Staying True to the 'Duty to Dissent'

Illustration by Ramsey Scott

Why should we feel, as Thoreau put it, a “duty to dissent” when protest is so often misunderstood or ignored? This was plainly the case last semester when a few of us resisted some of Columbia’s policies by fasting or by other nonviolent methods and largely failed to achieve our goals. In 1969, only days after I joined the Barnard faculty, I was sternly warned by a distinguished professor that the University was meant solely for learning, and nothing was to be learned on campus from demonstrations or other forms of obnoxious political activism. Must direct and open dissent be so often discredited or dismissed?

Consider the example of David Denby, longtime film critic and writer for several noted periodicals. Denby graduated from Columbia College and 30 years later, in 1991, decided to return and audit Core Curriculum courses to enjoy and relearn lessons that he missed. His experience in the classes was so enlightening that he wrote a much acclaimed account, entitled Great Books, an exciting “adventure” with “indestructible writers of the Western world.”

In the spring semester of this experience, Denby decided to check out Take Back the Night. He was so fascinated by what he saw that he returned the next year, presumably to confirm his impressions. He discussed TBTN at length once, and then at several other points in the book. They are all condemnatory. What was wrong with the march and speak out? First came the hideous noise from the marchers: “A strange, nasty sound, high-pitched, insistent, floated over Broadway. Eeee....ee...hh! ... A cry, a shriek—what was it?” It was coming from women students who were “shrieking and rapidly flapping their tongues. ... The antihuman quality of it, I thought, could only be intentional.” He continues that “it then gets much worse at the open mike,” when the stories of sexual assaults start, with victims wallowing in their misery. Pages of unmitigated criticism follow, finally concluding that “Take Back the Night was not only an attack on rape; it had metamorphized, disastrously, into an attack on the possibility of happiness.” Can we find a more sweeping indictment of protest than this? When I first read the book in ’96, I wondered what could explain my total distance from Denby, not just on a few aspects of TBTN, but on the entire experience.

I participated in the same two TBTN events that Denby described, and our reactions were completely different. I have been a strong supporter first of TBTN and then Columbia Men Against Violence (CMAV) since their inceptions. My support comes from when I was teaching here on Oct. 26 and Nov. 2, 1986, and two Barnard students were raped. I have before me the editorial by Deborah Pardes in the Barnard Bulletin from Nov. 5, 1986, crying out for campus action. A candlelight vigil followed on Nov. 6, “to express support for the raped students and to promote safety awareness.” We were all, as a community, aware of how the effects of this violence pervaded the campus, the classrooms, and streets alike. Nowhere seemed safe. One assault had actually occurred immediately in front of Barnard Hall. We tried to speak out at the vigil, but unlike today, when the speak-outs are clear and forceful, our voices were inarticulate. So we just joined hands in grief. I didn’t need Hobbes to recognize our fear. Yet this was coupled by an empathy that I hadn’t seen often before, and this empathy developed into the source of our resilience. This will seem like a long time ago to most of us. Since ’86, several significant steps have been taken to combat sexual abuse here—increased security guards at the gates, much more campus housing, and the indispensable expertise from agencies such as Barnard’s Rape Crisis Center.

Above all, in terms of rousing an essential spirit of direct protest and outrage, there has come strength from TBTN, which, allied with CMAV, has given us not only sustained leadership but a high quality of commitment that is always evident in the mission statements read aloud at Barnard Hall, as we gather for the march. As one who remembers marching in the civil rights movements and who has taught theories and practices of nonviolent action for 40 years, I want to commend especially the language and ideas, and the civility and the compassion, embodied in these eloquent mission statements.

I have learned from TBTN and CMAV key insights that can be carried into courses on social movements or anti-war protest groups such as CODEPINK. The striking point is that these organizations, inspired, implemented and sustained entirely by students, are inclusive nonviolent movements, models of grass-roots action that evoke empathy and compassion. There are lessons here not only for other colleges but also for how to create social change in our city and country.

At each of the speak-outs following the marches, I have tried to summon the courage to tell my story about that Hobbesian nightmare in Nov. 1986. Yet, in these 20 years, since that first moment on Lehman Lawn of April 20, 1988, I haven’t spoken a word. I wanted to congratulate the extraordinary organizers who somehow keep emerging to energize us—to offer sincere thanks for the empowerment that these uncanny women (followed by men) have inspired.

This year, my last at Barnard and so my final chance to speak out, I will say only this—to the leaders and legions of TBTN/CMAV students who have empowered us all, I want to enforce what you already know: there is no doubt that your commitment to this cause, the immense energy and hard work you’ve invested, will bring us closer to the goal that we all cherish—an end to the scourge of sexual violence. I may not march again with you, but I hope that my three granddaughters will. The future is ours. We have too much strength to be stopped.

The author is a professor of political science at Barnard College.