Richard Barnes

The Power of the Powerless IV

December 2, 2021December 2, 2021 Richard Barnes

This is our fourth in a series of posts on Václav Havel’s seminal 1978 essay of the same title.

In our last post we saw Havel’s use of an example: authorities require everyone to post a seemingly innocuous sign. To avoid any trouble and to not buck any authorized narrative, citizens dutifully post the sign in their shop windows or homes and go about their business with few pausing to research much as to the truth of the sign or, if they have researched or reflected, they obediently refuse to complain that the sign is not really true or that the citizen does not believe it.

Havel sums up that citizen behavior as, “I am afraid and therefore unquestioningly obedient.”

This attitude enables people to deceive their consciences and “their true position and their inglorious modus vivendi…” subjecting them to totalitarianism and keeping them there.

It keeps them there, furthermore, via the power that ideology wields over a nation’s population. This ideology may have taken a century or more to take hold. But it cannot be ignored. It is “a very pragmatic but … dignified way of legitimizing what is above, below, and on either side…. It is a veil behind which human beings can hide their own fallen existence, their trivialization, and their adaptation to the status quo.”

It provides people “with the illusion that the system is in harmony with the human order and the order of the universe.”

But, “between the aims of the post-totalitarian system and the aims of life there is a yawning abyss: while life moves toward plurality, diversity, independent self-constitution, in short, toward the fulfillment of its own freedom, the post-totalitarian system demands conformity, uniformity, and discipline.”

Any attempt by someone or by a family or by a church or by any organization to overstep its predetermined role or roles is regarded by the post-totalitarian system as an attack on itself, a denial of the system. And it must be stamped out.

“Ideology, in creating a bridge of excuses between the system and the individual, spans the abyss between the aims of the system and the aims of life. It pretends that the requirements of the system derive from the requirements of life. It is a world of appearances trying to pass for reality.”

“This is why life in the system is so thoroughly permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy is called popular government; the complete degradation of the individual is presented as his ultimate liberation; the use of power to manipulate is called the public control of power, and the arbitrary abuse of power is called observing the legal code; the repression of culture is called its development; the expansion of [the State] is presented as support for the oppressed; the lack of free expression becomes the highest form of freedom; farcical elections become the highest form of democracy; banning independent thought becomes the most scientific of world views….”

“Because the regime is captive to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies the past. It falsifies the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. It pretends not to possess an omnipotent and unprincipled police apparatus. It pretends to respect human rights. It pretends to persecute no one. It pretends to fear nothing. It pretends to pretend nothing.”

“Individuals need not believe all these mystifications, but they must behave as if they did, or they must at least tolerate them in silence, or get along well with those who work with them. For this reason, however, they must live within a lie. They need not accept the lie. It is enough for them to have accepted their life with it and in it. For by this very fact, individuals confirm the system, fulfill the system, make the system, are the system.”

A university student in Czechoslovakia put her understanding of unthinking actions well: “Totalitarianism creates a sense of disparity between the minds and actions of ordinary people, and leads them to live a life without reflection and a life that cannot be reflected.”

However, there are usually, if not always, people who desire to live free under ordered liberty. People like the generations of America’s colonial and early republic eras.

Under a “post totalitarian” system or regime, such people are powerless.

Or they seem to be but are not.

They have a mighty weapon which they can wield.

That weapon is the Truth. That is the power of the powerless.

And it must be employed wisely, confidently, and fearlessly. Wisely, because one must recognize the power of ideology in the post-totalitarian system. This recognition will help one to behave with understanding yet without compromise. Confidently and fearlessly because the Truth is known by all, even by the regime which is so intent on maintaining its apparatus of power.

The powerless who wield this weapon, in effect, insist on living within the Truth.

Václav Havel speaks to joint session of Congress, February 22, 1990. Vice President James Danforth (“Dan”) Quayle and Speaker of the House, Thomas Stephen Foley behind him.

Do You Have Beer?

November 24, 2021November 24, 2021 Richard Barnes

In past Thanksgiving times, we have quoted from William Bradford’s journal to tell of Squanto and of Bradford’s first Thanksgiving proclamation (here and here).

Bradford’s journal lists the 102 Mayflower passengers and then, heartbreakingly, tells of the deaths of half their number that winter of 1620 – 1621. By the spring of 1621, only 53 remained. And the small group did their best to appear to be more: they buried their dead in unmarked graves, they shot their muskets at different spots, making it seem that many more were shooting, and so forth.

The first contacts between Europeans and the native tribes of those parts occurred about a century before the arrival of the Pilgrims in 1620. Similar to the Mountain Men in the 19th Century American west, traders and fishermen sailed or otherwise explored along the coasts of New England in the 16th century, seeking furs, fish, and other raw materials. And they unknowingly prepared the way for those who would come later. In the case of the Mountain Men, their footsteps, trails, and dealings with the Indians later guided or hindered pioneering families in the west; similarly, their forebears, the European traders and fishers, guided or hindered the Pilgrims and Puritans in the 17th century east.

The Pilgrims arrived at what is now Plymouth Rock. That region was known as Patuxet (“little falls”). About a decade before, the tribe that lived there had been wiped out by a plague. There was one member of that tribe who was not present: Squanto. He and nineteen others had been treacherously betrayed and sent to Spain as slaves by Thomas Hunt, an English mariner.

Bradford’s comment pithily summarizes the Pilgrims’ opinion of Mr. Hunt: “… like a wretched man that cares not what mischief he does for his profit ….”

However, Providence had its reasons. Squanto was set free in Spain and made his way to England where he learned English. He eventually sailed back as an interpreter to Thomas Dermer. But he found his tribe completely annihilated.

And that brings us to Samoset.

Chief Massasoit of the Massachusett Indians had a decision to make: expel the Pilgrims or form an alliance with them? Although his tribe had not been directly affected, the memory of men like Hunt was recent and portentous.

Squanto told Chief Massasoit about the wonders he had seen and experienced in England and urged him to seek peace with the Pilgrims. The chief then consulted with Samoset, a satrap or lesser chief of the Abenakki Indians from present day Maine. The chief sent Samoset as his emissary to the Pilgrims.

In mid-March, 1621, Samoset walked confidently into the Pilgrim colony and asked, “Do you have beer?” The alarmed Pilgrims were immediately put at ease when they heard their mother tongue spoken by this half naked “savage” who had learned to speak as they from mariners along the coast.

Samoset spent some time with them, telling them about the terrain and the other tribes that surrounded them. He left them, promising to return. And he did so, this time with our friend, Squanto. They both told the Pilgrims that Chief Massasoit and sixty men would be coming to visit them. That startled the Pilgrims yet again, but they learned there was no cause for alarm.

William Bradford’s good friend, Edward Wilson, spoke with the chief, using Squanto as translator. The parties agreed to a treaty which lasted decades, neither side ever violating the terms.

Edward Winslow’s letter to his “loving and old friend” tells us much about these events and the First Thanksgiving. We will close this post with the concluding paragraphs of that letter, dated “this 11 of December, 1621” (emphasis mine):

“We have found the Indians very faithful in their covenant of peace with us; very loving and ready to pleasure us: we often go to them, and they come to us; some of us have been fifty miles by land in the country with them … yea, it hath pleased God so to possess the Indians with a fear of us, and love unto us, that not only the greatest king amongst them called Massasoit, but also all the princes and peoples round about us, have either made suit unto us, or been glad of any occasion to make peace with us, so that seven of them at once have sent their messengers to us to that end …. [They] have yielded willingly to be under the protection, and subjects to our sovereign Lord King James, so that there is now great peace amongst the Indians themselves, which was not formerly, neither would have been but for us; and we … walk as peaceably and safely in the wood, as in the highways in England, we entertain them familiarly in our houses, and they as friendly bestowing their venison on us ….

“… so I take my leave, commending you to the Lord for a safe conduct unto us. Resting in Him

Your loving Friend,

E. W.

*Jeremiah Johnson*, the 1972 film is, in my opinion, the best Robert Redford movie. He plays a Mountain Man and does so with grit and a character development arc from comic naiveté to vengeful anger. As you watch it, remember, it was men like him who prepared the way for those who’d come after and settle and develop and more.

Signing of the Mayflower Compact. Edward Wilson stands at center with his right hand on the table and left hand holding the ink jar

The Pilgrims were put at ease as soon as Samoset asked for beer.

The Power of the Powerless III

November 24, 2021November 24, 2021 Richard Barnes

We have seen (Part I and Part II) that Václav Havel, in his 1978 essay, The Power of the Powerless, defines “dictatorship” as something well beyond the classic, superficial image of a small group of people, usually military, who take over a country. The modern dictatorship is more of secular religion in the devotion and loyalty it demands from its subjects. As he puts it, this religion, this ideology “has a certain hypnotic charm” and those under its sway will not tolerate dissent.

“In terms of the physical aspects of power, this has led to the creation of … intricate and well-developed mechanisms for the direct and indirect manipulation of the entire population….”

“Of course, one pays dearly for this: … the price is abdication of one’s own reason, conscience, and responsibility, for an essential aspect of this ideology is the consignment of reason and conscience to a higher authority. The principle involved here is that the center of power is identical with the center of truth.”

Havel then seeks to illustrate what he means by the above.

A grocery store owner opens his shop and dutifully places the sign that is required to be placed in all shop windows: “Workers of the world, unite!” But, why does he place it? Is it because he has invested time in deep studies of the philosophy and history of the concept behind the phrase and out of conviction he places the sign? Well, no. All stores have the sign, after all. It is quite uniform across the country.

What the grocer is really saying with his sign is “I, grocer, live here and I know what I must do. I behave in the manner expected of me. I can be depended upon and am beyond reproach. I am obedient and therefore I have the right to be left in peace.”

Of course, the grocer’s message is “directed above, to [his] superior, and at the same time it is a shield that protects [him] from potential informers….”

What is the sign really saying?

“I am afraid and therefore unquestioningly obedient.” That statement would reflect the truth, but he would not only be embarrassed to post it, he would be placed in danger if he did so.

But the official sign allows the grocer to express his loyalty innocuously. After all, what’s wrong with the workers of the world uniting?

“It hides him behind the facade of something high. And that something is ideology.”

“Ideology offers … the illusion of an identity, of dignity, and of morality while making it easier to part with “identity, dignity, and morality.” It enables people to deceive their conscience and “conceal their true position and their inglorious modus vivendi, both from the world and from themselves.”

Havel used the illustration of a sign. Today he would use the illustration of any of the easily debunked shibboleths being mandated upon us and upon much of the world.

They are a veil.

How can one pierce that veil?

The phrase used by Havel to illustrate his point

The Power of the Powerless II

November 6, 2021November 6, 2021 Richard Barnes

I invite you to read Part I for background on this series of posts, whose title is taken from Václav Havel’s famous 1978 essay.

Havel valiantly attempts to define his terms, beginning with “dictatorship”. One who carefully reads the following extracts from the early paragraphs of his essay, will see he speaks to us today.

Because good writing speaks across generations.

From “The Power of the Powerless”

(all emphases are mine):

“Our system [speaking of Czechoslovakia, in 1978] is most frequently characterized as a dictatorship or, more precisely, as the dictatorship of a political bureaucracy over a society which has undergone economic and social leveling. I am afraid that the term “dictatorship,” regardless of how intelligible it may otherwise be, tends to obscure rather than clarify the real nature of power in this system. We usually associate the term with the notion of a small group of people who take over the government of a given country by force; their power is wielded openly, using the direct instruments of power at their disposal, and they are easily distinguished socially from the majority over whom they rule. One of the essential aspects of this traditional or classical notion of dictatorship is the assumption that it is temporary, ephemeral, lacking historical roots. Its existence seems to be bound up with the lives of those who established it. It is usually local in extent and significance, and regardless of the ideology it utilizes to grant itself legitimacy, its power derives ultimately from the numbers and the armed might of its soldiers and police. The principal threat to its existence is felt to be the possibility that someone better equipped in this sense might appear and overthrow it.

“Even this very superficial overview should make it clear that the system in which we live has very little in common with a classical dictatorship. In the first place, our system is not limited in a local, geographical sense; rather, it holds sway over a huge power bloc.… And although it quite naturally exhibits a number of local and historical variations, the range of these variations is fundamentally circumscribed by a single, unifying framework throughout…. Not only is the dictatorship everywhere based on the same principles and structured in the same way (that is, in the way evolved by the ruling power), but each country has been completely penetrated by a network of manipulatory instruments controlled by the power center and totally subordinated to its interests….

“[This system] commands an incomparably … precise, logically structured, generally comprehensible and, in essence, extremely flexible ideology that, in its elaborateness and completeness, is almost a secularized religion. It offers a ready answer to any question whatsoever; it can scarcely be accepted only in part…. In an era when metaphysical and existential certainties are in a state of crisis, when people are being uprooted and alienated and are losing their sense of what this world means, this ideology inevitably has a certain hypnotic charm. To wandering humankind it offers an immediately available home: all one has to do is accept it, and suddenly everything becomes clear once more, life takes on new meaning, and all mysteries, unanswered questions, anxiety, and loneliness vanish. Of course, one pays dearly for this low-rent home: the price is abdication of one’ s own reason, conscience, and responsibility, for an essential aspect of this ideology is the consignment of reason and conscience to a higher authority. The principle involved here is that the center of power is identical with the center of truth….“

As we shall see in future posts, Havel will go on to note that his observations most certainly apply to the United States.

In 1978, even the most obtuse could see that Americans were living in “an era when metaphysical and existential certainties” were in a state of crisis. I began my career in public accounting in that era and during “boot camp” [our tough, initial training] I was aghast at the blasphemy, profanity, and utter cynicism so evident in the speech and actions of many (thankfully, not all) of my professional contemporaries.

These were the crème de la crème of American society and it was ominous. Talking with a colleague there, I told him that I had been born in an American mining camp and my early childhood was amongst WWII veterans. I am certain that their mouths were not ivory soap clean when I was not around, but for sure, even in the club bar, where children were not banned in that era, I never heard even a smidgen of language such as I was hearing at this gathering of young professionals. Nor, as a child, did I ever sense a total disregard or disrespect for the Deity, as I was witnessing now.

Again, thankfully, “boot camp” experience was not a “100%” situation, but it was widespread enough for concern. So, when I heard Solzhenitsyn speak at Harvard and, especially, later when I read the speech, I hearkened back to my early professional career and understood his observations, although a good number of my contemporaries dismissed them.

But he and Havel, having lived and suffered through societies which had lost their liberties and who became subservient to established “power centers” most certainly saw many similarities in western societies, including the United States. They saw that a loss of belief in eternal verities will lead to abject submission and to assignment of transcendence to others, most likely the State; these are dispositions or inclinations which require “abdication of one’s own reason, conscience, and responsibility.”

Havel foresaw our disposition to a ready acquiescence to a ruling elite who would tell us what to do and when. Otherwise known as living within the murderous lie of totalitarianism. And to live under totalitarianism (whose definition Havel will continue to develop) requires living under a lie.

Mr. Shingler, the father of a childhood friend. I post his photo as an example of the men around whom my childhood friends and I grew up. They were not perfect men, in the sense that they had their sins and foibles. However, looking back, I can see they did their best to not harm the consciences of the children who saw them and were otherwise in their ambit.

My father, left, at my little brother’s first birthday. He also reflected the ethos of “do no harm”, to the best of his ability. Havel, and also Solzhenitsyn, saw the loss of that ethos in America. By the time of this photo, many of the Americans with whom I grew up had already left El Pao along with their families.

Cachicamo

October 28, 2021October 28, 2021 Richard Barnes

Childhood memories are notoriously deceptive. I had a friend who painted his childhood with broad, black strokes. Gothic does not come close to describing his lurid remembrances. Years later, talking with other members of his family or with his friends, I came to see his memory wasn’t totally fair. From all appearances and recollections of others who had no reason to misrepresent, his childhood was not so terrible.

On the other hand, I’ve known someone, a decent fellow, whose recollections are of wonderful, funny, and happy times of childhood. Yet, in that case, I know, for a fact, having lived nearby and in “real time”, that all was not well. But his remembrances were of broad rose strokes and I certainly would not attempt to convince him otherwise.

I cannot objectively say where I fall in that spectrum but my recollections are happy and when talking with my mother and parents’ friends, as well as perusing old correspondence, it appears my memory is not far off the mark. Anecdotes are for the most part confirmed or, when modified, never beyond recognition.

One of those reminiscences is of my father and the Venezuelan cachicamo.

As brief background: when my father was a young man, before he went to Venezuela, he was a member of a team of agents who worked for the United States army. In those days, the early 40s, part of their training was on the Harvey Firestone (founder of Firestone Tire and Rubber Company) property in Miami Beach, Florida. About a decade later, the Firestone estate would serve as construction headquarters during the building of the famous Fontainebleau Hotel until the estate was torn down to make way for the hotel’s famous gardens and pool.

Early in the mornings, his fellow agents would see my father go out on the water where he’d start tossing jelly fish out of the way to make room for a morning swim. Henceforth, they called him “Tarzan”.

A few years later he worked for the Bethlehem Steel Company in Venezuela, first in Palúa for a few years and then El Pao for the rest of his career at the company. While in Palúa my father would sometimes dive off the ore bridge into the Orinoco River below. This was an astonishing feat not only to his fellow employees but to the many locals who’d gather along the shore to watch him. His “Tarzan” nickname was well earned.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I recall a trip with my father to the American Consulate in Puerto La Cruz, on the north coast of the country. This was, for me, an exciting drive, usually overnight, including a ferry crossing over the Orinoco River, endless miles on the Venezuelan Llanos, dizzying heights on the mountain ranges hugging the spectacular coastline, and astonishing views of some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.

(Although Puerto La Cruz is in the state of Anzoátegui, it borders the state of Sucre and that is where many of my memories reside, principally due to that state’s magnificent beaches.)

About two hours after ferrying across the Orinoco, we saw a cachicamo scurrying across the highway. My father slammed on the brakes, pulled off the road, disembarked and ran after the critter. I remember a car whizzing past but not so fast that I could not discern its driver and passengers looking at my father, first in wonderment and then in howling laughter, which, of course, I could not hear.

He caught the creature and placed him in a box he had on the back seat floor. We continued on our journey. And heard loud scratching, which we at first assumed was that of the bored animal doodling the inside of the box. Then as a car passed us the driver blew his horn to catch our attention. As we looked over he signaled to our rear. We looked to find the cachicamo now against the back window scurrying back and forth. It had to have jumped up there only a second or two prior. We stopped, opened the door and shooed the beast out. We then inspected the damage his scratching had done. We had picked him up in the Llanos and kicked him out in the high mountains. Hope he did OK.

Back in El Pao, on another occasion, my father again jumped out of the car to catch another cachicamo. This time critter and human both slid, scratched, and rolled down a steep embankment at the foot of which my father grabbed the animal and carried it back up the jungle hill, slipping, sliding, falling, but not letting his prey escape.

The cachicamo, like the armadillo, has little hair and can weigh over 20 pounds and measure 5 feet long (see photo below). Whoever attempts to catch it must be very much aware of its long and devastating claws. (The Venezuela Cachicamo Gigante is another story altogether which will be for another day.) This large rodent eats ants, worms, larvae, and also meat. And, yes, folks eat it: they tell us it tastes like chicken, beef, rabbit, and pork. I’m not sure I understand how it can taste like all those meats, nor, at this remove, am I aiming to find out.

Mr. and Mrs. H, good friends of my parents had told my father that they would be happy to prepare any cachicamo he’d bring them. So he dutifully slaughtered the critter and took it up the hill to them and they made plans for dinner later that week.

For some reason I was up that night when my parents returned from their dinner at Mr. and Mrs. H’s home. As my father tossed his suit coat on the sofa, he said with a hint of exasperation, “Remind me to never again catch a cachicamo!” To which my mother replied, “Oh, sure. You’re a new man.”

The next morning I was regaled with the story.

As they drove up the hill to Mr. and Mrs. H’s home the night before, my father was in eager anticipation of the Venezuelan dish that the lady of the house was preparing from the game he had caught that week. They parked the car, walked up the front steps, and knocked. Mr. H exuberantly opened the door and, with great alacrity, ushered them in while endlessly chatting on how happy Mrs. H was in preparing and cooking that night’s pièce de résistance: Cachicamo on the Shell.

What Mr. H did not seem to notice was the stench that had greeted my progenitors when the front door had opened. “What is that smell?” they had both thought but could not ask out loud just then.

Mrs. H came out through the swinging kitchen door in high spirits and pulled them in to observe the final touches on that night’s cuisine. To their horror, they realized the fetid aroma originated from the cooking area.

But, again, they said nothing.

The stew of cachicamo, who by now was the object of silent maledictions from my mother, was placed, in all its glory, heaping hot, and in its shell, at the center of the table. And all were joyously served therefrom.

My father bravely ate his full dish. An act of courage and manliness which, after leaving, my mother rebuked: “If you knew that smell came from our main course, why on earth would you eat it so quickly and thereby give opportunity to be offered more?! Not even Tarzan eat so fast?”

“Oh, Charles! I can see you really like this! Here, have some more!” Mrs. H had exclaimed heartily and joyfully over my father’s courteous demurrals. But his “Oh, no thank you’s!” were too late: she slopped another heap of local color on his plate and he, having been taught since childhood to always eat what is served, dutifully and painfully ate the whole thing.

My parents’ theory, most reasonable, is that Mrs. H had neglected to have the shell properly boiled. Not to put too fine a point on this, the cachicamo being a rodent, the smell that greeted the visitors that night was that of a dead rat.

Many years have passed since that event. Even now, as I write this, I smile and even chuckle, holding the loud laughter in.

As a family, that became one of our favorite stories. I shared it with my youngest sons just three days ago as we drove to church. They too howled with laughter.

Thank you, father and mother, for a happy childhood.