The Universal Declaration of Human Rights

In 1947 when Eleanor Roosevelt convened the first international counsel that would later produce the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it was thought that the implementation of rights would flow from the moral and political force of the document itself. After all, the waste and carnage of two global wars had so wearied the soul of the planet that there was an earnest gut-desire to enter a new era of peace, a "world made new."

Eleanor Roosevelt

Those were heady days. Even as the cold war loomed, there was optimism that the UN, wielding the ethical force of the UDHR–signed by 48 nations, with only 8 abstentions–would be able to convince all nations, even tyrannical nations, to uphold the right to life, liberty and security, of all individuals, regardless of race or religion, colour or creed, political opinion or social origin.

Eleanor would be gravely depressed. The last half of the 20 century has seen countless human rights violations, even by many of the signatories–and especially by the most powerful of signatory. And while over 1000 NGO’s sprung up to monitor human rights implementation, this did little to shame any nation into line.

Today, the Human Rights regime is in apparent crisis. And globalization, instead of drawing us closer, is seemingly splintering nations further. Add to that the current economic pressure and the protectionist bent of every nation and tribe, and the world seems poised for more rounds of violence and human rights abuses.

Does it mean that the UDHR and its attempted application wasn’t worth the effort? Not at all. The UDHR stands as a magna carta of sorts and has no doubt forestalled much entrenched conflict.

But there is a also a core difficulty. If the maintenance of human rights can’t rely on political and moral force what can it rely on? If it relies on physical force it undermines it’s own articles–its own foundation and hope.

So while the declaration is important and needed, it is highly provisional, culturally relative, and forever flawed, because it not only misreads the mimetic nature of violence, but also, because it is "methodologically atheistic." That is, at the point where the UDHR introduces values such as the "innate dignity of humans" it chooses to ground these values in a belief in human moral progress. What I mean is that it tries to stay metaphysically free. But because this is an impossibility it deludes itself and remains tied to the rationality of the Enlightenment, the rationality that lead, in part, to the wars of the 20 century, which then lead to the formation of the UDHR. (For an eloquent and eminently reasoned opposition to my understanding, read Michael Ignatieff’s, Human Rights as Politics and Idolatry.)

So, while the UDHR is still in some way a necessary and humanizing document, it cannot of itself, as was hoped, create a cooperative and peaceful world. Only through a deep understanding of our own propensity for violence, sacrifice and scapegoating, can a trajectory of hope for peace be sustained. As for me, I have found no other narrative other than the gospel, that opens up the possibility of a culture of peace. That’s because it lifts the mask of our innate propensity to first find fault in another.

Mayor Mandel and homelessness

Meandering through some old news leads I came across a Todd Babiuk article. I needed to pass along his observation:

Those who devote their lives to treating the untreatable, at the Bissell Centre and the Hope Mission and elsewhere, are saints. Incomprehensible saints.

The column also makes some good points about the politics of homelessness. I’ve been around long enough, and I’ve worked in the inner-city long enough to remember a succession of mayors.

mandel&JanelleIn 1983, when I began volunteering at Hope Mission, Lawrence Decor was elected to his first term. He was a good man, a revitalization man, but not overly concerned with homelessness–an issue that was still on the periphery.

(picture left: Mayor Mandel presents a plaque to the Mission’s Janelle Aker-Johnson, declaring a "Hope Mission Day.")

Jan Riemer followed. (Terry Cavanagh was installed for a year after Decore stepped away, just to sign stuff and keep the office warm.) Jan R. came up to bat while the economy was spit-balling and was finally fouled out by Ed-biz. But she had a heart for our city’s disquieted-dispossessed. And she spoke her heart to the annoyance of all the tall buildings.

Then we swung over to booster Bill Smith. Bill was a nice man, helped the Eskimos win a cup a long time ago. He was a lip service kind of guy who liked his Jeep Cherokee and "Mayor Bill" license plate. To his credit, he raised the profile of Edmonton.

Stage left–enter Mayor Mandel. The right mayor for the right time. The "homelessness issue" needs addressing. And an address, it’s receiving. Municipally at least, the ice is melting.

Thank you Todd Babiuk for your article.

Underground man

Across the alley, twenty stories up, the orange blinking Christmas lights have finally gone out.

It signals me to move on…enter this year already…take a moment to lift the hem and let some February light in.

But hanging on is what I do best. I can live with all kinds of demons just because I know them. I dare say (archaic Jane-Austiny phrase) I’ve lived with a couple of them for a score of years or more. And why? Just because I fear their their replacements more than their residence. They are nauseating tenants; and I’m an unhappy landlord. But if I kick them out, let myself stand empty for awhile–what in this economy?–I may end up begging them to come back and be okay when they bring a bunch more of their nutcase friends with them.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m not the tenant inside my own inside. I have about as much control. My hand is forced. I keep lowering their rent every time I’m threatened. It’s crazy.

Control over my life is what I want but it’s also something I dread more than identity theft. (‘Course without any control I have no identity worth stealing.) And when I say control over my life I’m not talking about the grand Enlightenment notion of the autonomous agent dictating his way through life like Alexander the  Great charioting his way across the psychological plain in full command. I’m taking about making up my mind to be honest, even if it hurts me and others. I’m haystacketalking about recognizing that I have a choice in how I respond to fear. I’m talking about overturning some old hay bales to clear out the nests of mice. Even now, I’m scared the mice have already been taken over by large rats.

All those rats may have a place but not inside me where they just rummage and rub their backs on my diseased skeleton. And then, like they’re on some ravenous vacation, head for my liver.

Yeah, I’m Dostoevski’s Underground man.

Okay, I’ll start with that. There was at least honesty there. And even in his contorted psyche, the possibility of a healthy self-ownership always played at the horizon. Even if the gloaming always looked like it was coming in at him from a hole in the ground.

The bizarre thing is, I end up grasping for control anyway. But it’s in all kinds of pathetic ways. Most of them are superstitions. Like the order of washing myself in the shower. Or whether to wear a watch, or whatever. Keep the order, and the day has a better chance of working out. Miss my table at Starbucks and I’m screwed.

And then there’s resentment. Curiously, it too is a form of control–well, not really of course–but I use it, unconsciously, as a hideout, a shield, and finally, won’t it become sword?

Well, you might be reading this and say to yourself, get this man a shrink (another archaic nomenclature–nomenclature, a neat change-up for name) and you’d be right. For we all need counselors. Geez, I have them in my family–I live with a very good one, and I have a brother who moulds and shapes people into becoming them. And yet, too close, right? We need an array of counselors, from friends to people who are shaped for it, and you pay some hard earned cash to, and tremble in front of.

You also might be reading this and say to yourself, "I have no idea what he’s on, but I must remember to always cover my drink." If so, I genuinely commend you, and freely drink to your health…from a broad-brimmed martini glass.

For me, I have to say, I’m sad and a bit scared that the orange blinking Christmas lights have gone out. But it did signal something. Could be my harbinger? Okay, I’ll use it. But I swear, this is the last time. From now on, I’m off Christmas lights.

Active nonviolence and piety

merton_hatIn an essay Thomas Merton dedicated to Joan Baez, he wrote, 

We know that our unconscious motives may, at times, make our nonviolence a form of moral aggression and even a subtle provocation designed (without our awareness) to bring out the evil we hope to find in the adversary, and thus to justify ourselves in our own eyes and in the eyes of "decent people."

The temperament of moral superiority crouches at the door of all our souls. But I believe its sly appeal is especially tempting for the nonviolent activist. And when it slips in unnoticed, as is its bent, the pacifist become the violator.

2008-09-18-JoanBaez

 

 

Well, I’ve felt this spirit creeping around in my own soul. It’s made its slippery entrance. All I can do now is name it–it’s the only way I can remain somewhat free of its control. But if I  loose track of it, forget its there, within, believe I’m free of it, I’ll need a gentle friend to point it out to me.

Because when active nonviolence becomes an avenue to piety it becomes putrid. It relinquishes all creative possibilities and just deepens divisions.

The last thing active nonviolence is out to do is "convert the wicked." Its raison d’être is about reconciliation and reunion. It is only, and always, about the flourishing of humanity.