Daniel Bertrand Monk
“Today, we should have to add: it is part of morality not to be at home in one’s home.”
Theodor W. Adorno. Mínima Moralia.
Theodor Adorno’s famous adage that a “wrong life cannot be lived rightly” appeared at the end of an aphorism entitled “Refuge for the Homeless.” It explored how the predicament of “private life”—its impossible necessity—could be derived from the repertoire of possible attitudes one might take towards “its arena”: our homes. “Dwelling, in the proper sense, is now impossible,” Adorno explained, because the immanent development of technology—including things like the invention of concentration camps and the carpet bombing of cities—had killed houses altogether. He was suggesting that the “possibility of residence” implies a distinction—however minimal—between the private sphere (our own place) and the place assigned it by the social order. Under present circumstances, then, to make oneself at home is to deny knowledge of the conditions that have exterminated the possibility of a refuge at all. On the other hand, to live like a refugee—that is, to make a fetish of one’s lack of attachment to home—is no alternative: “a loveless disregard for things . . . necessarily turns against people too.”
One could say much the same thing for a homeland. Recognizing the important distinction to be preserved between an extinguished private existence and an equally lifeless public sphere in Adorno’s aphorism, it may be productive—just for a moment—to squint one’s eyes, extrapolate to different level of analysis, and think of his “Refuge for the Homeless” as an invitation to analyze the corresponding relation between guilt and knowledge in a people’s efforts to make itself at home. This, indeed, was the entire intellectual project of Yaron Ezrahi, for whom the rationalization of national and collective existence was the principal political question underlying modern political history, practice, and thought. A political scientist by training and a brilliant historian of science by grit, Ezrahi transformed himself into his own experiment. As he sought to lay claim to the way that his own status as a citizen of Israel exhumed contrarieties at the level of thought, and not just ethics, he raised generalizable questions about the place of the rightless in the domain of those who enjoy “the right to have rights.”
For Ezrahi, one’s polity is always in question—irreducibly, and without romanticism—and, its forms are, by extension, necessarily contingent. Democracy, in particular, is a perpetual referendum on its own possibility and little more. In fact, by the end of his life Ezrahi concluded that democracy “must be imagined and performed” in order to exist at all. The “inhabitants” of an order “regulated by the imaginary of self-government by the people” find it difficult to “recognize the fictive-performative foundations of . . . [their] . . . world,” even as that same imaginary appeals in flawed, but important, ways to something beyond these normative foundations. Under these circumstances, the adjudication of political meaning may now be closer to aesthetic criticism, as we both practice and assess collective and intersubjective performances of legitimacy, Ezrahi seemed to suggest in his last works. (This affective turn in his political thought was developed, in part, in partnership with the musicologist and his wife Ruth HaCohen [Pinczower].)
Ezrahi’s best-known work of public scholarship, Rubber Bullets (1997), demonstrates the fate of any argument that would seek to stand critically between a conflict and its imaginary. An indictment of Israeli self-talk concerning the first Palestinian Intifada, the work presents the eponymous ammunition then used by the IDF against stone-throwing Arab youths, as a shortcut for the way that the nation sought to reconcile its repression of the Palestinian people with Israel’s self-conception as a liberal democratic state. (The rubber bullet, so the conventional argument went, responds with superior force without breaking the bounds of proportionality demanded by justice.) Smashing this kind of chatter to bits, Ezrahi exposed the contradiction between force and law suspended in the rubber bullet: it was at once affirmative (in the sense that it was a perverse excuse for a perverse condition), and at the same time, rubber bullet talk—in all its permutations—was potentially critical: the palpable lack of reconciliation between norms and reason it laid bare by virtue of its own existence necessarily appealed to a different standard of politics.
The standstill captured in Ezrahi’s account of a political imaginary was sometimes experienced as a betrayal of thought. Nationalist critics accused him of being a fifth columnist, while security hawks accused him of prioritizing abstractions like justice over the protection of civilians. Conversely, some academic interlocutors treated Ezrahi as an apologist for the state. As one review phrased it, Ezrahi’s critique of the rubber bullet revealed the limits of “Liberal Zionist Angst.” Moreover, in a phenomenon referred to in Hebrew slang as “hafuch al-hafuch“—a metacritical “inverse of the inverse”—Ezrahi’s own criticism of Israeli military policy was itself treated as evidence of the way the same self-talk he analyzed could be drafted into a second-order legitimacy. (In other words, here, political analysis became the intellectuals’ contribution to a form of Intifada-era Israeli cultural production commonly known as the shoot’n’cry genre. (“If we can grieve about the injury we cause, we must still be just.”)
The reception of Ezrahi’s public scholarship is an allegory of the fate of any argument that would refuse to make itself too much at home in the realm of given positions. Eschewing communitarian rationalizations of the state, Ezrahi could also not adopt valorizations of exile as an Archimedean lever on thought. As a result, his intellectual project sometimes ran afoul of established interpretations of the Israel/Palestine conflict, which has tended to disqualify arguments that fail to ratify an either-or logic of recrimination. (Conflating interpretations of the structure of contention with the moral judgments embedded in its moments, this logic of recrimination requires one to fall on one side or the other of the rubber bullet, or risk appearing as the custodian of a phony middle ground.) To the extent that the rubber bullet was understood solely as a trope for millennial Israeli politics per se, the critical force of Ezrahi’s thought went unnoticed or was willfully set aside.
In fact, Ezrahi’s interlocutors were right and wrong. Right, because as a metonymy the rubber bullet connoted a fully-realized politics. Its temporality was implicitly retrospective inasmuch as the trope pointed to a political truth that was presumably already in existence. As a result, the moral job of the critic was to call that political truth by its proper name. Wrong, because Ezrahi—whose academic researches had focused primarily on the relation between scientific rationality and politics—also understood the rubber bullet as a technology. Anticipating a new materialist turn in political thought (and, particularly, its concern with the agentic capacities of entire classes of objects), Ezrahi understood technologies to be form-constitutive in the socio-political sphere. As artefacts of a fictive “escape” from politics, in Ezrahi’s terms, technologies can be part of new political imaginaries that their very existence may help conjure into being. Pointing towards the future, the valuations of the political associated with them are tinged by a generalizable indeterminacy. In his last work, Ezrahi presented this finding succinctly: “political order has no basis other than an unstable, ungrounded, elusive and inherently debatable human authority.”
A “lay epistemology” of coherence once premised on the existence of god, nature, or reason as our image of the universal has now “disintegrated,” Ezrahi argued, leaving humanity with a politics premised upon nothing but the same “debatable human authority.” In this context, the given dynamics of contention concerning the Israel/Palestine conflict have themselves become a “refuge” from indeterminacy among those who might otherwise have to take responsibility for reimagining the political order.
And this is no way to live. Those who would treat the realities of this very human conflict as exceptional by reducing them to the certainties of a reified politics of blame—”the ‘truths’ and ‘lies” that reassert the power of given dichotomies—were, and are, constructing for themselves a regressive utopia, Ezrahi seemed to suggest. The way we talk about this conflict is itself evidence of a species of thinking that cannot make itself at home in a present where legitimation crises are irreducible. It is this exceptionalization of thinking about Israel/Palestine in relation to our thinking about conflicts in general that Ezrahi challenged; precisely by rejecting the given alternatives, and, in the process, opening himself up to charges of betrayal and complicity alike.
Daniel Bertrand Monk is the George R. and Myra T. Cooley Professor of Peace and Conflict Studies and Professor of Geography and Middle-East Studies
Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia: Notes on a Damaged Life (New York, 1978), p. 39.
Hannah Arendt, “The Perplexities of the Rights of Man,” Headline Series; New York 318 (Winter 1998): 88, search.proquest.com/docview/228271571/citation/E8F4234B1C334242PQ/1; and “‘The Rights of Man’: What are They,” Modern Review 3, no. 1 (1949): 24-37.
“A democratic society cannot fully or at every moment be a democracy. Its precarious existence depends upon mutually reinforcing democratic ideas, political culture, political imaginaries, institutions, and practices. These very elements, which make a system of government democratic, almost never fully coexist in any society” (Yaron Ezrahi, Imagined Democracies: Necessary Political Fictions [New York, 2012], p. 1).
Ibid., p. 3.
See Ruth HaCohen Pinczower and Ezrahi, Lehalchin Koach, Lashir Herut [Composing Power, Singing Freedom] (Jerusalem, 2017).
Ezrahi, Rubber Bullets: Power and Conscience in Modern Israel (New York, 1997).
Ezrahi, The Descent of Icarus: Science and the Transformation Of contemporary Democracy (New York, 1990).
Ezrahi, “Technology and the Illusion of the Escape from Politics,” in Technology, Pessimism, and Postmodernism, ed. Ezrahi, E. Mendelsohn, and H. Segal (Amherst, Mass., 1995), pp. 29-38
Ezrahi. Can Democracy Recover? (Unpublished MS, excerpt)