In an election likely to be decided as much by voter turnout as by
convincing the remaining undecided, how do we maintain the hope that's
necessary to keep making the phone calls, knocking on the doors, funding
the key ads, and doing all the other critical tasks to get Bush out of
office?
Even those of us working hard for change hit walls of doubt and
uncertainty about whether our actions really matter. Our spirits rise
and fall as if on a roller coaster with each shift in the polls. In a
time when lies too often seem to prevail, we wonder whether it's
worthwhile to keep making the effort.
We need to remind ourselves that we never can predict all the results
of our actions. A few years ago, I met a Wesleyan University student
who, with a few friends, registered nearly three hundred fellow students
concerned about environmental threats and cuts in government financial
aid programs. The Congressman they supported won by twenty-one votes.
Before they began, the student and her friends feared that their modest
efforts would be irrelevant.
Even when our actions seem futile, we never really know their full
influence. Last year, when millions of us rose up against the Iraq war,
many felt like their efforts made no difference. We forced a debate, but
couldn't avert the war.
Yet our actions have played out in unexpected ways-as courageous
actions often do, even when they seem like immediate failures. And their
fruits may well make the difference in November. If John Kerry wins,
despite his own limitations, and defeats what's probably the most
dangerous administration in America's history, he'll have the peace
movement to thank.
During the initial flush of "Mission Accomplished"
"victory," those of us who challenged the war were branded as
whiners, even enemies of the troops.
Bush seemed virtually unbeatable. Media pundits cheered his every
move.
Democrats scuttled for cover like whipped dogs. Those of us who dared
to raise a contrary word felt isolated and alone, and our actions easily
seemed futile.
The Bush administration continues to brand protestors present and
past as disloyal. But as the occupation has unraveled, the arguments of
our once-isolated voices have reached more receptive ears. Had there
been no significant opposition, Bush would now have a far easier time
rationalizing the war as a risk the entire country had embraced. Who
could blame him that it hasn't quite worked out? Instead, our warnings
(about missing Weapons of Mass Destruction, sundered ties with allies,
and resistance and resentment from the Iraqi population), seem
increasingly prophetic. The Iraqi war has now become a prime Republican
liability.
We can thank our movement for helping to highlight these key issues,
even as John Kerry needlessly distances himself from our voices. We also
significantly broadened the base of those willing to actively challenge
Bush's regime. Citizens who first came in to political participation
through this movement, or returned after years, then shifted to efforts
like the Howard Dean campaign, and to a lesser extent, the Kucinich
campaign.
They're now registering voters, reaching out to the undecided, and
doing all the critical tasks that give John Kerry his best possible
chance to win.
What is it that enables people to take difficult stands despite all
the pressures to stay silent? What will allow us to keep on? Those who
persist in the critical work of change recognize that history turns in
unexpected ways, and that courage is contagious. They create engaged
communities, because few can act alone. They recognize that action
forges new possibilities, a process Reverend Jim Wallis describes as
"believing in spite of the evidence--then watching the evidence
change."
Think of heroes of the past who persevered through bleak times and
helped end unjust regimes: Rosa Parks and Václav Havel did it by
maintaining hope, precisely when success seemed most elusive. We think,
because we've been told, that one day Parks stepped onto a bus in
Montgomery, Alabama and single-handedly inaugurated the Civil Rights
movement by refusing to move to the back of the bus. "Rosa Parks
wasn't an activist." Garrison Keillor said a couple years ago,
well-meaningly, "She was just a woman with her groceries who was
tired." But by that time Parks been a civil rights activist for
twelve years, was the secretary of the local NAACP chapter, and acted
not alone but in concert with others. The summer before her arrest,
she'd taken a ten-day workshop at the Tennessee labor and civil rights
center, Highlander School, which is still going strong. Only because she
and others persisted was she able to visibly make history that day on
the bus.
Even in a seemingly losing cause, one person may unknowingly inspire
another, and that person yet a third, who go on to change the world, or
at least a small corner of it. Rosa Parks's husband Raymond convinced
her to attend her first NAACP meeting, on lynching. But who got Raymond
Parks involved? The links in any chain of influence are too complex to
trace. But hope blooms when we realize that only by acting with courage
and faith can we create these links of possibility.
Think of how people learned to act in a seemingly even more hopeless
situation. In the 1970s, future Czech president Václav Havel became
involved after the authorities first outlawed and then arrested the rock
band Plastic People of the Universe, claiming their Frank
Zappa-influenced music was "morbid" and had a "negative
social impact." Havel helped organize a defense committee that
evolved into the Charter 77 organization, which in turn set the stage
for Czechoslovakia's broader democracy movement.
The Czech dissenters didn't instantly succeed. When we stand up for
our deepest beliefs, we don't always see immediate results. But if we do
our work well, our efforts will both address immediate challenges, like
our immensely critical election, and also build engaged community for
the long haul. We never know when our seemingly small action will make
all the difference in a critical campaign. Or when someone we help take
their first difficult stand will play a key role in advancing human
dignity down the line. In Havel's case, critics mocked the early human
rights initiatives that he and others launched, particularly a petition
to free jailed dissidents. They belittled those who circulated the
petitions as "exhibitionistic," dismissing their motives as an
attempt "to draw attention to themselves." Dissenters
everywhere receive similar treatment.
Havel's group didn't free a single political prisoner-just as our
protests last year didn't stop the war. But both immediately apparent
"failures"
were more significantly worthwhile. The imprisoned Czech dissidents
said the mere fact that others had taken up their cause sustained them
in prison.
And the movement built by once seemingly hopeless actions eventually
toppled a dictatorial regime. As Havel wrote, three years before the
dictatorship fell, "Hope is not prognostication. It is an
orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart."
We need the courage to persist between now and the November
election-and beyond. Too many people hold back from volunteering or even
voting, because they feel politics is out of their control. We need to
remind ourselves-and others-that history isn't some inevitable pendulum.
It's contingent on the hope that enables us to act.
Paul Rogat Loeb is the author of The Impossible Will Take a Little
While: A Citizen's Guide to Hope in a Time of Fear, just published by
Basic Books.
Barbara Ehrenreich writes of the book, "For anyone worn down by
four years of Bushism, The Impossible Will Take a Little While is a
bracing double cappuccino!"Loeb is also the author of Soul of a
Citizen. See