Trust Fail: An Explanation of Civil Unrest

In 2011, fifteen Syrian children were caught after painting anti-government graffiti on a city wall. They were imprisoned. When their mothers came, pleading for their release, the guards told them to either forget their children or else they [the police] could show them how to make more. 

Those who follow the Syrian crisis know that this led to the outbreak of a 9 year conflict that has cost upwards of half a million lives and over 13 million displaced. But it didn’t start there. 

In December 2010, a street vendor in Tunisia marched up to the gate of the governor’s office, drenched himself in paint thinner, and then lit himself on fire. He died a couple of weeks later, but by that point his single act threw the entire region into chaos. His motive? As a poor fruit vendor, he had been beaten, humiliated, and his property taken by local law enforcement officers who may or may not have been in the right (the law was unclear). Perhaps seeing no other recourse to make money, feed his family, or preserve his dignity, he responded with self-immolation. Riots and rebellions exploded across the Middle East - leading to what we call the Arab Spring or the Arab Awakening. Democratization movements intensified with various results from regime change to tribal conflicts to all out civil war in countries like Syria. 

A year after that first incident, I was working on a research paper for my International Conflict class. Having immersed myself in the world of genocide, terror, and civil war, I kept asking myself the same frustrating question. What motivates people to turn to violence? Since my focus was on domestic terrorism specifically, the natural follow-up inquiry was loaded with an even more disturbing import - what motivates someone to decide that killing an innocent child is a legitimate sacrifice for their cause?

Is there a moral justification for violence? If so, at what point does someone cross the line of being a “freedom fighter” to being an “extremist” or “terrorist?” Is it possible to delineate that blurred line between good and evil? How do we avoid becoming our enemies? 

Political scientists can drive themselves mad with the paradoxical complexity and nuance of such questions, often leaning toward the dangerous temptation to create an overly simplified dichotomy. As if it all came down to simple categorization. 

Who is most likely to turn violent when seeking change? Is it rich vs poor? Educated vs uneducated? Race, religion, gender? The statistical regression models are whirling out answers that change with every new angle. All in the name of an elusive solution to what sometimes seems like pure human nature.

But thinking honestly, how can someone resist abuse when they have no authority or power to lay boundaries against their oppressors? The age-old original question of politics - who rules? - seems to predetermine everything. Is it rule by the majority? Rule by the wise? Rule by the strong? Because when your life, your rights, and your freedoms are on the line, that becomes a very important question. Democracy seems like the best answer. In fact, that’s the most popular answer in our modernized world. It should be sufficient. 

Perhaps that’s why, in the midst of my research on a terrorist organization in India, I was intrigued when I realized that “democracy” wasn’t enough. There were two problems. Either sub-groups were motivated by power that didn’t care at all about the rights of the minority (often the case with domestic terrorist groups and authoritarian "pseudo-democracies") or else they were an oppressed group that didn’t believe in their own “free” government. Either way, democracy didn't work. In the latter case, it was easy for people to fall prey to violent/terrorist rhetoric - not because institutional protections weren’t in place - but because people didn’t believe that they worked. The credibility of democratic institutions made all the difference.

In my paper, I argued that combating terrorism needed to start a human level. I called it the Belief Factor. I think more formally we call it political legitimacy. But the point is that institutional protections don't matter in a democracy unless people believe they will work for them. Governments that want to create a sense of harmony and avoid political unrest need to not only create policy, but also provide reasons for the people to trust in the viability and virtue of those legal provisions. People need to feel validated. In short, they need to feel they can trust the leaders and laws to protect them. 

Interestingly, it was often terrorist groups in struggling democratic countries that managed to garner more trust from the people because they listened to them. They did it for their own (not always benevolent) ends, but I saw a sort of savvy in the approach. 

To my surprise, when my professor returned my rough draft, he threw out my original title and gave it a new name:

The Dark Side of Democracy. 

In a more literal fashion, I might have changed it to - When Democracies Fall Short.

Many people have recently pointed out a quote from Dr. King that “a riot is the language of the unheard.” From a purely explanatory perspective, that seems exactly on point. Whether aggression is perceived or real (and whether that delineation even matters), is beyond the point. The fact is that unless people believe that institutional protections will work for them - they might as well not exist. This naturally leads to unrest. If leaders want to stem the tide of protests, they need to find ways to cement bonds of trust. They need to make policies relevant and believable. They need to listen. Trust, it turns out, actually matters in government. 

Now, I will always passionately assert my personal belief that violence is not the answer. The more time you spend reading about the bloody aftermaths of a suicide bomber or the soul-wrenching, often regret-filled accounts of genocide from perpetrators and victims, the more it seems an obvious and devastating tragedy that we haven’t learned enough compassion and understanding to prevent arriving at that point. Violence always destroys some part of the soul - so how terrible it is that some come to see it as a necessary sacrifice! 

But this isn’t a lecture or essay on violence. Means and methods - while critically important to the successful implementation of any moral change - is perhaps a discussion for another day. One that I am happy to join. This essay, however, is more directed at understanding the source of civil unrest. And in most cases it is a result of a “long train of abuses,” a feeling of helplessness, fear, and distrust of the people who are meant to protect you. If the government never swore any sort of allegiance to the people, there wouldn’t be such a sense of betrayal. The feelings of anger in that scenario would have its own cataclysms of reaction and response. But to claim to live in a free, democratic country and then feel victimized by the supposed source of your protection is just one more way of clearly defining abuse. 

The most vulnerable feeling in the world, perhaps, is to feel helpless and unprotected. And the most natural response is to either give up or fight back. It is human nature. 

In short, while I cannot justify violence, and could provide too long of an essay on my own inner fascination with pacifism and the counter-productivity of hatred, there is something critically important to be said for explaining the source of anger and violence. That’s political science 101. We need to understand motives before we find solutions. Often, in learning one’s true objectives and background, we find a much quicker route to reconciliation and healing - one that avoids a centuries long list of far too many casualties and victims - whether innocent or guilty. 

In short, if I could offer any level of advice from my own limited worldview, studies, and experiences it would be this:

The first step to reconciliation and change is to listen. 

The first step to healing is to love. 

Now’s our chance.