Masks of Tolerance

I like to think that Columbia University strives to achieve the lofty goals of mutual tolerance, respect, and understanding.

When a swastika was found etched on the doors of the Law School, University action was swift and decisive. The incident appeared on the front page of Spectator and President George Rupp publicly condemned the vandalism. The next day, the School of International and Public Affairs hosted Joseph Massad's "Zionism and Jewish Supremacy." Spectator publicized the event in a small blurb on the corner of page three, and I was struck by the juxtaposition of these two events. Implicit in Massad's title is a profound racist and anti-Jewish subtext that, quite frankly, is reminiscent of "The Protocols of the Elders of Zion" and other fabricated conspiracy theories.

I was struck by the University's willingness to publicly condemn blatant expressions of anti-Semitism while simultaneously condoning, and even sponsoring, more tacit and subtle forms of that same evil. Massad's talk is lent a certain legitimacy by mere virtue of the fact that his views exist within an academic framework. The rhetoric is polished, the multisyllabic words characteristic of academia are pleasing to the ear, and so Massad's message somehow becomes more acceptable, more palatable. Yet fundamentally, the difference between Massad's message and its more blatant and visually tangible manifestation are only subtle.

I felt betrayed by a community to which I had always looked as a model of acceptance and understanding, and I wondered if the University was doing its utmost to protect tolerance on our campus. I wrote an e-mail to President Rupp to ask him; I am still waiting for his response.

Yet it is not this incident alone that has brought me to doubt our community's self-professed piety and virtue. I recently went to The Chazen Institute's screening of Gaza Strip. Following the screening, director James Longley fielded questions from the audience. He scoffed at anyone who dared question his choice of technique and off-handedly dismissed students who offered different versions of his narrative. Members of the audience encouraged his sarcasm with their laughter, and I sat in the back, silenced and shocked by their cruelty.

Immediately following the question and answer session, the Business School's Jewish student group had scheduled a short screening of a film that they felt represented a narrative Longley had failed to explore. Before the film even began, half the audience simply got up and walked out towards the door. An entire group of student leaders and community activists left before the end of the program without hearing the other side. In doing so, they revealed their simple unwillingness to engage in real and meaningful dialogue. More significantly, though, they stripped their peers of the respect that every student on this campus deserves. I found their not-so-subtle message hurtful, and as I walked home, I couldn't help wonder what went so wrong; where, as a community, have we failed so profoundly?

I'm not sure I have an answer to the question. I'm not even sure that there is one. But I have an idea for a first step: let's stop parading around in masks of virtue, tolerance, and respect. As a community, it is time we face up to our prejudices, our biases, and our simple inability to listen to the other side. The Columbia community hides behind a facade, and as that facade begins to slowly crumble, I am left with only sadness and disappointment. Facing up to our own inadequacy shatters the image to which I too have clung. But if we cannot be tolerant, we should at least be honest. It is a brutal alternative, but it leaves far less room for disappointment.

The author is a Barnard College junior majoring in Middle Eastern and Asian languages and cultures.