Cowardice, Courage, and Eugene Debs
In his speech to the University of Wisconsin, Eugene Debs proclaimed:
He who aspires to master the art of expression must first of all consecrate himself completely to some great cause, and the greatest cause of all is the cause of Humanity…. He must not only keep close to the people but remember that he is one of them, and not above the meanest.He must feel the wrongs of others so keenly that he forgets his own, and resolve to combat these wrongs with all the power in his command.
Though it is ostensibly a speech on expression and public speaking, these words have always read to me as Deb’s philosophy of activism — a set of rules which are meant to keep you from falling into apathy or cowardice no matter your personal wellbeing. Eugene Debs began his political career in the Democratic party, and almost certainly would have had a bright future there. But at some point, he realized that his party membership was betraying his union values. He realized that he could only fight for the people so long as he stayed among them, aware of their struggles, and accountable to their votes.
My experience with administrations has been broadly characterized with betrayal. After promising to give the community more power while applying, my then newly-hired highschool principal ignored community feedback to institute his personal vision. The Dean of Boston College who disciplined me for writing “black lives matter” in sidewalk chalk wrote his dissertation defending anti-apartheid student activism. Dozens of acquaintances, colleagues, and friends have sacrificed their belief in justice in order to protect their own interests, and dozens more have forgiven their betrayers for fear of discomfort or drama.
My last year at Boston College, I took a course on the World Wars. Though I frequently disagreed with my professor, I also respected her. She would push back against the reactionary conservatism which defines classes on warfare, and the research she produced was absolutely necessary to understanding the United States as an imperial power.
During one of our final lessons, we learned that the most common trait of those who helped Jewish people escape the holocaust was the development of an independent moral code, and the willingness to question power. My professor told us that she was trying to develop such a moral code in her own children, that they might one day be brave in the face of such leviathanic cruelty.
One year later, that same professor voted to accept Koch funding for a new political science program. Fred Koch made a fortune building Nazi oil refineries — refineries which were later repaired and run with Jewish slave labor. It is unknowable how much of that money is still controlled by the Kochs, or how much of it was reinvested in other genocidal industries in order to create more wealth. But we can be certain that some of the Koch fortunate can still be tied to Nazism.
My professor voted to fund her department with Nazi blood money less than a year after pledging to help her children develop independent moral codes.
Experiences like this shake me to my core. When people’s actions betray their own words, the trust you’ve placed in them, and perhaps even their own internal beliefs, I cannot help but wonder how common courage really is. I do not have words for the combination of anger and betrayal I feel; every attempt at expressing it reads like melodrama. But the center of my being cries out against moral cowardice, and all that I am wishes to fight it.
It is not enough to teach others of injustice long past, or even to analyze ways to prevent them. Without the courage to put action after morality, all of that becomes irrelevant. My professor betrayed me, herself, and future generations because it was easier for her to do mental gymnastics justifying injustice than it was for her to make the sacrifices needed to defeat it.
When I recall the hypocrisy of my professor — the hypocrisies of every administration I have ever observed — I can’t help but fear that such cowardly, selfish betrayal is inevitable. The subjugated are often too tired to cry out for justice, and the powerful would rather deafen themselves than hear of injustice. In times like those, when my heart burns with anger, sadness, and righteous indignation, I think back to Eugene Debs.
If we wish to remain true to the best that there is within us, if we wish to give voice to injustice, if we hope to create a better world, we cannot afford to insulate ourselves from suffering and despair. We must remember that we are the people, and above none of them. We must feel their wrongs so deeply that we forget our own.
I doubt that my professor could accept Koch money if she knew a Jewish family whose ancestors died building Fred Koch’s refineries. I doubt we could bring ourselves to build walls and cage children if we allowed ourselves to hear their stories and feel their pain. I doubt any injustice could persist if it were laid bare for all to see.
In the fight for justice, cowardice and apathy are our greatest enemies. They can only be defeated with absolute, unwavering, and unapologetic solidarity.
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