Mr. Speaker, this past weekend I was privileged to attend the graduation of my daughter from Stanford University. There is an interesting tradition at Stanford. Each year the graduating students vote to select a professor to give one last…
Mr. Speaker, this past weekend I was privileged to attend the graduation of my daughter from Stanford University. There is an interesting tradition at Stanford. Each year the graduating students vote to select a professor to give one last lecture to them at lunch the day before graduation. This year, that honor went to Professor Terry Karl.
Professor Karl has a long history as a human rights advocate. Among other things, she has monitored elections for the United Nations and served as an advisor to U.N. peace negotiators.
During the ``final lecture'', Professor Karl challenged the graduates to assume responsibility for the long-term prospects of our country, especially in the wake of the recent prison abuse scandal at Abu Ghraib. She discussed the doctrine of ``command responsibility,'' which says that leaders cannot turn a blind eye to abuse.
As she poignantly stated, ``no amount of military power will make up for what we lose if the world at large believes that, despite our years of rhetorical support for rights and democracy, we are prepared to compromise them the moment our own lives become threatened.''
I believe that Professor Karl has raised very important issues in this lecture, and I ask that her entire lecture be made a part of the Record so that all the American people, not just the Stanford class of 2004, may have the benefit of her scholarship and insights.
[Speech to the Graduating Class of 2004 Stanford University, June 12,
2004]
Fly Like an Eagle (Even if You Feel Like a Chicken)
(By Terry Karl)
Gildred Professor of Latin American Studies and Professor of Political
Science
President Hennessey, Provost Etchemendy, Trustees, parents,
and most especially graduates, thank you for the honor of
inviting me to speak to you. In the midst of your
celebration, I ask you to pause--for these are serious times.
Archbishop Desmond Tutu, anti-apartheid hero and head of
South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission, tells a
story (which inspired this talk) about a farmer who raised
chickens in his backyard. Amongst this farmer's chickens,
there was one that looked a little odd. It behaved like a
chicken. It walked like a chicken. It pecked away like a
chicken. One day a wise woman came along and said to the
farmer: ``You know, that isn't a chicken. It is an eagle.''
The farmer said: ``No way. That is a chicken.'' And he looked
at the odd bird and said: ``Don't get any fancy ideas. You
are a chicken.''
``I don't think so,'' said the wise woman. She picked up
the strange looking chicken, climbed up the nearest mountain,
stood at the edge of a precipice, and waited until sunrise.
Then she turned the bird towards the sun and said: ``You are
an eagle. You can soar. You can change your world. Go fly.''
The strange looking chicken shook itself and tentatively
spread its wings. It looked up at the sky. It looked down--
way down--to the bottom of the precipice. It took a few steps
back in the direction of the other chickens, where it had
been so comfortable, where it had a daily routine and food to
eat. ``Sorry,'' it said to the wise woman: ``I don't feel
like an eagle. I feel like a chicken. And I don't think I can
fly.''
``That's your choice,'' the wise woman said softly. ``But
remember, you are responsible for the decisions you make. If
you don't dare to fly, you will never be fully alive. You
will never reach the sky. Even if you feel like a chicken,
fly like an eagle.''
That ``strange chicken'' comes to mind every time there is
a choice between taking an easy path or making a trail where
there is no road. After completing my doctorate at Stanford,
I conducted research in El Salvador's civil war in the 1980s.
Military leaders repeatedly assured me that their army did
not commit human rights abuses. But the testimony of
countless others told a different story. Salvadorans
described how they had been hooded or blindfolded for days;
deprived of sleep, food, and water; beaten and shocked; raped
and forced to watch the torture and murder of others.
At El Mozote, a massacre site where a forensic team would
later dig up the bodies of over 100 children under the age of
12, a peasant woman approached me. ``You are American. You
are powerful. You will find out who is responsible for
this.'' That night, flying back to the United States, I
railed against that woman. ``Powerful? A general is powerful.
A president is powerful. I am five feet tall. I am a woman
from Missouri. I don't have tenure. I am not powerful.''
Now, fast forward two decades to a South Florida courtroom,
in June 2002, where two Salvadoran generals living in the
U.S., Generals Jose Guillermo Garcia and Eugenio Vides
Casanova, stood on trial, charged with responsibility as
their country's top commanders for the abuse of Salvadoran
civilians. Three survivors of torture brought the
courtroom to tears as they testified about what had
happened to them. One of them, Carlos Mauricio, honors us
with his presence today.
As the expert witness in this trial--a trial that few
believed would ever take place and even fewer believed could
be won--I documented how the actions these generals had taken
(and the actions that they had failed to take) were
interpreted down the chain of command as a ``green light'' to
commit torture. Thus these men should be held responsible for
crimes committed against Salvadoran civilians.
In their defense, the generals denied their responsibility.
They were fighting terrorism. They could not be expected to
control the actions of all their soldiers. They were not
present when prisoners were humiliated, abused and murdered,
and they were not the actual torturers. So why, they asked
the jury, were they on trial for what a few ``bad apples''
had done?
Because the law demands it.
The doctrine of ``command responsibility,'' the product of
an American initiative enshrined in law since the Nuremberg
Statutes after World War II, affirms that civilian and
military leaders may be held legally accountable for abuses
committed by their subordinates--even when these commanders
did not personally order abuses, witness such abuses, have
direct knowledge about them or conspire to commit them. This
law recognizes the tremendous danger of abuse inherent in war
and, in tribute to the awful sacrifices of the Holocaust and
those who died in two world wars, it places the moral worth
of each and every person at the center of our international
order. Rather than permit leaders to turn a blind eye to
abuse, it contends that those leaders who ``knew or should
have known'' about abuse and ``failed to prevent or punish
it'' are criminally accountable for this abuse. It charges
both military and civilian authorities with an affirmative
duty to prevent crimes, to control their troops, to act
when a crime is discovered, and to punish those found
guilty of committing the actual crime--no matter how high
responsibility may reach in the chain of command.
Thus, a Florida jury found these once powerful Salvadoran
generals responsible for gross human rights abuses. In an
historic and precedent-setting ruling, a jury of ordinary
people reaffirmed the doctrine of command responsibility in
an American court. Their verdict, covered in every major
newspaper and widely televised around the world, sent a
powerful signal. It warned murderers, torturers and dictators
to think twice before retiring to the United States. And it
demonstrated that, at our best, America's freedoms and the
energies of people like our lawyers, researchers,
translators--people just like you--can be harnessed to
transcend national borders and to hold even the most powerful
to account for their actions against the vulnerable.
Which brings me back to the precipice where we left the
strange chicken.
Our country is at the edge of a precipice. Regardless of
how the situation in Iraq finally plays itself out, we are in
the midst of one of the greatest and most intractable global
crises of modern times. 9/11 was an earthquake in the psyche
of America, and flying airplanes into buildings where people
work is a crime against humanity. But the behavior depicted
in the terrible photos of the hooded Iraqi led around on a
leash and the 37 homicides of prisoners in U.S. detention now
under investigation are also criminal acts. While the numbers
may not be the same and the circumstances are different,
U.S. law and international law are clear: both are crimes
against humanity.
The simple truth, whether we like to hear it or not, is
that since the attacks of September 11, 2001, officials of
the United States, from Afghanistan to Guantanamo to
Iraq, have been torturing prisoners. They have done this with
the institutional approval of the U.S. government advised by
memoranda from the President's own counsel, with official
declarations aimed at side-stepping the historic safeguards
of the Geneva Conventions, and with actual written policies
permitting the use of ``moderate physical force'' (from Mark
Danner in his excellent articles on torture in the New York
Review of Books)--policies that violate rulings by our
courts, the European Court of Human Rights, the Inter-
American Court, and the Supreme Court of Israel. By the
military's own calculation, an estimated 80 percent of
prisoners subjected to this treatment are innocent of any
wrongdoing.
No amount of military power will make up for what we lose
if the world at large believes that, despite our years of
rhetorical support for rights and democracy, we are prepared
to compromise them the moment our own lives become
threatened. The dreadful story told by these photographs (and
we have not seen the worst of them) has done enormous damage
to our moral standing, our strategic power, and our spirit.
Today much of the world believes that there is a difference
between what Americans claim to stand for and what we
actually do in the world. According to a 19 nation poll
released last week, a majority now thinks that the United
States is having a negative influence on the world; only 37
percent judge our country as having a ``positive influence.''
Listen to the countries polled: Canada, Chile, China, France,
Germany, Great Britain, Brazil, India, Indonesia, Mexico,
Nigeria, Russia, South Africa, Spain, Turkey, Uruguay and
Italy--and yes, the United States itself. This is an
enormous change from the days after September 11 when a
French newspaper proclaimed: ``We are all Americans.''
Today, we stand more alone in the world than we ever have.
This decline in our reputation is a decline in our
security. We live ``unavoidably side by side, Kant said two
hundred years ago. But even this great philosopher could not
have imagined how enmeshed nations and peoples have become
today. Thus what happens in one part of the world--the
dramatic increase in poverty and inequality, the failure to
address the terrible consequences of global warming, the
catastrophe of AIDS, the nineteen civil wars currently
active, the persistence of oil-related crises mixed to
dangerous combustion with religious or ethnic conflict in
Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Chad and Indonesia--this will blow
back on us. Global problems, no matter how remote they
appear, will increasingly affect everything in our daily
lives--from the imperative transition from a fossil fuel
energy system (which will happen in our lifetime), to the air
we breathe, to the diseases we face, to the safety of the
cities we inhabit.
These problems cannot be solved with military might alone.
They cannot be solved within our borders. And they cannot be
solved without friends.
Thus we must address the damage that has been done in our
name--no matter how far up the chain of command this
requires. For our spirit and our security, we must
demonstrate that we are a nation of law, democracy, and
decency. We must show the world that we will apply, at the
very least, the same standards to our own leaders as we have
to Salvadoran generals.
Which brings me to you--the ``strange birds'' of 2004.
This is your precipice. What will you do about it? What
will you do to awaken in yourselves and others a new sense of
responsibility for our country and for this world? How will
you fight to make your leaders conduct themselves ``as if
they were going to live on this earth forever and be held
accountable for its condition?''
The question is not whether you will be chickens or eagles.
You have no choice. You are living in the most powerful
country in the world. You are graduating from one of the best
universities in the world. Tomorrow you will hold a
certificate that does much to ensure your place among the
most fortunate of this world. But just as that Salvadoran
woman in El Mozote once put it to me, I shall put it to you:
You are eagles. The choice you face is whether you will dare
to fly.
Survey data on your generation as a whole is not very
promising. It says that you are primarily interested in
acquisition, that you define yourself in terms of possessions
rather than ``goods of the soul.'' You are self-interested
and care little for developing a moral code, much less for
assuming some type of global political responsibility. You do
not want to be eagles at all, we are told, but rather
successful chickens in a very well ordered barnyard.
At Stanford our experience is different. Here students work
on women's health in Afghanistan and Chiapas, democracy in
China and Kyrgyzstan, and war crimes in Rwanda and the Hague.
Students build schools in Central America, assist AIDS
orphans in South Africa, develop medicines for low income
countries, test development strategies, provide education
programs for inner-city kids, create a journal to promote
human rights, and volunteer in virtually every community
service organization imaginable. Yet some of these very same
students are reluctant to show that they are not simply hard-
nosed realists or self-interested balancers of costs and
benefits. It is almost as if they hear whispering in their
ears the German poet Holderlin, who wrote around 1800 an
essay entitled Good Advice. Listen to his advice: ``If you
have brains and a heart, show only one or the other. You
will not get credit for either should you show both at
once.''
This isn't good advice at all.
Your university years have been defined by two distinct
crimes against humanity--September 11 and torture in Iraq.
Whatever their differences (and they are different), the
lesson from these two crimes is the same: our own security is
intimately bound up with our ability to use both our hearts
and our brains, to empathize as well as analyze. Crimes like
9/11 or the torture of Iraqi prisoners can only occur when
the victims are defined as something less than human; they
can only be portrayed as permissible when all lives are not
valued equally. Their prevention rests on our capacity to
affirm the principles of equal respect, and to expand, not
contract, human rights protections both at home and abroad.
Being an eagle means becoming citizens who are not simply
Americans but who are citizens of this earth. It means
raising, not lowering, the bar.
We are at a turning point. For all of you who feel
helpless, who despair, who are cynical and who do not feel
like eagles, remember this. ``There are only two kinds of
people who tell you that you cannot change the world: those
who are afraid to try themselves, and more importantly, those
who are afraid that you may succeed.''
Instead, think of Margaret Mead's well-known phrase:
``Never say that the actions of one, two or three ordinary
people cannot change the world. It is the only thing that
does.'' Think of Carlos Mauricio, who faced down an abuser.
Think of all those people who give a piece of themselves
every day, who speak out against the brutality they see, who
try to stop impoverishment and the despoiling of our
environment, and who understand that ultimately the world
cannot be peaceful if some have far too much and others far
too little.
Take inspiration from these eagles.
Shake yourselves, spread your wings and lift off. Whether
you run a business or a community organization, a clinic or a
school, assume responsibility for the long-range prospects of
our country and our troubled earth. Aim high for a world
without war and without genocide, a world of respect for all,
a world that is far greater than the one we are handing to
you. Because, as Eleanor Roosevelt said, ``The future belongs
to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.''
Congratulations, and may you fly!