Bonnie Kristian is a fellow at Defense Priorities. She is a weekend editor at The Week and a columnist at Rare, and her writing has also appeared at Time, Politico, Relevant, The Hill, and other outlets.
When President Donald Trump in an immigration policy meeting reportedly declared Haiti, El Salvador, and various African nations to be “shithole countries” whose immigrants we should reject in favor of those from Nordic climes, his evangelical supporters phrased their responses with care.
“Apart from the vocabulary attributed to him, President Trump is right on target in his sentiment,” said Robert Jeffress, a Dallas megachurch pastor whose support for Trump crosses well into the territory of civil idolatry. “I support his views 100 percent,” Jeffress told the Washington Post, “even though as a pastor I can’t use that language.”
Others, though more circumspect, took a similar tack. Johnnie Moore, a member of Trump’s evangelical advisory council, labeled the alleged phrasing “crass” before pivoting to charge that reports on the subject were “absolutely suspect and politicized,” a distraction from failures in Congress. Another council member, Pastor Mark Burns, likewise said he would “disavow” Trump’s crude language—“that’s not how I would speak”—but added it’s a mistake to focus on the president’s words instead of his deeds. And when Trump himself addressed the controversy on Twitter, he, too, minimized the import of his “tough” language in comparison to the policy matters at hand.
Trump’s critics have accepted this framework of deeds over words—and not without reason. To get hung up on “shithole” at the expense of grappling with its commentary on the worth of people with darker skin is at the very least inexcusable ignorance. As progressive Christian writer Rachel Held Evans argued on Twitter, the problem is “not that he uses ‘salty language.’ It’s that he uses ‘salty language’ while denigrating people of color.”
Evans is right that we err if we focus only on the language, but we also err if we ignore the way vulgarity works for Trump, the way it serves him as a means of defense and deflection. When Trump says something offensive in both meaning and phrasing, it allows him to apologize for the saltiness while sidestepping or downplaying the denigration. It allows his backers to condemn Trump’s language without wavering in their support for the man himself. And it allows members of the public unconcerned about Trump’s vocabulary to pivot all the way around to full acceptance of the president’s meaning and language alike.
This dynamic did not begin with “shithole.” It was also in play following news of that other contender for Trump’s most infamous vulgarity—“grab them by the pussy”—and the assorted indecencies in the “Access Hollywood” tape that contained it.
Jeffress deemed the then-candidate’s words “lewd, offensive, and indefensible,” but he did not waver in his support for Trump’s campaign. The “locker room banter” in the recording “is unfortunate,” said David Bozell, a Catholic who leads the pro-Trump ForAmerica group, “but then again, we’re not electing saints.” Faith and Freedom Coalition president Ralph Reed similarly declared that “10-year-old tapes of private conversation with a television talk show host rank very low” in his calculus for 2016. Focus on the Family’s Jim Dobson condemned Trump’s “deplorable” words “entirely” while indicating his intent to continue backing Trump.
In his video apology after the recording surfaced, Trump said his words were wrong but still sought to minimize their impact using the words/deeds dichotomy. “[T]here’s a big difference between [my] words and actions of other people,” he said, suggesting the Clintons’ guilt is greater than his own and claiming the recording is “nothing more than a distraction from the important issues we’re facing today.” In an interview with Anderson Cooper two days later, he dismissed his language as mere “locker room talk.”
This verbal sleight-of-hand is the real distraction. If Trump told with G-rated language the exact same story on the “Access Hollywood” tape, if he cleanly expressed the exact same sentiment that he did in the immigration meeting, what he said would be no less reprehensible—though ironically it might be more difficult to defend. There could be no pivot. There could be no condemning the language while supporting the policy. There could be no cover of “tough talk” and “locker rooms.” There would only be naked misogyny and racism.
Self-proclaimed Christians’ complicity in this chicanery is particularly egregious given Scripture’s clarity on the connection between our tongues and our hearts. Just as no “good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit,” Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Plain, so a “good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.”
What Jesus preached is utterly incompatible with court evangelicals’ claims that we may disregard Trump’s words—that his obscenities about women and people of color may be brushed aside as a point of personal preference—because his policy, intention, or heart is good.
Words and deeds cannot be thus separated, for “out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks,” and “out of the heart come evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, slanders.” Our deeds and words, meaning and language, all have the same source. Knowing this, Trump’s evangelical backers deceive themselves and others when they use a sham dichotomy to create an illusion of distance between Trump’s language and his person.
Like a small blaze that will burn a great forest, the Apostle James wrote, so “the tongue is a fire, the very world of iniquity.” It “sets on fire the course of our life, and is set on fire by hell.” (If ever James needed a vivid illustration of his message, Trump has supplied it, and I confess his negative object lesson has me reexamining the habits of my own tongue.) James’s exhortation does not lend itself to “I wouldn’t speak that way, but…” Fire is not so easily contained. This month Trump has shown himself once more as an arsonist, and insofar as they let his vulgarity distract from his inhumanity, his evangelical supporters act as accomplices.
In my younger years, my mother tried to manage my expectations in the maddening way that mothers do. Whenever I was worked up at the prospect of some unwanted turn of events, she’d reliably intone: “always expect the unexpected.”
In 2016, that folksy translation of Heraclitus could have stood rather more mention than it received, particularly among the Washington establishment. That Hillary Clinton would win seemed self-evident to the ruling class, with even the most cautious of the major vote predictions—Nate Silver’s comparatively staid map at FiveThirtyEight—giving Clinton an overwhelming shot at victory.
But now Election Day is come and gone and that same elite will have to work with the most unexpected president of all, Donald J. Trump.
How that will shake out is difficult to predict, but in the meantime, there is a clear lesson here for Washington in general and the foreign-policy establishment in particular: you don’t know as much as you think you do.
This unadmitted ignorance was previously displayed for those with eyes to see it in the Libya debacle, perhaps not coincidentally Clinton’s pet war. Cast by the Obama White House as a surgical display of “smart power” that would defend human rights and foster democracy in the Muslim world, the 2011 Libyan intervention did precisely the opposite. There is credible evidence that the U.S.-led NATO campaign prolonged and exacerbated the humanitarian crisis, and far from creating a flourishing democracy, the ouster of strongman Muammar Qaddafi led to a power vacuum into which ISIS and other rival unsavories surged.
The 2011 intervention and the follow-up escalation in which we are presently entangled were both fundamentally informed by “the underlying belief that military force will produce stability and that the U.S. can reasonably predict the result of such a campaign,” as Christopher Preble has argued in a must-read Libya analysis at Politico. Both have proven resoundingly wrong.
Before Libya, Washington espoused the same false certainty in advance of intervention and nation-building Iraq and Afghanistan. The rhetoric around the former was particularly telling: we would find nuclear weapons and “be greeted as liberators,” said Vice President Dick Cheney. The whole thing would take five months or less, said Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld. It would be a “cakewalk.” As months dragged into years of nation-building stagnation, the ignored truth became increasingly evident: the United States cannot reshape entire countries without obscene risk and investment, and even when those costly commitments are made, success cannot be predicted with certainty.
Nearly 14 years later, with Iraq demonstrably more violent and less stable than it was before U.S. intervention, wisdom demands we reject Washington’s recycled snake oil.
Recent polls (let alone the anti-elite backlash Trump’s win represents) suggest Americans are ready to do precisely that. But a lack of public enthusiasm has never stopped Washington from hawking its fraudulent wares—this time in the form of yet-again unfounded certainty that escalating American intervention in Syria is a sure-fire solution to that beleaguered nation’s woes.
We must not let ourselves be fooled. Rather, we “should understand that we don’t need to overthrow distant governments and roll the dice on what comes after in order to keep America safe,” as Preble, reflecting on Libya, contends. “On the contrary, our track record over the last quarter-century shows that such interventions often have the opposite effect.”
And as for the political establishment, let Trump’s triumph be a constant reminder of the necessity of expecting the unexpected and proceeding with due (indeed, much overdue) prudence and restraint abroad. If Washington so grossly misunderstood the direction of its own heartland—without the muddling, as in foreign policy, of massive geographic and cultural differences—how naïve it is to believe that our government can successfully play armed puppet-master over an entire region of the world?
Bonnie Kristian is a fellow at Defense Priorities. She is a weekend editor at The Week and a columnist at Rare, and her writing has also appeared at Time, Politico, Relevant, The Hill, and other outlets.
Boom! (Sizzle.) Boom! (Sizzle.) Boom! Boom! Boom! (Sizzle.)
For weeks after the Fourth of July, the kids down the block set off remnants of their fireworks stash, and they’d scheduled the grand finale—featuring professional fireworks, from the sound of it—for 1 a.m. With houseguests and an early morning deadline, I woke up seething. The afternoon shows had been one thing, but this? About 30 seconds before I’d officially decided to shut it down myself, the booms abruptly stopped. I drifted back to sleep.
In the two years since we bought our home in a quaint but modest neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota, that fireworks debacle is merely one of the more memorable noise nuisances. Particularly in summer, when a low incidence of central air invites people onto their porches, our neighbors get loud—whether it’s a yelling match in the street, honking, blaring music, or that apparently bottomless fireworks supply. The times I’ve been jerked awake by late-night cacophony are too many to recall.
Not once, however, have we called the police, though they’d be quick to show up if we did ring: While crime reports show it is objectively safer than the charming section of Alexandria, Virginia, from which my husband and I moved, our Frogtown neighborhood is by Minnesota Nice standards a cause for concern. St. Paul PD cars cruise slowly down the block, their tinted windows shading any chance of building community relations.
But nuisance and an easy remedy are not enough to justify dialing 911 in an age of police brutality. Calling the cops is not guaranteed to be best for our block.
After all, is the very real risk of undue escalation—even violence—worth it to turn off music? To catch the originator of that weed smell? To address a housing code violation, like unshoveled sidewalks or trash strewn across the alley? Again and again my answer has been “no.”
It’s the same answer recommended by a Facebook post making the rounds here in the Twin Cities since the recent police shooting of Philando Castile. “White people,” it reads, “stop calling the police on your black neighbors because you think their music is too loud. Stop calling the police on your black neighbors because you think they’re loitering. Stop calling the police on your black neighbors because they’re hanging out in their car.”
In short, stop calling the police for all kinds of petty, nonviolent irritations, because “These actions don’t affect your safety, your fear of them is irrational, and your call could get [your neighbors] killed.”
Castile’s death isn’t the only evidence that a routine police visit over a trivial offense could turn dangerous. Police misconduct is a systemic issue nationwide; even while violent crime rates are historically low, perverse institutional incentives like overcriminalization, police militarization and escalation, racial bias, and policing for profit foster too-frequent abuses of power.
The St. Paul PD won’t have body cameras until this August, and the laws regulating their use will allow the department to keep footage private at its own discretion. Yet even without that formal documentation, local police have filmed brutalizing young, black men at least twice (not counting Castile) in the last two years alone. In one case, a father waiting to pick up his kids was beaten, tased, and arrested for “trespassing” in a public skyway. In another, a small teenaged boy was violently wrestled to the ground at a church picnic because he told an officer it was “disrespectful” to crassly insult his mother.
Anecdotes aside, a study of Minnesota law enforcement found “a broad and clear disparity” in police attention to black drivers “that’s hard to explain with any other reason than race.” Indeed, in some suburbs like the one where Castile was pulled over, cars with black drivers were stopped as much as 310 percent more frequently than would be expected given their representation in the population—despite the fact that contraband was more often found in cars driven by whites.
I mention all this to say that Facebook post was right to frame its plea in racial terms. Of course, white people are victims of police misconduct, too, but the majority-minority face of my neighborhood is unquestionably a factor in my hesitance to call the cops. I don’t want the next police brutality video to be filmed on my block because I wasn’t willing to put in earplugs, pick up someone else’s trash, or talk to my neighbor myself. As Emily Bazelon wrote at Slate while musing on the same topic after Ferguson, “once the wheels of the bureaucratic state start to turn, they can grind people up … I would rather stay away from bringing its weight to bear on someone else, especially when I know that person is likelier to get an unfair shake” because of their race.
To be sure, this is not to say there are no circumstances under which I’d dial 911. For instance, some friends of ours recently bought a home nearby, and one night, after an hour of loud domestic bickering in an adjacent house, they distinctly heard a woman scream, “Somebody call the cops!” And so, though our friends share our wariness of unnecessary police involvement, they promptly did.
Nor is this to say the nuisances I’ve described should simply be left to fester. That the cops might well make a bad situation worse does not negate the fact that it is bad. Now, I must confess I am something of a novice in this regard, but I’m learning that the single best way to address these problems is time. Rootedness. Settling in and staying put and earning the right to speak up.
Our next-door neighbors have owned their home for more than 20 years, the longest of anyone on the block. They’ve stuck it out through the crime of the 1990s and the devastation of the 2008 housing bust, when more than half the homes in Frogtown foreclosed. They’ve won the authority to ask people to quiet down, to intervene if there’s a fight. Their long-term investment produces a power of de-escalation I so far only envy.
It’s inherently a slow process, but I’ve had one small win of my own: My garden’s solar lights regularly proved too great a temptation to the gaggle of elementary schoolers a few houses over, so I’ve repeatedly walked down to recollect my lights and receive promises of future forbearance. (They always blame the toddler among them who can’t defend his honor.) But last time, one of their mothers—whom I’d not yet managed to meet—came out to investigate. We talked for a minute and she took things from there. “You apologize to this lady right now,” she said, turning to me and adding, “If I catch them again I will make them return those lights. They can’t be doing this.”
That was about a month ago, and so far my lights remain intact. Given some more time, maybe my post-Fourth of July sleep will, too.
Bonnie Kristian is a writer who lives in the Twin Cities. She is weekend editor at The Week, a columnist at Rare, and a fellow at Defense Priorities. Her writing has also appeared at Time, Relevant, and The American Conservative, among other outlets. Find her at bonniekristian.com and @bonniekristian.
“New Urbs” is supported by a grant from the Richard H. Driehaus Foundation.
While most of our foreign-policy attention is focused on the Middle East, a new danger lurks. According to a number of high-ranking Pentagon officials, that danger is not Russian aggression but rather their own colleagues, who are inflating the threat Russia poses in an effort to boost the Defense Department’s budget.
Those in the military who are encouraging the build-up of U.S. troops along Russia’s European border are “the ‘Chicken-Little, sky-is-falling’ set in the Army,” one senior Pentagon officer told Politico. “These guys want us to believe the Russians are 10 feet tall.”
“There’s a simpler explanation,” he added. “The Army is looking for a purpose, and a bigger chunk of the budget. And the best way to get that is to paint the Russians as being able to land in our rear and on both of our flanks at the same time. What a crock.”
He’s not the only one to suspect bureaucrats are inflating the Russian threat. When Politico highlighted a recent Pentagon study on Russian capabilities, high-ranking current and retired Army officers told the magazine it was laughably incorrect. They particularly rejected frightening descriptions of Russian technological prowess.
All this hype is “news to me,” said one respected officer. “Swarms of unmanned aerial vehicles? Surprisingly lethal tanks? How come this is the first we’ve heard of it?”
The massive momentum of the U.S. military may presently be on the side of the inflaters, but the facts are on the side of the skeptics.
The Pentagon’s stated goal for its Eastern European escalation is to provide a counter-balance to Russian strength in the region. “Russians have been doing a lot of snap exercises right up against [their border with Poland and the Baltic states] with a lot of troops,” said Deputy Secretary of Defense Robert Work, who labeled the exercises “provocative.”
But a moment of consideration here presents a very different picture indeed.
First, if Russians confronted the United States military, they would be wildly, laughably outmatched. As vividly explained by former paratrooper Daniel Kearns, the answer to the question, “How much stronger is the United States military compared with the next strongest power?” is “1,000 times. Maybe more.”
“Fighting a conventional war against the U.S.,” Kearns continues, “would be like a three-year-old child playing chess against Gary Kasparov.”
Compared to Russia specifically, our considerable advantage is easily demonstrated, as Politico summarizes:
The United States spends seven times the amount of money on defense as Russia ($598 billion vs. $84 billion), has nearly twice the number of active duty personnel (1.4 million vs. 766,000), just under six times as many helicopters (approximately 6,000 vs. 1,200), three times the number of fighters (2,300 vs. 751) and four times the total number of aircraft. We have 10 aircraft carriers, the Russians have one.
The Russian bear is also easily outmatched by the militaries of our close allies (and obvious counters to Russian power) in Britain, France, and Germany combined. The U.K. alone outspends Russia on defense each year. Add to all that America’s other security advantages—such as two major oceans, numerous allies, and friendly neighbors—and the suggestion that we must send troops to contain Russia becomes difficult (if not impossible) to justify on national-security grounds.
Such engagement sure would drive up the Pentagon’s budget, though.
Another important question: How is it more “provocative” (per Secretary Work) for Russia to do military exercises inside its own country than for the United States to send troops halfway around the world to do military exercises right on Russia’s doorstep?
It isn’t hard to divine Russia’s perspective here. American expansion in Eastern Europe “would be a very dangerous build-up of armed forces pretty close to our borders,” said Andrei Kelin of the Russian Foreign Ministry. “I am afraid this would require certain retaliatory measures, which the Russian Defense Ministry is already talking about.”
His push for restraint stems from Russia’s national interest, to be sure, so more compelling from an American perspective are the benefits of restraint for us. Namely, we can save a lot of blood and treasure. As Air Force Lieutenant General David Deptula put it, “It’s time to stop waving the bloody red shirt.” Instead of grabbing for ever more money in response to inflated threats, “We really need to think in a deliberate goal-oriented way to secure national interests, not just parochial Army interests.”
He’s right: The Pentagon budget should be dictated by the state of our national security—not the other way around. And here’s hoping it doesn’t take war with Russia for Washington to figure that out.
Bonnie Kristian is a fellow at Defense Priorities. She is a contributing writer at The Week and a columnist at Rare, and her writing has also appeared at Time, Relevant, and The American Conservative, among other outlets.
“I even brought my Bible—the evangelicals, OK?” Donald Trump whinged at a campaign stop in the run-up to the Iowa caucuses. “We love the evangelicals and we’re polling so well.” For good measure, he waved his prop a little more and doubled down, “I really want to win Iowa—and again, the evangelicals, the Tea Party—we’re doing unbelievably, and I think I’m going to win Iowa.”
This sycophantic word vomit was about average as Trump’s public forays into religion go. His transparent attempts to cast himself as a churchgoer have been awkward at best, and more often approach the bizarre if not the heretical. Nevertheless, as the man himself would say, the professing evangelicals—and the “professing” is key here—love him. They really, really do.
But for all the headlines the Trumpvangelicals have snagged, their vehement support is ably matched by the strident opposition to Trump found among millions of American Christians of all stripes, many of them (like me) appalled that such blatant pandering and brash prurience is, well, working on our fellow travelers in the faith. Nearly a year into this misadventure, it is still tempting to ask: How is this happening? How is the heir of the Moral Majority endorsing a twice-divorced former strip club owner? How is Trump so appealing to what is supposed to be a Christian nation?
And it is in precisely that last phrase—“Christian nation”—the answer may be found: America’s entrenched, pseudo-Christian civil religion is the primary culprit here. President Trump is the due result of our theologically vacant imperial cult, which in the guise of orthodoxy worships only the power of the state.
Granted, the connection may not be immediately obvious, particularly in light of the harsh critiques Trump has received from many prominent Christians, as well as his own dime-store costume faith.
These surface obstacles obscure the deeper fit. Trump’s extravagant self-deification, his demands of personal allegiance, and his obsession with unique national and personal greatness all flow naturally out of a civil religion which co-opts Christianity to cast an aura of divine approval on Washington. Indeed, Trump fancies himself a modern Caesar, tinged with divinity and cloaked in gold. Our civil religion gives him just the theological resource he needs.
Consider, first, Trump’s view of himself. As Frank Bruni persuasively argued in the New York Times, the Republican frontrunner comes off not as “someone interested in serving God” so much as “someone interested in being God.” Trump so closely links himself and the divine that he drifts into boasting of his own accomplishments in the very process of explaining why God is important. The candidate feels he is above the need for God’s forgiveness (as it is written, “there is one who is righteous, yea, just one”) and recently named “an eye for an eye” as his favorite Bible verse, an interesting selection given the New Testament’s assignment of vengeance as God’s prerogative.
Of course, Americans might rightly protest that we don’t ascribe divinity to the presidency, but the office is undoubtedly sacralized. Its successes—notably in foreign policy—are attributed to divine blessing. Conventional politicians may be more politic than Trump, but most will happily harness God to tow their pet projects. A classic example is what theologian Michael J. Gorman labels the “divine passive voice,” in which, often in the run-up to war, presidents say things like “We are called…” to subtly invoke a holy authority for their plans. In a Trump White House, the voice would simply become slightly more active.
Beyond this there’s Trump’s demand (and receipt) of intense personal loyalty. One gets the feeling that the provision of a bust of Trumpself for long-distance veneration would not be taken amiss by many of his followers, but usually a simple pledge of allegiance will do.
“I do solemnly swear that I, no matter how I feel, no matter what the conditions, if there are hurricanes or whatever, will vote on or before the 12th for Donald J. Trump for President,” he asked Floridian supporters to promise in advance of their state’s primary. This sort of ultimatum is right at home in a civil religion that facilitates unthinking Christian loyalty to the state by means of a clever syncretism: If America is “under God”—if the United States becomes the “city on a hill”—we needn’t worry about obeying God rather than men. It’s all one and the same as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Joseph is idolatrously mutated into an American tribal deity.
But the most convincing link lies in Trump’s preoccupation with greatness. In the context of American civil religion, Gorman explains, “Greatness is defined especially as financial, political, and/or military strength, and this definition carries with it the conviction that both America and Americans should always enjoy and operate from a position of strength and security.”
“Weakness,” he adds, “is un-American; Americans want to be number one. For many, these kinds of secular strengths are seen as manifestations of power from God.” Gorman wrote that more than five years ago, but Trump couldn’t have said it better himself. His is a perverse patriotism inextricably tied to the notion that God likes America (and the Donald) most. Trump is certainly more explicit in his promises of unparalleled personal (“the greatest jobs president God ever created”) and national (“we will have so much winning”) greatness, but his distinction from our standard-issue civil religion is one of degree, not kind.
We might ask why a Trumpian candidate is only now appearing—and with such success—on our political stage. The civil religion is hardly new, but surely Trump is. The tipping point, I suggest, is primarily about the expansion of power in the executive branch, a process which has been underway for decades but accelerated in recent times. The authority of the White House has expanded to match the sanctity we’ve assigned it. (Not for nothing is it called the imperial presidency.) The modern office “looks nothing like the modest, businesslike, law-governed executive the Framers envisioned,” and if it did, Trump wouldn’t want it.
In The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis recounts a conversation with an elderly clergyman sincerely convinced that his “own nation, in sober fact, has long been, and still is markedly superior to all others.” “To be sure,” Lewis muses, “this conviction had not made my friend (God rest his soul) a villain; only an extremely lovable old ass. It can however produce asses that kick and bite.” If mixed with assurance of unique divine favor, he continues, this dangerous nonsense “draws evil after it. If our country’s cause is the cause of God, wars must be wars of annihilation. A false transcendence is given to things which are very much of this world.”
In Trump we find such nonsense crystallized into an ass that kicks and bites, and gleefully plans to torture and murder because this is what will make America great again. His gilded self-aggrandizement is the organic fruit of a “Christian” nation that welcomed such theo-nationalism in drabber forms for years. We may not for a while see again so shameless an execution of the temple ceremonies of the American state, but the false transcendence of our civil religion will not die with the Trump campaign.
Bonnie Kristian is a writer who lives in the Twin Cities. She is a graduate student at Bethel Seminary, a contributor at The Week, a columnist at Rare, and a fellow at the American Security Initiative Foundation. Her writing has also appeared at Time, Relevant, and The American Conservative, among other outlets. Find her at bonniekristian.com and @bonniekristian.
The Guantanamo Bay detention center briefly reasserted its presence in the public consciousness this month with the news that a single Navy nurse refused to participate in the force-feeding of detainees on hunger strike. Quietly feted by civil liberties advocates, the story quickly slipped off the radar. The Pentagon confirmed that the nurse “has been temporarily assigned to alternate duties with no impact to medical support operations”—in other words, the torturous force feedings, instituted in 2006, will continue unabated.
Gitmo currently houses 149 inmates. Fewer than 20 detainees have been charged, and 78 are cleared for release—a status some have held for more than half a decade. About 45 prisoners are scheduled for indefinite detention, never to see a day in court.
The tepid response to the nurse’s moral stand is not surprising. Despite the fervor of outspoken antiwar protesters during the Bush years, the broader public has never cared much about the welfare of those imprisoned in Guantanamo Bay, innocent or no. Support for closing the facility peaked at 51 percent in early 2009. That high corresponded with the first inauguration of President Barack Obama, who took office trumpeting his intentions to put an end to Bush-era abuses like Guantanamo, which he labeled a betrayal of American ideals.
A year after the inauguration, the Obama administration’s now-extensive history of Gitmo excuse-making was well underway. “Political opposition” caused the President to break his promise. Temper your expectations, an anonymous White House official suggested, “The president can’t just wave a magic wand and say that Gitmo will be closed.” But of course—of course!—it’s still going to happen.
Come 2011, we found the President admitting that the facility won’t be closed in the near future. “[W]ithout Congress’s cooperation, we can’t do it,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I stop making the case.” And that narrative—the “I really want to close Guantanamo, but Congress just won’t let me!” line—has persisted ever since, typically with a heavy dose of partisan undertones. As Obama moved an issue he once called vital to the restoration of the United States’ moral authority to the backburner, public opinion followed his cue. By 2010, only 39 percent supported closing the prison. Today, just 27 percent are on board.
What’s fascinating about this unwillingness to close Guantanamo Bay as observed in government and citizens alike is the way it encapsulates the charade of modern American politics: a GOP that abandons its support for limited government out of fear, and a Democratic Party whose civil libertarianism is built more on partisan rancor than ethics.
Let’s look at the Republican opposition first—for those partisan undertones in Obama’s narrative are two-faced but not unfounded. Led by hawks like Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.), congressional Republicans have indeed worked to keep Gitmo open. Polling suggests they have the full support of their GOP constituents—no less than 81 percent want the detention center to stick around—and even Sen. Rand Paul (R-Ky.), perhaps Graham’s staunchest foreign policy opponent in the Senate, agrees with his South Carolinian colleague on this point.
But what about Gitmo meshes with the small government philosophy Republicans espouse? Each prisoner costs taxpayers $2.7 million annually, a massive failure on the fiscal responsibility front (federal prison, for comparison, spends $26,000 a year per inmate).
Even worse for conservatives should be the prison’s blatant trampling of constitutional rights. Read More…
Darrin Manning’s unprovoked “stop and frisk” encounter with the Philadelphia police left him hospitalized with a ruptured testicle. Neykeyia Parker was violently dragged out of her car and aggressively arrested in front of her young child for “trespassing” at her own apartment complex in Houston. A Georgia toddler was burned when police threw a flash grenade into his playpen during a raid, and the manager of a Chicago tanning salon was confronted by a raiding police officer bellowing that he would kill her and her family, captured on the salon’s surveillance. An elderly man in Ohio was left in need of facial reconstructive surgery after police entered his home without a warrant to sort out a dispute about a trailer.
These stories are a small selection of recent police brutality reports, as police misconduct has become a fixture of the news cycle.
But the plural of anecdote is not data, and the media is inevitably drawn toward tales of conflict. Despite the increasing frequency with which we hear of misbehaving cops, many Americans maintain a default respect for the man in uniform. As an NYPD assistant chief put it, “We don’t want a few bad apples or a few rogue cops damaging” the police’s good name.
This is an attractive proposal, certainly, but unfortunately it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. Here are seven reasons why police misconduct is a systemic problem, not “a few bad apples”:
1. Many departments don’t provide adequate training in nonviolent solutions.
This is particularly obvious when it comes to dealing with family pets. “Police kill family dog” is practically its own subgenre of police brutality reports, and most of these cases—like the story of the Minnesota children who were made to sit, handcuffed, next to their dead and bleeding pet—are all too preventable. Some police departments have begun to train their officers to deal more appropriately with pets, but Thomas Aveni of the Police Policy Studies Council, a police consulting firm, says it’s still extremely rare. In the absence of this training, police are less likely to view violence as a last resort.
2. Standards for what constitutes brutality vary widely.
“Excess is in the eyes of the beholder,” explains William Terrill, a former police officer and professor of criminal justice at Michigan State. “To one officer ‘objectively reasonable’ means that if you don’t give me your license, I get to use soft hands, and in another town the same resistance means I can pull you through the car window, [or] I can tase you.” The special deference police are widely given in American culture feeds this inconsistency of standards, producing something of a legal Wild West. While national legislation would likely only complicate matters further, local or state-wide ballot propositions should allow the public—not the police—to define reasonable use of force.
3. Consequences for misconduct are minimal.
In central New Jersey, for instance, 99 percent of police brutality complaints are never investigated. Nor can that be explained away as stereotypical New Jersey corruption. Only one out of every three accused cops are convicted nationwide, while the conviction rate for civilians is literally double that. In Chicago, the numbers are even more skewed: There were 10,000 abuse complaints filed against the Chicago PD between 2002 and 2004, and just 19 of them ”resulted in meaningful disciplinary action.” On a national level, upwards of 95 percent of police misconduct cases referred for federal prosecution are declined by prosecutors because, as reported in USA Today, juries “are conditioned to believe cops, and victims’ credibility is often challenged.” Failure to remedy this police/civilian double standard cultivates an abuse-friendly legal environment.
4. Settlements are shifted to taxpayers.
Those officers who are found guilty of brutality typically find the settlement to their victims paid from city coffers. Research from Human Rights Watch reveals that in some places, taxpayers “are paying three times for officers who repeatedly commit abuses: once to cover their salaries while they commit abuses; next to pay settlements or civil jury awards against officers; and a third time through payments into police ‘defense’ funds provided by the cities.” In larger cities, these settlements easily cost the public tens of millions of dollars annually while removing a substantial incentive against police misconduct. Read More…