On Violence

There are two kinds of people in this world: people who understand self-immolation, and people who don't.

Obsessively, I contemplate violence. At first I convince myself I am being abstract: What is the role of violence in the world? The revolution? What compels humans to commit acts of violence? Is violence necessary? As I deepen into my wondering, I realize that what I am really asking is whether or not I should commit violence. I am drowning in violence. The senseless and indiscriminate violence in Palestine, yes. But this tragedy has reminded me that violence is the water we swim in. Violence is the foundation upon which the empire is built. If I were to commit violence in the name of revolution, who would I even hurt? Do I have access to the people who need to be hurt? Are there people who need to be hurt? Would hurting them help anything? 

---

I live in America. I live in America in a wealthy city in the Pacific Northwest. I live in an affluent neighborhood in a wealthy city in the Pacific Northwestern region of a country that holds the current incontestable title of global empire. I walk around my neighborhood at night wearing headphones and I do not worry about my safety. Recently, I was approached by an erratic woman on the street who asked me for money. I was listening to a Mary Oliver interview on my noise-canceling headphones. The one where Mary confidently proclaims that everyone desires to be a singer. Is she wrong? I had no money. I was just out for a walk. I told the woman I had no money. She hit me. Called me a fucking bitch. I ran and cried and shook and dissolved and rematerialized and found safety again. My body did not remember the incident.

I do not worry about bombs dropping on my home. I do not worry about cops shooting me in my car. Sometimes, when I am in a crowded space, or hear a loud bang, I worry about mass shootings. These are examples of real, acute violence. It is the lifeblood of the media we consume. The movies. The crime TV. And now, currently, social media. I don’t want to see it. I am not convinced it helps anything. And it hurts very much. I am only watching children’s television shows, where wars against evil are waged in creative, magical, and nonviolent ways. Where optimistic children make the heartfelt decision to break cycles of violence and extend care and love to those who have caused harm. Occasionally I am pulled into the hellscape that is Instagram and I cannot look away. This is a curious thing about violence that I want to understand. Why are we drawn into it? It’s like a car accident…you can’t look away. I read a book for my diagnostic psychopathology class last semester that discussed the human proclivity to sexualize that which has traumatized us. It is not necessarily an unhealthy mechanism. If we were physically abused as a child, we may alchemically transmute the experience by exploring consensual BDSM in adulthood. Oftentimes it is an unhealthy mechanism. We may find ourselves continually entering into relationships with abusive partners. 

---

The empire is falling and still the flowers keep blooming

When I witness violence, and by witness I mean really register in my nervous system its effects, I, too, want to commit violence. In the past, I wanted to kill. Not senseless killing. Not like the empire. I wanted to kill for justice. It felt righteous and there was nothing anyone could have said to convince me otherwise. That was four years ago. Recently, when my nervous system tried to process the colossal violence of the Palestinian genocide, I again wanted to kill. But I have changed. My reverence for life has deepened. I have touched more of my pain than ever before, and in the depths of my suffering I came upon an indefatigable compassion. Now, it is hard for me to justify killing another. But I desire violence. And although I am unwilling to kill for the cause, I feel willing to die for the cause. Naturally, I consider self-immolation. Where violence and peace intersect. I spend several days convinced that self-immolation is the highest path. My sister believes it is art. Theatre. Not in a dismissive way. In the most dramatic way. Some people have no patience when I try and talk about it with them. To them, it is another senseless death. They don’t get it, I say to myself. I talk to my friend at length about the empire. She understands the way it has penetrated our bones with the venom of violence. Convinced us that violence is the only way.  She seems to believe that perhaps violence is the only way to truly end empire. She tells me that she does not want me to die, but that if I believed self-immolation was my destiny, she would support me. There are two kinds of people in this world: people who understand self-immolation, and people who don’t.

---

I talk to my friend who lives in Bethlehem. I do not intend for this to happen, but we begin discussing violence. I am obsessively thinking about violence. Wanting to commit violence. But when I talk to him, when he tells me heaven on earth is not possible, when he off-handedly comments that he hopes to see me again before he dies, I vehemently take up the cause of peace. There is a flavor of argument in our conversation. I say that violence should not exist. That we must stop making excuses for it. He matter-of-factly states that it does exist. I want to cry. I feel embarrassed when I advocate for peace. I self-consciously worry that I will be accused of being a new age liberal spiritual bypassing bitch by people who do not know that I am obsessively thinking about violence. I am desperately trying to convince myself that peace on earth is possible. Here! In this life time! Heaven on earth! I do not actually know. But I know that without faith, it is most certainly impossible.

---

When I talk to my therapist about my preoccupation with violence, she does not understand me. I describe to her the way in which I am feeling drawn towards violence as I behold the unimaginable violence of empire. I am contained. Regulated. I know I will not actually commit violence. Not right now. Perhaps my therapist knows this. She does not seem worried. Her response to my vulnerable confession that I am being torn in two, into a self that longs for peace and a self that lusts for violence, is, That’s exactly how terrorists think. She does not sound judgmental, but she proclaims this as if it is a fact. She is celebratory of my empathy towards terrorism. Encourages me to write about it. I am shocked by her immediate classification of civilian violence as terrorism. Does she not understand that I am desiring violence against empire? The entity that is responsible for the endemic violence that rules the world? When I tell my friend about my therapist’s response to my violent urges, she is incredulous. She is a worshipper of the prophecy of Octavia Butler and believes it is foolish and naive to not consider a world in which we, even in our current position of comfort and privilege here in America, may have to resort to violence. These are end times. Not in a nihilistic way. Beginnings always follow endings. But first comes the end.