Reclaiming Violence

Nora Ziegler

Violence is a part of life, its relationship with peace and liberation is complex. It is important to recognise and mourn violence. But attempting to reject violence altogether can only lead to covering it up, shunting it into private and hidden spaces, where it becomes unaccountable and inhumane. A crucial question we need to ask ourselves is, who can practise violence and how? What skills and relationships do we need to practise violence with care? What does it take for grassroots communities and revolutionary movements to reclaim violence?
Framing direct action as ‘non-violent’ can be strategically important, but also reinforces the idea that violence is illegitimate, except where it is practised or condoned by the state; that ordinary people are too selfish, stupid and cruel to use violence responsibly, and that the state, by contrast, is rational and benevolent. Of course, neither is true. Even if the legal system, the police and the military were not structurally racist, classist and misogynist, they would still be blunt instruments. We can learn and nurture more refined and flexible tools for dealing with conflict.
Reclaiming violence from the state does not mean abandoning individuals to deal with violence on their own, without education, support or accountability. To practise violence in a caring way requires a combination of individual autonomy and collective responsibility. In our society, these two have become polarised and are difficult to hold together. Perhaps in a more egalitarian society, the interplay of individual and collective is so fluid, so densely woven together, that they are hardly distinguishable. But in our society, we experience ourselves as individuals every day, struggling to be heard and to have our needs met. Nurturing individual autonomy and collective responsibility for us is a double action, a dynamic balance.
Reproductive violence
I would like to explore this double action by using the example of reproductive violence. It can be violent to terminate a pregnancy. This has nothing to do with whether we consider the embryo to be a human life or not. That callous distinction between human and non-human life is another blunt instrument which seems to exist only to justify cruelty and injustice.
Abortions can be experienced as violent by the person having the abortion. This does not mean that they are wrong to have it or even regret having it, but it is an emotional reality that deserves to be acknowledged and spoken about. Abortion means the loss of life, the individual life of a would-be person, the collective life of the would-be parent and would-be child and their would-be community. Such a violent loss deserves to be grieved.
Sometimes an abortion is not experienced as violent at all. Instead of a loss, it can be experienced as the saving of a life, as freedom, mercy, even justice. To bring a new life into this world can be experienced as violence too. The foetus appropriates and disrupts the parent’s body; a child disrupts the parents’ lives and relationships. Caring for a young person inevitably involves mistakes, and almost always some degree of neglect and harm.
There are so many complex factors that influence our perception of violence. Our perception can be a lot more nuanced and discerning than any abstract distinction between violence and ‘non-violence’. And yet we can’t simply rely on our individual perception because we are socialised within an unjust society that desensitises us to some kinds of violence, and hyper-sensitises us to others.
People who become pregnant should be equipped to make their decision, and wield their reproductive violence, whether it is by terminating or giving birth. Strong values, such as a belief in the sanctity of life can be helpful when faced with an impossibly difficult decision. But this only works if the values are genuinely held by the person making the decision, and if the values are practised collectively by a society that commits to supporting parents and children throughout their lives. Otherwise, such values only set people up for abandonment and abuse.
Individualism
But we do not have a society that practices respect for life. I see individualism as a response to this material reality. We have no choice but to insist on our individual conscience and rights to defend ourselves against an unjust and uncaring society.
Individualism can be a form of care, not just for the self but also for others. To distance ourselves from others can be a way of reducing pressure on fragile relationships, enabling them to endure hardship. Sometimes, the mutuality of a relationship, sustained by withholding support or refusing to ask for help, can be more valuable than material support. Building relationships that are strong enough to enable intimate forms of care and financial support takes time and involves setting boundaries which can then be gradually renegotiated over time.
The same is true for the webs of relationships that make up society. Practices that seem uncaring or individualistic can protect vulnerable people and relationships to endure hardship, but hardship will not pass unless we also collectively work to transform society. Again, this is a double action. We must continue practising individualism, but we must also, simultaneously, rebuild a caring and ethical society.
Direct Action
‘Non-violent’ direct action can be understood as an individualist response to a fragmented and unequal society. An important aspect of ‘non-violence’ is radical transparency, which means that ‘non-violent’ activists seek to publicly witness to their actions, often embracing a high risk of arrest. As activists in this society, we lack extensive structures or community ties through which we can be directly accountable to the people we want to be accountable to; people who might be adversely impacted by our actions, such as other activists, working-class communities, migrants or people with disabilities. ‘Non-violence’ offers a workaround: transparency in place of accountability.
‘Non-violent’ direct action is therefore a way for individuals to act ethically in the absence of collective ethical practice. Paradoxically, individual ‘non-violence’ can create the conditions for us to use violence more effectively and responsibly. By turning the other cheek and walking the extra mile, practising friendship and hospitality, we can build the relationships we would need to be able to exercise violence ethically.
And, paradoxically, violence can be a means to bring about a more just and ‘non-violent’ society. Yes, we must build caring and ethical relationships, but these must also be defended from the forces that would destroy us. It is sometimes said that ‘violence begets violence’ but this is only true because it is true of any action. In the words of the wizard Ged in Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea Cycle, ‘each deed you do, each act, binds you to itself and to its consequences, and makes you act again and yet again’. We must always actively insert reflection and flexibility into our practice. There is no revolutionary praxis that will allow us to switch off our brains or our hearts.
Like the individual and the collective, violence and ‘non-violence’ are inextricably linked. Reclaiming violence is about weaving them closer together into the fabric of our communities, rather than delegating violence to the state and keeping ‘non-violence’ as a consolation prize.