Address to ‘People’s Forum: Hope’
Tokyo, 23rd April 1982
Last winter, visitors to a certain city in Germany witnessed a quite unusual scene. At selected times, and only for one hour, some people regularly gathered at busy intersections and remained silent. They stood mute in the cold, shifting their feet now and then, not saying a word, not responding to passersby. When the hour ended, they drifted away, still silent. These quiet people were careful not to disturb traffic nor to hinder pedestrians. They wore ordinary dress. Usually one or two carried a sign which gave the reason for their stance: ‘I am silent because I have nothing to say about nuclear destruction.’
I joined some of these silent groups. And I soon noticed that such quiet people can be very offensive to those who pass by — the silence of such a group speaks with irrepressible loudness. This stillness thunders, conveying inexpressible horror. Germans are well-informed about the effects of nuclear machines. The majority, however, brushes aside scientific evidence showing the unavoidable consequences of the deployment of nuclear devices. Some, honorable and religious, have reconciled themselves to the risks posed by stationing an increasing number of American Cruise and Pershing missiles on German soil. However, a sizeable and growing minority determinedly opposes further nuclear armament, and more than a few among them are committed to unconditional nuclear disarmament.
The silent people present a provocative challenge to both hawks and the entire spectrum of doves. Those who choose to participate in the street corner ritual commit themselves to say nothing and to answer no questions. Once an irritated man kept at me for half an hour. I am sure that he supported unilateral disarmament as strongly as I, but in his view silence was not the proper way to stand up for my convictions. But I could not respond then and there.
Now, I can give four reasons for the belief, shared by many others, that it is imperative that some of us exercise nonviolent, defensive silence, even at the cost of disturbing or hurting some of our friends. I shall answer four questions: 1) Why is a response of silence to nuclear bombs so important, especially in Germany? 2) Why do I, as a philosopher, believe that argument alone is not sufficient to resist the production, stationing and maintenance of nuclear devices? 3) Why do I think that silence is often more compelling than words? 4) Why do I count silence among those human rights which deserve the protection of law?
First, I believe that young Germans have a special relationship to genocidal machines. But one must understand what a genocidal machine is; it is not a weapon. It is, as the atomic bomb, a fundamentally new type of phenomenon. Nuclear devices are objects with no similarity to anything built in the past. Genocide, however, is nothing new. Throughout history, conquerors often eradicated cities or whole populations. We read in the Bible, for example, that the Jews felt instructed by their God to kill every human being in certain cities they had conquered.
But our ancestors committed genocide with means which also had normal uses — clubs, knives or fire. These objects were used for peaceful purposes, for example, the preparation of food, but also for the horrendous acts of torture, murder and genocide. This is not true of atomic bombs. Their exclusive purpose is genocide. They are not useful for anything else, not even for murder.
Such genocidal instruments, inventions for the destruction of peoples, were conceived for the first time in the early forties, at the same time as President Roosevelt set out to produce the atomic bomb, following the guidelines of Albert Einstein. Simultaneously, Hitler began research on such a bomb in Germany. Its conception there, however, created extermination camps for the mass murder of Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and other groups of people considered unworthy of life.
These camps had been in operation for four years when the Enola Gay dropped its bomb on Hiroshima. They were operated by Germans, most of whom are now dead or quite old. However, many young Germans feel a personal association with those genocidal machines employed by some of their parents, although they were born after the last concentration camps, the last gas chambers, the last mass crematoria were shut down or torn down. These young people, haunted by the images of the camps, experience unspeakable horror. They consider it totally unnecessary and, indeed, quite impossible to state any logical reason why they would resist reconstruction of such camps. They think it unnecessary because nobody in Germany today proposes concentration camps for the purpose of genocide, and they think it impossible to discuss the obvious.
In Nazi Germany, the only ones who argued against the construction and operation of concentration camps were some high-ranking Nazi functionaries who believed either that genocide should be postponed, or that it could be carried out more effectively by other means. Still others called attention to the high costs. Today, many young Europeans refuse to behave as these Nazi functionaries. They recognize that atomic bombs are not weapons but genocidal machines, that their existence — and especially their emplacement on German soil — must be resisted, but without wasting a single word on it.
Secondly, I know that some people scream out in horror when they can no longer control their emotions. And there is nothing wrong with acting from a prudent heart rather than from a clear mind. But as a philosopher I know that there are compelling reasons for refusing to be drawn into a direct argument about certain topics. Jews, and some Christians, believe that they should not pronounce the name of God. Modern philosophers have discovered concepts which render the statements in which those concepts occur nonsensical. In wills, for example, the sentence beginning ‘Upon my death I will…’ is customary but nonsensical. Upon my death, I can no longer will anything.
Genocidal machine is another of those concepts to which logicians attribute ‘extraordinary epistemological status.’ I can speak about the atomic bomb (and in my personal opinion, equally about nuclear power plants) only with arguments which prove that it is a genocidal machine. However, as soon as this is proven, I cannot use the concept any longer in a sentence without dehumanizing my status as a speaker. Not even for the sake of discussion can I join in an argument in which the threat of genocide, however cautiously uttered, is considered.
Thirdly, I can only scream when I encounter people who deal with this matter by argument. And, paradoxically, screaming is closer to silence than to speech. Similar to tears, or the syllable ‘OHM’, certain ways of wailing and screaming lie, just as silence does, outside the realm of language. Yet these forms of expression can speak louder and more accurately than words.
Further, silence, framed by the scream of horror, transcends language. People from different countries and age groups who might not have a common language can speak with one voice in their silent scream.
Finally, unconditional opposition to the existence of genocidal machines as expressed in a commitment to silence is radically democratic. Let me clarify. If I assert that atomic bombs are not weapons but genocidal machines, and further argue as a scientist that nuclear energy will unavoidably endanger future generations, the weight of my arguments depends on my competence in a complex subject matter, and my credibility depends on my social standing. Public argument, especially in today’s media-dominated society, cannot help but be hierarchical. But such is not true for eloquent and rationally chosen silence. The most intelligent and most experienced expert can use silence as his last word. And anyone in the world can choose silent protest and the demonstration of unspeakable horror as an expression of his direct and wise faith in life and in hope for his children. The decision to remain silent, the ritual of ‘No, thank you,’ is a voice with which a great majority can speak up with stark simplicity.
Fourth, in speaking out for silence as an example to be followed, I do not intend to discourage sensible argument which identifies the reasons for maintaining silence. But I am aware that silence threatens to introduce anarchy. He who remains silent is ungovernable. And silence proliferates. Hence, there will be attempts to break our silence. Our participation in ‘peace discussions’ will be demanded. A witch hunt against the silent people is even possible. At this time, then, the right to silent retreat from argument, the right to end argumentation if the participants’ dignity, in their view, is jeopardized, must be claimed and defended. There is also a right to propagate horrified silence.