On Julian Assange, Power, and the Futility of Protest
A rather brief comment on the Assange case as the British High Court assesses his Final Appeal using Jack London's 1908 novel "The Iron Heel," as a pertinent literary example.
The fate of the globe’s foremost imprisoned journalist is currently being sealed in the backrooms of a UK courthouse. Of course, and thankfully, many protests and assemblies are taking place in his defense, as this case will set a remarkable precedence regarding national sovereignty in the face of US hegemony, and international freedom of press, as well as the continued war crimes committed by the American military.
The problem with the movements in defense of Julian Assange can perhaps be better explained with a literary example, specifically the following excerpt from Jack London’s 1908 novel ‘The Iron Heel’ where the protagonist finds himself in a heated debate with a group of wealthy California aristocrats.
For those of you who would rather skip the literary lesson, I will sum up the sentiment here the best I can—There is nothing you can say that will change the outcome that has already been universally decided. There is no protest, no matter how large, that will budge the set course of events in the slightest. The force with which we have found ourselves to face in opposition does not function, nor does it care to, in the realm of language and rhetoric. It knows better than to engage in fights it cannot win. This force deals not in ballot-boxes and bargains but in blood and bombs and lead.
The civilized aristocratic banking elite is not so civilized after all. The men and women carrying signs today in honor of Julian Assange might do well to remember that.
“Why have you not answered the charge that your class has mismanaged? You have talked about other things and things concerning other things, but you have not answered. Is it because you have no answer?” It was at the end of the discussion that Mr. Wickson spoke. He was the only one that was cool, and Ernest treated him with a respect he had not accorded the others.
“No answer is necessary,” Mr. Wickson said with slow deliberation. “I have followed the whole discussion with amazement and disgust. I am disgusted with you gentlemen, members of my class. You have behaved like foolish little schoolboys, what with intruding ethics and the thunder of the common politician into such a discussion. You have been outgeneralled and outclassed. You have been very wordy, and all you have done is buzz. You have buzzed like gnats about a bear. Gentlemen, there stands the bear” (he pointed at Ernest), “and your buzzing has only tickled his ears.
“Believe me, the situation is serious. That bear reached out his paws tonight to crush us. He has said there are a million and a half of revolutionists in the United States. That is a fact. He has said that it is their intention to take away from us our governments, our palaces, and all our purpled ease. That, also, is a fact. A change, a great change, is coming in society; but, haply, it may not be the change the bear anticipates. The bear has said that he will crush us. What if we crush the bear?”
The throat-rumble arose in the great room, and man nodded to man with endorsement and certitude. Their faces were set hard. They were fighters, that was certain.
“But not by buzzing will we crush the bear,” Mr. Wickson went on coldly and dispassionately. “We will hunt the bear. We will not reply to the bear in words. Our reply shall be couched in terms of lead. We are in power. Nobody will deny it. By virtue of that power we shall remain in power.”
He turned suddenly upon Ernest. The moment was dramatic.
“This, then, is our answer. We have no words to waste on you. When you reach out your vaunted strong hands for our palaces and purpled ease, we will show you what strength is. In roar of shell and shrapnel and in whine of machine-guns will our answer be couched. We will grind you revolutionists down under our heel, and we shall walk upon your faces. The world is ours, we are its lords, and ours it shall reman. As for the host of labor, it has been in the dirt since history began, and I read history aright. And in the dirt it shall reman so long as I and mine and those that come after us have the power. There is the word. It is the king of words—Power. Not God, not Mammon, but Power. Pour it over your tongue till it tingles with it. Power.”
“I am answered,” Ernest sad quietly. “It s the only answer that could be given. Power. It is what we of the working class preach. We know, and well we know by bitter experience, that no appeal for the right, for justice, for humanity, can ever touch you. Your hearts are hard as your heels with which you tread upon the faces of the poor. So we have preached power. By the power of our ballots on election day will we take your government away from you—”
“What if you do get a majority, a sweeping majority, on election day?” Mr. Wickson broke in to demand. “Suppose we refuse to turn the government over to you after you have captured it at the ballot-box?”
“That, also, have we considered,” Ernest replied. “And we shall give you an answer in terms of lead. Power you have proclaimed the king of words. Very good. Power it shall be. And in the day that we sweep to victory at the ballot-box, and you refuse to turn over to us the government we have constitutionally and peacefully captured, and you demand what we are gong to do about it—in that day, I say, we shall answer you; and in roar of shell and shrapnel and in whine of machine-guns shall our answer be couched.
“You cannot escape us. It is true that you have read history aright. It is true that labor has from the beginning of history been in the dirt. And it is equally true that so long as you and yours and those that come after you have power, that labor shall reman in the dirt. I agree with you. I agree with all that you have sad. Power will be the arbiter, as it always has been the arbiter. It is a struggle of classes. Just as your class dragged down the old feudal nobility, so shall it be dragged down by my class, the working class. If you will read your biology and your sociology as clearly as you do your history, you will see that this end I have described is inevitable. It does not matter whether it is in one year, ten, or a thousand—your class shall be dragged down. And it shall be done by power. We of the labor hosts have conned that word over till our minds are all a-tingle with it. Power. It is a kingly word.”
- Jack London, 1908
Thank you and have an enjoyable Thursday evening, keeping Assange and the future of the press in your Prayers.
-the Shultz Report by M. Shultz