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9/11 changed America forever. For those of us who were old enough to bear witness, we recall exactly where we were and who we were with when those towers fell. In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, before the dust had settled, before we reacted in retaliation, there was this opening. We turned towards one another. We gave blood, we made casseroles, we cleaned up debris. What followed could have been the best of us - a nation united in heartbreak and hope.
Instead, what followed was 24 years of fear, distrust and violence. Fear in the lost illusion of safety, fear in the not knowing, fear in the so-called other. Fear (whether perceived or real) is the cultural infestation that would give rise to a legacy of unparalleled militarization and imperialism that still exists today. And internalized fear is what determines whose lives deserve to be remembered and grieved and whose don’t.
And in the wake of increasing political violence, this inquiry feels more important than ever:
Whose stories get heard?
Whose violence is justified?
Whose rage is acceptable?
Whose bodies deserve protection?
Whose suffering is valid?
Whose lives get to be remembered?
Of course my preference would be no violence for anyone and everyone gets what they need to thrive. But the history of this country (built upon a hierarchy of bodies) has shown us that not all violence is equal; the some violence against some bodies is more acceptable and justifiable than others…just as some lives are more worthy of being protected, resourced and remembered than others.
24 years later and we still have not learned that none of us a free unless all of us are free.
But in a Paradise Built in Hell, Rebecca Solnit reminds us that there is still another way…
If paradise arises in hell, it’s because in the suspension of the usual order and the failure of most systems, we are free to live and act another way.
…we just need to choose it.
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