat. This is never true: we always have a choice.
This narrative–that there are no alternatives–can be particularly salient in moments where people feel fear. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, it is the narrative I am seeing the most now. People are in grief, are horrified by violence, but don’t see another way forward. It becomes easy to believe the promise and assertion that, only through violence, can we again experience safety and security. This is a false promise. And one that asks us to compromise our morals and values to the idea that we have no choice. But we do: we do have moral agency.
In fact, this type of violence makes us less safe, it only escalates and entrenches further violence. It passes conflict to the next generation as their inheritance. Speaking personally, as a Jewish person with a long career in atrocity prevention, this violence makes me feel much less safe, and causes me to fear for the future.
Perhaps the most powerful voice I have heard here is that of a 19-year-old from Kibbutz Be’eri. She describes the horror of what she went through and her grief and then she asks: “How am I supposed to get up in the morning, knowing that 4.5 km from Kibbutz Be’eri, in Gaza, there are people for whom this event has not ended;” who are going through what she’s been through but with nowhere to flee. She expresses her grief and fear for those still held hostage from her community. She calls not for violence but for a lasting solution, a political solution. In her grief, she pleads for a different way forward.
Together, these narratives not only justify violence, they present it as a necessity. They also attack and drive out voices that seek to moderate against violence — as weak, traitorous, or simply naive. When dissenting voices are silenced, loud voices calling for violence further dominate the conversation, paving the way to further cycles of dehumanization and violence.
As someone who lives in America, I also know that our words matter for what happens here. Already, we have seen an increase in anti-Semitic incidents in the United States and across Europe; we have also seen anti-Muslim, anti-Palestinian incidents. A six year old Muslim Palestinian boy was stabbed to death by his landlord in Illinois this week, explicitly because he was Muslim. A six year old; stabbed 26 times. His name was Wadea Al Fayoume, and his mother was unable to attend his funeral because she was stabbed too and could not leave the hospital.
We must work together, and within our own communities, to address anti-Semitism and anti-Muslim bigotry. We can be critical of the actions of specific groups without dehumanizing entire groups. It is imperative that we do so. We all can — and must — speak out against these narratives when we see them.
I write this with love and compassion. Please, let us all reflect. Let’s make sure that our words don’t lead to further violence but instead help us exit from it. And please, if you have a voice, and a public platform, take extra care in how you use it — and know that your words can also have a positive impact. Let’s channel our pain and grief into speaking and acting in ways that end cycles of violence and enable lasting solutions.
Please stay in community. I am here to talk and to listen, whether you agree with me or whether this post is challenging for you or anything in between.
Rachel
Note: Many of the insights shared here draw on incredible research by Jonathan Leader Maynard and Susan Benesch.
