The Anti-Empire Project

[Dear readers: The genocide has started again and I will be returning to reporting on it. But here is a story I’d been working on earlier that I need to get out there first. After writing the Hodeidah Tribunal, I wondered about what justice would entail for the media incitements that have been so visible throughout this genocide. This story deals with the less clear-cut cases of media figures who laundered the genocide by claiming either balance or even anti-genocide credentials while returning the debate to genocider talking points…]

Graphic from South Africa’s TRC

Towards the end of the revolution, the National Revolutionary Authority of North America (NRA-NA) issued a declaration, called the Declaration to Social Media (DSM), that outlined some of the genocidal crimes they would punish upon arrival in power. The DSM was a warning to media figures and social media users to stop their incitement to genocide, for there would be consequences for these incitements. Written in a moment of revolutionary enthusiasm, its legal consequences had to be developed by a number of legally trained revolutionaries after the victory. Sushil was a veteran revolutionary lawyer, and had been defense counsel for many of the NRA revolutionaries since the early days. He was trusted, known, and he knew the law. The leadership collective had invited him to help them develop the document.

The initial DSM had been a very simple list of crimes.

DECLARATION TO MEDIA AND SOCIAL MEDIA ON INCITEMENT TO GENOCIDE

The National Revolutionary Authority declares the following to be crimes that will be punishable by law:

SECTION 1: INCITEMENT TO GENOCIDE

The following acts on social media or media will be considered punishable incitement to genocide:

1.1 – Atrocity Propaganda. Posting or stating lies about atrocity crimes, by the victims, while the genocide against them goes on, will be punishable.

1.2 – Willful or Pretended Ignorance. Media figures or officials who pretend to be, or speak publicly while actually unaware of well-documented and ongoing genocidal crimes or statements, are considered offenders and will be punished.

1.3 – Excusing Genocide. Labeling the victims as “terrorists” or any use of the doctrine that genocide, civilian murder, or destruction of civilian infrastructure is justified because “terorists” are “embedded among civilians”, will be punishable.

When Sushil had begun to study the declaration, he fretted as he tended to do, because Sections 1.1 through 1.3, while precise, encompassed so many acts by so many social media influencers, NGO actors, politicians, and media spokespeople, that it would be impossible to punish them all except by turning the entire revolutionary bureaucracy towards the sole purpose of punishing the complicit. What to do?

Sushil knew that the worst actors could be deported to the Hodeidah Tribunal, but the sentences there were long and even capital punishment was possible under those clauses. Back here, though, the NRA-AN (pronounced “niraan”) had the challenging task of separating the worst actors from the mere social participants, the big genociders from the small.

Having studied it more carefully than most, Sushil had never been fooled by Rwanda’s post-genocide Gacaca court system (1), but the system’s stated principles made sense. People accused of participation in genocide were compelled to face the community and tell their truth, which would be corroborated or disputed by community members at the trial.

Gacaca had been designed for a country of a thousand villages. Sushil had to adapt it for the online community. Instead of an outdoor meeting at picnic tables in a field in the village, the DSM trials would have to take place online, publicly, on the web. The South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) had been televised. The DSM trials would be livestreamed. But like Gacaca and the South African TRC, physical custody of the offenders was necessary.

For today’s trial, the offender was brought into a studio in his usual suit and made to sit in a witness box with a camera before him.

Gorman had been a television commentator his whole career, and he’d be allowed to tell his truth in his own element: live to the web. He sat with his chin forward, in a posture familiar to his millions of online viewers.

Gorman’s arrest hadn’t been difficult to effect. NRA agents had an easy time apprehending most of the people they wanted for these trials. Anonymity is hard enough to achieve for anyone: The life of a social media influencer is fundamentally incompatible with good security practices. Gorman was no man of action either. The agents had come to his door, and walked him into custody. He’d been interrogated and debriefed by one of the Hodeidah Tribunal prosecutors, who’d evidently gotten whatever she needed from him. He’d asked if he could be suited and appropriately powdered for his DSM trial, and Sushil had granted the request.

Now Gorman sat looking comfortable – imperious even – in the box, and it was Sushil’s turn. No stranger to grandstanding in the courtroom, Sushil was nonetheless uncomfortable and nervous. Precedents were being set, and this hybrid between a court and a television program was halfway between his world and Gorman’s. That was, after all, why Sushil had designed the trial to work the way that it was going to.

“Mr. Gorman, you are here today before us to tell your truth, after which we will decide whether you will be deported to Hodeidah for the trial of major media genociders or whether you will be able to be reintegrated into the community. Do you understand the process and what is at stake here?’

“I do,” Gorman said, “– and I’d just like to say that –”

Sushil held his hand up and Gorman’s microphone was immediately cut. “No, Mr. Gorman, not yet. When it comes time you will be able to speak freely about your truth, but not before. Thank you for telling us all that you understand the process and its possible outcomes. Now please, in a single yes or no answer, will you answer all of our questions truthfully?”

Gorman moved his mouth without sound several times before finally squeezing out, “yes.”

Sushil was the closest thing to a judge at these proceedings, Gorman the defendant. Both looked to the jury: a group of anti-genocide media figures, including many who had been harangued on Gorman’s show, some of whom had been arrested, had devices seized, homes raided, deported for their media work. A couple of journalists who had survived the genocide in Gaza and Lebanon were present as well, and a few who had simply entered a lottery for the chance to be in the audience during any DSM trial. Some thirty in all, they radiated an expectant and contemptuous energy in Gorman’s direction, reminding Sushil again of the care he needed to take to give this trial the gravity it deserved, despite the somewhat ridiculous figure Gorman cut.

Sushil began abruptly: “First of all, Mr. Gorman, I have to ask: do you condemn the genocide?”

Gorman had been expecting this one. “I have always maintained that Israel was excessive in its response, and I have held Israeli officials accountable and asked them what they thought was a proportional response.”

Sushil replied: “But do you condemn the genocide? Do you condemn Israel?”

“I don’t agree that it was a genocide,” Gorman said. “I think it was self-defense, but I think at times, it was disproportionate.”

Sushil got his pen, made a note of the exact time, wrote it down, and wrote next to the timestamp: 1.3. Excusing Genocide.

“So you don’t condemn Israel then,” Sushil said.

“You’re not going to get me to make a blanket condemnation, I think any state would have to defend itself after a horrendous terrorist attack like the one of October 7th.”

Sushil looked at the time again, wrote it down, and next to it: 1.1. Atrocity Propaganda.

Sushil said: “I’m glad you said that, actually. In your program you repeated lies about October 7th, for which there was no evidence, even implying that you had yourself seen videos of rapes or beheadings, allegations for which no evidence existed. Do you admit that you were lying?”

Gorman said: “I never lied. I said there were atrocities recorded on GoPros and reports of rapes.”

Sushil wrote the timestamp again next to his 1.1. Atrocity Propaganda.

He said: “So you don’t admit these were lies and you continue to claim there was evidence for these atrocities even though you haven’t seen them yourself? Or do you claim to have seen them yourself.”

Gorman said: “Now hang on, because now you’re not letting me respond –”

Sushil interrupted. “– It’s a simple question,” he said. Sushil looked at the audience, and as he suspected, some were enjoying watching Gorman on the receiving end of constant interruption and harangue. “… and it sounds like you’re not going to answer it. So, you’re refusing to admit you lied and you’re avoiding answering the fact that you repeatedly said things that suggested you’d seen evidence you in fact never saw.”

Gorman replied: “I never lied, you’re not going to get me to say I lied no matter how much you interrupt me.”

Sushil paced toward the audience, then turned back on Gorman. “Another question, then. On your show, one of your guests told you about the murder of Hind Rajab, a little girl who was killed with her family in a car while crying for help, and the medics who came to rescue her also were murdered. The same guest told you about a mother who was killed trying to save her son. The guest had just seen videos of these murders. Do you remember?”

Gorman said: “I said I hadn’t seen those particular videos.”

Sushil said: “Have you seen them now?”

Gorman said nothing.

Sushil wrote the time, and wrote down: 1.2. Pretended Ignorance. He continued the questioning until he had accumulated a long record of admitted violations of most of the articles of the DSM.

“I believe we have heard enough,” he said. “Mr. Gorman, your incitement to genocide has been so thoroughgoing, so systematic, and so influential, to such a large audience over the whole period of the genocide, that it shocks the conscience of this court and of the world. You have engaged in atrocity propaganda, in willful ignorance, and of excusing genocide, right here in this court before us and before the livestream audience watching these proceedings. I see no choice,” Sushil said, “but to have you remanded to the Hodeidah Tribunal for a full trial as one of the principal defendants in the media trial.”

“But wait!” Gorman said. “I gave voice to many of you people on my show. I put hard questions to Israeli officials on my show. I have been much more even handed than so many in the media. How could you punish me?”

“I would leave that for the Hodeidah judges to decide,” Sushil said, “but for the benefit of those listening now and for the court’s records, I will say that your phony debate format was transparently stacked in favor of the genociders, and even when the anti-genocide side got a zinger or two in, your own genocidal bias and the destructive effect of your program were apparent to all right-thinking people.” Sushil turned to the NRA agents. “Take him away to get him ready for deportation.” Looking at the cameras, he said: “This session is over for now.”

In the back offices of the studio, he found one of the trial lawyers from the Hodeidah Tribunal waiting for him. He put his hand to his chest and bowed modestly, and she slid a file to him across the table.

“This file,” Wardah said, “is a challenge.”

Sushil sat down with a sinking feeling. He knew who she meant before even looking. As he rifled through the gathered transcripts, his ambivalence only grew.

“My inclination was to just leave this one alone,” he said.

“Ours too. But then…”

“What changed?” Sushil asked.

“He turned himself in.”

It was another debater. To Sushil’s reading, the energetic Ghassan had developed a following over years with a skill of being quick on his feet and a knack for sounding principled even while being slippery when it mattered. He was proud of himself for being pilloried by all sides – that, to Ghassan, was a sign that he was on the right track. Both pro- and anti-genocide people thought he was wrong – to Ghassan, this indicated that he was a teller of uncomfortable truths. Everyone on the anti-genocide coalition had watched him: some enjoying his one-liners, others in disgust of his half-truths, and still others watched him as a bellwether: his positions indicated where public opinion was headed, what it was safe to say out loud at any given moment.

But things started to change for Ghassan when the tide of the war turned decisively. He was on tour with his book, a memoir of his hardest-hitting debates and the importance of free speech, when an audience member asked him if he regretted repeating genocidal talking points. He had answered with his usual speed and vigor, but the disgust and disappointment in her face had stayed with him. He was never a man used to adulation, he just didn’t bring that out in people, but his self image included the belief that he was a man of principle. The questioner had shaken him. Then it happened again, at the next venue. And again. One evening the audience seemed to be full of people who hated him. One had asked: “Why aren’t you on trial?” And the next time, almost no one was there.

He was a decisive man, and so he decided to resolve this problem the same way he’d lived his life: through a public debate. He had turned himself in to the revolutionary authorities and thrown himself on their justice. He wanted to have his day in court. He would speak his truth.

Sushil said, “it sounds like you don’t want him, and we don’t want him. He’s a good debater and fast on his feet, comfortable in the online environment and likely to question our credibility. Will it hurt our cause for him to be tried?”

Wardah gave an unworried look. “I have confidence in the system we have set up. Ghassan wants to speak? Let him speak.”

The cameras and bright lights on him once again, Sushil called Ghassan to the stand.

Ghassan strode confidently forward, unescorted by court officials. The audience reaction was mixed. Some applauded, others watched in cold silence. Opponents of the genocide uniformly hated Gorman, but opinion on Ghassan had always been divided.

He knew how to play to the crowd though. Sushil sat down without a further word and Ghassan walked slowly to the exact right spot for visibility to the most people and the camera.

“Have a seat, Ghassan.” Sushil said. “The court is to decide on what to do with you.”

Ghassan cleared his throat. “That is why I asked to be here today. To start with, I’d like to clarify that I’ve been vocally against this genocide from the very beginning. I’ve always been pro-Palestine!”

Sushil paused for a moment. “While your own crimes were not nearly on the level of Mr. Gorman, you also have engaged in atrocity propaganda. You’ve minimized the genocide by comparing it to situations that are not comparable. You’ve campaigned electorally for genocide perpetrators, arguing that voters set the genocide aside since both sides were genociders.”

Ghassan, composed, replied: “It’s morally consistent to oppose barbarism, war, and occupation no matter who does it. The fact that you and your court are now allied with some unsavory powers isn’t going to silence me.”

Sushil said: “Thank you for mentioning that. As you know, this court has several options short of remanding suspects to Hodeidah for trial. According to the Hodeidah authorities, your case falls below the threshold for the major media criminals, people like Gorman or people who actually provided targets for assassination.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that at least you understand that,” Ghassan said.

Sushil replied: “But you contributed in your own way to the vilification of the resistance and to the perpetuation of falsehoods.”

“I disagree,” Ghassan said.

Sushil continued as if Ghassan hadn’t spoken. “You built a following taking pro-Palestine positions, but you also smeared the movement alleging that Muslims en masse were anti-Semitic.”

“That’s just dealing with uncomfortable truths,” Ghassan said.

“You’ve also never addressed the facts of the Resistance’s conduct of the war, and have deferred to the accounts presented by the pro-genocide forces of what happened.”

“That is how you win debates, sir,” Ghassan said. “You show that your opponent’s logic is incorrect even if what they’re saying is true.”

“No, Ghassan. The facts matter,” Sushil said. “I won’t rebut you point by point. Go ahead and take ten minutes and say everything that you want to say.”

Ghassan looked solemnly at the camera, and at the crowd, and entered into the record a passionate defense of himself and his conduct during the genocide. Knowing that his reactions were being filmed, Sushil practiced keeping his face neutral and willed himself to not shake his head involuntarily with every point.

“Is that all?” Sushil said, when Ghassan stopped.

“Not quite,” Ghassan said, and went on for another ten minutes. “Now I’m finished,” he said.

“Let’s take a break and let the jury deliberate,” Sushil said.

When they returned, Sushil said only: “Let’s hear from the jury.”

The head of the jury stood up, one of the journalists from Gaza who had managed to survive the genocide, and cleared her throat: “For justice to be served, the punishment has to fit the crime. In your case, the jury believes that most of the infractions you have committed have been committed in the search for attention. And so, the punishment is a five-year period of cancellation. You will not be allowed on any live streams, prerecorded videos, television appearances, posts, or opinion columns. No one in the world will know your opinion for a period of five years. The jury recommends that you spend that time reading and learning things you don’t know.” She sat down, composed.

“But,” Ghassan said, appealing to Sushil, “if the goal is for me to learn, I learn best through the cut-and-thrust of intellectual debate.”

“Not this time,” Sushil said. “This time you’re going to have to be humble and learn by listening, not talking.”

“You know,” Ghassan thrust back, working himself into the quick-witted, quick-replying mode that everyone knew so well, “this government’s detractors will say that you’ve set up another totalitarian system and that the so-called revolution is just imitating the anti-freedom policies of your Chinese, Russian, and Iranian sponsors.”

“They might say that,” Sushil said. “But that won’t stop justice.”

Ghassan switched to a pleading mode: “But… five years. Surely that’s excessive? Disproportionate?”

Sushil looked to the audience. “Should we revisit in a year?” The court staff arranged a poll to the livestream, and the audience voted by a majority to meet with Ghassan in a year’s time. “Spend a year. Read. Write. Contribute something to society that isn’t your opinion. And we’ll talk to you then and see whether you have something worth listening to and maybe we’ll shorten your sentence. Until then, though, Ghassan, you are cancelled.”

The bailiffs didn’t touch Ghassan, but walked on either side of him out of the studio. “This isn’t the last you’ve heard from me!” he said.

“It literally is,” Sushil said. And thought: At least for a year.

Notes

1. To understand why Sushil feels this way, it’s unfortunately necessary to read a great deal. The book America’s Wars on Democracy in Rwanda and the DR Congo covers the main points. To get into it here would be a distraction.