Tournament: Kentucky | Round: 6 | Opponent: binghamton | Judge: Robert Glass
See Kentucky Rd. 6 for Shell but:

Their strategy against suffering and oppression are mere compulsion based on ressentiment and reaction to escape the inevitable reality of suffering. This produces an impotence and destructiveness against the world, maintaining a dominant self-aggrandizement against society.
Ephraim '03

Ressentiment is the fundamental lens that has created the possibility of anti-black discrimination, slavery, disempowerment, and colonization of indigenous people, which operates on the basis of dehumanization.
Ephraim '03

The alternative is a confrontation with the Hell which is reality - it is only thorugh this stance that the oppressed individuals can attain a self-consciousness and self-transcendence as a prerequisite to true freedom
Ephraim '03

We embrace life-affirmation as the ideological proactive stance in light of the ruling principle of Eurocentricity is the way to overcome and transgress the ressetiment embedded in the impacts of the affirmative. our leap into affirmation is the way to gain self transcendence.
Ephraim '03

Tournament: Gonzaga | Round: 1 | Opponent: Gonzaga | Judge: Izak Dunn
Shells

These are all the permutation of the Meister Criticism that we've read.

Ethics 1NC
The Affirmatives invocation of people who are suffering is the based on the ethic of the “neighbor,” the saving of the proximal other.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

The primacy of ethics over politics implicitly presupposes,  however, specific limitations on the field of ethics itself.  Viewed broadly, the raw material of ethics concerns languages  and bodies in the sense that these are what matter from the  ethical perspective when considering questions of agency and  choice.2 Ethical discussion of languages (and cultural systems  that resemble languages) are now commonly expected to focus on  the problem of difference, and to prefer a baseline cultural  relativism to the culturally imperialist danger of false  universals. In ethical discussion of bodies--and especially  bodies that suffer--the greater danger is now widely seen to be  false relativism (Levinas, "Useless Suffering" 99). A principled  resistance to moral relativism when it comes to the suffering of  bodies is, thus, the specific ethical view that underlies the  present-day politics of human rights. For proponents of this  politics, the suffering body is the ultimate wellspring of moral  value, the response to bodily suffering the ultimate test of  moral responsibility. "The supreme ordeal of the will is not  death, but suffering," said the French philosopher Emmanuel  Levinas, who took the primacy of ethics to its extreme by  putting it ahead, even, of ontology and God (the world itself  and its Creator) (Totality and Infinity 239). He argued that  the suffering of another is always "useless," always unjustified,  and that attempting to rationalize "the neighbor's pain is  certainly the source of all immorality"("Useless Suffering" 98- 9).  5. Levinas is not here referring primarily to the growing  medicalization of humanitarian invention, although he does  regard analgesia as a paradigmatically ethical response to  physical pain (see Kennedy and Rieff). His point is that my  ethical responsibility, which merely begins with first aid, does  not arise from any previous relationship between sufferer and  provider, or from a political history consisting of prior vows  or crimes, but from "a past irreducible to a hypothetical  present that it once was . . . . and without the remembered  present of any past commitment"("Diachrony and Representation"  170). Our responsibility to alleviate suffering comes before the  past in the sense in which ethics can be said to come before  politics. The priority of ethics arises "from the fear of  occupying someone's place in the Da of my Dasein": "My . . .  'place in the sun,'" he says, "my home--have they not been a  usurpation of places which belong to the others already  oppressed or . . . expelled by me into a third world" ("From the  One to the Other" 144-5). Levinas's point is that in ethics,  unlike politics, we do not ask who came first and what we have  already done to (or for) each other. The distinctively ethical  question is rather one of proximity--we are already here and so  is the other, cheek-by-jowl with us in the same place. The  neighbor is the figure of the other toward whom our only  relationship is that of proximity. For Levinas, the global  movement to give ethics primacy over politics must be  accompanied, within ethics, by the effort to give primacy to the  ethics of the neighbor--the local over the global. In this way,  the global primacy of ethics crystallizes around our horror of  the inhuman act (the "gross" violation of human rights) rather  than, for example, around the international distribution of  wealth or the effects of global climate change

Forcing us to create radical evil in order to save the “victim.”
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Since late in the twentieth century, political thought has seen a renewed interest in "radical evil" defined through the paradigm of genocide--often coded simply as "Auschwitz."3 Theodor Adorno describes this reorientation of ethics as follows: A new categorical imperative has been imposed by Hitler on unfree mankind; to arrange their thoughts and actions so that Auschwitz will not repeat itself, so that nothing similar will happen. (Qtd. in Cohen, Interrupting Auschwitz 4) No one, however, has gone further than Levinas in dismantling the structure of pre-Auschwitz thought to articulate such a "new categorical imperative," and to restate the ethical a priori, what Derrida has called "the Ethics of Ethics" ("Violence and Metaphysics" 111). As Levinas says, It is . . . attention to the suffering of the other that, through the cruelties of our century (despite these cruelties, because of these cruelties) can be affirmed as the very nexus of human subjectivity, to the point of being raised to the level of supreme ethical principle--the only one it is impossible to question. (Qtd. in Derrida, "Violence and Metaphysics" 94) According to Levinas, "the disproportion between suffering and every theodicy was shown at Auschwitz" ("Useless Suffering" 97). Auschwitz here stands for the proposition that we are all, even (or especially) the most civilized among us, capable of genocide and that building moral thought around this recognition changes everything: henceforward, we must never lose our fear of being victims of genocidal violence, but must fear even more our propensity to commit it. Moral thought since Auschwitz thus starts with the premise that every encounter with a neighbor carries with it, "despite the innocence of its intentions, . . . the risk of occupying . . . the place of an other and thus, on the concrete level, of exiling him, of condemning him to a miserable condition in some 'third' or 'fourth' world, of bringing him death" (Levinas, Time 169; see also Totality and Infinity 194-247). 

This ethical orientation to the other is the justification used in creating a new state of political privilege and domination, whereby the victim now has the undisputed right to rule. That is what “justice” means in the contemporary political sphere.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
Both arguments support the self-description of Tutsi-ruled  post-genocide Rwanda as a victim-state, consciously modeled on  the state that might have been created for the Jews after the  Holocaust if it had been carved out of Germany rather than  developed in Palestine (see Mamdani, ch. 8). To grasp the  meaning of this, imagine that the fears that Goebbels invoked as  propaganda during World War II had been descriptively correct-- that Germany faced invasion by a militarized form of  international Jewry seeking to reverse the historic course of  German nativism. This hypothetical scenario for understanding  the Holocaust as a reaction by German "natives" against Jewish  (and other) "settlers," already adumbrated in Mein Kampf, comes  close to the actual scenario in Rwanda on the eve of  genocide.32 Assuming that this rationalization for a Holocaust  must "never again" be condoned, the invasion of Tutsi exiles  that triggered the genocide was justified as a humanitarian  intervention to rescue Tutsi survivors using means that are  supported, if not required, by international law. Thereafter,  the history of genocide (and the fear of its repetition) becomes  an ideology of post-traumatic rule, purporting to justify the  suspension of the normal criteria of political judgment in the  successor state. Tutsi minority rule in Rwanda is thus not  justified as a form of racialized oppression any more than  Jewish rule of post-War Germany would have been so justified.  Why? Because the basis of the rule is not racial per se; rather  it occurs through the transformation of racial identities into  those of victim and perpetrator, a transformation that occurs in  the foundational moment of the genocide itself.  47. This is analogous to arguing that surviving German Jewish  victims of the Holocaust deserved to rule a defeated and  disgraced Germany and that returning Jewish exiles were entitled  to share that rule--perhaps in the name of the victims who did  not survive or else in the name of the rescuers. The analogy  with Rwanda brings out the pragmatic difficulty of basing claims  for justice on Daniel Jonah Goldhagen's broad (but contested)  description of ordinary Germans as "Hitler's willing  executioners." In Rwanda, a country of six million, an estimated  three to four million Hutus did in fact directly participate in  the murder of perhaps 800,000 Tutsis and Hutu resisters. The  appellation "willing executioners" could plausibly be applied to  much of the surviving adult Hutu population of the country. A  Nuremberg-style punishment of all Rwandans who were personally  responsible for genocidal actions would come so close in its  effect to another, legally sanctioned, genocide that it would be  difficult to distinguish from collective vengeance.  48. What victimhood demanded, instead, is the right to rule-- or, at least, the right to have the state ruled in the victims'  name. The argument for victims' rule, even if they were to rule  as a minority, is that a state cannot live on after genocide as  though the distribution of bodies within the majority and the  minority were an untainted fact of biopolitics. In Rwanda today  "justice" is the code-word for Tutsi minority rule, legitimated  by the disgrace of the Hutu majority.
This necessarily creates the condition of murder and genocide
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
Writing both after Auschwitz and during an era of  anti-colonial revolutions, Levinas argues that all totalizing  projects are grounded in imagining the death of the other--that  is, murder. He includes here even the totalizing project that  grounds ethics, as Richard Rorty does, on the shared qualities  of all homo sapiens (and perhaps companion species) capable of  conscious suffering.15 The American philosopher Hilary Putnam  restates Levinas's concern as a concern about the vulnerability  of the human rights culture to assertions of the "inhumanity" of  other homo sapiens: "the danger in grounding ethics in the idea  that we are all 'fundamentally the same' is that a door is  opened for a Holocaust. One only has to believe that some people  are not 'really' the same to destroy all the force of such a  grounding" (35). At the pragmatic level, Rorty concedes "that  everything turns on who counts as a fellow human being" (124)--  indeed he stresses it--but the more fundamental claim made by  Levinas (and Putnam) is against the ethical assumption that  arguments appealing to our shared humanity could count at all in  ethical justifications of human rights.16 The meaning of  Auschwitz, they suggest, is that ethics must now be based, not  on a common humanity that we share, but rather on the mere fact  of occupying common ground with those with whom we do not  presume any (other) affinity or relationship. Thus conceived,  Auschwitz reveals the limits of the ethical project that teaches  us to treat the other under the aspect of the same. Ethics--the  ethics that is not subordinate to politics--must now begin with  the damage that our mere presence causes to others whom we  displace, and whom we must treat as genuinely exterior to the  "other" who inhabits our own mind as an outward projection of  the "self."

The alternative is to dwell with the other, to embrace radical evil into our own homes and our own hearts to embrace the idea that we are just as much victims as we are perpetrators.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
49. In Mamdani's account, however, the deeper choice is between  a presumption of forgiveness on the one hand, and victims' rule  on the other. Rather than make this choice, post-genocide Rwanda  claims to be an example of both. The journalist Philip  Gourevitch describes the return of "a certain Girumuhatse" to  share a house with the surviving members of the family he  butchered during the 1994 genocide:  But why should survivors be asked to live next door to killers-- or even, as happened in Girumuhatse's house, under the same  roof? Why put off confronting the problem? To keep things calm,  General Kagame told me. (Gourevitch 308)  Behind this pragmatic avoidance of confrontation, however, lies  the assumption that where everyone has sinned in either deed or  wish, the only way forward is through an ethics of the neighbor. 50. To invoke an ethics of the neighbor in the aftermath of  sin, outside commentators sometimes describe Rwanda in the terms  used by St. Paul to describe the world. Rwanda is a place in  which the difference between sins actually committed and sins of  the heart is merely the difference between "could have" and  "would have." Some have argued that Rwanda is an ideal case for  the Pauline solution of confession, forgiveness, and  rebirth.33 Forgiveness in Rwanda would, presumably, be based  on recognizing that the fear of genocide makes committing  genocide thinkable, and that in wish, if not in deed, all are  sinners. In a Christian context, however, the sinners are  already potentially forgiven. This is why they struggled then,  and can now stop sinning.  51. But what could it possibly mean in a secular,  constitutional context to believe that one is already  potentially forgiven? It means, presumably, that one has not yet  been judged, and may never be--that the resumption of useless  suffering has been postponed. Unlike the Christian sinner who  can be reborn, the secular survivor of radical evil--Auschwitz,  Rwanda--is simply not yet dead. The "postponement" of death, as  Levinas calls it, is the gift of time (Totality and Infinity  224). Secular survivorship after Auschwitz does not make past  suffering meaningful in the Pauline way, the way of theodicy,  where the sinner is forgiven and the sin is, thus, redeemed  (felix culpa). What Levinasian survivors get is time that is  always more time, an aftermath--time to apologize, to "correct  the instant" and still be conscious of "the pain that is yet to  come" (238). "To be temporal," according to Levinas, "is both to  be for death and to still have time, to be against death" (235).  

Race ID 1nc
Racialized bodies only become static and the locus for political action (positive or negative) once we politicize those bodies and establish them as uniquely proximal.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

The problem of Tutsi minority rule in post-genocide Rwanda  illustrates the unresolved conflict between the Wilsonian theory  of democratic rule and fidelity to the ethical meaning of  Auschwitz. Even before becoming victims of genocide, Tutsis were  frequently described as the Jews of Central Africa. Originally a  pastoralist caste, they were dispersed throughout the region-- unlike the cultivators (Hutus), who had customary roots in a  tribal homeland. In the pre-colonial regime of Rwanda's mwami  (king), those who intermediated between the kingdom and the  tribes were considered to be Tutsis, but these same individuals  might have been considered Hutus if they acquired customary  rights in a particular homeland. Prior to colonialism, the  distinction between Hutu and Tutsi was not binary (either/or),  and not totalizing in Levinas's sense.  44. It was not until Belgian colonial rule that the caste  distinction between pastoralists and cultivators was redescribed  as a colonial distinction between "natives" and "settlers." The  natives' identity is based on place (they preceded the settlers  as occupants the territory to be settled). In contrast, the  settlers' identity, insofar as it is translocal, can be said to  be based on race. A race, unlike a tribe, was conceived by  colonial rulers to be essentially migratory--it becomes aware of  having origins because it also has a destination (see Mamdani,  "Race and Ethnicity" and Solnit). The Belgian rulers of Rwanda  thus described Tutsis as a migratory race of "Hamites," a  migratory race of "white" negroes, who had earlier settled on  Hutu tribal lands Tutsi identity was thus racialized at the same  time Hutu identity was ethnicized--the difference between the  two indigenous groups was analogized to that between colonial  settlers and native tribes, and Tutsis were, thus, conceived to  be appropriate agents (and minor beneficiaries) of Belgian rule  over Hutus. When Belgium's rule of Rwanda was about to end, its  plan to turn power over to the Tutsi race was blocked by a Hutu  Revolution demanding majority rule. The ideology of "Hutu Power"  embraced the Belgian view of Tutsis as a stateless race of  settlers, and now sought to expel them as an alien elite that  had always been parasitical on the Hutu majority and had become,  more recently, the principal collaborator in colonial rule. At  this point, an individual was considered to be either Tutsi or  Hutu--once the distinction had been politicized (in Schmitt's  sense) one could not be both.30 

The logic of minority, or the victim, is in fact what produces the state of subjugation or oppression.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
Although many twentieth-century thinkers held this view, it  is most widely associated with Woodrow Wilson. Unlike other  heirs to Jefferson who stress the relation between popular  sovereignty and individual rights, Wilson focused on the  relation between the state and the nation. States were created  by sovereign "peoples," he believed, who decided thereafter to  impose limitations on the powers of the governments thus  created. Liberalism might define the relation of ruler and ruled  within a people, but nationalism--in this case ethno- nationalism--would create that people and define its  boundaries.24 If all nation-states functioned in world  politics as the virtual representatives of their own "peoples"  in diaspora, so Wilson's logic goes, then each national state  would protect its permanent minorities out of fear that members  of its own "people" might suffer retaliation while living as  minorities elsewhere.25 As Wilson conceives it, the post- imperial relation between national and international politics is  in effect a kind of hostage arrangement based on the tacit  acknowledgment that the "peoples" of the world are already  dispersed, and that their potential ingathering is a legal  fiction needed to protect their rights wherever they might  be.26  35. At the level of political psychology, however, the  "ingathering" of the group is far from fictitious--it is a  necessary form of self-idealization that can be an effective  defense against well-founded fears of persecution.27 In  Wilson's terms, groups asserting protected minority status  anywhere have to imagine themselves both as potential victims  where they are and as potentially hegemonic somewhere else. To  their current oppressors they thus become hypothetical threats  (people who could do the same to "us"), thereby also allowing  their continuing oppression to be rationalized on the grounds of  self-defense.  36. Within a Wilsonian framework, the danger of ethno-national  violence is, thus, an unavoidable structural feature of the  interstate system itself. On the one hand, this danger is the  national majority's excuse for the repression of outsiders who  live under the regime; on the other hand, that repression  becomes a further reason for insurrection. Adding to these  internal conflicts, nation-states based on victimhood feel  entitled to use their sovereign status in the international  community to protect co-nationals who live as minorities  elsewhere. That is often what it means to say "Never Again." The obvious problem here is that any state created to allow  a previously subjugated minority to rule in the name of former  victims almost inevitably has permanent minorities of its  own.28 Therefore, the claim of victimhood to nationhood is as  much a cause of victimization as it is a remedy. But if the  point of demanding nationhood is to protect a people from  further victimization, it follows that a state based on the  promise of "never again" does not violate Wilsonian principles  by resisting, at least up to a point, attempts at self-help by  separatist minority groups that threaten to "strand" members of  the present "majority" within a smaller state in which the  present "minority" rules. Democratic theory has never really traversed the difference  between (1) democracy as a truth procedure (like the scientific  method) in which individual minds are changed by the result,29  and (2) democracy as a form of rule in which no minds are  expected to change through the process itself. In this second  conception of democracy, majority and minority identities are  not produced by the actual vote; they pre-exist the vote, and  are merely affirmed by it. This second conception of democracy  has been thoroughly described by social scientists, but it is  not well-theorized. To fill this theoretical gap, we must turn  not to the forms of political thought modeled on interest  aggregation in the market but rather to those specifically  concerned with the moral psychology of victimhood. When the  moral psychology of victimhood dominates the political sphere,  the addition or subtraction of bodies becomes the essence of the  democratic project. This addition and subtraction can take place  by expelling bodies, by ignoring them or, in the worst case, by  killing them.

The aff utilizes a dialectical perspective that produces the totalized other and forces contestation of proximal space with the other producing the conditions of erasure.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Race, this identification with an ethnicity also imagined as an origin, has for the last century tended to generate a kind of ethnic nationalism whose insistency on the inseparability of race and place is itself mystical. . . . Israel itself was founded on the idea that the legacy of blood entitled the Jews to a legacy of land . . . I've always been as much appalled as awestruck that a people . . . could remain so attached to an absent place of origin that everyplace else could be framed as a temporary exile, . . . no matter how long they stayed. Becoming native is a process of forgetting and embracing where you are. (114-15) 22. To understand the phenomenon, we can call upon Melanie Klein's concept of "projective identification."13 Klein's idea is that the settler re-experiences his own aggression toward the native as fear of the native's hostility toward him. In fearing the native's "primitive" racism (which is already a response to colonization), the settler defends against guilt for displacing the native. By identifying himself as the object of his own feelings toward the native, the settler re-experiences them as feelings of racial antipathy on the part of the natives. In the dialectic of race and place, the role of the colonist is to think, "these people hate us because of our . . .." "Race" is the term of art that fills in the political blank: it acquires whatever biological, religious, linguistic, or cultural content is necessary to describe a difference between the settler and the native placeholder that precedes the settler's occupation of the native's place (Mamdani, "Race and Ethnicity" 4-8). The settler perfectly understands the depth of these ascribed feelings of racialized hatred, for they are merely his own original feelings projected onto others. 23. It should be noted that there are two imaginaries of genocide embedded in such an account of projective identification.14 The first is the genocide of the native against the settler--the racially-motivated "massacres" of innocents by savages that are the foundation of settler colonialist lore. The second is the revolt of the native against the settler. The unconscious moral logic of the colonial experience bases the settlers' genocide against the native on the settlers' repressed fear or fantasy of being subjected to genocidal actions by the native. In his now-classic Wretched of the Earth, Frantz Fanon theorized that in order to liberate himself from colonialism the (black) native must embrace this projected willingness to exterminate the (white) settler (see also Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks). Fanon urges the "good native" to embrace the "bad" identity that embodies the settler's terror. Jean-Paul Sartre famously read this claim as the next stage in revolutionary consciousness, and saw the native's will to fight the colonist to the death as a higher form of the totalizing dialectic of master and slave described by Hegel and Marx (see "Preface" to Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth). 24. Viewed from Levinas's perspective, as set forth above, however, Fanon's argument is not that racially-based murder is justified as a condition of self-liberation. Fanon demonstrates, rather, that colonial subjugation--the problematic Da in the Dasein--is the conceptual root of genocide. For Levinas, the "totalizing discourse" of white/black, master/slave, self/other is itself a formula for murder because, in their quest for mutual recognition, those who struggle do not acknowledge their prior lack-of-relation as mutually exterior occupants of the same ground (see the Preface to Totality and Infinity). In this respect, the willingness of the native to exterminate or expel the settler is simply a return-to-sender of the genocidal message of colonialism itself. 25. The point here is emphatically not that racialized citizens of settler colonialist states are actual or would-be genocidaires. The settler colonialist is not always, and almost never merely, a ruthless exploiter--and can also be a developer, a civilizer, an educator. To be any or all of these things, however, is entirely consistent with the possibility of being paranoid about one's own status as successor to the "Native." The settler's question is, "how can we live among these savages without civilizing them?" The essence of Fanon's argument is that living without the "savages" is always a conceivable option within colonial discourse that precedes (and to some extent informs) the project of "civilization," and thus that living without the settler must also be imaginable for liberation to occur as an outcome of the totalizing project of colonialism--  and presumably of any other totalizing project that focuses on the relations of race and place (blood and soil). 

The alternative is to dwell with the other, to embrace radical evil into our own homes and our own hearts to embrace the idea that we are just as much victims as we are perpetrators
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
49. In Mamdani's account, however, the deeper choice is between  a presumption of forgiveness on the one hand, and victims' rule  on the other. Rather than make this choice, post-genocide Rwanda  claims to be an example of both. The journalist Philip  Gourevitch describes the return of "a certain Girumuhatse" to  share a house with the surviving members of the family he  butchered during the 1994 genocide:  But why should survivors be asked to live next door to killers-- or even, as happened in Girumuhatse's house, under the same  roof? Why put off confronting the problem? To keep things calm,  General Kagame told me. (Gourevitch 308)  Behind this pragmatic avoidance of confrontation, however, lies  the assumption that where everyone has sinned in either deed or  wish, the only way forward is through an ethics of the neighbor. 50. To invoke an ethics of the neighbor in the aftermath of  sin, outside commentators sometimes describe Rwanda in the terms  used by St. Paul to describe the world. Rwanda is a place in  which the difference between sins actually committed and sins of  the heart is merely the difference between "could have" and  "would have." Some have argued that Rwanda is an ideal case for  the Pauline solution of confession, forgiveness, and  rebirth.33 Forgiveness in Rwanda would, presumably, be based  on recognizing that the fear of genocide makes committing  genocide thinkable, and that in wish, if not in deed, all are  sinners. In a Christian context, however, the sinners are  already potentially forgiven. This is why they struggled then,  and can now stop sinning.  51. But what could it possibly mean in a secular,  constitutional context to believe that one is already  potentially forgiven? It means, presumably, that one has not yet  been judged, and may never be--that the resumption of useless  suffering has been postponed. Unlike the Christian sinner who  can be reborn, the secular survivor of radical evil--Auschwitz,  Rwanda--is simply not yet dead. The "postponement" of death, as  Levinas calls it, is the gift of time (Totality and Infinity  224). Secular survivorship after Auschwitz does not make past  suffering meaningful in the Pauline way, the way of theodicy,  where the sinner is forgiven and the sin is, thus, redeemed  (felix culpa). What Levinasian survivors get is time that is  always more time, an aftermath--time to apologize, to "correct  the instant" and still be conscious of "the pain that is yet to  come" (238). "To be temporal," according to Levinas, "is both to  be for death and to still have time, to be against death" (235).  

Terrorism 1NC

The aff utilizes a projective identification to label these bodies as violent and as an other that occupies a separate proximal space. In doing so we create the conditions for genocide
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Race, this identification with an ethnicity also imagined as an origin, has for the last century tended to generate a kind of ethnic nationalism whose insistency on the inseparability of race and place is itself mystical. . . . Israel itself was founded on the idea that the legacy of blood entitled the Jews to a legacy of land . . . I've always been as much appalled as awestruck that a people . . . could remain so attached to an absent place of origin that everyplace else could be framed as a temporary exile, . . . no matter how long they stayed. Becoming native is a process of forgetting and embracing where you are. (114-15) 22. To understand the phenomenon, we can call upon Melanie Klein's concept of "projective identification."13 Klein's idea is that the settler re-experiences his own aggression toward the native as fear of the native's hostility toward him. In fearing the native's "primitive" racism (which is already a response to colonization), the settler defends against guilt for displacing the native. By identifying himself as the object of his own feelings toward the native, the settler re-experiences them as feelings of racial antipathy on the part of the natives. In the dialectic of race and place, the role of the colonist is to think, "these people hate us because of our . . .." "Race" is the term of art that fills in the political blank: it acquires whatever biological, religious, linguistic, or cultural content is necessary to describe a difference between the settler and the native placeholder that precedes the settler's occupation of the native's place (Mamdani, "Race and Ethnicity" 4-8). The settler perfectly understands the depth of these ascribed feelings of racialized hatred, for they are merely his own original feelings projected onto others. 23. It should be noted that there are two imaginaries of genocide embedded in such an account of projective identification.14 The first is the genocide of the native against the settler--the racially-motivated "massacres" of innocents by savages that are the foundation of settler colonialist lore. The second is the revolt of the native against the settler. The unconscious moral logic of the colonial experience bases the settlers' genocide against the native on the settlers' repressed fear or fantasy of being subjected to genocidal actions by the native. In his now-classic Wretched of the Earth, Frantz Fanon theorized that in order to liberate himself from colonialism the (black) native must embrace this projected willingness to exterminate the (white) settler (see also Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks). Fanon urges the "good native" to embrace the "bad" identity that embodies the settler's terror. Jean-Paul Sartre famously read this claim as the next stage in revolutionary consciousness, and saw the native's will to fight the colonist to the death as a higher form of the totalizing dialectic of master and slave described by Hegel and Marx (see "Preface" to Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth). 24. Viewed from Levinas's perspective, as set forth above, however, Fanon's argument is not that racially-based murder is justified as a condition of self-liberation. Fanon demonstrates, rather, that colonial subjugation--the problematic Da in the Dasein--is the conceptual root of genocide. For Levinas, the "totalizing discourse" of white/black, master/slave, self/other is itself a formula for murder because, in their quest for mutual recognition, those who struggle do not acknowledge their prior lack-of-relation as mutually exterior occupants of the same ground (see the Preface to Totality and Infinity). In this respect, the willingness of the native to exterminate or expel the settler is simply a return-to-sender of the genocidal message of colonialism itself. 25. The point here is emphatically not that racialized citizens of settler colonialist states are actual or would-be genocidaires. The settler colonialist is not always, and almost never merely, a ruthless exploiter--and can also be a developer, a civilizer, an educator. To be any or all of these things, however, is entirely consistent with the possibility of being paranoid about one's own status as successor to the "Native." The settler's question is, "how can we live among these savages without civilizing them?" The essence of Fanon's argument is that living without the "savages" is always a conceivable option within colonial discourse that precedes (and to some extent informs) the project of "civilization," and thus that living without the settler must also be imaginable for liberation to occur as an outcome of the totalizing project of colonialism--  and presumably of any other totalizing project that focuses on the relations of race and place (blood and soil).

Constructions of what a terrorist is based off of exceptionalist logic that undermines the violence committed by United States.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Transitional justice assigns to historical enemies the task  of living as neighbors in the same place. It employs techniques  of reconciliation to create new and better relationships between  previously warring groups, but the imperative to reconcile is  ultimately ethical in Levinas's sense. That imperative is based  on no relationship other than proximity and mutual  vulnerability--the ever-present possibility that they will  murder each other. If the subjects of transitional justice fail  to reconcile, and mass murders occur, these atrocities are  liable to be considered crimes against humanity that justify  outside intervention. In the now-massive literature on  transitional justice, gross violations of human rights are  always assumed to be local, occurring between neighbors who  occupy common ground, and the responders are treated as third  parties who intervene (or fail to do so) from afar. Even if the  responders have an historical connection to the site of  intervention, perhaps as one-time colonizers, they are  considered to be driven by ethics, as distinct from politics, in  their willingness to respond on behalf of the world community  that should never again stand by while neighbors murder each  other.  8. It is implicit in this emerging conception that the site of  ethics is the space of the neighbor (or neighborhood) and that  the site of politics is global. Global intervention in the local  can be justified in the name of universal human rights; but  violence aimed at global causes of suffering (such as the  Seattle riots against the WTO or the Chiapas rebellion against  NAFTA) is not seen as a form of humanitarian direct action on a  par with bombing Belgrade or Baghdad. In the emergent global  discourse on human rights, "Nothing essential to a person's  human essence is violated if he or she suffers as a consequence  of military action or of market manipulation from beyond his own  state when that is permitted by international law" (Asad,  "Redeeming the 'Human'" 129). A perverse effect of the global  "culture" of protecting local human rights is thus to take the  global causes of human suffering off the political agenda. Any  direct action taken against global forces runs the risk of being  considered a violation of universal human rights (a violation  such as "terrorism") in the locality where it occurs. 

This forces us into the politics of Proximity. Where we are forced to always engage in a constant state of transitional justice.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Proximity is, thus, the marker that distinguishes an ethics of the neighbor as a basis for human rights from global concerns about injustice that might also be considered ethical. Proximity is not itself a merely spatial concept--both space and time can be proximate or distant--but it is useful to think of the ethics of the neighbor as a spatializing discourse within ethics, as distinct from a "temporalizing" discourse that subordinates ethics to political rhetorics associated with memory and identity (Boyarin, "Space" 20). The latter is held accountable for the atrocities of the twentieth century because it suggests that the suffering of one's immediate neighbor can be justified through an historical narrative that links it to redeeming the suffering of someone else, perhaps an ancestor or a comrade, to whom one claims an historical relationship that is "closer" than relations among neighbors. To regard proximity of place as the ethical foundation of politics is to resist this tendency from the beginning, and thereby to set the stage for the fin-de-  siecle project of transitional justice, which is both the alternative to human rights interventions and their professed aim. 7. Transitional justice assigns to historical enemies the task of living as neighbors in the same place. It employs techniques of reconciliation to create new and better relationships between previously warring groups, but the imperative to reconcile is ultimately ethical in Levinas's sense. That imperative is based on no relationship other than proximity and mutual vulnerability--the ever-present possibility that they will murder each other. If the subjects of transitional justice fail to reconcile, and mass murders occur, these atrocities are liable to be considered crimes against humanity that justify outside intervention. In the now-massive literature on transitional justice, gross violations of human rights are always assumed to be local, occurring between neighbors who occupy common ground, and the responders are treated as third parties who intervene (or fail to do so) from afar. Even if the responders have an historical connection to the site of intervention, perhaps as one-time colonizers, they are considered to be driven by ethics, as distinct from politics, in their willingness to respond on behalf of the world community that should never again stand by while neighbors murder each other. 

This puts us in the never-ending cycle of producing the conditions of genocide
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

12. The political context within which genocide became all-too-  thinkable within modernity is that of modern colonialism and the nationalist struggle against it.4 The origins of this dialectic may lie in an act of military conquest or in an unopposed claim to possession of territory that is already inhabited.5 Its domain is the spatial and temporal relation between a territory's prior inhabitants, its colonial possessors, and, perhaps, its future citizens in a future independent state. The dialectic of colonialism allows us to think of occupying a common territory as either a matter of cohabitation or succession. It enables all sides to imagine the spatial proximity of indigenous peoples and later arrivals as an eliminable problem, while focusing their direct attention on who is threatening to eliminate whom in the present or in the near future. 13. As a relatively recent moral trope for the murderous encounter with the Other, "Auschwitz" is now commonly read backwards into the history of colonialism, which it has become possible to describe as a prolonged Holocaust (see Churchill and Stannard). The colonial and the anti-colonial mind can conceive of genocide because they both can (and probably must) imagine the same territory without its current inhabitants. Relations among current occupants appear within the framework of colonialism to be essentially matters of temporal succession. Thus in the native/settler dialectic everything depends on who came first and who will remain. From the perspective of colonialism, any present time of simultaneous cohabitation of racialized ethnicities must be seen as historically abnormal, and perhaps ephemeral. The hortatory claim that genocide is now unthinkable points us toward a postcolonial future in which current spatial predicaments rather than historical relations among neighbors come to the foreground. A human rights discourse based on an ethics of the neighbor aims to bring this about through the technologies of transitional justice that put evil (and history itself) in the past. 14. This form of argument presupposes a radical shift of moral orientation after 1945 in which "the Holocaust" rather than "the Revolution"--French, Russian, or arguably Haitian6--becomes the event that defines the relation between ethics and politics in late modernity. Before Auschwitz, the argument goes, a distinctive (and ultimately Schmittian) concept of the "political" allowed us to overcome our natural sensitivity to the suffering of fellow humans when they were constructed as the intimate "other." This concept of the political produced the Holocaust as a horrifying endpoint to the genocidal logic of modernity that began in 1492.7 15. The new human rights discourse that has taken root since Auschwitz aims (when viewed in Schmittian terms) to depoliticize the distinction between who we are and who we are not (Rorty 128). By the century's end, the ethics8 of human rights, which were once the mottos of democratic revolution, became instruments of global order. They now require that one put the claims of spatial proximity ahead of those of historical destiny and that one value the virtues of political patience over those of revolutionary struggle. An "ethics" so conceived puts "politics" based on historical grievance at the root of "radical" evil in the world and severely limits the pursuit of justice based on backward-looking claims. 16. From the perspective of an ethics of proximity, genocide victims (as represented by survivors) are the quintessential suffering subjects, the ultimate source of ethical value.8 Naming their plight as (actual or potential) genocide is now the duty of the rest of us, the first step in human rights intervention which is in turn defined by the ultimate moral duty to put humanitarianism ahead of all politics. Humanitarianism, thus, arises from a pre-political relationship between the victim of evil--he or she who suffers--and the spectator capable of discerning evil and willing to respond. 17. Human rights are not an afterthought to ethics in this fin-  de-siecle discourse but rather its very foundation. The essence of human rights discourse is to "infinitize" evil by equating it to the situation of a hostage population subject to the sovereign power of a Schmittian state (Ranciere 307-8; see also Arendt, Origins, esp. ch. 9). The quintessential subject of human rights discourse is the neighbor who is viewed by the state as both an enemy and an alien, but who lacks the protection that "enemy aliens" enjoy under established international law. These domestic enemies may not only be interned by the state (arguably for their own protection), they are also subject to being exterminated by the state, and even by the neighbor next door.9 At the end of such periods of gross violations of human rights, the immediate goal of what we now routinely call "transitional justice" (see Teitel), is to reduce domestic enmity itself to a problem of excessive proximity, the likelihood that hostile neighbors will kill each other. The excesses of proximity are, of course, what the world market needs to eliminate, and integration of the local economy into the global--rather than justice as such--becomes a promised reward of the desired transition. Instead of demanding justice, the subjects of transitional justice are expected to show patience. Patience, when treated as a virtue, presupposes that the ethical duty of neighbors is to assure each other that now is not the time for a historical reckoning. As an ideology, it presupposes that third parties may feel obliged to intervene if these assurances fail. From the perspective of a watching world, the real point of transitional justice is that it is not justice as such, but rather closure. Through trials, truth commissions, amnesties, and other techniques, it seeks to adjourn past history and to make new time.10 (Now that these fin-de-siecle techniques of transitional justice can be studied and compared, Germany after Auschwitz has become another "case," as well as a paradigm of largely successful transition; see Sa'adeh.)

The alternative is to dwell with the other, to embrace radical evil into our own homes and our own hearts to embrace the idea that we are just as much terrorists as we are terrorized.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
49. In Mamdani's account, however, the deeper choice is between  a presumption of forgiveness on the one hand, and victims' rule  on the other. Rather than make this choice, post-genocide Rwanda  claims to be an example of both. The journalist Philip  Gourevitch describes the return of "a certain Girumuhatse" to  share a house with the surviving members of the family he  butchered during the 1994 genocide:  But why should survivors be asked to live next door to killers-- or even, as happened in Girumuhatse's house, under the same  roof? Why put off confronting the problem? To keep things calm,  General Kagame told me. (Gourevitch 308)  Behind this pragmatic avoidance of confrontation, however, lies  the assumption that where everyone has sinned in either deed or  wish, the only way forward is through an ethics of the neighbor. 50. To invoke an ethics of the neighbor in the aftermath of  sin, outside commentators sometimes describe Rwanda in the terms  used by St. Paul to describe the world. Rwanda is a place in  which the difference between sins actually committed and sins of  the heart is merely the difference between "could have" and  "would have." Some have argued that Rwanda is an ideal case for  the Pauline solution of confession, forgiveness, and  rebirth.33 Forgiveness in Rwanda would, presumably, be based  on recognizing that the fear of genocide makes committing  genocide thinkable, and that in wish, if not in deed, all are  sinners. In a Christian context, however, the sinners are  already potentially forgiven. This is why they struggled then,  and can now stop sinning.  51. But what could it possibly mean in a secular,  constitutional context to believe that one is already  potentially forgiven? It means, presumably, that one has not yet  been judged, and may never be--that the resumption of useless  suffering has been postponed. Unlike the Christian sinner who  can be reborn, the secular survivor of radical evil--Auschwitz,  Rwanda--is simply not yet dead. The "postponement" of death, as  Levinas calls it, is the gift of time (Totality and Infinity  224). Secular survivorship after Auschwitz does not make past  suffering meaningful in the Pauline way, the way of theodicy,  where the sinner is forgiven and the sin is, thus, redeemed  (felix culpa). What Levinasian survivors get is time that is  always more time, an aftermath--time to apologize, to "correct  the instant" and still be conscious of "the pain that is yet to  come" (238). "To be temporal," according to Levinas, "is both to  be for death and to still have time, to be against death" (235).  

Soft Power 1NC
Soft power exists as a form of colonialism. The basis of dimplomacy is still based off a proximal encounter. Even if the exchange is not overtly violent, it is still a conflict over proximity.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
The point here is emphatically not that racialized citizens  of settler colonialist states are actual or would-be  genocidaires. The settler colonialist is not always, and almost  never merely, a ruthless exploiter--and can also be a developer,  a civilizer, an educator. To be any or all of these things,  however, is entirely consistent with the possibility of being  paranoid about one's own status as successor to the "Native."  The settler's question is, "how can we live among these savages  without civilizing them?" The essence of Fanon's argument is  that living without the "savages" is always a conceivable option  within colonial discourse that precedes (and to some extent  informs) the project of "civilization," and thus that living  without the settler must also be imaginable for liberation to  occur as an outcome of the totalizing project of colonialism-- and presumably of any other totalizing project that focuses on  the relations of race and place (blood and soil). 

This forces us into the politics of Proximity. Where we are forced to always engage in a constant state of transitional justice.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

Proximity is, thus, the marker that distinguishes an ethics of the neighbor as a basis for human rights from global concerns about injustice that might also be considered ethical. Proximity is not itself a merely spatial concept--both space and time can be proximate or distant--but it is useful to think of the ethics of the neighbor as a spatializing discourse within ethics, as distinct from a "temporalizing" discourse that subordinates ethics to political rhetorics associated with memory and identity (Boyarin, "Space" 20). The latter is held accountable for the atrocities of the twentieth century because it suggests that the suffering of one's immediate neighbor can be justified through an historical narrative that links it to redeeming the suffering of someone else, perhaps an ancestor or a comrade, to whom one claims an historical relationship that is "closer" than relations among neighbors. To regard proximity of place as the ethical foundation of politics is to resist this tendency from the beginning, and thereby to set the stage for the fin-de-  siecle project of transitional justice, which is both the alternative to human rights interventions and their professed aim. 7. Transitional justice assigns to historical enemies the task of living as neighbors in the same place. It employs techniques of reconciliation to create new and better relationships between previously warring groups, but the imperative to reconcile is ultimately ethical in Levinas's sense. That imperative is based on no relationship other than proximity and mutual vulnerability--the ever-present possibility that they will murder each other. If the subjects of transitional justice fail to reconcile, and mass murders occur, these atrocities are liable to be considered crimes against humanity that justify outside intervention. In the now-massive literature on transitional justice, gross violations of human rights are always assumed to be local, occurring between neighbors who occupy common ground, and the responders are treated as third parties who intervene (or fail to do so) from afar. Even if the responders have an historical connection to the site of intervention, perhaps as one-time colonizers, they are considered to be driven by ethics, as distinct from politics, in their willingness to respond on behalf of the world community that should never again stand by while neighbors murder each other. 

This puts us in the never-ending cycle of producing the conditions of genocide
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)

12. The political context within which genocide became all-too-  thinkable within modernity is that of modern colonialism and the nationalist struggle against it.4 The origins of this dialectic may lie in an act of military conquest or in an unopposed claim to possession of territory that is already inhabited.5 Its domain is the spatial and temporal relation between a territory's prior inhabitants, its colonial possessors, and, perhaps, its future citizens in a future independent state. The dialectic of colonialism allows us to think of occupying a common territory as either a matter of cohabitation or succession. It enables all sides to imagine the spatial proximity of indigenous peoples and later arrivals as an eliminable problem, while focusing their direct attention on who is threatening to eliminate whom in the present or in the near future. 13. As a relatively recent moral trope for the murderous encounter with the Other, "Auschwitz" is now commonly read backwards into the history of colonialism, which it has become possible to describe as a prolonged Holocaust (see Churchill and Stannard). The colonial and the anti-colonial mind can conceive of genocide because they both can (and probably must) imagine the same territory without its current inhabitants. Relations among current occupants appear within the framework of colonialism to be essentially matters of temporal succession. Thus in the native/settler dialectic everything depends on who came first and who will remain. From the perspective of colonialism, any present time of simultaneous cohabitation of racialized ethnicities must be seen as historically abnormal, and perhaps ephemeral. The hortatory claim that genocide is now unthinkable points us toward a postcolonial future in which current spatial predicaments rather than historical relations among neighbors come to the foreground. A human rights discourse based on an ethics of the neighbor aims to bring this about through the technologies of transitional justice that put evil (and history itself) in the past. 14. This form of argument presupposes a radical shift of moral orientation after 1945 in which "the Holocaust" rather than "the Revolution"--French, Russian, or arguably Haitian6--becomes the event that defines the relation between ethics and politics in late modernity. Before Auschwitz, the argument goes, a distinctive (and ultimately Schmittian) concept of the "political" allowed us to overcome our natural sensitivity to the suffering of fellow humans when they were constructed as the intimate "other." This concept of the political produced the Holocaust as a horrifying endpoint to the genocidal logic of modernity that began in 1492.7 15. The new human rights discourse that has taken root since Auschwitz aims (when viewed in Schmittian terms) to depoliticize the distinction between who we are and who we are not (Rorty 128). By the century's end, the ethics8 of human rights, which were once the mottos of democratic revolution, became instruments of global order. They now require that one put the claims of spatial proximity ahead of those of historical destiny and that one value the virtues of political patience over those of revolutionary struggle. An "ethics" so conceived puts "politics" based on historical grievance at the root of "radical" evil in the world and severely limits the pursuit of justice based on backward-looking claims. 16. From the perspective of an ethics of proximity, genocide victims (as represented by survivors) are the quintessential suffering subjects, the ultimate source of ethical value.8 Naming their plight as (actual or potential) genocide is now the duty of the rest of us, the first step in human rights intervention which is in turn defined by the ultimate moral duty to put humanitarianism ahead of all politics. Humanitarianism, thus, arises from a pre-political relationship between the victim of evil--he or she who suffers--and the spectator capable of discerning evil and willing to respond. 17. Human rights are not an afterthought to ethics in this fin-  de-siecle discourse but rather its very foundation. The essence of human rights discourse is to "infinitize" evil by equating it to the situation of a hostage population subject to the sovereign power of a Schmittian state (Ranciere 307-8; see also Arendt, Origins, esp. ch. 9). The quintessential subject of human rights discourse is the neighbor who is viewed by the state as both an enemy and an alien, but who lacks the protection that "enemy aliens" enjoy under established international law. These domestic enemies may not only be interned by the state (arguably for their own protection), they are also subject to being exterminated by the state, and even by the neighbor next door.9 At the end of such periods of gross violations of human rights, the immediate goal of what we now routinely call "transitional justice" (see Teitel), is to reduce domestic enmity itself to a problem of excessive proximity, the likelihood that hostile neighbors will kill each other. The excesses of proximity are, of course, what the world market needs to eliminate, and integration of the local economy into the global--rather than justice as such--becomes a promised reward of the desired transition. Instead of demanding justice, the subjects of transitional justice are expected to show patience. Patience, when treated as a virtue, presupposes that the ethical duty of neighbors is to assure each other that now is not the time for a historical reckoning. As an ideology, it presupposes that third parties may feel obliged to intervene if these assurances fail. From the perspective of a watching world, the real point of transitional justice is that it is not justice as such, but rather closure. Through trials, truth commissions, amnesties, and other techniques, it seeks to adjourn past history and to make new time.10 (Now that these fin-de-siecle techniques of transitional justice can be studied and compared, Germany after Auschwitz has become another "case," as well as a paradigm of largely successful transition; see Sa'adeh.)

The alternative is to dwell with the other, to embrace radical evil into our own homes and our own hearts to embrace the idea that we are just as much terrorists as we are terrorized.
Meister 2005 (Robert, Professor at the University of Santa Cruz, "Never Again": The Ethics of the Neighbor and the Logic of  Genocide, http://pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/issue.105/15.2meister.txt)
49. In Mamdani's account, however, the deeper choice is between  a presumption of forgiveness on the one hand, and victims' rule  on the other. Rather than make this choice, post-genocide Rwanda  claims to be an example of both. The journalist Philip  Gourevitch describes the return of "a certain Girumuhatse" to  share a house with the surviving members of the family he  butchered during the 1994 genocide:  But why should survivors be asked to live next door to killers-- or even, as happened in Girumuhatse's house, under the same  roof? Why put off confronting the problem? To keep things calm,  General Kagame told me. (Gourevitch 308)  Behind this pragmatic avoidance of confrontation, however, lies  the assumption that where everyone has sinned in either deed or  wish, the only way forward is through an ethics of the neighbor. 50. To invoke an ethics of the neighbor in the aftermath of  sin, outside commentators sometimes describe Rwanda in the terms  used by St. Paul to describe the world. Rwanda is a place in  which the difference between sins actually committed and sins of  the heart is merely the difference between "could have" and  "would have." Some have argued that Rwanda is an ideal case for  the Pauline solution of confession, forgiveness, and  rebirth.33 Forgiveness in Rwanda would, presumably, be based  on recognizing that the fear of genocide makes committing  genocide thinkable, and that in wish, if not in deed, all are  sinners. In a Christian context, however, the sinners are  already potentially forgiven. This is why they struggled then,  and can now stop sinning.  51. But what could it possibly mean in a secular,  constitutional context to believe that one is already  potentially forgiven? It means, presumably, that one has not yet  been judged, and may never be--that the resumption of useless  suffering has been postponed. Unlike the Christian sinner who  can be reborn, the secular survivor of radical evil--Auschwitz,  Rwanda--is simply not yet dead. The "postponement" of death, as  Levinas calls it, is the gift of time (Totality and Infinity  224). Secular survivorship after Auschwitz does not make past  suffering meaningful in the Pauline way, the way of theodicy,  where the sinner is forgiven and the sin is, thus, redeemed  (felix culpa). What Levinasian survivors get is time that is  always more time, an aftermath--time to apologize, to "correct  the instant" and still be conscious of "the pain that is yet to  come" (238). "To be temporal," according to Levinas, "is both to  be for death and to still have time, to be against death" (235).

Tournament: Csun | Round: 1 | Opponent: Arizona State Woodruff-Canarie | Judge: Eisenstadt
1.

Butler 2004 (Judith, Professor of Rhetoric, Precarious Life: the Power of Mourning and Violence)
At the same time, essential to so many political movements is the  claim of bodily integrity and self-determination. It is important to  claim that our bodies are in a sense our own and that we are entitled  to claim rights of autonomy over our bodies. This assertion is as  true for lesbian and gay rights claims to sexual freedom as it is for  transsexual and transgender claims to self-determination, as it is to  intersex claims to be free of coerced medical and psychiatric interventions.  It is as true for all claims to be free from racist attacks,  physical and verbal, as it is for feminism's claim to reproductive  freedom, and as it surely is for those whose bodies labor under  duress, economic and political, under conditions of colonization and  occupation. It is difficult, if not impossible, to make these claims  without recourse to autonomy. I am not suggesting that we cease to  make these claims. We have to, we must. I also do not wish to imply  that we have to make these claims reluctantly or strategically. Defined within the broadest possible compass, they are part of any normative  aspiration of a movement that seeks to maximize the protection and  the freedoms of sexual and gender minorities, of women, and of  racial and ethnic minorities, especially as they cut across all the other  categories.  But is there another normative aspiration that we must also seek  to articulate and to defend? Is there a way in which the place of the  body, and the way in which it disposes us outside ourselves or sets us  beside ourselves, opens up another kind of normative aspiration  within the field of politics?  The body implies mortality, vulnerability, agency: the skin and  the flesh expose us to the gaze of others, but also to touch, and to  violence, and bodies put us at risk of becoming the agency and  instrument of all these as well. Although we struggle for rights over  our own bodies, the very bodies for which we struggle are not quite  ever only our own. The body has its invariably public dimension.  Constituted as a social phenomenon in the public sphere, my body is  and is not mine. Given over from the start to the world of others, it  bears their imprint, is formed within the crucible of social life; only  later, and with some uncertainty, do I lay claim to my body as my  own, if, in fact, I ever do. Indeed, if I deny that prior to the formation  of my "will," my body related me to others whom I did not choose  to have in proximity to myself, if I build a notion of "autonomy" on  the basis of the denial of this sphere of a primary and unwilled physical  proximity with others, then am I denying the social conditions of my  embodiment in the name of autonomy?

2.
Butler 2004 (Judith, Professor of Rhetoric, Precarious Life: the Power of Mourning and Violence)
A hierarchy of grief could no doubt be enumerated. We have seen  it already, in the genre of the obituary, where lives are quickly tidied  up and summarized, humanized, usually married, or on the way to be,  heterosexual, happy, monogamous. But this is just a sign of another  differential relation to life, since we seldom, if ever, hear the names of  the thousands of Palestinians who have died by the Israeli military  with United States support, or any number of Afghan people,  children and adults. Do they have names and faces, personal histories,  family, favorite hobbies, slogans by which they live? What defense  against the apprehension of loss is at work in the blithe way in which  we accept deaths caused by military means with a shrug or with  self-righteousness or with clear vindictiveness? To what extent have  Arab peoples, predominantly practitioners of Islam, fallen outside the  "human" as it has been naturalized in its "Western" mold by the  contemporary workings of humanism? What are the cultural contours  of the human at work here? How do our cultural frames for  thinking the human set limits on the kinds of losses we can avow as  loss? After all, if someone is lost, and that person is not someone, then  what and where is the loss, and how does mourning take place?  This last is surely a question that lesbian, gay, and hi-studies have  asked in relation to violence against sexual minorities; that transgendered  people have asked as they are singled out for harassment and sometimes murder; that intersexed people have asked, whose  formative years are so often marked by unwanted violence against  their bodies in the name of a normative notion of the human, a  normative notion of what the body of a human must be. This  question is no doubt, as well, the basis of a profound affinity between  movements centering on gender and sexuality and efforts to counter  the normative human morphologies and capacities that condemn or  efface those who are physically challenged. It must also be part of the  affinity with anti-racist struggles, given the racial differential that  undergirds the culturally viable notions of the human, ones that we  see acted out in dramatic and terrifying ways in the global arena at  the present time.  I am referring not only to humans not regarded as humans, and  thus to a restrictive conception of the human that is based upon their  exclusion. It is not a matter of a simple entry of the excluded into an  established ontology, but an insurrection at the level of ontology, a  critical opening up of the questions, What is real? Whose lives are  real? How might reality be remade? Those who are unreal have, in a  sense, already suffered the violence of derealization. What, then, is  the relation between violence and those lives considered as "unreal"?  Does violence effect that unreality? Does violence take place on the  condition of that unreality?

3.
Butler 2004 (Judith, Professor of Rhetoric, Precarious Life: the Power of Mourning and Violence)
If violence is done against those who are unreal, then, from the  perspective of violence, it fails to injure or negate those lives since  those lives are already negated. But they have a strange way of remaining  animated and so must be negated again (and again). They cannot  be mourned because they are always already lost or, rather, never  "were," and they must be killed, since they seem to live on, stubbornly,  in this state of deadness. Violence renews itself in the face of  the apparent inexhaustibility of its object. The derealization of the  "Other" means that it is neither alive nor dead, but interminably spectral. The infinite paranoia that imagines the war against terrorism  as a war without end will be one that justifies itself endlessly in  relation to the spectral infinity of its enemy, regardless of whether or  not there are established grounds to suspect the continuing operation  of terror cells with violent aims. How do we understand this derealization? It is one thing to argue¶ that first, on the level of discourse, certain lives are not considered¶ lives at all, they cannot be humanized, that they fit no dominant frame¶ for the human, and that their dehumanization occurs first, at this¶ level, and that this level then gives rise to a physical violence that in¶ some sense delivers the message of dehumanization that is already at¶ work in the culture. It is another thing to say that discourse itself¶ effects violence through omission. If 2oo,ooo Iraqi children were¶ killed during the Gulf War and its aftermath/ do we have an image,¶ a frame for any of those lives, singly or collectively? Is there a story¶ we might find about those deaths in the media? Are there names¶ attached to those children?¶ There are no obituaries for the war casualties that the United¶ States inflicts, and there cannot be. If there were to be an obituary,¶ there would have had to have been a life, a life worth noting, a life¶ worth valuing and preserving, a life that qualifies for recognition.¶ Although we might argue that it would be impractical to write¶ obituaries for all those people, or for all people, I think we have to¶ ask, again and again, how the obituary functions as the instrument by¶ which grievability is publicly distributed. It is the means by which a¶ life becomes, or fails to become, a publicly grievable life, an icon for¶ national self-recognition, the means by which a life becomes noteworthy.¶ As a result, we have to consider the obituary as an act of¶ nation-building. The matter is not a simple one, for, if a life is not¶ grievable, it is not quite a life; it does not qualify as a life and is not¶ worth a note. It is already the unburied, if not the unburiable. It is not simply, then, that there is a "discourse" of dehumanization¶ that

4. Bibi Mamana
Bureau of Investigative Journalism no date (independent research center, Naming the Dead Project, http://www.thebureauinvestigates.com/namingthedead/people/nd526/?lang=en)

Little is known of Bibi Mamana’s life except that she was in her 60s, a grandmother, the wife of the retired headmaster of the Government High School in Miranshah, and a midwife who ‘delivered hundreds of babies‘ in her community. However the events immediately around her death have been well documented.  According to detailed reporting in The Times and the BBC’s Panorama programme, among others. For days before the strike there had been the constant hum of drones overhead, it was reported. Mamana and several of her grandchildren were outside the family home. She was picking okra, gathering wood for Eid al Adha tending to livestock when a drone struck.  It is not clear how many missiles were fired. But Mamana’s eight-year-old granddaughter Nabeela (aka Mabeela Rehman) was 20m away from where they hit. She told The Times: ‘I saw the first two missiles coming through the air… They were following each other with fire at the back. When they hit the ground, there was a loud noise. After that I don’t remember anything.’ Nabeela was injured by flying shrapnel.  At the sound of the explosion, Mamana’s grandson Kaleem (aka Kaleemur or Kaleemullah), 18, ran from the house to help his grandmother. But five to seven minutes later the drones struck again, he told the BBC. He was knocked unconscious. His leg was badly broken and damaged by shrapnel, and needed surgery.  The missiles physically hit Mamana, Amnesty researcher Mustafa Qadri said. ‘She’s literally hit flush and is blown to smithereens.’  Atiq, 38, Nabeela’s father and Mamana’s son, was in or was leaving a mosque at the time of the attack. On hearing the blast and seeing the plume of smoke he rushed to the scene. When he arrived he could not see any sign of his mother, he told The Times. He said: ‘My relatives arrived and urged me not to go too close. I started calling out for her but there was no reply. Then I saw her shoes. We found her mutilated body a short time afterwards. It had been thrown quite a long distance away by the blast and it was in pieces. We collected many different parts from the field and put a turban over her body.’  Atiq’s brother Rafiq was also away from the house when the missiles hit. He arrived as Mamana’s grave was being dug. Her body was already in a coffin. He told the BBC: ‘I threw myself over her coffin but the box was closed. The family told me not to open it as she had been hit by a missile and her body was in pieces.’  Family members hit in the same blast made the eight-hour bus journey to Peshawar for medical treatment. While there, Atiq showed The Times his mother’s identity card. The family then travelled on to Islamabad for specialist help. There Rafiq showed the BBC Mamana’s passport, pictures of her grave, the spot where they say the missile hit and fragments of the missile.  Rafiq said his mother was ‘the string that holds the pearls together’ to their village, ABC reported. He told Al Jazeera English he received a letter after the strike from a Pakistani official which said the attack was a US drone strike and Bibi was innocent. But nothing more came of it, he said.

BIJ #2
5. Osama and Badruddin Haqqani
Bureau of Investigative Journalism no date (independent research center, Naming the Dead Project, http://www.thebureauinvestigates.com/namingthedead/strikes/ob287/?lang=en)

CIA drones bombed a house and vehicle killing between five and 25 people in the fourth attack in as many days.   The Haqqani network’s military commander, who is the son of the group’s leader, was killed in the attack. A high-profile target, Badruddin Haqqani was listed as a supporter of al Qaeda by the UN in 2011. There were three fresh graves in the family’s cemetery, and a 13-year-old Haqqani, Osama, was also killed in this strike. Islamabad again complained about the strike, summoning a senior US diplomat into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to hear the complaints.

BIJ #3

Mir Gull Jan Age unknown
Shoaib Age unknown
Shamroz Khan Aged 24
Gull Saeed Khan Aged unknown
Gallop Haji Jan Aged unknown
Batkai Jan Age unknown
Noor Bhadsha Khan aged unknown
Allah Mir Khan Aged unknown
Mir Jahan Gul Aged unknown
Salay Khan Aged unknown
Akram Aged unknown
Khasmir Khan aged unknown
Mir Ajab Khan Aged 22
Wolayet Khan aged 25
Saleh Khan Aged 14
Fazel Rehman Aged 18
Sahibdin Aged unknown
Min Gul Aged 23
Bengal Khan Aged 28
Dil Gir Khan Aged unknown
Sahid Din Aged Unknown
Mir Ajat Aged Unknown
Haq Nawaz Aged 23
Hatiqullah

Bureau of Investigative Journalism no date (independent research center, Naming the Dead Project, http://www.thebureauinvestigates.com/namingthedead/strikes/ob281/?lang=en
)

Drones hit a house three times in one night, deliberately targeting rescuers and killing civilians for only the third time in the year.  Comments by unnamed officials confused the picture of this strike, with one saying the attack hit ‘a truck packed with explosives heading across the border’. But a field investigation by the Bureau found the strike hit a house killing men eating dinner at around 7.40pm. After half an hour, 20 local tribesmen moved in to rescue the injured and 12 were killed. Eight of them were named and identified as civilians by legal charity Reprieve. However Amnesty International independently investigated the strike and named 18 civilians. The rights organisation also uncovered many of their ages, occupations and family circumstances. It is not clear if the eight named by Reprieve and 18 by Amnesty are duplicates with different names, or distinct individuals killed in this strike.  Shoaib  died 06/07/2012  Akram  died 06/07/2012  Hatiqullah  died 06/07/2012  Haq Nawaz  died 06/07/2012  Mir Ajat  died 06/07/2012  Sahid Din  died 06/07/2012  Dil Gir Khan  died 06/07/2012  Bangal Khan  died 06/07/2012  Min Gul  died 06/07/2012  Mir Ajab Khan  died 06/07/2012  Sahibdin  died 06/07/2012  Waliullah  died 06/07/2012  Fazel Rehman  died 06/07/2012  Shamroz Khan  died 06/07/2012  Saleh Khan  died 06/07/2012  Wolayet Khan  died 06/07/2012  Khashmir Khan  died 06/07/2012  Gul Dad Khan  died 06/07/2012  Gull Saeed Khan  died 06/07/2012  Mir Jahan Gul  died 06/07/2012  Allah Mir Khan  died 06/07/2012  Noor Bhadshah Khan  died 06/07/2012  Mir Gull Jan  died 06/07/2012  Batkai Jan  died 06/07/2012  Gallop Haji Jan  died 06/07/2012  Salay Khan  died 06/07/2012

BIJ #4

7. Bureau of Investigative Journalism no date (independent research center, Naming the Dead Project, Tariq Aziz, http://www.thebureauinvestigates.com/namingthedead/people/nd475/?lang=en)
Tariq Aziz was a 16-year-old from North Waziristan, who attended a high-profile anti-drone rally in Islamabad in October 2011. Days after his return home, he was killed in a drone strike with his cousin and up to two others.  Aziz was the youngest of seven children. His father Mumtaz Khan worked in the United Arab Emirates as a driver to support his family.  He was described by relatives as a quiet teenager, good with computers. His uncle Noor Kalam said: ‘He was just a normal boy who loved football.’  On October 27, days before his death, Aziz made the eight hour drive to Islamabad for a grand jirga – a high council meeting. The meeting was convened by Waziri elders to discuss how to end civilian deaths in drone strikes. Pakistani politician Imran Khan, his former wife Jemima, members of legal campaign group Reprieve and several western journalists also attended the meeting.  Aziz had a personal interest in the subject matter: 18 months earlier, his cousin Aswarullah had been reportedly killed by a drone as he rode a motorcycle. Tariq took his cousin’s identity card to the conference. The Bureau has not been able to identify the specific strike in which Aswarullah reportedly died.  Aziz went to the jirga after lawyer Shahzad Akbar called him offering him basic photography classes and a camera to help document drone strikes.  Around 25 men of all ages entered the conference hall, shaking hands and kissing cheeks of over a dozen Waziri elders who had convened the high level meeting at the Margalla hotel in Islamabad. Tariq walked in, pressing his right palm on the chest of each of the elders who lined up to meet them. He took his place in the audience, two rows behind Jemima Khan.  Neil Williams from Reprieve, who attended the meeting, said Aziz seemed very introverted. He said he asked Aziz if he had ever seen a drone. Aziz said he saw 10 or 15 every day. He said they meant he could not sleep. ‘He looked absolutely terrified,’ Williams added.  After a four-hour debate, the audience joined around 2,000 people at a protest rally outside the Pakistani parliament. After the rally, the tribesmen made the long journey home. The following day Aziz and his cousin Wahid went to pick up his newly married aunt to take her back to Norak. On their way they dropped off a friend. When they were 200 yards from the house two missiles slammed into their car. The blast killed Aziz and Wahid instantly.  Some reports suggested Wahid was 12 years old, although video seen by the Bureau indicates he was more likely to have been in his mid- to late teens.  An anonymous US official acknowledged the CIA had launched the strike but denied they were children. The occupants of that car were militants, he said.  Following the strike, Shahzad Akbar wrote to the US ambassador: ‘I am considering initiating legal proceedings against you as a co-conspirator in Tariq and Wahid’s murder – for murder is the only word that can properly be applied to the act committed by CIA agents and their accomplices.’