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The poet Carolyn Forché has devoted much of her career to writing what she calls the poetry of witness. She coined the term in her introduction to Against Forgetting, a 1993 anthology in which she collected works by 145 “poets who endured conditions of historical and social extremity during the twentieth century.” Forché herself had not endured such conditions, but she had seen them. From 1978 to 1980, she traveled repeatedly to El Salvador, where she bore witness to the violent repression of Salvadoran citizens by that country’s military dictatorship.
Forché later called her time in El Salvador a “moral and political education—what at times would seem an unbearable immersion, what eventually would become a focused obsession.” In The Country Between Us (1981), she offered a set of poems reflecting that immersion and obsession. Her Salvadoran poems rang with clarity, and with horror. In “The Memory of Elena,” a meal transforms into “the lips of those whose lips / have been removed, mussels / the soft blue of a leg socket.” In “The Colonel,” a colonel empties a bag of ears “like dried peach halves” on his dinner table as he derides the notion of human rights.
In her new memoir, What You Have Heard Is True, Forché explains how she arrived in El Salvador, and how she came to write The Country Between Us. The story begins with a summer Forché spent in Spain, translating the exiled Salvadoran poet Claribel Alegría. Alegría’s activist cousin, Leonel Gómez Vides, having read Forché’s debut poetry collection, invited her to visit El Salvador. Forché accepted his invitation in large part because she had struggled to understand Alegría’s poetry. Though she spoke Spanish well, she failed to grasp the poems’ “political and historical context, or, as [Alegría] would say, ‘the conditions from which the poems arose.’” In her memoir, Forché frames her decision to go to El Salvador with Gómez as a commitment to learning those conditions.
This framing is crucial. Forché never presents herself as an expert, an authority, or worst of all, a savior. She consistently emphasizes her myopia, reminding readers that “I was at the time quite young, with a romantic view of the world, and I was also an American, which made this worse.” Her memoir traces her journey from political innocence to experience, and in doing so offers a model to others who might take the same journey.
Gómez serves as Forché’s self-appointed guide and teacher, though his methods are unorthodox. He responds to each of her questions by placing her “in a situation in which you might find your answer.” Often, Forché has no idea what Gómez wants to teach her, but in one case, his purpose is clear. Toward the end of Forché’s first month in El Salvador, he drives her to a prison to observe its conditions, instructing her: “See as much as you can. Memorize everything. Especially the layout and the locations of everything you think human rights groups should see.”
In this way, Forché becomes both a student and an activist. During her second trip to El Salvador, Gómez guides her to guerrillas and Catholic dissidents whose messages she can convey to advocates in the United States. She volunteers with Amnesty International and the Universidad Católica’s human-rights office, where, she writes, “I didn’t always know what we were doing.” Sometimes, her role is solely to be American. Once, Gómez’s friend Margarita sends her to a seminary where several hundred peasants are hiding from the military. “You must go there in this moment and [pretend to] be una periodista,” she says. “The army might not attack if they see una periodista from the United States.”
Such pretending is not without risk, and danger is essential to Forché’s political education. When the memoir starts, the poet’s safety is never threatened, but she is always afraid. The first time she sees dead bodies, not long after her arrival, she writes, “I remember the light on the road ahead like a swarm of fish, as if the tarmac were water, and a buzzing in my ears, or a rush of air.” The poetic language highlights Forché’s internal experience, emphasizing her selfishness in that moment: She remembers her own shock and fear, not the loss of life she beheld.
Some months later, on her second trip to El Salvador, Forché is walking with a priest named Monseñor Ricardo Urioste when they see a panel truck stop in the street. “Men were leaping from the back. Two of them grabbed a teenager wearing a student’s rucksack and wrestled him into the vehicle. Everyone stopped, or moved away from where they had been.” This is the only time Forché sees a death squad in action, and she conveys the scene with clinical precision. While all those around her dive for cover, she and Monseñor Urioste remain in place. This time, Forché is in true danger, but she has learned not to let fear turn her inward.
As Forché changes, so does her memoir’s language. Her writing becomes quicker, less inclined to linger. Perhaps to replace the poetic writing of the memoir’s early chapters, she begins including notes she took in El Salvador, which function as prose poetry. One such note details her visit to a place called El Playon, which is “a rock strewn with refuse and sea wrack a body a tin spoon bottle glass purple from the sun a paint can a skull with hair … El Playon is a body dump. ‘Yo lo vi,’ Goya wrote beside his sketches. ‘I saw it, and this, and also this.’” Forché’s descriptions of her second trip to El Salvador read much like Goya’s claim. She strips emotion and lyricism from her memoir writing, leaving straightforward reports: I saw it, and this, and also this.
Forché invokes Gómez to explain her stylistic transformation. After she sees a suspicious-seeming man with an attaché case at Archbishop Óscar Romero’s Mass, she reports the sighting to Gómez, but can’t provide an exact description. He warns her to “guard your credibility. This is something that cannot be recovered once lost … Next time pay closer attention.” Decades later, Forché heeds his warning. She describes her final weeks in El Salvador with crisp rigor and as much remove as she can muster.
Forché left El Salvador days before Monseñor Romero was assassinated, an event that tipped conflict into full-scale war. Instead of returning, she traveled the United States, speaking about The Country Between Us and trying to raise public consciousness of American support for the Salvadoran junta. She wasn’t the only writer to do so; both Joan Didion and Deborah Eisenberg wrote about the Salvadoran civil war, but neither Didion’s Salvador (1983) nor the Central American stories Eisenberg published throughout the 1990s have the emotional heft of “The Colonel” or “Return,” in which a first-person speaker tells a friend, Josephine, how helpless she feels now that she’s returned to the United States. The poem ends with Josephine’s reply: “It is / not your right to feel powerless. Better / people than you were powerless. / You have not returned to your country, / but to a life you never left.”
Forché’s time in El Salvador changed her life completely. She married a war photographer, worked as a human-rights advocate in apartheid South Africa, and covered Lebanon’s civil war for NPR. Forché has confronted historical and present crises in each of her five poetry collections, writing not only about her experiences in Lebanon and El Salvador, but also about the Holocaust, the atomic bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and most recently, the refugee crisis in the Aegean. She has devoted herself equally to poetry and to witness. In “Return,” she wrote of straining “even to remember / things impossible to forget.” In What You Have Heard Is True, she does the same. She remembers as much as possible, and the resulting memoir, once read, is difficult to forget.
Mementos and souvenirs presented to Rajasthan Chief Minister Ashok Gehlot went under the hammer here on Sunday for raising money, which will be paid a
Friday’s massacre exemplified the problem of expecting tech companies to self-police content.
The hate-filled terror rampage at two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand, was meticulously designed to maximize the number of witnesses around the globe, highlighting the difficulty in putting a lid on extremist hate that spreads online.
The suspected gunman did everything he could to make his shooting spree go viral. He live-streamed the attack on social media, wearing a body camera to simulate a video game. He shared a rambling 74-page manifesto espousing white supremacy that was full of memes and easter eggs meant to invite attention from all corners of the internet and admiration from other extremists who live extremely online. The shooter had laid a trap across the internet that exploited the newsworthiness of the attack and leaned into peoples’ inclination to gawk at horror and violence. Even professional journalistic institutions gave in to the temptation to air video of the massacre.
Scrubbing the video from the internet was like playing a game of whack-a-mole. Facebook quickly removed the alleged gunman’s Facebook and Instagram accounts — but not because its algorithm or moderators had flagged the violent content in real-time. New Zealand authorities had to ask for the video to be taken down. Internet service providers in New Zealand rushed to “close off” websites that were distributing the video, but then a number of copy cat sites immediately started popping up.
It soon didn’t matter that the original video was removed. The clip had already been downloaded and re-upped online faster than tech companies could respond. Facebook alone says it removed 1.5 million videos within the first 24 hours of the attack. And those are just the clips they were able to catch.
Friday’s massacre exemplified a larger problem that’s plaguing the internet. Platforms are struggling to self-police problematic content created by its users, while the lawmakers who would ostensibly impose regulations are either too reluctant or ill-equipped to do so — and many in both camps are predisposed to treat far-right rhetoric less seriously than other forms of extremism, to boot.
As the death toll rises — now 50 lives have been taken since Friday’s shooting, making it one of the deadliest terror attacks carried out by a far-right extremist in recent memory — the attack adds extra weight to the question that tech companies, policymakers, and social media users have been asking: How do you effectively police online hate?
The world’s largest tech companies were forced to scramble on Friday to keep the violent screed from spreading. Facebook said it was removing any praise or support of the shooting, and had a process to flag the digital fingerprint of disturbing materials. YouTube said it was “working vigilantly” to remove violent footage, while Twitter said it suspended the account that posted the original video. Reddit on Friday eventually resorted to taking down two infamous subreddits, r/watchpeopledie and r/gory.
Despite those efforts, videos of the attack were easy to find through simple searches online, even hours and days after the initial shooting spree. The swift dissemination highlights how ill-equipped tech companies remain in addressing the vile, racist, and excessively violent content that’s being shared on their platforms.
Took me about 30 seconds to find YouTube videos of the ripped livestream: pic.twitter.com/TFkQHIqQbf— Jason Abbruzzese (@JasonAbbruzzese) March 15, 2019
Moderators already face an uphill battle in keeping offensive and violent content offline; the Christchurch terror attack shows the difficulty of catching deeply-problematic video live-streams in real-time.
For one, it’s generally easier for software to scan text and offensive comments as opposed to moving images in a video. But even when the technical tools exist, policing-breaking news poses unique problems. YouTube, for example, does have a system for automatically removing copyrighted content or prohibited materials, and told the Verge’s Julia Alexander that any exact re-uploads of alleged shooter’s videos would be automatically deleted. But the algorithm can’t be used to tamp down on edited versions of the Christchurch massacre, because Youtube wants to “ensure that news videos that use a portion of the video for their segments aren’t removed in the process”:
YouTube’s safety team thinks of it as a balancing act, according to sources familiar with their thinking. For major news events like yesterday’s shooting, YouTube’s team uses a system that’s similar to its copyright tool, Content ID, but not exactly the same. It searches re-uploaded versions of the original video for similar metadata and imagery. If it’s an unedited re-upload, it’s removed. If it’s edited, the tool flags it to a team of human moderators, both full-time employees at YouTube and contractors, who determine if the video violates the company’s policies.
That process is not just traumatizing for the individual moderators who are forced to watch the horrific footage, it’s also an imperfect system to limit its reach — particularly in a fast-moving event like Friday’s tragedy.
At this point, in theory, tech companies should be well-practiced in the art of blocking far-right hate speech and violence from their platforms. They’ve been having to deal with it for years.
After the 2017 Unite the Right rally of neo-Nazis and white supremacists in Charlottesville, Virginia — where a woman was mowed down and killed by an avowed Nazi sympathizer — tech companies faced intense public pressure to block prominent instigators of explicit far-right extremism. Twitter suspended a bunch of white supremacists and prominent provocateurs — including Milo Yiannoppolis, Alex Jones, and Gavin McInnes — but was hesitant to target other alt-right leaders like Richard Spencer. Gab and the Daily Stormer, two havens for neo-Nazis, were similarly banished to the darker recesses of the Internet. Reddit quarantined hate-fueled subreddits, while other companies like PayPal, GoDaddy, Squarespace blocked white supremacists from using their services.
In effect, individual leaders and groups were targeted in response to a high-profile flashpoint in American politics and culture. But for many critics, those actions were hollow in addressing the underlying proliferation of racist and white supremacist ideas that are peddled online.
And even minimal efforts at reform have come with costs for the social media giants — big ones. As Vox’s Emily Stewart noted after Facebook’s stock saw the biggest one-day drop in history last fall (with $119 billion wiped off of its value after the company reported slower-than-expected revenue growth), social media companies’ efforts to address issues with their platforms garner “enormous backlash from Wall Street.”
The message from investors is clear: They’re nervous about what bad headlines and subsequent changes from social media platforms could do to their bottom lines. If Twitter and Facebook police their sites in a way that affects engagement or cracks down on content, or if privacy controls that ask users to opt in to their data being shared lead to more of them opting out, ad dollars could fall. And hiring workers to increase privacy protections and monitor activity is expensive.
... This week offers a lesson we don’t necessarily want executives to take away: try to be better, and potentially be severely punished by investors.
Many companies only start to take action on long-standing issues when the financial risks of not doing anything become higher than the likely costs they’ll encounter.
YouTube, for example, is under fire for failing to adequately combat conspiracies and prevent child exploitation from being circulated. Its algorithm has a troubling record of surfacing and recommending content that violates its own policies. Major advertisers —including Disney and Nestle — started to bolt earlier this year after finding that their ads were appearing in videos full of offensive and sexually explicit comments aimed at children. In response, YouTube purged hundreds of its users and said it would change the way new videos are elevated and surfaced, following up on a crackdown in 2017 from reports that videos full of predatory comments were being recommended to kids.
Even as platforms have tried to regulate themselves in recent years, some policymakers’ patience for letting them do so is growing short. But the legislative solutions some of them have proposed — or lack thereof — also struggle to match the pace of change in internet culture and the communities that foster extremist ideas and behaviors.
Congress so far has struggled to grapple with — or even understand — the many tentacles of problems plaguing social networks, from tackling the spread of misinformation to regulating how sites handle user data and privacy.
Some members of Congress have been woefully ill-prepared to even talk about tech issues (during one hearing last year, a lawmaker asked the Google CEO questions about his iPhone). And even when they are interested and equipped to talk about regulating the internet, many US lawmakers have been “reticent to clamp down at the risk of harming growth,” Stewart noted:
In a Senate hearing in April, Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-UT) asked Zuckerberg what “sorts of legislative changes” he thought should be enacted to prevent a Cambridge Analytica repeat. Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-SC), who also pressed Zuckerberg on whether Facebook is a monopoly, asked the executive to submit some proposed regulations to him.
Still, interest is growing. In the 2020 presidential primary race, Democratic candidates have vowed to take on Big Tech — Sen. Elizabeth Warren has gone as far as proposing to break up Google, Facebook, and Amazon, while Sen. Amy Klobuchar is expected to make tech reform a banner issue for her campaign.
There’s a growing appetite for reform elsewhere in the world. The European Union took a stand on privacy concerns with General Data Protection Regulation Act, or GDPR, a law enacted last year to compel transparency around the data that companies collect and how it is used. And now some countries want crack down on extremist content, too.
A British Parliamentary committee wants Facebook to be held legally liable for the content posted on the platform. The legislative body recently wrapped up an 18-month investigation into the social media site, finding that it violated data privacy and competition laws. And in the wake of the Christchurch terror attacks, British officials are threatening that tech companies be “prepared to face the force of the law” if they don’t put a lid on the spread of hateful messages.
It’s well documented that social media has played an important role in helping fuel extremism and hate. Just look to the spread of ISIS, which notoriously leveraged and exploited platforms to recruit new members and promote propaganda. But more often than not, US authorities focus on Islamic extremism, even as homegrown right-wing terror has begun to have its moment.
That holds true for the tech companies as well. Even as they worked up solutions to combat ISIS online, they’ve been flat-footed in their response to white nationalism and white supremacy. Last year Motherboard found that while YouTube was cracking down on videos of ISIS recruits, footage promoting neo-Nazi propaganda stayed online for months and even years.
And when researchers from Program on Extremism at George Washington University compared far-right extremism with ISIS online behavior, they found that the growth in white nationalist movements outpaced Islamic extremism by virtually every metric.
The white nationalist datasets examined outperformed ISIS in most current metrics and many historical metrics. White nationalists and Nazis had substantially higher follower counts than ISIS supporters, and tweeted more often. ISIS supporters had better discipline regarding consistent use of the movement’s hashtags, but trailed in virtually every other respect. The clear advantage enjoyed by white nationalists was attributable in part to the effects of aggressive suspensions of accounts associated with ISIS networks.
Part of that could be the difficulty companies face in identifying offensive far-right content. As seen with the Christchurch manifesto, far-right extremism has a unique life online with its own language that’s embedded in memes and “shitposts” and difficult to decipher. As Vox’s Aja Romano outlines in an fantastic rundown of the manifesto’s underlying message, the alt-right has mastered the art of online trolling to “distort what their actual message is, so they can claim plausible deniability that their message is harmful or bad.”
But leaving it unchecked has consequences: The surge in online activity coincides with a rise in real-world hate, particularly in the US. One study found that the number of far-right terror attacks in America more than quadrupled over the first year of Donald Trump’s presidency.
In the last year alone, there have been a number of high-profile flare-ups of far-right violence. A US Coast Guard and self-proclaimed white nationalist had stockpiled weapons and ammunition with plans to stage an attack targeting Democratic politicians, journalists and judges. Last fall’s Pittsburgh shooting targeting Jews at the Tree of Life synagogue left 11 dead. In October, a man sent 13 pipe bombs to prominent Democrats and critics of Trump.
None of those incidents prompted major reform efforts on tech companies’ parts. But in light of the graphic massacre in New Zealand, there’s a chance the conversation around right-wing extremism may change. The staggering violence of ISIS’s campaign helped define it as a terror-driven organization and made tech companies and governments alike get serious about combatting its propaganda online. Are they prepared to do the same with white supremacy?
The Christchurch shooter livestreamed his attack. The video was disseminated across the internet even as platforms desperately worked to remove it.— Ellie Hall (@ellievhall) March 16, 2019
Suspect in New Zealand mosque massacre doesn't appear mentally unstable and will represent himself, ex-attorney says.