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Ideas | The Atlantic

When Writers Silence Writers

PEN America and the authoritarian spirit

6 h

theatlantic.com

Walter Kirn’s Politics of Defiance

If you punch at everything, sometimes you hit the wrong target.

6 h

theatlantic.com

What's Left to Restrain Donald Trump?

7 h

theatlantic.com

Courtesy of Donald Trump, America continues its journey into the political twilight zone.At an April 25 Supreme Court hearing, Trump’s lawyer D. John Sauer was asked by Justice Sonya Sotomayor, “If the president decides that his rival is a corrupt person and he orders the military or orders someone to assassinate him, is that within his official acts for which he can get immunity?” To which Sauer responded, “It would depend on the hypothetical. We can see that could well be an official act.”Sotomayor emphasized that this hypothetical act would be done for personal reasons, not in furtherance of an official responsibility, nor to protect the country from a terrorist. “Immunity says even if you did it for personal gain, we won’t hold you responsible,” she said. And that is precisely what Trump’s legal team is arguing for: immunity even for acts of personal gain, including assassinating a political opponent. (For good measure, Sauer argued that a president would have immunity if he ordered the military to stage a coup or sold military secrets to a foreign adversary.)That is no surprise. In January, Sauer argued at an appeals-court hearing that a president could order SEAL Team Six to assassinate a political rival and not face prosecution unless he were impeached and convicted first. (Trump lost the appeal unanimously.)[David Hume Kennerly: The danger of a small act of cowardice]“If someone with those kinds of powers, the most powerful person in the world, with the greatest amount of authority, could go into office knowing that there would be no potential penalty for committing crimes, I’m trying to understand what the disincentive is for turning the Oval Office into the seat of criminal activity in this country,” Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson said during the April 25 hearing.This raises the question: Would Trump ever actually try such a thing? And if he did, would the Republican Party stand with him?The answer to the first question is of course unknowable today, probably even to Trump, whose mental state seems more and more capricious and deranged. He is no Vladimir Putin, capable of coldly organizing hit jobs.All the same, in his 2:24 p.m. tweet on January 6, 2021, Trump spurred on an already violent mob that sought to hang Vice President Mike Pence. (Immediately after his tweet, the crowds both inside and outside the Capitol violently surged forward.)The former White House aide Cassidy Hutchinson testified under oath that she recalls former White House Counsel Pat Cipollone saying to then–Chief of Staff Mark Meadows, “Mark, we need to do something more. They’re literally calling for the vice president to be effing hung.” And Meadows responded with something to the effect of, “You heard him, Pat. He thinks Mike deserves it. He doesn’t think they’re doing anything wrong.”According to the January 6 committee’s report, several other White House aides also believed Trump’s tweet was an effort to inflame the mob. “It was essentially giving the green light to these people,” according to then–Deputy Press Secretary Sarah Matthews.Additionally, in a recent CNN interview, former Attorney General Bill Barr—who’d previously said that Trump has gone “off the rails,” is“manic and unreasonable,” and has demonstrated “erratic personal behavior”—admitted that Trump would “lose his temper” and talk about people who should be executed. “I doubt he would have actually carried it out,” Barr said with a nervous laugh. “But he would say that on other occasions?” the anchor Kaitlan Collins asked. “The president, I think people sometimes took him too literally,” Barr responded.Perhaps Barr had the January 6 mob in mind.So why would we assume that Trump—a man of sociopathic tendencies, who appears unable to even think in moral terms, who inflamed a violent mob to try to hang his vice president—would automatically recoil from having a political opponent assassinated if the opportunity presented itself?In other words, although it may not be likely that Trump would order a political assassination—particularly if the Supreme Court rules that, as president, Trump would not have immunity—it is still possible. And that, in turn, raises another possibility, and maybe even a probability: Much of the Republican Party, including white evangelicals and fundamentalists, would line up in support of Trump even if he did order the assassination of a political opponent. If you don’t think so, you’re simply not familiar enough with the MAGA mind. You’re not listening closely enough to what Trump is saying to his supporters, and what they’re saying to one another.It’s easy to anticipate just how their argument would unfold: first, deny that any amount of evidence could be amassed to prove that Trump tried to assassinate anyone; second, dismiss the allegations because they are being made by “haters” who suffer from Trump Derangement Syndrome; third, point the finger at the “Biden crime family,” whose corruptions far exceed what we see from Trump and his kin; and fourth, insist that even if the former president did order the assassination of a political opponent, it’s essential that Trump retain the presidency, because his absence would lead to dystopia. Unfortunately, for the sake of America, some people must perish. Or so Trump supporters would say.[Isaac Arnsdorf: Trump has transformed the GOP all the way down]Context is important here. MAGA world has stood with Trump—in fact, its support for him has deepened—through everything he has done, including encouraging the January 6 mob to kill his vice president and being found liable for sexually assaulting and defaming a woman. And those are just a fraction of his legal and moral transgressions. Yet Republicans have never been close to taking the exit ramp away from the former president. The closer we get to November’s election, the more emphatically they will defend him. The identity of MAGA world has fused with Trump’s; to turn on him would be to turn on themselves. They won’t admit to themselves, and they certainly won’t admit to others, the sheer expanse of Trump’s degeneracy. To do so would be self-indicting; it would cause enormous cognitive dissonance. They made a Faustian bargain, and they’re not about to break it. They will follow him anywhere he goes.Where Trump might go in a second term is of course a matter of speculation. But if his actions track at all with his last months in office, with his rhetoric since his defeat, and with the actions his lawyers are saying their client might be legally immune for committing, we are heading to an exceedingly dark and dangerous place. We can’t say we haven’t been warned.

Trump Can’t Stay Awake for His Own Trial

Another reminder that Biden isn’t the only elderly presidential candidate.

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theatlantic.com

America’s IVF Failure

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theatlantic.com

A sperm donor fathers more than 150 children. A cryobank misleads prospective parents about a donor’s stellar credentials and spotless health record. A cancer survivor’s eggs are stored in a glorified meat locker that malfunctions, ruining her chance at biological motherhood. A doctor implants a dozen embryos in a woman, inviting life-threatening complications. A clinic puts a couple’s embryos into the wrong woman—and the biological parents have no recourse.All of these things have happened in America. There’s no reason they won’t happen again.When the Alabama Supreme Court ruled in February that frozen embryos are children, effectively banning in vitro fertilization, it produced an uproar. In response, the state legislature quickly granted IVF clinics sweeping immunity, regardless of what egregious errors they may make. This is the way the debate over assisted reproduction has typically played out in the United States: A vocal minority asserts that embryos are people and calls for total bans of reproductive technology; meanwhile, the industry goes unregulated, leaving prospective parents with few safeguards and even fewer options when things go wrong. Unconsidered are all the patients who want IVF to be legal and also want it to be regulated like any other medical practice.[Read: The people rooting for the end of IVF]People across the political spectrum should be concerned about how underregulated fertility care is. The stakes are high. An estimated 9 percent of American adults have used some form of assisted reproduction by the end of their childbearing years—including in vitro fertilization, intrauterine insemination, and donor gametes. One out of every 50 babies born in the United States was conceived via IVF. Many of the hundreds of thousands of people who show up at clinics each year are desperate; the tissues that they entrust to these clinics frequently represent their only hope of biological parenthood. In a country that claims to care about families, the dearth of regulation represents a failure that cuts across party lines.Kaitlyn Abdou spent $165,000 on IVF and never had a child. Although she experienced multiple miscarriages using artificial insemination and paid for an insurance plan with full fertility benefits, her insurer denied her coverage because, as a single, queer woman, she didn’t meet Massachusetts’s definition of infertility: a man and a woman who are unable to conceive after one year of trying. Like thousands of other Americans, Abdou fell through the cracks of inconsistent state-by-state mandates. So she sold her house to pay for the treatments.At the clinic, CNY Fertility, Abdou struggled to understand her options, because there were so many different potential add-ons to her treatment, many of which seemed to be backed by shaky science. Without large-scale studies and clinical best practices to consult, Abdou felt, like many patients, that the best medical information came from anecdotes in Facebook groups. After four months of doctor-ordered human-growth-hormone injections—a common tactic to try to improve egg quality, though not FDA-approved—Abdou’s right ovary burst during an egg retrieval. Despite the pain, the clinic sent Abdou home. She woke up in agony and then headed to the emergency room, where she learned that she was bleeding internally. “If I had slept through the night,” she told me, “I probably would have bled out and died.”At times, Abdou wondered if the lab had mishandled her embryos; when several blastocysts that had been developing well were suddenly not viable, Abdou couldn’t tell if the reason was chance or poor protocols. No one warned her that she might continue to lose one pregnancy after another: Over three years, she had five miscarriages before giving up. Her care team cited the importance of “staying positive.” But with each round of treatment, the clinic made more money. Abdou received no guidance about when to stop or information about how likely she was to succeed. (CNY Fertility did not respond to a request for comment.)After hearing horror stories from patients at other clinics, about freezers malfunctioning and doctors withholding basic information on embryo quality and ultrasound results, Abdou feels like her experience could have been far worse. “I was lucky,” she said.The U.S. fertility industry is unique in its lack of rules and oversight, compared with other countries and other fields of medicine. From the field’s inception, lawmakers have declined to regulate it. In the 1980s, anti-abortion conservatives blocked initial efforts at IVF regulation because of discomfort with the creation and destruction of embryos, as well as the perceived threat to morality posed by decoupling sex and reproduction. Although Democrats led the congressional hearings fighting for oversight, liberals also feared that restricting what could be done would limit who could access it, and would end up excluding single people and same-sex couples (who are, in fact, barred from accessing IVF in many other countries, including France, Italy, and China).Dov Fox, a reproductive-law professor at the University of San Diego and the author of Birth Rights and Wrongs, told me that Congress “just threw up their hands and said, ‘We’ll let the private sector sort it out.’”American consumers were left with the barest of federal rules—one law requiring testing donor sperm and eggs for sexually transmitted diseases, another requiring clinics to report their pregnancy and birth rates—with no penalties for noncompliance. Additionally, the FDA will not approve techniques that genetically modify embryos. In this vacuum, a patchwork of state statutes and case law developed, creating “a confusing legal tangle” for patients, according to Margaret Marsh, a professor at Rutgers University and a co-author of The Pursuit of Parenthood. For the most part, the industry is self-regulated by professional bodies that have no enforcement power, besides referring reckless doctors to state medical boards.Ironically, by opting out, the federal government played an enormous role in shaping the fertility industry and causing it to diverge from other medical specialties. In 1995, two Republican members of Congress added an appropriations-bill rider that banned federal funding of embryo research—a provision that still stands. In most medical fields, government grants get new treatments off the ground, which leads to rules, best practices, and data-collection guidelines meant to serve the public interest. In assisted reproduction, this is all absent. Wanda Ronner, a professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, and the other co-author of The Pursuit of Parenthood, told me, “We don’t even have independent, peer-reviewed research funded by the NIH to say ‘What’s the most effective way to make sure the embryo is okay to transfer?’ or even ‘What temperature to freeze the embryos?’ We don’t even have a lot of information on these fertility drugs and how they impact you.”Basic facts continue to elude researchers. “We do not even know how many frozen embryos we have in this country,” Marsh told me. The last count was performed 20 years ago and found 400,000. Today, “we have no idea.” Unlike new cancer drugs and novel surgeries, which go through multiple rounds of trials before receiving FDA approval, “a lot of innovation in fertility is clinical,” Sonia Suter, a law professor at George Washington University and a co-author of Reproductive Technologies and the Law, told me. Usually performed on small samples of patients, many of these experiments “don’t even require going through the research process.” This means patients like Abdou are left with sparse information about efficacy; instead, they are often test subjects themselves.Because of the federal research-funding ban, Fox told me, “assisted reproduction grew up less as a medical practice or research than as a business activity.”[Yuval Levin and O. Carter Snead: The real lessons of the Alabama IVF ruling]Ordinary safeguards are often absent. Every area of health care has so-called never events: catastrophic failures that are never supposed to happen, such as amputating the wrong limb or forgetting a scalpel inside a patient’s abdomen. The government requires hospitals to report these incidents—but no agency tracks reproductive disasters. Whereas donor blood is usually barcoded and drug storage frequently requires fingerprints to unlock, Fox points to multiple cases of egg and sperm banks labeling tissue with pen and paper.This lack of oversight extends into almost every aspect of assisted reproduction. The U.S. has no federal limits on how many times a man can donate sperm—leading to donors with hundreds of offspring and a rise in accidental incest between donor-conceived half-siblings. No one holds cryobanks responsible for the information that they provide customers. One bank promoted its most popular donor as a genius athlete with a Ph.D. and perfect health. In reality, he was a college dropout with a rap sheet. According to Fox, who produced a podcast about the case, “They know that nothing is going to be checked and that they can make more money if they lie.”Sex selection, banned in almost every other country, is big business in the United States. Genetic tests paired with IVF enable prospective parents to identify and implant either male or female embryos. This is illegal in Canada, Australia, and every European nation besides Cyprus, except in rare cases to avoid passing on X-chromosome-linked diseases. But in 2018, an estimated 75 percent of American clinics offered sex selection for nonmedical reasons, with the majority allowing people to undergo IVF solely to pick a son or a daughter—despite a 1999 condemnation from the professional body overseeing reproductive medicine. (It has since updated its position to a neutral stance.) Jeffrey Steinberg, a pioneer of the procedure who practices in California, estimates that trait selection comprises 5 to 10 percent of the American IVF market, or up to $90 million annually.New polygenic tests—which sequence embryos’ genomes and promise parents the ability to select those at the lowest risk for obesity, bipolar disorder, and other conditions—are attacked by critics as “Eugenics 2.0” yet are completely unregulated by the FDA. Most countries ban these tests, along with their marketing claims. But in the U.S., parents can use raw genetic data to pick embryos based on whatever criteria they want. They can even go online to find dubious advice about how to choose the smartest, tallest, most attractive offspring.Steinberg defended the status quo, telling me that regulation risks “putting the handcuffs on scientists.” He added, “If there’s anything society should have learned, it’s Keep their hands off of people’s reproductive choices.” Like many other fertility specialists, Steinberg uses the rhetoric of choice, borrowed from the abortion debate, to argue for loose regulations—a tactic that might backfire and imperil IVF as abortion restrictions mount across the nation.Despite its shortcomings, the U.S. fertility industry is booming. People travel from all over the world to get care here. Some seek services that are illegal elsewhere, such as sex selection, the purchase of donor gametes, and commercial surrogacy. Others can’t get care in their home country because they are single, queer, older, or ill.When negative outcomes arise, one could argue “that’s a price we’re willing to pay for a medicine of miracles that fills empty cribs and frees families of terrible diseases,” Fox said.No matter how hard clinics try, Steinberg said, mistakes are the cost of doing business. “Embryos are treated with the utmost respect, just like humans,” he told me. “But it’s never to say that a human doesn’t get sucked out of the window of an airplane or that an embryo doesn’t get dropped on the floor. It can happen. ... Life is life. Not everything will be absolutely perfect.”Reproductive technology can bring prospective parents great hope—which makes its failures especially brutal.Georgette Fleischer believes that she was the victim of fertility fraud. Fleischer quickly conceived her first child using donor gametes, but when she came back to give her six-month-old daughter a sibling with remaining gametes, New Hope Fertility Center, in New York, couldn’t produce a single viable embryo. According to a lawsuit Fleischer filed, New Hope denied her access to her medical records multiple times; when she finally got them, she learned that previously healthy sperm were now nearly all immotile or deformed. (The clinic created the embryos anyway, without informing Fleischer.)Eventually, Fleischer found a paper in the prestigious journal Fertility and Sterility published by the chief executive of New Hope, John Zhang, that documented his trials in freeze-drying and reconstituting sperm. The dates overlapped with Fleischer’s treatment, and the consequences resembled what had happened to her sperm, leading Fleischer to believe that Zhang had experimented on her tissue without asking her.“I was the perfect guinea pig,” Fleischer told me. She believes that she was targeted because she was an older single mother, reliant on both donor eggs and sperm. But even if Fleischer can prove that she was the victim of Zhang’s experimentation, only nine states have laws against experimenting on reproductive material without a patient’s consent. New York isn’t one of them.Fleischer reported Zhang to the FDA and the New York Department of Health, but she may never know the outcome. Her lawsuit laid out 12 claims; the judge dismissed all but medical malpractice and lack of informed consent. She’s appealing, claiming that the damage extends far beyond those narrow categories. But these cases are so hard to win, Fleischer told me, that she couldn’t find a lawyer and has had to represent herself. (In court filings, New Hope Fertility Center and Zhang denied Fleischer’s allegations; neither party responded to multiple requests for comment.)Fleischer exemplifies the vulnerability and desperation that many fertility patients feel, turning to technology when they can’t conceive because of age, cancer, risk of heritable diseases, sexual orientation, or lack of a partner. Clinical failures “leave those people who were already disadvantaged doubly or triply so,” Fox said.Marsh, the historian, told me that under the current system, “infertile people are being robbed.” A lack of clear information means that patients don’t know how to get the best care, scrambling while time runs out. Ronner, at Penn, said she and Marsh believe that reactionary, piecemeal approaches will only make things worse: “We worry that without clear national policies on assisted reproduction, access to IVF and control over embryos could become as difficult in many states as access to abortion already is.” She added that although IVF is available now, “that could change in a minute.”A decade ago, the CDC created an action plan for addressing infertility as a public-health issue; Ronner and Marsh point to its suggestions as a great place to start reform. They also advocate for creating a “distinctly American” version of the United Kingdom’s Human Fertilization and Embryology Authority, an independent body that oversees both research and clinical care.[Read: The calendar of human fertility is changing]Most other industrialized nations provide, subsidize, or mandate insurance coverage of IVF, which gives them a strong incentive to regulate the industry. This could eventually happen in the U.S.; 21 states and the District of Columbia now require insurance to cover some infertility treatment. But even that assistance is uneven: Arkansas, one of the few states to explicitly mandate IVF coverage, restricts that mandate to heterosexual married couples only.Although abortion remains a controversial political issue, the response to the Alabama Supreme Court’s ruling—and the state’s swift passage of a law to protect IVF—shows broad support for family-building technology. According to a recent CBS/YouGov poll, 86 percent of Americans believe that IVF should be legal. Perhaps the uproar in response to the Alabama decision provides an opportunity to protect patients and provide guardrails around the treatments that create much-wanted children, without leaving regulation to the whims of the marketplace or reactionary rulings.America already has a model for regulation: the military. Eight military hospitals provide IVF at about a quarter of the average cost. Security protocols are strict, according to Donald Royster, a retired Air Force colonel and former head of the military IVF center at San Antonio Military Medical Center. Expensive add-ons, including preimplantation genetic testing, are far less common, keeping costs down while dodging thorny ethical questions.Patients also need specific ways to seek relief when things go wrong, according to Fox. Legislation and jurisprudence should recognize the special status of eggs, embryos, and sperm, instead of pretending that they are “lost property or killed persons or a broken contract or even medical malpractice.”Failing to acknowledge this only politicizes and imperils fertility care. Patient safety, accurate advertising, and legal accountability should not be partisan issues.

Why a Bit of Restraint Can Do You a Lot of Good

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theatlantic.com

Want to stay current with Arthur’s writing? Sign up to get an email every time a new column comes out.The Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor has described our times as the “Age of Authenticity,” meaning an era when people are willing to publicize their secrets and indulge their urges, even if such a drive for personal truth involves transgressing traditional boundaries of self-control. Once, this type of exhibitionism was the preserve of a few celebrities, but now anybody can get in on the act: The quest for authenticity has spawned salacious memoirs, reality-TV shows of escalating disinhibition, and cathartic self-disclosure on social media.Such revelations are supposed to be good for us, because suppressing our thoughts and desires is considered unhealthy and unnatural. In psychology, this way of thinking is sometimes called self-determination theory, according to which we are happiest when we obey our inner drives.I would grant that living inauthentically and being repressed do not sound like a recipe for well-being. But the age of authenticity does not seem to have made us happier, either. Quite the reverse. Some scholars, such as Taylor and the historian and theologian Carl R. Trueman, have argued that American society has become far more expressively individualistic over the past few decades. Yet the average level of happiness has consistently fallen, even as reported levels of depression and anxiety have exploded.One possible explanation for this paradox is that the lowering of self-control was an understandable but significant error in our collective thinking, and it took us in exactly the wrong direction where happiness is concerned. Although understanding how this happened won’t turn our whole culture around, it can help you be happier in your own life.[Ed Yong: Self-control is just empathy with your future self]From a psychological perspective, a useful hypothesis of how self-management works is that two systems in the brain govern it: the behavioral activation system and the behavioral inhibition system. The first one excites the desire for rewards and other positive stimuli, and arouses your interest in doing things. The second one creates an aversion to punishment and negative consequences, and tells you not to do things.Generally, you can think about each system in this way: If the activation system rises or the inhibition system falls, self-control may decrease. Alternatively, if the inhibition system rises or the activation system falls, self-control may increase. And what works for an individual also scales by analogy for the group or community.So which combination makes us happier overall—more of the behavioral activation system and less of the behavioral inhibition system, or the other way around? The answer is that both combinations are effective. A team of eight psychologists showed this in a 2018 study on self-control in the Journal of Personality. The team fielded a series of undergraduate surveys. The researchers found that low levels of self-control were associated with the lowest levels of subjective well-being. Moving to a higher level of self-control increased the undergraduates’ happiness.Interestingly, in a separate study within the paper, the researchers also found that low-to-moderate levels of self-control—that is, a slightly below-average level of self-control—were associated with the lowest levels of momentary well-being. Yet a complete lack of self-control was associated with slightly higher momentary well-being. This is no wonder: Letting completely loose is commonly associated with very short-term bouts of pleasure.This implies that if you are a somewhat reserved, self-controlled person, you can raise your sense of well-being in one of two completely contrasting ways: by being more authentic and impulsive or by being more punctilious and modest. Given that choice, the former sounds a lot more fun. The idea that most people would choose disinhibition and that authenticity would become the spirit of the age makes intuitive sense.[Arthur C. Brooks: The link between self-reliance and well-being]The trouble is that the let-it-all-hang-out approach is restricted to momentary well-being, and has consequences for others. In 2011, scholars at Arizona State University studied the correlation of low self-control with irresponsible behavior that makes life worse for others. They found that low self-control, although potentially enjoyable to the one shedding inhibitions, is associated with criminal offending, academic fraud, binge drinking, drunk dialing, public profanity, and (weirdly) public flatulence. All of these behaviors have negative social consequences, some more serious than others, but any will affect the well-being of others.I would hazard this as a partial explanation at least for our national happiness funk: American culture has gone the wrong way about getting happier—by encouraging each of us to relax self-control to get happier, the unfortunate result is that we have become unhappier as a whole, and are now stuck that way. By seeking the short-term mood payoff that comes from disinhibition, we have become unapologetic, drunk-dialing, cussing, farting fraudsters who make one another miserable.That is a broad statement, and not intended to be taken literally. But if you think the characterization is preposterously extreme, have you looked at your social-media feed lately?For your own well-being, and everyone’s, increasing self-control might be much better than lowering it. To propose this at a societal level is nothing new; writers have been doing so for centuries. Benjamin Franklin, for example, exhorted “all well-bred people” to “forcibly restrain the Efforts of Nature to discharge that Wind.” But he had a broader vision, too, for how to realize greater collective happiness. “Educate your children to self-control, to the habit of holding passion and prejudice and evil tendencies subject to an upright and reasoning will,” he advised, “and you have done much to abolish misery from their future and crimes from society.”[Conor Friedersdorf: The case for restraint in all things]As Franklin suggests and the aforementioned research shows, even if others don’t mend their ways, controlling yourself more is a strategy that will raise your individual well-being. It can be hard to go against unfortunate social trends, so here are a couple of helpful things to keep in mind.First, be aware of the forces around you that may lower the activity of the inhibition system in your brain and thus push you toward lower self-control. According to scholars at the University of Toronto and Northwestern University, three bad influences to watch out for are excess alcohol, anonymity, and social power. None of these necessarily leads to antisocial behavior, but they easily can—and so take you in the wrong direction for happiness. (For instance, have you ever come across someone who’s happy to have said or done something drunk that they would have been embarrassed to say or do sober?)Similarly, who expects to find people being their best, most magnanimous selves when posting anonymously on social media? In fact, scholars who have studied anonymity on social media have found that although most users behave benignly, a small subset may demonstrate antisocial, even psychopathic, behavior. If you’re seeking to boost your self-control, shun any social media forum where your identity is hidden. Instead, accept responsibility for everything you say.Social power—meaning, your capacity to influence others—is a trickier subject. If you possess, say, an ability to publish material that many other people will read, see, or hear, you should ask yourself whether your desire to attract and retain an audience is leading you to abandon your privacy. Does what you reveal about yourself evoke in people a frisson of interest but also lead them to hold a low opinion of your taste and manners? How much better to err on the side of self-control.And consider the social influence we invest in leaders. We reduce our own well-being when we hand power to vulgarians. Just as it feels freeing to shed self-control but ultimately leads to negative consequences, so following leaders who act without constraints and break norms might feed our id but inevitably takes us individually and collectively down a dark path.[Read: The paradox of effort]You might think that because I am arguing that the happiest path is one in which we sublimate our true feelings and desires through greater self-control, I am advocating in effect for inauthenticity. But that’s not my intention; rather, I am arguing for authentic self-improvement. The choice to act in a particular way boils down to a choice of who we will be as people—the famous “As If Principle” in psychology shows that we become a certain way by acting as if you already are that way.This is what Aristotle meant when he wrote that “virtues are formed in a man by his doing the actions.” One important choice we have is to behave with either controlled grace or uncontrolled entitlement. Neither option is in reality more authentic than the other because, in becoming who we are through our choices, both paths are equally authentic; both embody who we’ve chosen to be as people. But only one path, that of controlled grace, leads to greater happiness for one and all. So the beautiful truth is that we can elect to become authentically better than we were—and happier to boot.

Did I Help Free a Guilty Man?

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theatlantic.com

I had been avoiding my friend Jens Söring for months. Whenever his emails arrived, I’d open a reply window and stare with dread at the blinking cursor. I no longer knew what to say to him, this man who had spent 33 years in prison for a double homicide he swore he didn’t commit.Jens had been convicted of murder in 1990. I had been convicted of murder nearly 20 years later. But the parallels between our cases were striking. While studying abroad in Italy in 2007, I had been accused of killing my roommate Meredith Kercher with the help of a man I’d been dating for just a week. Jens, too, had been studying abroad—he was a German citizen attending the University of Virginia—and he, too, had been accused of a brutal killing, allegedly with the help of his girlfriend, Elizabeth Haysom. The murder weapon in both cases was a knife. Elizabeth had been portrayed in the media as a psychologically disturbed femme fatale; I’d been called “Luciferina” in the courtroom and “Foxy Knoxy” in the tabloids. Both of our cases involved a confession obtained without legal counsel present. And in both of our cases, biological evidence played an important role. I was freed only after independent experts debunked the supposed DNA evidence linking me to the crime. DNA analysis wasn’t available when Jens was tried—but applied decades later, it could be interpreted to support his claim of innocence. For a long time, I believed the major difference between Jens’s case and mine was this: I eventually got justice.In 2015, eight years after being arrested, I was definitively acquitted of the murder of Meredith Kercher by Italy’s highest court per non aver commesso il fatto—“for not having committed the act.” A man named Rudy Guede had already been identified as the killer, and had been convicted. I spoke with Jens for the first time a few years later, in 2019, through the prison phone system at Buckingham Correctional Center, in rural Virginia. By then, as a writer and podcaster, I had become an advocate for the wrongly convicted. Jens had already been imprisoned for 33 years—longer than I’d been alive. He would die in prison, if the Commonwealth of Virginia had its way.After talking with lawyers and advocates, impartial experts, and Jens himself, I had come to believe that Jens was innocent of murder, though he had admittedly, and foolishly, helped cover up murders in their aftermath. I publicly advocated for his release. And I offered him advice and served as a bridge to the community of wrongly convicted people in the United States and abroad, a community that had been essential to my own mental health. In our many exchanges, Jens came across as intelligent, bookish, and quick to laugh, but with a deep melancholy beneath the surface, an emotion I knew all too well. Listening to his voice, I often felt as if I were peering through a looking glass into another, sadder dimension. He seemed to me like a tragic version of myself. Our bond was more than a friendship; it was a kind of kinship.[Amanda Knox: Who owns Amanda Knox?]But now, armed with new information, I believed there was a strong possibility that Jens had been lying to me from the very beginning. I wrote the email, explaining the doubts I had. Jens was angry. “Let me say this quite bluntly,” he replied, in what would prove to be our last communication. “There is way more DNA evidence incriminating you than there is me … I mean, Amanda, WTF.”Derek and Nancy Haysom were murdered in their home outside Lynchburg, Virginia, on March 30, 1985. The Haysoms were wealthy—Nancy was an artist whose family was related to the Astors; Derek, who was born in South Africa and eventually moved to Canada, had made money in steel and finance. A Bedford County detective named Chuck Reid described the crime scene as a “slaughterhouse.” Derek, in particular, had put up a fight, and had been stabbed 36 times. Both he and Nancy had had their throats cut so deeply that they were nearly decapitated. The crime shocked the local community and quickly became a media sensation. The investigators wondered at first whether this had been a Manson Family–style “thrill kill,” but eventually came to the view that the excessive violence suggested someone with a personal motive. This aligned with evidence that the killer was someone whom the Haysoms had welcomed into their home. They had been eating dinner, and their plates were still on the table. Nancy was wearing a housecoat. There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing had been stolen. Detectives interviewed roughly 100 people in the months following the murders, and only in the fall did they become suspicious of the Haysoms’ daughter, Elizabeth, and her boyfriend, Jens Söring.Both were promising young students at UVA. Jens, the son of a German diplomat, was a Jefferson Scholar. Elizabeth had been educated at boarding schools in Europe. Their relationship had begun the previous fall. Jens and Elizabeth hardly seemed like the kind of people who would commit a double homicide. In any case, the pair had an alibi—they’d been in Washington, D.C., on the weekend of the murders. They had hotel receipts and movie-ticket stubs to prove it, along with a rental-car agreement.But a Bedford County investigator named Ricky Gardner took a closer look at that last item, and noticed a discrepancy in the mileage—429 miles beyond the distance from Charlottesville, where the car had been rented, to D.C. and back. Those excess miles would account for an additional round trip between Washington and the Haysom residence. Elizabeth and Jens offered an explanation for the excess mileage—getting lost—but its vagueness and implausibility invited further scrutiny; the drive from Charlottesville to D.C. is a straight shot on U.S. Route 29. Finally, in late September, the detectives asked Elizabeth to submit fingerprints, footprints, and blood samples, which she provided. A few weeks later, facing the same request, Jens declined. Not long after, both fled the country, on separate flights.Seven months passed before a young couple, Christopher and Tara Lucy Noe, were detained in London at a Marks & Spencer department store, on suspicion of fraud. An in-house detective had witnessed them entering together with shopping bags, acting as if they didn’t know each other while inside, returning merchandise for cash, buying more clothes with checks at different registers, and then meeting up again out front. A call was made to Scotland Yard. Detectives Kenneth Beever and Terry Wright questioned the couple and obtained permission to search their apartment, which yielded evidence of a sophisticated check-fraud operation, together with wigs and other disguises. Authentic passports revealed the couple’s true identities: Jens Söring and Elizabeth Haysom. Detectives also found a large cache of letters the couple had written to each other and a joint travel diary that the pair had been keeping, which indicated that Jens and Elizabeth had been scamming their way across the globe, from Luxembourg to Thailand to the United Kingdom, using false IDs. More intriguing were references to a possible murder and the wiping of fingerprints. There was also a mention of “officers Reid and Gardner” in a place called Bedford.When asked about this, Jens at first claimed that the diary entries were ideas for a crime novel he was writing. But after a painstaking search of the many American towns named Bedford—this was in the pre-internet era—Detective Wright located Ricky Gardner in Virginia, and learned that Jens and Elizabeth were wanted in connection with the murders of Derek and Nancy Haysom. Shortly thereafter, Jens confessed to the murders in multiple official interviews over the course of four days, giving a detailed account of how he had killed Elizabeth’s parents. The information relayed in his confessions corresponded with many aspects of the crime scene.Elizabeth confessed separately to participation in the murder scheme, admitting that she harbored a deep animosity toward her parents because of their controlling behavior and their disapproval of Jens. She said that she had planned the murders with him. According to her story, she had stayed in a hotel in Washington to help Jens fake an alibi, and he had driven to Lynchburg, killed the Haysoms, and then returned to the hotel. “It was my will that made him kill my parents,” she told the detectives, “and he wouldn’t have done it, I’m sure, if he hadn’t loved me so much and I he.”Elizabeth did not fight extradition, and in 1987, charged with two counts of accessory before the fact to capital murder, she pleaded guilty, forgoing a trial. During her sentencing hearing, Elizabeth condemned Jens as the killer and downplayed her own role in planning the crime. Any talk of killing her parents, she testified, had been merely “grotesque, childish fantasies”; she had failed to realize that Jens was taking the idea far more seriously. This claim was inconsistent with Elizabeth’s prior statements during interviews with detectives in London. Prosecutor James Updike’s cross-examination dug into this inconsistency, and by citing passages from her letters, he was able to damage her credibility, arguing that her original statements were truthful and that this new gloss was an attempt to lessen her culpability. Ultimately, Elizabeth was given two consecutive 45-year prison sentences for her role in the murder of her parents.Jens fought extradition, leading to a determination by the European Court of Human Rights, in 1989, that the potentially lengthy process of awaiting execution in the United States, were Jens to be convicted and sentenced to death, would violate Article III of the European Convention on Human Rights, which prohibits inhumane and degrading treatment. Jens was extradited to Virginia only after the state agreed that it would not seek the death penalty.Jens stood trial in 1990, and to everyone’s surprise he pleaded not guilty. Hadn’t he already confessed? Yes, he said, but only because he had been trying to save Elizabeth from the death penalty by taking the blame himself—hoping that his status as a diplomat’s son would yield a relatively brief sentence as a youth offender in Germany. It was Elizabeth who had committed the murders, he now maintained. He had stayed behind in the hotel, thinking he was providing her with an alibi while she delivered a shipment of drugs—a long story involving a debt she supposedly owed to some dealers. Only later, he said, did he learn that she had killed her parents.In Jens’s telling, he was noble but naive, willing to risk prison time to save Elizabeth’s life. Could he really have been so in love that he’d help cover up a murder, lie to the police, flee the country, and then confess in her stead? His story was supported by the diagnoses of two psychiatrists who’d examined both Jens and Elizabeth while the pair were in custody in London. Elizabeth was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder; Jens was diagnosed with what his psychiatrists called folie à deux, now commonly known as shared psychosis, a rare disorder in which delusional beliefs are transferred from one person to another in a close relationship. And Elizabeth was the older and more sophisticated of the two.Updike, the prosecutor, made a case against Jens based on many pieces of evidence: the excess rental-car mileage; those diary entries and especially the letters, which revealed a deep hatred of the Haysoms, fantasies about their deaths, and hopes for an inheritance; Elizabeth’s testimony against Jens; and, of course, Jens’s multiple confessions.And Updike had something else. Although DNA analysis was not yet in use at the time, technicians had collected dozens of samples from bloodstains at the crime scene. Serology tests revealed that many of the samples tested as type A, a number of them tested as type AB, and two tested as type O. Derek Haysom had type A blood, and Nancy Haysom had type AB blood. Was it possible that the killer had been injured in the attack and left behind some of his or her own type O blood? The only suspect with type O blood was Jens Söring.The defense countered that 45 percent of the population has type O blood, but neither that nor the folie à deux defense was enough to sway the jury. After only four hours of deliberation, the jury convicted Jens of two counts of first-degree murder. He was given two consecutive life sentences. Left: Elizabeth Haysom, 1987. Right: Jens Söring, 1990. (Dan Doughtie / AP; Sundance Selects) Jens appealed his conviction multiple times between 1990 and 1998, and the state courts ruled against him every time. Jens then appealed in a federal court, claiming that he had received ineffective assistance of counsel and that crucial evidence had not been shared with him during his trial. In 2000, the federal court also ruled against him. Eventually Jens appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, which declined to hear his case.With that, his routes to freedom were closed, save for a pardon or parole, both of which were unlikely. But alongside his legal efforts, Jens had also been making literary ones. In 1995, with the help of a friend on the outside, he self-published an ebook called Mortal Thoughts, laying out his version of events. In his telling, Elizabeth comes across as manipulative, sexually mature, and caught in the grip of drugs; he, by contrast, was a young and sober virgin, helpless against her charms. Over the next few years, he wrote dozens of articles and several more books, including volumes on prison reform and Christian meditation, gaining him a handful of supporters, including a Catholic bishop. He slowly expanded what he called his “circle of friends,” finding advocates in the U.S. and in Germany. Some of them were critics of the U.S. penal system; they saw Jens as a model prisoner who had clearly reformed, even if he might be guilty. Others believed his story—that he had provided an alibi for the killer, yes, but that he was no killer himself.His big break came in 2007, when a German journalist, Karin Steinberger, wrote an article for the newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung called “Forgotten Behind Bars,” portraying Jens as a victim of flawed and brutal American justice, and endorsing his claim that he had confessed only to protect Elizabeth. Jens’s circle of friends began to expand rapidly. Supporters organized a document archive, maintained a website, managed social-media profiles, and sent information to journalists to lay out their case. They noted, for instance, that the presence of type O blood was hardly conclusive, and they pointed to certain mistakes in Jens’s confessions. He’d gotten Nancy Haysom’s outfit wrong, for instance, and incorrectly described the position of the bodies. This could be seen as consistent with his claim that he had not been at the scene himself but was only repeating what Elizabeth had told him afterward.The strongest argument that emerged in Jens’s favor appeared to come from DNA evidence. This was new, and it was ultimately what drew me into his corner. The DNA evidence arrived in two stages. The first came in 2009, when tests were conducted on 42 evidence swabs that had been collected at the crime scene in 1985. After more than two decades, many had degraded so badly that they yielded no information, but a significant number provided usable results. And none of those samples produced DNA that was consistent with Jens’s. That didn’t prove him innocent, but it gave heart to his supporters. In 2010, the outgoing Virginia governor, during his last days in office, agreed to transfer Jens to Germany, but the action was rescinded by his successor.[From the June 2016 issue: The false promise of DNA testing]In 2012, the president of the European Parliament advocated for Jens to be transferred to a prison back home. That was followed by a request for extradition from more than 100 members of the Bundestag. Then, in 2016, came the documentary Killing for Love, the work of the journalist Karin Steinberger and the filmmaker Marcus Vetter. It was nominated for a major documentary prize in Germany and picked up by Sundance. The following year, Christian Wulff, a former president of Germany, petitioned the Virginia parole board to transfer Jens to his native country. Angela Merkel, then the German chancellor, reportedly lobbied President Barack Obama on Jens’s behalf.The Commonwealth of Virginia was unmoved, and Jens was repeatedly denied parole. But in 2016, Jens’s postconviction attorney, Steven Rosenfield, had an insight that pushed the DNA analysis to a second stage. The insight involved looking at the 2009 DNA test and the 1985 serology test side by side. The two blood swabs that had tested as type O in 1985 had both produced male DNA inconsistent with Jens’s. Two other swabs had tested as type AB—and were assumed to have come from Nancy Haysom—but analysis showed the presence of male DNA, and it was also inconsistent with Jens’s. Based on these facts, Rosenfield and two experts—Thomas McClintock, a forensic scientist at Liberty University, in Lynchburg, and Moses Schanfield, a forensic scientist at George Washington University, in Washington, D.C.—maintained that Jens could not have been the source of the type O blood (because the DNA from the samples was inconsistent with his) and that Nancy Haysom could not have been the source of the type AB blood (because the DNA from the samples was male). Rosenfield made the logical inference that the attack had been carried out by two unknown male suspects—one with type O blood and one with type AB blood. Presumably, both had suffered some sort of injury in the attack, enough to leave blood residue.It was a compelling theory, and soon a host of other high-profile advocates came to Jens’s defense, including the novelist John Grisham, the actor Martin Sheen, and my friend Jason Flom, a founding board member of the Innocence Project. Even Chuck Reid, the Bedford County detective, expressed doubts about Jens’s conviction. Rosenfield filed a petition for an immediate and absolute pardon. The petition was denied.It was around this time, in early 2019, that I first became aware of Jens Söring. In affiliation with SundanceTV, I had begun to host a podcast called The Truth About True Crime, which I co-produced and co-wrote with my husband, Christopher Robinson. Each season corresponded with a documentary on the Sundance channel, and for Season 3 we were asked to produce a series that tied in with Killing for Love, the German documentary about the Haysom murders. I had told my partners at Sundance that I would host the podcast only if I could form my own opinion about the various cases we covered, even if it contradicted the viewpoint of the associated documentaries. Sundance was fine with that. I went into the Haysom case with no preconceptions.In preparing my podcast, I watched Steinberger and Vetter’s documentary. I also read Jens’s 2017 book, A Far, Far Better Thing. I grew sympathetic toward Jens, but the opinions of McClintock and Schanfield were what solidified my belief in his innocence. Their forensic credentials were solid, and both had written letters in support of Jens. I spoke with McClintock for the podcast. He was convinced that the type O blood couldn’t have come from Jens and that the DNA revealed the presence of two unknown men. Jens, he believed, was likely innocent. At the very least, if the DNA evidence had been available at his original trial, Jens almost certainly would not have been convicted.For the podcast, I went on to speak with Andy Griffiths, a former detective from Sussex, England, and an expert on police interrogations. In a 2016 report written for Jens’s team, Griffiths had pointed out that Jens had been questioned without an attorney present, and that his statements to the police tracked a pattern in false confessions by young suspects: They often take the blame to protect others. While some saw Jens’s detailed knowledge of the crime scene as evidence of his guilt, Griffiths focused on inconsistencies that he believed the detectives should have pursued further. As Griffiths saw it, Jens, in his police interviews, was either looking for clues from the detectives as to what to say “or he has derived his crime-scene information from a third party.” He speculated that the “third party in this case would obviously be Elizabeth.”The police had also dismissed a lead about two local “drifters,” as they were described, named William Shifflett and Robert Albright, who were later arrested for a separate murder that occurred in a neighboring county around the same time as the Haysom killings. Could they be the two unknown males suggested by Rosenfield and his team?In my own mind, some of the most convincing evidence came in the form of Jens himself—that is, from the kind of person he seemed to be. I interviewed him many times in the course of producing the podcast, each tinny phone call limited to 20 minutes until the female voice of the prison phone system (“You have one minute remaining”) signaled the end of our time. Jens jokingly referred to that voice as “my girlfriend,” a rather dark bit of humor, given that the only real girlfriend he’d ever had was Elizabeth. Jens was educated and witty, like a professor you’d meet at a dinner party. He was also desperate, grasping for any hope of escape. I acutely understood how I, with my particular and very public history, offered him hope by way of example.In the end, Chris and I produced an eight-part podcast for Sundance about the case. We even butted heads with the network when we refused to play by the typical rules of the whodunit genre—that is, holding back the reveal—and insisted on framing this story as a wrongful conviction from the very first beat.Freedom finally came for Jens, but not the way he thought it would. In November 2019, I was in the baking aisle of a grocery store when my phone rang and a recorded voice announced a prepaid call from an inmate in the Virginia Department of Corrections. The first words Jens uttered had a muted jubilance I’d never heard from him before. “This is the last time I’ll ever call you from a prison phone,” he said.Jens had not been pardoned. He had been granted parole. Apparently, political pressure had finally worked. Elizabeth had been granted parole too: The authorities could not release a convicted double murderer while refusing to release someone who had pleaded guilty to accessory charges. The board’s official reasoning was based on the youth of the pair at the time of the offense, their “institutional adjustment” while behind bars, and the amount of time served. Both were to be permanently expelled from the country. Elizabeth, then 55, was deported to Canada, where she held citizenship. Jens, then 53, was deported to Germany. In legal terms, he was still a convicted double murderer. But he was free.Chris and I were eager to meet Jens in person. When I first arrived home from Italy, after four years in prison, what I’d needed, more than words or letters or welcome-home gifts, was hugs from my family and friends, who had been flattened into photographs and distant voices. I wanted to give Jens the longest hug. The pandemic, unfortunately, crushed any immediate hope of traveling to Germany.Jens and I spoke often on the phone, and I became something of a mentor. It was a strange mentorship, given that he was so much older than me and had spent many more years in prison. But for the past decade, I’d been struggling to rebuild my life in freedom, and had had to do so under the eye of the media, a path on which Jens was just starting out. I gave him advice on interview requests, on therapy, on public speaking, on dating, on self-care, on taking his time. My own instinct had been to rush back into my life to make up for all the years I’d missed. That led me to trust the wrong people at times, and at other times to avoid seeking help. I didn’t want Jens to make the same mistakes.[Read: Amanda Knox and the 21st-century witch hunt]Jens was particularly concerned about a man named Andrew Hammel, whom he described as a persistent troll. He’s trying to destroy my life, Jens told me. He keeps writing article after article saying I’m guilty. I’d experienced attacks like these. To this day, there is a devoted community of Amanda Knox “guilters” who run websites arguing that I’m a murderer. In the past decade and a half, I’ve been subjected to sensational treatment in the press in all its variety: in the tabloids, in books, in documentaries, in made-for-TV movies. Not long ago, I wrote an article for this magazine, “Who Owns Amanda Knox?,” reflecting on how the film Stillwater—a loose interpretation of my own story, made without my consent—reinforced an image of me as guilty. The stigma of a murder conviction never goes away, even after you’ve been exonerated. I told Jens to ignore Hammel; the people who mattered were those who believed in his innocence. I told him to enjoy his freedom and not be consumed by the battle to prove every last skeptic wrong. I’d had to accept this myself.In November 2021, as the pandemic abated, Chris and I flew to Hamburg with our four-month-old daughter to meet Jens and do a follow-up interview with him for our new podcast, Labyrinths, which told stories of people who’d felt lost or trapped and how they’d found their way again. It was an emotional few days. We strolled together through Hamburg, and Jens showed us his first-ever apartment and the decor he had carefully chosen; after three decades in the ugliness of prison, he’d embraced the chance to make his own space beautiful. He reflected on the years and opportunities he’d lost, and teared up while holding my infant daughter in his arms.While in Germany, I also sat for an interview with Charlotte Theile, a German reporter, to talk about my case. She was familiar with Labyrinths, and through correspondence, I’d grown to trust her acumen and thoroughness. A few months later, she reached out and said that she had listened to the new Labyrinths episode we’d put out, “The Ultimate Putz,” in which Jens reflected on how unwise he had been to try to take the blame for Elizabeth’s actions. Theile had then gone back and listened to the full season about Jens that we’d made for the Truth About True Crime podcast, which she said she’d enjoyed.But, she went on, she had then decided to listen to a new German podcast, Das System Söring (released in English as The Soering System in late 2023). The podcast, produced by Alice Brauner and Johanna Behre, featured interviews with Andrew Hammel, the man Jens had warned me about, and with Terry Wright, the British detective who’d taken Jens’s confessions in London. The “system” of the title referred to the way Jens had cultivated a perception of innocence and a network of supporters. Theile told me that she had approached the podcast with skepticism but ultimately had come away believing that Jens was very likely guilty.She urged me to read the Wright Report, a 454-page document compiled by Wright and officially titled A True Report on the Facts of the Investigation of the Murders of Derek and Nancy Haysom. It had been made available in January 2020, after my original podcast devoted to Jens’s case came out, on the website of the German newspaper Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, where it appeared alongside an article by Hammel. This was the first I’d heard about it.“I know that Jens Söring is a friend of yours,” Theile wrote. “But for me it just doesn’t feel right that you linked your case so closely to Jens Söring. He is not a version of you that got to spend more time in prison. His case is completely different from yours. He lived in London as a criminal, wearing fake beards and stealing from banks”—this last being a reference to the check-fraud scheme that had ultimately led to his arrest. “He had lots of criminal energy. And from what I can see, he is still trying to manipulate people.”I did not dig into the Wright Report immediately. I was raising a child and working on other projects. Jens was already paroled and living as a free man in Germany. Looking further into his case would have meant less time advocating for potentially innocent people still in prison. In the meantime, Jens was telling me to avoid Hammel at all costs. Beware, he may try to reach out to you. Don’t respond. Hammel, he said, was an obsessive troll, a crackpot conspiracy theorist. I had grown to trust Jens, so I took his word for it.But eventually, I did confront the Wright Report, prepared to encounter what I was certain would be half-truths and mischaracterizations. That isn’t what I found.When Terry Wright learned, in 2016, that none of Jens’s DNA had been found at the crime scene, and that the DNA that had been recovered seemed to indicate the presence of two unknown males, he was curious about the findings and open to revising his opinion. He began reviewing the 30-year-old case, thinking that if the evidence really did support Jens’s innocence, he would write a letter to the governor of Virginia, urging him to issue a pardon. But what Wright found only further convinced him of Jens’s guilt. His report goes into every element of the case, with a particular focus on Jens’s confessions as well as on the DNA.Wright argued that the DNA results were not exonerating after all. Specifically, they did not indicate the presence of two unknown males, which Jens’s defenders had come to accept as a basic premise. Wright made three fundamental points.First, the evidence samples in the Haysom case were not vials of blood, like you’d find in a hospital lab. They were cotton swabs that had been rubbed on bloodstained surfaces, and the swabs would have picked up other material, such as skin cells, saliva, and sweat. The testing done on these swabs in 2009 could not indicate where the DNA had come from, only the fact of its presence. The DNA from the blood may have been too degraded to capture.Second, although the DNA from the swabs was degraded and partial, the results that were usable appeared to be consistent with one another. Which meant that although the various swabs held different blood types, the DNA on them appeared to come from a single male.Third, the consistent male-DNA profile was highly likely to belong to Derek Haysom. A formal DNA sample had never been collected from Haysom—this was 1985—but that conclusion made sense. The killings had taken place in his house, and his skin cells, saliva, sweat, and other nonblood DNA would have been everywhere, and picked up by the swabs wherever they were rubbed.If Wright’s argument was correct—that the DNA on the swabs hadn’t necessarily come from the blood on the swabs—it meant that the type O blood could still very well have come from Jens. Crucially, it also meant that there was no evidence to support the idea that two unknown males had been present at the crime scene.I was not equipped to assess whether Wright’s theory was plausible, and even if it was, it didn’t prove that Jens was guilty. But the very idea of an alternate interpretation of the DNA shook my confidence.I should have known better than to give the original interpretation such weight, because of the lessons from my own case. Once the prosecution claimed that it had DNA proof of my guilt—my DNA on the handle of a knife, Meredith’s DNA on the blade—every piece of exonerating evidence was cast aside by the jury and the media as irrelevant: DNA doesn’t lie. Well, it did when it came to the accusations against me. Independent experts eventually determined that the supposed DNA evidence was the result of lab contamination. Without it, the evidence in my favor was overwhelming.Yet I had made a similar mistake in Jens’s case, albeit in reverse. Once I’d learned that the DNA excluded Jens as a source of the type O blood—and then, more important, that forensic evidence pointed to a pair of unknown men as the killers—I’d found reasons to discount every piece of evidence pointing to his guilt. I’ve long been aware of how cognitive bias affects one’s thinking. We all bring preconceptions to the information we encounter. That’s why it’s best if a fingerprint analyst isn’t told that a suspect has confessed, and why a medical examiner should not be made aware of witness testimony or DNA evidence. I’ve advocated for practices such as these, but I failed to heed similar precautions. The supposed DNA exoneration of Jens Söring, which had been my starting point, became my sole point of reference. If the DNA evidence proved his innocence, then logic dictated that everything else, no matter how circumstantially damning, had to have some rational explanation. But now, reading the Wright Report—and with DNA findings removed from consideration—I was seeing all of that evidence with fresh eyes.From the very first moment, there were signs pointing to Jens, not Elizabeth, as the actual killer. When the detectives had initially asked Elizabeth and Jens for fingerprints, footprints, and blood samples, Elizabeth had complied. Jens had stalled, offering a rambling excuse about his diplomatic status, and how being involved in a homicide investigation could compromise his scholarship and lead to deportation. Then, a few days later, after wiping all the fingerprints from his car and apartment and emptying his bank account, he’d fled the country.The confessions were particularly troubling. Though it was true that Jens had not had an attorney present—as Andy Griffiths noted—he had repeatedly been given British and American legal warnings, and he’d explicitly waived his right to an attorney both verbally and in written statements. (When Jens claimed on appeal that he’d been denied access to a lawyer, the court determined that there was “clear and convincing evidence” to the contrary.) Jens had confessed to the murders many times and on multiple days, often speaking to the detectives at his own request. He had done so in front of British detectives, American investigators, and a German prosecutor. The story he told was highly specific. He explained how Derek and Nancy had let him into their home and offered him a drink; how he’d confronted them about their disapproval of his relationship with Elizabeth; and how he’d snapped and killed them, even demonstrating how he’d come up behind Derek to slit his throat. He described how he’d fled the scene and hit a dog with the car as he sped away; how he’d thrown away his bloody clothes; how he’d returned to the Washington, D.C., hotel. He even told the detectives that hotel security-camera footage should be able to confirm this last point. (As it happened, the hotel cameras provided only live feeds and did not save a backup record.) Jens knew who had been sitting where at the dinner table, what the Haysoms had been eating and drinking, and how they’d been killed. He even showed the detectives a scar on his hand from a wound he said he’d suffered during the attack.I felt particularly sick recalling that detail. At his trial, prosecutors had produced eyewitness testimony that Jens wore a bandage on one hand at the Haysoms’ funeral, corroborating that bit of his confession. In his defense, Jens had unspooled a counter-narrative—that he’d injured his hand in a car accident. Believing that the DNA findings exonerated Jens, I took this explanation as fact. In other ways, too, I had been predisposed to dismiss potential evidence of Jens’s guilt, especially his confessions. A false confession had helped seal my own guilty verdict, and a part of me had felt vindicated to find further evidence that confessions were not a gold standard. But without the exculpatory DNA, I began to see how many reasons there were to believe that Jens’s confessions were genuine.Jens did not recant his confession immediately, the way I had recanted my false confession hours after I was released from the interrogation room. He kept to his story for four years, until 1990, when his trial was set to begin. Explaining away the confessions had been a huge challenge for his defense. In pretrial hearings, Jens accused Detective Beever, in London, of threatening to harm Elizabeth if he didn’t confess. That story wasn’t supported by evidence, so Jens pivoted, finally landing on the story he has kept to ever since: that he lied to save Elizabeth from the death penalty. In light of all this, the minor errors he’d made—Nancy Haysom’s outfit (he got the right color but the wrong type of garment), the position of the bodies (he got the right rooms and positions but the wrong orientations)—were likely attributable to simple memory lapses in recalling the event more than a year later.The love letters and diary entries highlighted in the Wright Report were also damning. I am by nature wary of such evidence. My own accusers pointed to a short story I’d written in college as proof that I harbored rape fantasies. But the letters and diary entries weren’t creative-writing assignments. In letters written before the murders, Jens had written comments such as “My God, I’ve got the dinner scene planned out.” And this: “I can see myself depriving people of their property quite easily—your dad, for instance. Even more easily can I see myself depriving many souls (if they exist) of their physical bodies (which might not exist, either) in the course of fulfilling my many, many excessively bizarre sexual fantasies.” Jens speculated that he and Elizabeth could use a spate of local burglaries for cover: “That there have been many burglaries in the area opens the possibility for another one with the same general circumstances, only this time the unfortunate owners …”I had not seen these letters and diary entries until reading the Wright Report. Believing that the DNA evidence exonerated Jens, I’d found no reason to dig through circumstantial evidence like this. Now I couldn’t look away.Perhaps most frightening of all was this passage: “I’ve felt this, I’m feeling it now inside me, this need to plant one’s foot in somebody’s face, to always crush … I have not explored the side of me that wishes to crush to any real extent—I have yet to kill, possibly the ultimate act of crushing.”As I read those words, Jens’s face flashed in my mind, his gentle smile, his eyes looking down at my infant daughter in his arms.My inquiries led me next to Jens’s biggest critic, Andrew Hammel. I had at first assumed that Hammel must be part of the niche online movement of “innocence fraud” activists. I had a personal window into this community, a loose cluster of podcasters and YouTubers who seem to believe that Innocence Project lawyers and advocates are working to free killers because they’re hopelessly deluded. “You, of all people, should be distrustful of reporters,” Jens had written in our final email exchange. “And you, of all people, should be distrustful of reports and documents produced by people who are strongly motivated to prove a defendant’s guilt.”But when I actually read Hammel’s writing, including his book Martyr or Murderer: Jens Soering, the Media, and the Truth, he didn’t come across as the troll I was expecting. He was more of a provocateur. Of course, that didn’t mean his arguments were correct. But he seemed to be a logical thinker and a thorough researcher who engaged with evidence in good faith. I asked if I could interview him for Labyrinths. Jens Söring in Germany after his parole and extradition, 2019 (Daniel Roland / Getty) Hammel, I learned, was a lawyer who had done death-penalty defense work for a decade before turning to academia and journalism. He was intimately aware of the efforts of the Innocence Project. He told me that, in his view, debunking fraudulent innocence claims was essential to the work of exonerating people who really were innocent: It provided a record of hard-edged credibility.Hammel made a compelling case for Jens’s guilt, his arguments mostly tracking those in the Wright Report. He also provided important context for the DNA testing. The analysis done in 2009 had been ordered by Virginia as part of a review of thousands of cases. It had not been requested by Jens or his defense counsel. In fact, Jens had refused to file the petition necessary to do more DNA testing in his case. As Hammel saw it, that is what you would expect from someone who worries that DNA testing would be incriminating rather than exonerating.Hammel also told me about the work of two journalists in Charlottesville, Courteney Stuart and Rachel Ryan. They had made a podcast, released after mine, called Small Town, Big Crime. Through records requests, they had obtained DNA profiles from the supposed alternate suspects in the Haysom murders, Shifflett and Albright. They had then asked Jens’s own expert, Tom McClintock, to compare their DNA to the DNA recovered from the Haysom scene. He did, and found the samples to be inconsistent. That ruled out Shifflett and Albright. “I was bummed out, I’m telling you,” McClintock acknowledged on the Small Town, Big Crime podcast. Those specific findings about Shifflett and Albright lent weight to Terry Wright’s broader evaluation of the DNA evidence—that it failed to substantiate any two-unknown-males theory.Hammel gave me one more lead, and it involved someone Jens had never mentioned: Dan E. Krane, a forensic scientist and biology professor at Wright State University, in Ohio. Krane was a DNA expert who in 2018 had participated in a special segment about Jens’s case on 20/20—a segment that leaned in favor of Jens. He had confirmed on the program that none of Jens’s DNA had been found at the scene, a simple statement of fact. But Krane’s expert views, Hammel told me, aligned with those of Terry Wright on one key point. I decided I needed to speak with Krane.In advance of our conversation, conducted on Zoom, Krane forwarded to me a report he had written in 2017 that began by laying out his credentials. He had published more than 50 scholarly papers on subjects such as the use of DNA typing in forensic science. He had testified in more than 100 criminal proceedings that involved forensic DNA. He was the author of a widely used textbook on bioinformatics.“Saliva is a remarkably good source of DNA,” Krane told me. “A milliliter of saliva will have 10 times as much DNA in it as a milliliter of blood. We’re transferring saliva DNA all over the place all the time. If Derek Haysom had sneezed at some point in the past year, before the crime occurred, I’d frankly be surprised if you didn’t find his DNA.” Krane noted that there is no possible test to determine whether the swabs in the Haysom case had picked up not only blood but other sources of DNA. Odds are, he said, that they would have. He went on: “Just because a sample tested positive for blood and you got DNA from that sample, that doesn’t mean that the DNA came from the blood that was in the sample.” Krane believed, as Wright had surmised, that the DNA recovered from the old crime-scene samples was likely Derek Haysom’s.He gave no credence to the theory advanced by Jens and his experts—linking the DNA to the blood itself and pointing a finger at two unknown male contributors. To begin with, Krane didn’t have confidence in the original serology testing; there were discrepancies in some of the notes. But focus just on the DNA—on the fact that the parts that could be compared from the various recovered samples all matched up. The two-unknown-males theory, Krane said, requires a combination of virtually impossible events: Unknown male No. 1 (the supposed source of the type O blood) would have to have DNA consistent with that of unknown male No. 2 (the supposed source of the type AB blood), and both of their DNA profiles would also have to be consistent with that of Derek Haysom (the source of the type A blood). “That these three people would have the same combination of alleles—that’s just staggeringly unlikely,” Krane told me.Could Elizabeth have committed the murders while Jens waited at the hotel, unawares—the scenario Jens had spun? That raised its own set of questions. If that’s what happened, then where did the type O blood come from? If it was from an accomplice, who was that person? And what possible reason could Elizabeth have to protect that person at her and Jens’s expense all these decades later?Elizabeth. When I first started researching the Haysom case, I had identified with Elizabeth, up to a point. She had been cast by Jens and by the media as a manipulative seductress, as I had been portrayed. I recalled feeling disconcerted when I saw Elizabeth described that way in one of Jens’s books. She and Jens have not been in communication and have not seen each other since she testified at Jens’s trial—naming Jens as her parents’ killer and confessing that she had put him up to it. From prison, Elizabeth wrote a column for a local paper called “Glimpses From the Inside”—reflective, diary-like accounts about her own incarceration and life in general. I wanted to speak with Elizabeth, so I wrote her a letter in 2019. She responded from prison and seemed open to talking, but once I told her that I was also talking with Jens, she broke off communication. She has apparently been living in Canada since her release, and she appears to have changed her name. I have been unable to make contact. I wish I could speak with her now.I had given Jens a large platform, and in advocating for his innocence, I had also advocated for Elizabeth’s guilt as the person who had wielded the knife. I had contributed to her vilification as a liar and as the actual killer. It was Elizabeth, after all, who pleaded guilty as an accessory to capital murder. She had begged forgiveness and expressed deep remorse. Her paternal half-siblings have forgiven her, according to a 2023 Netflix documentary about the case, Till Murder Do Us Part: Soering vs. Haysom. Reflecting on all of this, I realized that I owed Elizabeth an apology, and that I owed the families of Derek and Nancy Haysom, and my own audience, more transparency about how my thinking had evolved. In an episode of Labyrinths I released with Andrew Hammel in September 2023, I retracted my claims about Jens’s innocence and said frankly what I now believe: We may never know definitively whether Jens killed Derek and Nancy Haysom, but the evidence incriminating him is hard to rebut—his repeated official confessions; his own words, in letters and diaries; his bandaged hand at the funeral; Elizabeth’s testimony. Meanwhile, the exonerating evidence has evaporated.Unsurprisingly, the release of my interview with Hammel caused strife among advocates who still support Jens. Some of them are unwilling to reexamine their beliefs about what the DNA evidence actually shows in this case. Some worry that I have damaged the innocence movement by giving critics a platform. And after 33 years in prison, hasn’t Jens been through enough? I do agree that paroling Jens and Elizabeth, now both close to 60, was the right decision: More than three decades in prison is serious punishment for a serious crime. But even if my friends in the innocence community never come around to my view of Jens and the Haysom murders, I hope that they will understand why I felt compelled to explain my position—and why innocence advocates need to be forthright when they believe that claims of innocence do not hold up. My friendships with the wrongly convicted have been as important to me as my relationships with my own family. With Jens, my yearning for a connection had influenced my judgment. I am left with a disturbing question: Had Jens created a character he knew I couldn’t help but embrace? I fear I know the answer, but even now, I don’t want it to be true.When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

Colleges Love Protests—When They’re in the Past

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Nick Wilson, a sophomore at Cornell University, came to Ithaca, New York, to refine his skills as an activist. Attracted by both Cornell’s labor-relations school and the university’s history of campus radicalism, he wrote his application essay about his involvement with a Democratic Socialists of America campaign to pass the Protecting the Right to Organize Act. When he arrived on campus, he witnessed any number of signs that Cornell shared his commitment to not just activism but also militant protest, taking note of a plaque commemorating the armed occupation of Willard Straight Hall in 1969.Cornell positively romanticizes that event: The university library has published a “Willard Straight Hall Occupation Study Guide,” and the office of the dean of students once co-sponsored a panel on the protest. The school has repeatedly screened a documentary about the occupation, Agents of Change. The school’s official newspaper, published by the university media-relations office, ran a series of articles honoring the 40th anniversary, in 2009, and in 2019, Cornell held a yearlong celebration for the 50th, complete with a commemorative walk, a dedication ceremony, and a public conversation with some of the occupiers. “Occupation Anniversary Inspires Continued Progress,” the Cornell Chronicle headline read.As Wilson has discovered firsthand, however, the school’s hagiographical odes to prior protests has not prevented it from cracking down on pro-Palestine protests in the present. Now that he has been suspended for the very thing he told Cornell he came there to learn how to do—radical political organizing—he is left reflecting on the school’s hypocrisies. That the theme of this school year at Cornell is “Freedom of Expression” adds a layer of grim humor to the affair.[Evan Mandery: University of hypocrisy]University leaders are in a bind. “These protests are really dynamic situations that can change from minute to minute,” Stephen Solomon, who teaches First Amendment law and is the director of NYU’s First Amendment Watch—an organization devoted to free speech—told me. “But the obligation of universities is to make the distinction between speech protected by the First Amendment and speech that is not.” Some of the speech and tactics protesters are employing may not be protected under the First Amendment, while much of it plainly is. The challenge universities are confronting is not just the law but also their own rhetoric. Many universities at the center of the ongoing police crackdowns have long sought to portray themselves as bastions of activism and free thought. Cornell is one of many universities that champion their legacy of student activism when convenient, only to bring the hammer down on present-day activists when it’s not. The same colleges that appeal to students such as Wilson by promoting opportunities for engagement and activism are now suspending them. And they’re calling the cops.The police activity we are seeing universities level against their own students does not just scuff the carefully cultivated progressive reputations of elite private universities such as Columbia, Emory University, and NYU, or the equally manicured free-speech bona fides of red-state public schools such as Indiana University and the University of Texas at Austin. It also exposes what these universities have become in the 21st century. Administrators have spent much of the recent past recruiting social-justice-minded students and faculty to their campuses under the implicit, and often explicit, promise that activism is not just welcome but encouraged. Now the leaders of those universities are shocked to find that their charges and employees believed them. And rather than try to understand their role in cultivating this morass, the Ivory Tower’s bigwigs have decided to apply their boot heels to the throats of those under their care.I spoke with 30 students, professors, and administrators from eight schools—a mix of public and private institutions across the United States—to get a sense of the disconnect between these institutions’ marketing of activism and their treatment of protesters. A number of people asked to remain anonymous. Some were untenured faculty or administrators concerned about repercussions from, or for, their institutions. Others were directly involved in organizing protests and were wary of being harassed. Several incoming students I spoke with were worried about being punished by their school before they even arrived. Despite a variety of ideological commitments and often conflicting views on the protests, many of those I interviewed were “shocked but not surprised”—a phrase that came up time and again—by the hypocrisy exhibited by the universities with which they were affiliated. (I reached out to Columbia, NYU, Cornell, and Emory for comment on the disconnect between their championing of past protests and their crackdowns on the current protesters. Representatives from Columbia, Cornell, and Emory pointed me to previous public statements. NYU did not respond.)The sense that Columbia trades on the legacy of the Vietnam protests that rocked campus in 1968 was widespread among the students I spoke with. Indeed, the university honors its activist past both directly and indirectly, through library archives, an online exhibit, an official “Columbia 1968” X account, no shortage of anniversary articles in Columbia Magazine, and a current course titled simply “Columbia 1968.” The university is sometimes referred to by alumni and aspirants as the “Protest Ivy.” One incoming student told me that he applied to the school in part because of an admissions page that prominently listed community organizers and activists among its “distinguished alumni.”Joseph Slaughter, an English professor and the executive director of Columbia’s Institute for the Study of Human Rights, talked with his class about the 1968 protests after the recent arrests at the school. He said his students felt that the university had actively marketed its history to them. “Many, many, many of them said they were sold the story of 1968 as part of coming to Columbia,” he told me. “They talked about it as what the university presents to them as the long history and tradition of student activism. They described it as part of the brand.”This message reaches students before they take their first college class. As pro-Palestine demonstrations began to raise tensions on campus last month, administrators were keen to cast these protests as part of Columbia’s proud culture of student activism. The aforementioned high-school senior who had been impressed by Columbia’s activist alumni attended the university’s admitted-students weekend just days before the April 18 NYPD roundup. During the event, the student said, an admissions official warned attendees that they may experience “disruptions” during their visit, but boasted that these were simply part of the school’s “long and robust history of student protest.”Remarkably, after more than 100 students were arrested on the order of Columbia President Minouche Shafik—in which she overruled a unanimous vote by the university senate’s executive committee not to bring the NYPD to campus—university administrators were still pushing this message to new students and parents. An email sent on April 19 informed incoming students that “demonstration, political activism, and deep respect for freedom of expression have long been part of the fabric of our campus.” Another email sent on April 20 again promoted Columbia’s tradition of activism, protest, and support of free speech. “This can sometimes create moments of tension,” the email read, “but the rich dialogue and debate that accompany this tradition is central to our educational experience.”[Evelyn Douek and Genevieve Lakier: The hypocrisy underlying the campus-speech controversy]Another student who attended a different event for admitted students, this one on April 21, said that every administrator she heard speak paid lip service to the school’s long history of protest. Her own feelings about the pro-Palestine protests were mixed—she said she believes that a genocide is happening in Gaza and also that some elements of the protest are plainly anti-Semitic—but her feelings about Columbia’s decision to involve the police were unambiguous. “It’s reprehensible but exactly what an Ivy League institution would do in this situation. I don’t know why everyone is shocked,” she said, adding: “It makes me terrified to go there.”Beth Massey, a veteran activist who participated in the 1968 protests, told me with a laugh, “They might want to tell us they’re progressive, but they’re doing the business of the ruling class.” She was not surprised by the harsh response to the current student encampment or by the fact that it lit the fuse on a nationwide protest movement. Massey had been drawn to the radical reputation of Columbia’s sister school, Barnard College, as an open-minded teenager from the segregated South: “I actually wanted to go to Barnard because they had a history of progressive struggle that had happened going all the way back into the ’40s.” And the barn-burning history that appealed to Massey in the late 1960s has continued to attract contemporary students, albeit with one key difference: Today, that radical history has become part of the way that Barnard and Columbia sell their $60,000-plus annual tuition.Of course, Columbia is not alone. The same trends have also prevailed at NYU, which likes to crow about its own radical history and promises contemporary students “a world of activism opportunities.” An article published on the university’s website in March—titled “Make a Difference Through Activism at NYU”—promises students “myriad chances to put your activism into action.” The article points to campus institutions that “provide students with resources and opportunities to spark activism and change both on campus and beyond.” The six years I spent as a graduate student at NYU gave me plenty of reasons to be cynical about the university and taught me to view all of this empty activism prattle as white noise. But even I was astounded to see a video of students and faculty set upon by the NYPD, arrested at the behest of President Linda Mills.“Across the board, there is a heightened awareness of hypocrisy,” Mohamad Bazzi, a journalism professor at NYU, told me, noting that faculty were acutely conscious of the gap between the institution’s intensive commitment to DEI and the police crackdown. The university has recently made several “cluster hires”—centered on activism-oriented themes such as anti-racism, social justice, and indigeneity—that helped diversify the faculty. Some of those recent hires were among the people who spent a night zip-tied in a jail cell, arrested for the exact kind of activism that had made them attractive to NYU in the first place. And it wasn’t just faculty. The law students I spoke with were especially acerbic. After honing her activism skills at her undergraduate institution—another university that recently saw a violent police response to pro-Palestine protests—one law student said she came to NYU because she was drawn to its progressive reputation and its high percentage of prison-abolitionist faculty. This irony was not lost on her as the police descended on the encampment.After Columbia students were arrested on April 18, students at NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study decided to cancel a planned art festival and instead use the time to make sandwiches as jail support for their detained uptown peers. The school took photos of the students layering cold cuts on bread and posted it to Gallatin’s official Instagram. These posts not only failed to mention that the students were working in support of the pro-Palestine protesters; the caption—“making sandwiches for those in need”—implied that the undergrads might be preparing meals for, say, the homeless.The contradictions on display at Cornell, Columbia, and NYU are not limited to the state of New York. The police response at Emory, another university that brags about its tradition of student protest, was among the most disturbing I have seen. Faculty members I spoke with at the Atlanta school, including two who had been arrested—the philosophy professor Noëlle McAfee and the English and Indigenous-studies professor Emil’ Keme—recounted harrowing scenes: a student being knocked down, an elderly woman struggling to breathe after tear-gas exposure, a colleague with welts from rubber bullets. These images sharply contrast with the university’s progressive mythmaking, a process that was in place even before 2020’s “summer of racial reckoning” sent universities scrambling to shore up their activist credentials.In 2018, Emory’s Campus Life office partnered with students and a design studio to begin work on an exhibit celebrating the university’s history of identity-based activism. Then, not long after George Floyd’s murder, the university’s library released a series of blog posts focusing on topics including “Black Student Activism at Emory,” “Protests and Movements,” “Voting Rights and Public Policy,” and “Authors and Artists as Activists.” That same year, the university announced its new Arts and Social Justice Fellows initiative, a program that “brings Atlanta artists into Emory classrooms to help students translate their learning into creative activism in the name of social justice.” In 2021, the university put on an exhibit celebrating its 1969 protests, in which “Black students marched, demonstrated, picketed, and ‘rapped’ on those institutions affecting the lives of workers and students at Emory.” Like Cornell’s and Columbia’s, Emory’s protests seem to age like fine wine: It takes half a century before the institution begins enjoying them.Nearly every person I talked with believed that their universities’ responses were driven by donors, alumni, politicians, or some combination thereof. They did not believe that they were grounded in serious or reasonable concerns about the physical safety of students; in fact, most felt strongly that introducing police into the equation had made things far more dangerous for both pro-Palestine protesters and pro-Israel counterprotesters. Jeremi Suri, a historian at UT Austin—who told me he is not politically aligned with the protesters—recalls pleading with both the dean of students and the mounted state troopers to call off the charge. “It was like the Russian army had come onto campus,” Suri mused. “I was out there for 45 minutes to an hour. I’m very sensitive to anti-Semitism. Nothing anti-Semitic was said.” He added: “There was no reason not to let them shout until their voices went out.”[From the May 1930 issue: Hypocrisy–a defense]As one experienced senior administrator at a major research university told me, the conflagration we are witnessing shows how little many university presidents understand either their campus communities or the young people who populate them. “When I saw what Columbia was doing, my immediate thought was: They have not thought about day two,” he said, laughing. “If you confront an 18-year-old activist, they don’t back down. They double down.” That’s what happened in 1968, and it’s happening again now. Early Tuesday morning, Columbia students occupied Hamilton Hall—the site of the 1968 occupation, which they rechristened Hind’s Hall in honor of a 6-year-old Palestinian girl killed in Gaza—in response to the university’s draconian handling of the protests. They explicitly tied these events to the university’s past, calling out its hypocrisy on Instagram: “This escalation is in line with the historical student movements of 1968 … which Columbia repressed then and celebrates today.” The university, for its part, responded now as it did then: Late on Tuesday, the NYPD swarmed the campus in an overnight raid that led to the arrest of dozens of students.The students, professors, and administrators I’ve spoken with in recent days have made clear that this hypocrisy has not gone unnoticed and that the crackdown isn’t working, but making things worse. The campus resistance has expanded to include faculty and students who were originally more ambivalent about the protests and, in a number of cases, who support Israel. They are disturbed by what they rightly see as violations of free expression, the erosion of faculty governance, and the overreach of administrators. Above all, they’re fed up with the incandescent hypocrisy of institutions, hoisted with their own progressive petards, as the unstoppable force of years’ worth of self-righteous rhetoric and pseudo-radical posturing meets the immovable object of students who took them at their word.In another video published by The Cornell Daily Sun, recorded only hours after he was suspended, Nick Wilson explained to a crowd of student protesters what had brought him to the school. “In high school, I discovered my passion, which was community organizing for a better world. I told Cornell University that’s why I wanted to be here,” he said, referencing his college essay. Then he paused for emphasis, looking around as his peers began to cheer. “And those fuckers admitted me.”

The Columbia Protesters Backed Themselves Into a Corner

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Yesterday afternoon, Columbia University’s campus felt like it would in the hours before a heat wave breaks. Student protesters, nearly all of whom had wrapped their faces in keffiyehs or surgical masks, ran back and forth across the hundred or so yards between their “liberated zone”—an encampment of about 80 tents—and Hamilton Hall, which they now claimed as their “liberated building.” At midnight yesterday morning, protesters had punched out door windows and barricaded themselves inside. As I walked around, four police helicopters and a drone hovered over the campus, the sound of the blades bathing the quad below in oppressive sound.And rhetoric grew ever angrier. Columbia University, a protester proclaimed during a talk, was “guilty of abetting genocide” and might face its own Nuremberg trials. President Minouche Shafik, another protester claimed, had licked the boots of university benefactors. Leaflets taped to benches stated: Palestine Rises; Columbia falls.[Will Creeley: Those who preach free speech need to practice it]As night fell, the thunderclap came in the form of the New York Police Department, which closed off Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue and filled the roads with trucks, vans, and squad cars. Many dozens of officers slipped on riot helmets and adjusted vests. On the campus, as the end loomed, a diminutive female student with a mighty voice stood before the locked university gates and led more than 100 protesters in chants.“No peace on stolen land,” she intoned. “We want all the land. We want all of it!”Hearing young people mouthing such merciless rhetoric is unsettling. The protester’s words go far beyond what the Palestinian Authority demands of Israel, which is a recognition that a two-state solution is possible—that two peoples have claims to the land between the Jordan River and Mediterranean Sea. It was striking to see protesters playfully tossing down ropes from the second floor to haul up baskets filled with pizza boxes and water, even as they faced the imminent risk of expulsion from the university for breaking into Hamilton.No one won here. Student protesters took pride in their collective revolutionary power, and yet appeared to have few leaders worthy of the term and made maximalist claims and unrealistic demands. Their call for Columbia to divest from Israel would appear to take in not just companies based in that country but any with ties to Israel, including Google and Amazon.The protesters confronted a university where leaders seemed alternately stern and panicked. Columbia left it to police to break a siege around 9 p.m. in a surge of force, arresting dozens of protesters and crashing their way into Hamilton Hall.The denouement was a tragedy that came accompanied by moments of low comedy, as when a student protester seemed to suggest yesterday that bloody, genocidal Columbia University must supply the students of the liberated zone and liberated building with food. “We’re saying they’re obligated to provide food for students who pay for a meal plan here,” she explained. But moments of true menace were evident, such as when some protesters decided to break into and occupy Hamilton Hall.[Michael Powell: The unreality of Columbia’s ‘liberated zone’]Rory Wilson, a senior majoring in history, had wandered over to the site early yesterday morning when he heard of the break-in. He and two friends were not fans of this protest, he told me, but they also understood the swirl of passions that led so many Arab and Muslim students to recoil at the terrible toll that Israeli bombings have inflicted on Gaza. To watch Hamilton Hall being smashed struck him as nihilistic. He and his friends stood in front of the doors.Hundreds of protesters, masked, many dressed in black, surged around them. “They’re Zionists,” a protester said. “Run a circle around these three and move them out!.”Dozens of masked students surrounded them and began to press and push. Were you scared?, I asked Wilson. No, he said. Then he thought about it a little more. “There was a moment when a man in a black mask grabbed my leg and tried to flip me over,” he said. “That scared me”One more fact was striking: As a mob of hundreds of chanting students smashed windows and built a barricade by tossing dozens of chairs against the doors and reinforcing them with bicycle locks, as fights threatened to break out that could seriously harm students on either side, Wilson couldn’t see any guards or police officers anywhere around him. Two other students told me they had a similar impression. “I don’t get it,” Wilson said. “There were some legitimately bad actors. Where was the security? Where was the university?” (Columbia officials did not respond to my requests for comment.)Less than 24 hours later university leaders would play their hand by bringing in police officers.For more than a decade now, we’ve lived amid a highly specific form of activism, one that began with Occupy Wall Street, continued with the protests and riots that followed George Floyd’s murder in 2020, and evolved into the “autonomous zones” that protesters subsequently carved out of Seattle and Portland, Oregon. Some of the protests against prejudice and civil-liberties violations have been moving, even inspired. But in this style of activism, the anger often comes with an air of presumption—an implication that one cannot challenge, much less debate, the protesters’ writ.[Michael Powell: The curious rise of ]settler colonialism and Turtle IslandYesterday in front of Hamilton Hall—which protesters had renamed Hind’s Hall in honor of a 6-year-old girl who had been killed in Gaza—organizers of the Columbia demonstration called a press conference. But when reporters stepped forward to ask questions, they were met with stony stares and silence. At the liberated tent zone, minders—some of whom were sympathetic faculty members—kept out those seen as insufficiently sympathetic, and outright blocked reporters for Israeli outlets and Fox News.All along, it has never been clear who speaks for the movement. Protesters claimed that those who took over Hamilton Hall were an “autonomous collective.” This elusiveness can all but neuter negotiations.By 11 p.m., much of the work was done. The police had cleared Hamilton Hall and carted off protesters for booking. At 113th Street and Broadway, a mass of protesters, whose shouts echoed in the night, and a group of about 30 police officers peered at each other across metal barriers. One female protester harangued the cops—at least half of whom appeared to be Black, Asian-American, or Latino—by likening them to the Ku Klux Klan. Then the chants fired up again. “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” There was a pause, as if protesters were searching for something more cutting. “Hey, hey, ho, ho, Zionism has got to go.”As I left the area, I thought about how Rory Wilson responded earlier when I asked what life on campus has been like lately. The senior, who said he is Jewish on his mother’s side but not observant, had a take that was not despairing. In polarized times, he told me, having so many Jewish and Israeli students living and attending class on a campus with Arab and Muslim students was a privilege. “Some have lost families and loved ones,” he said. “I understand their anger and suffering.”After spending two days on the Columbia campuses during the protests, I was struck by how unusual that sentiment had become—how rarely I’d heard anyone talk of making an effort to understand the other. Maximal anger was all that lingered.

Are White Women Better Now?

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We had to correct her, and we knew how to do it by now. We would not sit quietly in our white-bodied privilege, nor would our corrections be given apologetically or packaged with niceties. There I was, one of about 30 people attending a four-day-long Zoom seminar called “The Toxic Trends of Whiteness,” hosted by the group Education for Racial Equity.An older white woman whom I’ll call Stacy had confessed to the group that she was ashamed of being white, and that she hoped in her next life she wouldn’t be white anymore. This provided us with a major learning moment. One participant began by amping herself up, intoning the concepts we’d been taught over the past two days: “Grounding, rooting, removing Bubble Wrap.” Then she got into it. “What I heard you say about wanting to come back as a dark-skinned person in your next life was racist, because as white people we don’t have the luxury of trying on aspects of people of color.”“Notice how challenging that was,” our facilitator, Carlin Quinn, said. “That’s what getting your reps in looks like.”Another woman went next, explaining that Stacy seemed to see people of color as better or more desirable, that her statement was “an othering.” Quinn prompted her to sum it up in one sentence: “When you said that you wish you would come back in your next life as a dark-skinned person, I experienced that as racist because …”“That was racist because it exoticized Black people.”“Great,” Quinn said. She pushed for more from everyone, and more came. Stacy’s statement was romanticizing. It was extractive. It was erasing. Stacy sat very still. Eventually we finished. Stacy thanked everyone, her voice thin.The seminar would culminate with a talk from Robin DiAngelo, the most prominent anti-racist educator working in America. I had signed up because I was curious about her teachings, which had suddenly become so popular. DiAngelo’s 2018 book, White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, had been a best seller for years by the time I joined the toxic whiteness group in May 2021. But during the heat of the Black Lives Matter protests, her influence boomed. She was brought in to advise Democratic members of the House of Representatives. Coca-Cola, Disney, and Lockheed Martin sent their employees through DiAngelo-inspired diversity trainings; even the defense company Raytheon launched an anti-racism DEI program.In the DiAngelo doctrine, the issue was not individual racists doing singular bad acts. All white people are racist, because racism is structural. To fix one’s inherent racism requires constant work, and it requires white people to talk about their whiteness. Seminars like hers exploded as anti-racism was shifted from a project of changing laws and fighting systems into a more psychological movement: something you did within yourself. It was therapeutic. It wasn’t about elevating others so much as about deconstructing yourself in hopes of eventually deconstructing the systems around you.[Read: Abolish DEI statements]Anti-racism courses are less popular today. This may in part be because more people have become willing to question the efficacy of corporate DEI programs, but it’s surely also because their lessons now show up everywhere. In March at UCLA Medical School, during a required course, a guest speaker had the first-year medical students kneel and pray to “Mama Earth” before saying that medicine was “white science,” as first reported by The Washington Free Beacon. The course I took was just a preview of what’s come to be expected in workplaces and schools all over the country. DiAngelo and her fellow thinkers are right in many ways. The economic fallout of structural racism persists in this country—fallout from rules, for example, about where Black people could buy property, laws that for generations have influenced who is rich and who is poor. The laws may be gone, but plenty of racists are left. And the modern anti-racist movement is right that we all probably do have some racism and xenophobia in us. The battle of modernity and liberalism is fighting against our tribal natures and animal selves.I went into the workshop skeptical that contemporary anti-racist ideology was helpful in that fight. I left exhausted and emotional and, honestly, moved. I left as the teachers would want me to leave: thinking a lot about race and my whiteness, the weight of my skin. But telling white people to think about how deeply white they are, telling them that their sense of objectivity and individualism are white, that they need to stop trying to change the world and focus more on changing themselves … well, I’m not sure that has the psychological impact the teachers are hoping it will, let alone that it will lead to any tangible improvement in the lives of people who aren’t white.Much of what I learned in “The Toxic Trends of Whiteness” concerned language. We are “white bodies,” Quinn explained, but everyone else is a “body of culture.” This is because white bodies don’t know a lot about themselves, whereas “bodies of culture know their history. Black bodies know.”The course began with easy questions (names, what we do, what we love), and an icebreaker: What are you struggling with or grappling with related to your whiteness? We were told that our answers should be “as close to the bone as possible, as naked, as emotionally revealing.” We needed to feel uncomfortable.One woman loved gardening. Another loved the sea. People said they felt exhausted by constantly trying to fight their white supremacy. A woman with a biracial child said she was scared that her whiteness could harm her child. Some expressed frustration. It was hard, one participant said, that after fighting the patriarchy for so long, white women were now “sort of being told to step aside.” She wanted to know how to do that without feeling resentment. The woman who loved gardening was afraid of “being a middle-aged white woman and being called a Karen.”A woman who worked in nonprofits admitted that she was struggling to overcome her own skepticism. Quinn picked up on that: How did that skepticism show up? “Wanting to say, ‘Prove it.’ Are we sure that racism is the explanation for everything?”[John McWhorter: The dehumanizing condescension of White Fragility]She was nervous, and that was good, Quinn said: “It’s really an important gauge, an edginess of honesty and vulnerability—like where it kind of makes you want to throw up.”One participant was a diversity, equity, and inclusion manager at a consulting firm, and she was struggling with how to help people of color while not taking up space as a white person. It was hard to center and decenter whiteness at the same time.A woman from San Francisco had started crying before she even began speaking. “I’m here because I’m a racist. I’m here because my body has a trauma response to my own whiteness and other people’s whiteness.” A woman who loved her cats was struggling with “how to understand all the atrocities of being a white body.” Knowing that her very existence perpetuated whiteness made her feel like a drag on society. “The darkest place I go is thinking it would be better if I weren’t here. It would at least be one less person perpetuating these things.”The next day we heard from DiAngelo herself. Quinn introduced her as “transformative for white-bodied people across the world.” DiAngelo is quite pretty, and wore a mock turtleneck and black rectangular glasses. She started by telling us that she would use the term people of color, but also that some people of color found the term upsetting. She would therefore vary the terms she used, rotating through imperfect language. Sometimes people of color, other times racialized, to indicate that race is not innate and rather is something that has been done to someone. Sometimes she would use the acronym BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, people of color), but she would then make a conscious grammatical mistake: “If I say ‘BIPOC,’ I find that’s a kind of harsh acronym. I usually add people at the end to humanize it a bit, even though grammatically that’s not correct,” she said.Language is a tricky thing for the movement. The idea is that you should be open and raw when you speak, but you can get so much wrong. It’s no wonder that even Robin DiAngelo herself is worried. (At one point she recommended a book by Reni Eddo-Lodge—“a Black Brit,” DiAngelo said. For a moment she looked scared. “I hope that’s not an offensive term.” Quinn chimed in to say she thought it was okay, but DiAngelo looked introspective. “It sounds harsh. The Brit part sounded harsh.”)DiAngelo wanted to remind us that she is white. She emphasized the wh—, giving the word a lushness and intensity. “I’m very clear today that I am white, that I have a white worldview. I have a white frame of reference. I move through the world with a white experience.”She introduced some challenges. First was white people’s “lack of humility”: “If you are white and you have not devoted years, years—not that you read some books last summer—to sustained study, struggle, and work and practice and mistake making and relationship building, your opinions while you have them are necessarily uninformed and superficial.”“Challenge No. 2 is the precious ideology of individualism, the idea that every one of us is unique and special.”She prepared us for what would come next: “I will be generalizing about white people.” She was sharing her screen and showed us an image of middle-aged white women: “This is the classic board of a nonprofit.” She threw up a picture of high-school students in a local paper with the headline “Outstanding Freshmen Join Innovative Teacher-Education Program.” Almost all the teenagers were white. “This education program was not and could not have been innovative. Our educational system is probably one of the most efficient, effective mechanisms for the reproduction of racial inequality.” Lingering on the picture, she asked, “Do you feel the weight of that whiteness?”[From the September 2021 issue: Robin DiAngelo and the problem with anti-racist self-help]Another image. It was a white man. “I don’t know who that is,” she said. “I just Googled white guy, but most white people live segregated lives.”When someone calls a white person out as racist, she told us, the white person will typically deny it. “Denying, arguing, withdrawing, crying. ‘I don’t understand.’ Seeking forgiveness. ‘I feel so bad, I feel so bad. Tell me you still love me.’” She paused. “Emotions are political. We need to build our stamina to endure some shame, some guilt,” she said. Quinn broke in to say that intentions are the province of the privileged. But consequences are the province of the subjugated.Someone who has integrated an anti-racist perspective, DiAngelo told us, should be able to say: “I hold awareness of my whiteness in all settings, and it guides how I engage. I raise issues about racism over and over, both in public and in private … You want to go watch a movie with me? You’re going to get my analysis of how racism played in that movie. I have personal relationships and know the private lives of a range of people of color, including Black people. And there are also people of color in my life who I specifically ask to coach me, and I pay them for their time.”I was surprised by this idea that I should pay Black friends and acquaintances by the hour to tutor me—it sounded a little offensive. But then I considered that if someone wanted me to come to their house and talk with them about their latent feelings of homophobia, I wouldn’t mind being Venmoed afterward.When DiAngelo was done, Quinn asked if we had questions. Very few people did, and that was disappointing—the fact that white bodies had nothing to say about a profound presentation. Silence and self-consciousness were part of the problem. “People’s lives are on the line. This is life or death for bodies of culture.” We needed to work on handling criticism. If it made you shake, that was good.One of the few men in the group said he felt uncomfortable being told to identify as a racist. Here he’d just been talking with all of his friends about not being racist. Now he was going to “say that I might have been wrong here.” He noticed he felt “resistance to saying ‘I’m racist.’”Quinn understood; that was normal. He just needed to try again, say “I am a racist” and believe it. The man said: “I am racist.” What did he feel? He said he was trying not to fight it. Say it again. “I am racist.”“Do you feel sadness or grief?”“Sadness and grief feel true,” he said.“That’s beautiful,” Quinn said.Some members of the group were having a breakthrough. Stacy said she was “seeing them finally … Like, wow, are there moments when this white body chooses to see a body of culture when it isn’t dangerous for them?” One woman realized she was “a walking, talking node of white supremacy.” Another finally saw how vast whiteness was: “So vast and so, so big.”For a while, a dinner series called Race to Dinner for white women to talk about their racism was very popular, though now it seems a little try-hard. The hosts—Saira Rao and Regina Jackson—encourage women who have paid up to $625 a head to abandon any notion that they are not racist. At one point Rao, who is Indian American, and Jackson, who is Black, publicized the dinners with a simple message: “Dear white women: You cause immeasurable pain and damage to Black, Indigenous and brown women. We are here to sit down with you to candidly discuss how *exactly* you cause this pain and damage.”One could also attend a workshop called “What’s Up With White Women? Unpacking Sexism and White Privilege Over Lunch,” hosted by the authors of What’s Up With White Women? Unpacking Sexism and White Privilege in Pursuit of Racial Justice (the authors are two white women). Or you could go to “Finding Freedom: White Women Taking On Our Own White Supremacy,” hosted by We Are Finding Freedom (a for-profit run by two white women). The National Association of Social Workers’ New York City chapter advertised a workshop called “Building White Women’s Capacity to Do Anti-racism Work” (hosted by the founder of U Power Change, who is a white woman).So many of the workshops have been run by and aimed at white women. White women specifically seem very interested in these courses, perhaps because self-flagellation is seen as a classic female virtue. The hated archetype of the anti-racist movement is the Karen. No real equivalent exists for men. Maybe the heavily armed prepper comes close, but he’s not quite the same, in that a Karen is someone you’ll run into in a coffee shop, and a Karen is also someone who is disgusted with herself. Where another generation of white women worked to hate their bodies, my generation hates its “whiteness” (and I don’t mean skin color, necessarily, as this can also be your internalized whiteness). People are always demanding that women apologize for something and women seem to love doing it. Women will pay for the opportunity. We’ll thank you for it.[Tyler Austin Harper: I’m a black professor. You don’t need to bring that up.]After DiAngelo, I went to another course, “Foundations in Somatic Abolitionism.” That one was more about what my white flesh itself means and how to physically manifest anti-racism—“embodying anti-racism.” Those sessions were co-led by Resmaa Menakem, a therapist and the author of My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies.Menakem stressed how important it was not to do his exercises with people of color, because it would wound them: “Do not have bodies of culture in a group of white bodies. White bodies with white bodies and bodies of culture with bodies of culture.”The harm caused by processing your whiteness with a person of color had also been stressed in the previous course—the book DiAngelo had recommended by Reni Eddo-Lodge was called Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race. But at the same time, Quinn had said that we should talk with people of different races about our journey and let them guide us. It all seemed a bit contradictory.One participant had a question for Menakem about community building. She was concerned because she had a mixed-race group of friends, and she wanted to be sure she wasn’t harming her Black friends by talking about this work.“There’s no way you’re going to be able to keep Black women safe,” Menakem said. “If you’re talking about race, if race is part of the discussion, those Black women are going to get injured in the process.”“That’s my worry,” she said. The problem was that she and her friends were actually already in “like, an anti-racism study group.” Menakem was definitive: “Don’t do that,” he said. “I don’t want white folks gazing at that process.”A few years have passed since I was in these workshops, and I wonder if the other participants are “better” white people now. What would that even mean, exactly? Getting outside their ethnic tribe—or the opposite?At one point Menakem intoned, “All white bodies cause racialized stress and wounding to bodies of culture. Everybody say it. ‘All white bodies cause racialized stress and wounding to bodies of culture.’” We said it, over and over again. I collapsed into it, thinking: I am careless; I am selfish; I do cause harm. The more we said it, the more it started to feel like a release. It felt so sad. But it also—and this seemed like a problem—felt good.What if fighting for justice could just be a years-long confessional process and didn’t require doing anything tangible at all? What if I could defeat white supremacy from my lovely living room, over tea, with other white people? Personally I don’t think that’s how it works. I’m not sold. But maybe my whiteness has blinded me. The course wrapped up, and Menakem invited us all to an upcoming two-day workshop.This essay is adapted from the forthcoming book, Morning After the Revolution: Dispatches from the Wrong Side of History.

Colleges Are Failing the Free Speech Test

Too many leaders are failing to uphold the First Amendment rights they claim to champion.

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theatlantic.com

Israel Is Lonely in the Dock

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theatlantic.com

Israel has been convicted of genocide by protesters at Columbia and UCLA, but its genocide case before the International Court of Justice is still pending. Israel remains officially aghast that it, and only it, is subject to judicial proceedings for the crime of genocide—and that the ICJ’s rulings so far have implied that the judges think Israel might be guilty of the crime of crimes. According to reports this weekend, the International Criminal Court—a separate body that hears cases against individuals—is preparing arrest warrants for Israeli officials and possibly Hamas leaders. In the ICJ, Israel stands alone.In January, the judges stopped short of ordering Israel to stop fighting in Gaza, but they voted 15–2 to remind Israel of its obligations under the Genocide Convention. Among the judges voting with the majority was the German jurist Georg Nolte. His written opinion was curiously apologetic. He called the whole situation, including the atrocities committed by Hamas on October 7, “apocalyptic.” He noted, correctly, that the case before him was not about “possible violations of the Genocide Convention by persons associated with Hamas.” The ICJ hears cases between and against states, and Hamas isn’t one. “While these limitations may be unsatisfactory, the Court is bound to respect them,” he wrote. “I would like to recall, however, that persons associated with Hamas remain responsible for any acts of genocide that they may have committed.”[James Smith: The genocide double standard]Was this a coded suggestion? Without consideration of the October 7 attacks, something is missing from the ICJ proceedings, and Nolte is not the only one to sense an omission. The case is going forward almost as if the Gaza war were not preceded by, and in retaliation for, an attack that itself resembled genocide. Israel’s defenders, including its legal team at the ICJ, have complained that the proceedings tell only half the story, and that a full assessment of the facts would demand consideration of Hamas’s actions, too.There is a simple remedy for this problem: Charge Palestine with genocide, and let the ICJ hear both cases at once.The idea is not mine. I first heard it from David J. Scheffer, a senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations who served in the Clinton administration as ambassador at large for war-crimes issues. At least three of the judges’ opinions, he told me, suggested that they were “uncomfortable arriving at a determination on the merits of this case, when a large component of the entire situation is not on the table.” Nolte hinted at this view most strongly. The declarations of judges from Uganda and India also noted the absence, as did the judge designated by Israel, Aharon Barak. Scheffer said a parallel case against Palestine “would be to the advantage of the court and, frankly, facilitate their ability to reach a decision” that enjoyed a broad legitimacy.Every international lawyer I spoke with about this idea called it wild and implausible. Foremost among the objections is the fact that the international representative of the state of Palestine is the Palestinian Authority, not Hamas. The PA is not just not Hamas—it is directly opposed to Hamas, which slaughtered PA members when it seized control of Gaza in 2007.Irrelevant, Scheffer says. “Hamas members are nationals of the state of Palestine, which is party to the Genocide Convention.” The Genocide Convention obligates its parties (including Israel and most other countries) to prevent, investigate, and punish genocidal acts. The failure to prevent and punish was enough to convict Serbia of genocide in a case before the ICJ in 2007. If Hamas committed genocide on October 7, then Palestine was obligated to stop it and punish its culpable members. Palestine has manifestly failed to do so, with even token gestures. Palestine “is supposed to prevent you from committing genocide, even if you’re a terrorist,” Sheffer told me. “Its duty is to prevent and punish genocide. And I don’t think there’s a record of any punishment [by the PA] of any Hamas member.”Others doubted that Palestine was even subject to the ICJ’s jurisdiction, because the state of Palestine is not a member of the United Nations General Assembly. It is a “nonmember observer state.” Sheffer points out that this question comes close to being resolved by a statement, helpfully posted on the ICJ’s website, from the state of Palestine itself, consenting to the ICJ’s jurisdiction. In 2018, Palestine went to the court to object to the Trump administration’s decision to move the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. In doing so, it declared that it “accepts all the obligations of a Member of the United Nations” with respect to the ICJ. Moreover, Article IX of the Genocide Convention—which Palestine joined in 2014, and Israel joined in 1950—specifies that the ICJ will hear any cases concerning genocide.Eliav Lieblich, an international-law professor at Tel Aviv University and a critic of Israel’s conduct of the Gaza war, pronounced the idea of instituting a genocide case against Palestine “theoretically interesting” but “a political nonstarter.” Cases have to be brought to the court by a state, as South Africa did against Israel. Lieblich noted that any state bringing a case against Palestine would, in effect, be recognizing the Palestinian state. You can’t prosecute a state whose existence you deny. That catch-22 favors Palestine: Countries that recognize Palestine tend to be on Palestine’s side, and therefore disinclined to prosecute it at the ICJ.[Graeme Wood: Israel’s bitter bind]But plenty of countries could still bring the case. Of the 193 members of the UN General Assembly, 151 have joined the Genocide Convention. Of those, more than 100 recognize the state of Palestine. Remove from that list the countries that are so pro-Palestine that they would never bring such a case, and at least 30 countries remain, including Cambodia, Paraguay, and Poland.Any of these countries could start proceedings. But who would want to? (“We have enough problems,” one official from a country on the list replied when I asked if his country would be game.) Longtime critics of Israel have treated South Africa as heroic for stepping up to prosecute Israel. Any country that prosecuted Palestine would probably risk the opposite effect on its reputation.But Scheffer urges countries to think strategically about the effect of bringing a case against Palestine. Doing so would greatly influence the proceedings against Israel, he says, and that influence “is not necessarily to the detriment of South Africa’s position.” Israel’s complaint that it is lonely in the dock vanishes instantly if it has company. Judges would be more inclined to rule against Israel, Scheffer suggests, if they did not feel that they were singling out the Jewish state. “If they could also look at the evidence regarding Hamas and say there is also a violation by the state of Palestine, that would be a much more comfortable position for judges to take.”And it is far from certain that the court would convict Palestine. Palestine could defend itself by saying that it failed to prevent genocide because it was itself prevented from doing so by Israel, through its occupation of the West Bank and hamstringing of the Palestinian Authority’s capacity to act. Eliav Lieblich noted that in other international courts, a state’s duties are lightened or relieved when its territory is controlled by another, stronger state. Israel would not relish having to observe this defense.And, finally, the ICJ imposes very high burdens on the prosecution in genocide cases. The prosecution must demonstrate the intent to destroy a protected group, and the absence of plausible nongenocidal intents that might explain the behavior of the accused. Could a prosecutor show that the only possible rationale for Hamas’s actions on October 7 was to commit genocide against Jews? Could Palestine convince the judges that Hamas was instead attempting to resist Israel’s occupation, and that if Hamas intended genocide, it would have planned its operation differently? If so, Palestine, and by extension Hamas, would likely be acquitted.Israel has at its disposal a similar defense. Might the death and suffering of Gazans be attributable not to an intent to wipe them from the Earth, but to a desire to free hostages and defend itself against a terror group that commits flagrant war crimes, vows to keep doing so, and uses civilians as shields? If so, Israel, too, stands a good chance of acquittal.One frequently noted shortcoming of the International Court of Justice, and of international law more broadly, is that its justice is applied unevenly (and often by the strong against the weak). Israel is frustrated that, at the ICJ, it seems to be allowed only to lose, while its wartime adversary remains beyond judgment of any type. The verdicts would not depend on each other—one party could be guilty and the other innocent—but the ICJ’s legitimacy does seem to be tied to the willingness of the court, and the states before it, to punish potential violators of all types, and not just those vilified, rightly or wrongly, in the current wave of fashionable opinion.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me 30 Years Ago

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theatlantic.com

In 1990, I was among the most unremarkable, underachieving, unimpressive 19-year-olds you could have stumbled across. Stoned more often than studying, I drank copious amounts of beer, smoked Camels, delivered pizza. My workouts consisted of dragging my ass out of bed and sprinting to class—usually late and unprepared.My high-school guidance counselor had had good reason to tell my deflated parents that there was no way I was college-bound: I graduated in the bottom third of my 100-person class at Lourdes Academy in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. I had to attend the Menasha extension of the University of Wisconsin, a two-year school, just to smuggle myself into the University of Wisconsin at Oshkosh, a four-year school in my hometown. A year into that, I was staring at a 1.491 GPA and making the guidance counselor’s case daily, unambiguously, emphatically. I was one more wasted—literally and figuratively—semester away from getting the boot. This article has been adapted from VandeHei’s new book, Just the Good Stuff. Then I stumbled into a pair of passions: journalism and politics. Suddenly I had an intense interest in two new-to-me things that, for reasons I cannot fully explain, came naturally. My twin interests were animated by my innate mischievousness, contrarian impulses, long poker nights, antiestablishment snobbery, and ease with people of all stripes at dive bars. These passions launched me on a wild, wholly unforeseeable ride through presidential impeachments and congressional coups, aboard Air Force One, onstage moderating a presidential debate, inside an Oval Office lunch with Donald Trump, on TV, and at the helm of two successful media start-ups: Politico and Axios.Thirty years later, I am running Axios, and fanatical about health and self-discipline. My marriage is strong. My kids and family seem to like me. I still enjoy beer, and tequila, and gin, and bourbon. But I feel that I have my act together more often than not—at least enough to write what I wish someone had written for me 30 years ago, a straightforward guide to tackling the challenges of life.[Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz: What the longest study on human happiness found is the key to a good life]An inherent hubris comes in offering this kind of advice, as I do in my new book, Just the Good Stuff. You naturally come off as arrogant or a know-it-all. I am acutely aware of the kind people, awesome family, and twists of fate that landed me here. And I am like so many others: an imperfect, middle-of-the-pack, small-town guy who worked hard, who never lost sight of life’s serendipity, who feels blessed to share with others what others—or life’s face slaps—shared with me.It is nonsense that to shine, you need to go to a fancy school, bootlick bosses, or pay your dues at soul-sucking jobs working for bad people. You do not need to get 1500 on your SAT or to have a sky-high IQ or family connections. You don’t even need sparkling talents. You simply need to want to construct goodness with whatever life throws at you. This starts by grounding yourself with unbreakable core values and then watching, learning, and copying those who do it—and get it—right. But it also includes watching and studying those who screw it up. You need to find your own passions, not have them imposed by others. Then outwork everyone in pursuit of shaping your destiny—your own personal greatness—on your terms, by your measures, at your pace.My own life is littered with mistakes. But I learned something from every dumb move and used it to try to get the big things right. Five decades in, that is what matters most to me: cutting myself slack on my daily sins or stumbles so I can focus on the good stuff. [Read: How to succeed at failure]For me, that list includes pursuing deep, meaningful, unconditional relationships with my kids; a healthy, resilient marriage; strong, loving relationship with my parents and siblings; a few deep and durable friendships; faith and connection beyond myself; and doing consequential work with people I enjoy and admire.I’ve often fallen short of these goals, and so I’ve learned the value of grace. We’re all deeply flawed, wounded, selfish, clueless, and mean at different times. It does not make us bad. It makes us normal. That’s why we need to extend grace to others, and to ourselves.I have blown many months beating myself up for being a selfish husband or an inattentive son or a harsh leader or an absent friend. And all of those things were often true. But life is not measured by a moment. In the end, I want to be able to say what we should all be able to say about ourselves: I learned a little every day, tried to do the next right thing, and got the big things right.This article has been adapted from Jim VandeHei’s new book, Just the Good Stuff.

When Patients Do Their Own Research

At its best, medicine will be a process of shared decision making, and doctors need to be prepared.

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theatlantic.com

Touch Screens Are Ruining Cars

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theatlantic.com

One day in the early ’90s, my father came home with a used, champagne-toned Mercedes-Benz 300D four-door sedan. I was 9 or 10 and didn’t know anything about cars. But I was drawn to the luster of the diesel-powered slab of metal, the way the perforated leather smelled as it enveloped me, and how the wood grain on the dashboard and door panels made me feel as if I was involved in something far grander than merely commuting. The car, and the one that eventually replaced it—a larger, metallic-blue beauty, also preowned—felt substantive, meaningful, and distinctive.The tougher boys in our neighborhood cared enough about Benzes to steal their hood ornaments. My older brother and friends would eventually school me on the finer points of German engineering, as well as its drawbacks (my parents’ eyes watered at the price of replacing a headlight or windshield wiper). But even as the most unsophisticated passenger, I could never mistake the interior of my father’s old Mercedes with that of any other car.My daughter is 10 now, and she recently rode in a Tesla taxi for the first time. How was it? I asked. “Kind of cool,” she said, half-heartedly, “because it was like my iPad.” She understood that the Tesla is basically a computer full of distracting and gratuitous applications, and it just happened to perform some locomotive functions.This iPad-ization of consumer reality is becoming harder and harder to resist. Vacuums now come equipped with screens, so do toasters, and even trash cans have motion sensors and voice control and companion apps you can download to your smartphone. Finding the analog versions of every product can take effort, and nowhere has this become truer than in the automotive realm.[Rich Cohen: Here’s to a new generation of classic cars]This is not an issue specific to electric vehicles—virtually all modern cars are now just slick screens connected to giant, mobile computing systems that operate with a complexity, and often a fragility, none of us can handle independently. But the “innovations” have introduced a slew of new problems. Long gone are the days when a handy guy like my brother could perform a Sunday-afternoon tune-up in his driveway. Several years ago, when he owned a brand-new Range Rover Sport—as wildly depreciating an asset as you can imagine—one of the quirks of its high-tech internal circuitry was that it would not start if parked under direct sunlight. He often had to drive complimentary rental cars while his state-of-the-art SUV was being serviced by the experts. Just last week, he met me for lunch in a U-Haul truck because the computer in his girlfriend’s BMW X6 had stopped safely regulating the car’s suspension.On the level of aesthetics, the supposed innovations have led only to conformity and mediocrity. Even the interior of a new Mercedes-Benz S-class, luxurious as it is, with its immersive flatscreens and pastel-purple mood lighting, resembles every other new car—or indeed a hookah lounge—more than it does the singular models that preceded it.Electric vehicles are simply at the forefront of the soul-crushing tendency to reduce everything that was once seductively human and endearingly—sometimes transcendentally—imperfect and unique to the impersonal, tech-saturated level of pretty nice. Could a child ever dream about a Lucid or Rivian? These are generically good-looking, low-emissions vehicles that only a cyborg could lust over. They are songs sung through Auto-Tune, with clever and forgettable lyrics composed by ChatGPT. (The one exception is Tesla’s otherworldly Cybertruck, whose jointless, audacious geometry looks more sculpted than welded, an extraordinary example of forward-looking design.)In late March, the Biden administration announced, according to The New York Times, “one of the most significant climate regulations in the nation’s history, a rule designed to ensure that the majority of new passenger cars and light trucks sold in the United States are all-electric or hybrids by 2032.” I may not have not have noticed the announcement, except that, with awful timing, it came the same week a friend of mine from college died horrifically when his EV’s battery exploded. Supposedly this happens rarely, but in New York City alone last year, EVs caused more than 250 fires and killed 18 people. Heat moves through the battery cell by cell until it sets off a chain reaction called a “thermal runaway.”Like everyone I know, climate change concerns me, a worry always simmering on my mind’s back burner. But the filthy, all-too-often coal-based power that fuels EV batteries is not going to save us without far more serious and pervasive energy reforms and innovations. Procuring the lithium for those batteries is a dirty business, as is disposing of it. All of this and more is why, when I moved to France in 2011 and my New York State driver’s license expired, I didn’t bother to renew it. The world didn’t need another car owner. I lasted more than a decade relying on my feet, bikes, scooters, subways, and Ubers—happily not driving.[Annie Lowrey: Why did cars get so expensive?]That changed last winter, when I began spending part of the year teaching in New York’s Hudson Valley. What you can get away with in densely populated urban environments is inconceivable upstate. I had to retake the tests for my license and quickly find a car to get to campus.Every new option I considered was either far too expensive or looked profoundly uninspiring. Then I talked with a friend of my brother’s—one of those kids who used to yank off the hood ornaments. He now works as a mechanic for Audi and in his spare time buys used German cars at auction and repairs them. Sometimes he keeps them, and sometimes he sells them to friends.Which is how I found myself with a silver 2004 Mercedes-Benz E 320, in which the scent of the interior never fails to work its Proustian sorcery. It has buttons to press and switches to flip and no touch screens; the dashboard isn’t digital. There is a lot of toasted walnut to contrast with the gray of the leather. The car exerts a weight over the pavement, and you feel a tactile heft to the steering wheel’s slow rotation—the polar opposite of the video-game-controller levity of cars today, which you can manipulate with a single index finger.I love this Benz, which is so old now, it no longer looks dated. It has nothing in common with the many other technologies that have permeated my waking hours. The time I spend in this car, I feel liberated from the artificial, algorithmic superstructure that surrounds me, focused with undivided intensity on the road that is peeling back beneath me. Driving has become a periodic deliverance back into the real.I do not ever intend to buy a new automobile. I don’t want to drive an EV—and I certainly don’t want it to drive me—just as I have no desire to pay for another internal combustion engine to be created. I want to give fresh life to old, reliable cars, the way the friends of mine who care the most about music want to sink into their sofas and listen to vinyl records.I know I’m not the only one overcome by this sense of nostalgia. “God, I love that smell,” my friend Aatish said when I picked him up for dinner recently. He has two cars upstate, a brand-new Audi and a very old Ford Bronco. The last time I saw him, he was feeling shaken. The battery in his Audi had failed on the highway and then, he said, because everything in the car was electronic, the rest of the car failed too—all the way “down to the gas pedal. It was like being in Apollo 13.”He was back to driving his Bronco.

How Sci-Fi Inspired Conspiracy Theory

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In 1950, a U.S. Army psyops officer named Paul Linebarger used a pseudonym to publish a science-fiction story titled “Scanners Live in Vain” in a pulp magazine. It was about a man named Martel who works for the “deep state” in the far future as a mysterious “scanner,” or starship pilot, and whose mind is manipulated by evil bureaucrats. After a new technology called a “cranching wire” restores his true senses, he recognizes that his bosses within the government order a hit on anyone who challenges their control of space travel and the economy. Martel ultimately joins an insurrectionary movement aimed at overthrowing the regime.If this narrative sounds like a QAnon conspiracy theory, there’s a good reason for that: Today’s dystopian political rhetoric has its roots in mid-century sci-fi. Martel’s struggle against secretive, malevolent authorities echoes in the Pizzagate shooter’s fantasy about a cabal of politically powerful pedophiles; we can also see its inspiration in Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene’s anti-Semitic Facebook rant about space lasers beamed at the Earth, and the Donald Trump adviser Roger Stone’s intimation that Bill Gates “played some role in the creation” of COVID-19.Linebarger, who died of a heart attack in 1966 at age 53, could not have predicted that tropes from his sci-fi stories about mind control and techno-authoritarianism would shape 21st-century American political rhetoric. But the persistence of his ideas is far from accidental, because Linebarger wasn’t just a writer and soldier. He was an anti-communist intelligence operative who helped define U.S. psychological operations, or psyops, during World War II and the Cold War. His essential insight was that the most effective psychological warfare is storytelling. Linebarger saw psyops as an emotionally intense, persuasive form of fiction—and, to him, no genre engaged people’s imagination better than science fiction.[David A. Graham: There is no American ‘deep state’]I pored over Linebarger’s personal papers at the Hoover Institution propaganda collection while researching my forthcoming book, Stories Are Weapons: Psychological Warfare and the American Mind. Boxes of his studies on the politics of China and Southeast Asia are filed alongside his fiction manuscripts and unpublished musings on psychology. Here, I realized, was an origin story for modern conspiracy politics, which blur the line between sci-fi plots and American patriotism—they came from a psywar operative. Put another way, an agent of what some would now call the “deep state” had devised the far-out stories that politicians like Greene use to condemn it. Perhaps, if she and others knew this, they might not be so eager to blame space lasers and vaccine microchips for what ails our nation. Under the pen name Cordwainer Smith, Linebarger wrote many stories about the Instrumentality, a totalitarian intergalactic empire that is toppled by rebels like Martel. Linebarger’s fiction won a cult following and was nominated for a Nebula and a Hugo, two of the most prestigious awards for science-fiction writing.Still, Linebarger’s most significant book was undoubtedly a classified U.S. Army guide, titled simply Psychological Warfare and published under his real name. To undertake a successful influence campaign, he advised, imagine you’re inventing a character for the person you’re targeting with propaganda. Envision this subject, whom he named “Propaganda Man,” then “make up the prewar life” for him, including his “likes,” “prejudices,” and favorite “kind of gossip.” Once this Propaganda Man felt three-dimensional, as though drawn from a good story, the goal was to design a psychological operation designed to engage Propaganda Man and transmit the message that “he is your friend, you are his friend,” and “the only enemy is the enemy Leader (or generals, or emperor, or capitalists, or ‘They’).”Previous approaches to this branch of warfare, he wrote, had relied merely on censoring the news and distributing stodgy propaganda full of “strong-faced men building dams and teaching better chicken-raising.” It would be better, Linebarger suggested, if American propaganda was as entertaining as a Laurel and Hardy movie—giving audience members a good time while teaching them that America was their ally. The character of Martel clearly resembles a Propaganda Man; the cranching wire might be the antenna on his radio, tuning in to agitprop vehicles like Voice of America that inspire him to resist his despotic overlords.Linebarger’s military guide was foundational for the United States’ unique approach to propaganda, which has long borrowed techniques from pop culture to promote the nation’s interests. One of the early-20th-century masterminds of U.S. propaganda was a public-relations pioneer named Edward Bernays, who began his career marketing cigarettes in the 1920s and ended it helping the CIA spread misinformation about the leftist Guatemalan government in the ’50s. His idea, which shaped Linebarger’s own thinking, was that propaganda was like advertising in a popular magazine: It should push one simple message, in a persuasive and seductive style. This makes an instructive contrast with what the Rand Corporation has called Russia’s Soviet-derived “firehose of falsehood” strategy, whereby operatives inundate the media with lies and chaotic, contradictory stories to undermine the public’s faith in all information sources. If Russia’s motto is, in effect, “Believe nothing,” America’s has been “Believe us.” At the height of the Cold War, Linebarger was inventing a way to make people believe in America—using techniques borrowed from fantastical storytelling.Linebarger’s father was a diplomat who worked closely with the Chinese-nationalist leader Sun Yat-Sen, who became the younger Linebarger’s godfather. Paul Linebarger himself spent a great deal of his childhood traveling in China, learning Mandarin and studying Sun’s political vision. As an adult, Linebarger made it his mission to topple the Communist regime and restore the republic that Sun had built. Although he did not accomplish this in fact, he could, as Cordwainer Smith, depict such a struggle in fiction—the Instrumentality can be read as a surreal version of China’s government under Mao Zedong. One way to understand Linebarger’s fiction is as psyops aimed partly at a Chinese Propaganda Man who might be induced to rise up against his Communist overlords.Literary critics have pointed out references, in Linebarger’s stories, to Chinese classics such as Journey to the West and Romance of the Three Kingdoms—which makes sense in light of Linebarger’s instruction that propaganda should imitate pop culture. He wanted his stories to be engaging for people who grew up with the adventures of Sun Wukong (also known as Monkey King, the hero of Journey to the West), as well as for those who grew up with Superman. Using the power of myth, he insinuated that liberation could come from the Christian West. In the story “The Dead Lady of Clown Town,” for example, cyborg insurrectionists use legends about the Catholic martyr Joan of Arc to persuade human-animal hybrid “underpeople” to join their fight against the rulers of the Instrumentality.Modern conspiracy influencers have taken up Linebarger’s mantle. As the NBC reporter Ben Collins told the WNYC show On the Media in 2020, the far right in particular is “very good at storytelling. It’s world building, that’s what it is really.” World building is a term that speculative-fiction authors commonly use to describe the project of creating a fantasy realm so fully realized and all-enveloping that audiences willingly suspend their disbelief.World building in speculative fiction and game design “is political, always,” the author and critic Laurie Penny writes. Those who imaginatively inhabit fictional worlds become intensely invested in them—which helps explain how fan debates over video games morphed into the right-wing attack pile-on known as Gamergate in 2014. But influencers on the left, too, have used fantasy fictions to advance their political cause. The creator of Wonder Woman, William Moulton Marston, famously described his strong heroine as “propaganda” for liberated women. In early issues of the comic, he even included historical sketches of real-life female scientists, explorers, and political leaders, to drive home his message that women were the equals of men.A more recent example of world building for an ideological purpose would be the Left Behind series, by the Christian writer Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye, a minister who established the prominent right-wing think tank the Council for National Policy. They found a winning formula in combining end-time fantasy—the Rapture, in evangelical teaching—with political conflicts drawn from recent history. Their best-selling books, which have sold more than 65 million copies and spawned a film franchise, helped popularize a brand of apocalyptic millenarian belief found among some MAGA extremists.When Linebarger died, he left a large corpus of unpublished monographs and intelligence reports written under his own name. Most of his books for the public were science fiction, written as Cordwainer Smith (he also wrote literary fiction and thrillers, under other pseudonyms). What united these disparate interests was the mind of a person who knew that the tools of fantastical storytelling could be very effective in persuading people to build a new reality.[Brian Klaas: In MAGA world, everything happens for a reason]In Psychological Warfare, Linebarger instructed intelligence officers to combat America’s adversaries and woo new allies with propaganda that felt like science fiction. “It is the purpose that makes it propaganda,” he wrote, “and not the truthfulness or untruthfulness of it.” Of course, Linebarger was very clear about his purpose: to win people to the American way. But the world-building power of sci-fi storytelling that he championed can be adapted for very different purposes, as a weapon of mass disinformation.I spoke with one of Linebarger’s intellectual heirs, a former psyops instructor for the Army, who told me that he and his colleagues worry a lot about psychological warfare’s “second- or third-order effects,” consequences that can be completely unintended. One such consequence is the ubiquity of conspiracy thinking, through which all of reality is converted into fiction—rather than Believe us, people will believe anything.Linebarger could hardly have envisioned the Twilight Zone–esque tales that the Trump attorneys Rudy Giuliani and Sidney Powell spun about election fraud in 2020. But even bad science fiction can make very fine propaganda.

The Elaborately Kooky Worldview of Putin’s No. 2

A secret-service overlord’s delusional outlook becomes the party line in Russia—with global implications.

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Columbia University’s Impossible Position

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At Columbia University, administrators and pro-Palestinian students occupying the main quad on campus are in a standoff. President Minouche Shafik has satisfied neither those clamoring for order nor those who want untrammeled protests. Yet a different leader may not have performed any better. The tensions here between free-speech values and antidiscrimination law are unusually complex and difficult, if not impossible, to resolve.Shafik presides over a lavishly funded center of research, teaching, civic acculturation, and student activism. Such institutions cannot thrive without strong free-speech cultures. Neither can they thrive without limits on when and where protests are permitted—especially when protesters disrupt the institution as a tactic to get what they want. As Shafik told Congress in recent testimony, “Trying to reconcile the free-speech rights of those who want to protest and the rights of Jewish students to be in an environment free of harassment or discrimination has been the central challenge on our campus, and many others, in recent months.”That is a formidable challenge. The best protest rules are viewpoint-neutral: They constrain equally, rather than coercively disadvantaging one side in a controversy. How strictly should they be enforced? Whatever the answer, it must apply equally to all students. Yet consistent support for viewpoint neutrality is rare inside and outside academia, especially on an issue as fraught as Israel-Palestine, which has divided Columbia’s faculty and students for decades.All of that context informed a flash point that occurred at Columbia last week: As Palestine-aligned protesters occupied the quad, where many activists covered their face to obscure their identity, Shafik declared, “I have determined that the encampment and related disruptions pose a clear and present danger to the substantial functioning of the University.” After repeatedly warning students to leave and suspending them when they refused, she called the NYPD to remove them from campus, citing vague safety concerns.[George Packer: The campus-left occupation that broke higher education]Yet soon after, student activists reappeared on the quad. More activists gathered outside the school’s gates. Observers speculated about whether calling the cops unwittingly escalated the situation. Faculty critics who say Shafik went too far in contacting police held a walkout to show dissent. Some want to censure her for “violation of the fundamental requirements of academic freedom and shared governance, and her unprecedented assault on students’ rights.” Equally vocal critics believe that by not calling police back to campus, she failed to protect Jewish students and let Palestine-aligned activists break sound rules that must apply to everyone in order to be fair. Amid ongoing tumult, Columbia went “hybrid” for the rest of the semester. “Our preference,” Shafik said, “is that students who do not live on campus will not come to campus.”Columbia’s options are severely constrained because, for better or worse, it cannot merely start applying the viewpoint-neutral ethos that free-speech advocates prefer to these protests. Administrators must weigh the possibility that failing to more tightly regulate these protests could cause the school to be deemed in violation of antidiscrimination law because of their duration, their intensity, and their tenor, as well as pressure from state and federal officials concerned about anti-Semitism.In a social-media post referencing Columbia, Governor Kathy Hochul put it this way: “The First Amendment protects the right to protest but students also have a right to learn in an environment free from harassment or violence.” As if to underscore the challenge Columbia faces, Hochul misstates Columbia’s legal obligations. As a private university, it is not bound by the First Amendment.It is subject to Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, which states that no person shall, on grounds of race or national origin, “be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under” a program receiving federal funds. To comply, Columbia needn’t be free of harassment. But it must address behavior of sufficient severity or persistence that members of a protected class are denied equal access to education because of their identity. Per current federal guidance, “students who are or are perceived to be Jewish” are covered, and national origin groups are explicitly protected, so Israeli nationals are covered too.In most campus free-speech disputes that I encounter, the relevant facts are easily grasped in a couple of days, if not a couple of hours. For example, I am confident that the University of Southern California transgressed against viewpoint neutrality when it canceled the valedictorian speech of a Palestine-aligned student, Asna Tabassum. I thought, let her speak. (Protests followed her removal, and USC has now canceled its entire main commencement ceremony.) But at Columbia, I cannot say with confidence whether, in my own free-speech-friendly interpretation of Title VI, Shafik is doing enough or too little to adhere to it.An example helps clarify the uncertainty here.If every day protesters on Columbia’s quad were blocking the path of all Jewish students as they tried to walk to class, or shouting ethnic slurs at any student they perceived to be Jewish, Columbia would clearly have a legal obligation to intervene in those protests. Whereas if one time, one protester acting alone blocked the path of one Jewish student, or shouted a slur at a Jewish student, Title VI would not compel Columbia to intervene in ongoing protests. So in between those poles, what is required? The answer is up for debate. Shafik is required to meet a murky legal standard amid protests that she can observe only in part, where a single violent act or viral clip of one charged moment could instantly alter public and official perception about six months of events.Even insiders charged with analyzing the matter are unsure about Columbia’s legal obligations. In March, a task force convened to study anti-Semitism at the institution released the first in a series of reports, titled “Columbia University’s Rules on Demonstrations.” After studying what antidiscrimination law might require, the report stated, “We urge the University to provide more guidance on the meaning of ‘discriminatory harassment,’ including antisemitic harassment.” It speculated that “at some point, courts and the Department of Education are likely to offer additional guidance.” Until then, it urged that “the University’s legal team should provide more guidance”—but Columbia’s legal team doesn’t have the answer either. Bureaucrats at the Department of Education regularly take extreme liberties in interpreting what antidiscrimination law means, with some conclusions shifting dramatically under different presidents.In theory, Title VI could be construed in a matter that reinforces the need for viewpoint neutrality: Israel- and Palestine-aligned students would each get no more and no less latitude to protest than Columbia would extend to any other group, regardless of how urgent or pointless, enlightened or abhorrent their position. In practice, counterfactuals cannot guide administrators or regulators, and as the Duke professor Timur Kuran observed on social media, students on both sides of the issue plausibly feel discriminated against by their universities, because “identity politics has inevitably led to arbitrariness and inconsistencies in applying rules.”In fact, it may be the case that Columbia is both failing to provide its Jewish students with equal access to its educational experience and (as the Knight Foundation has argued) engaging in viewpoint discrimination against Palestine-aligned students.Those who believe Columbia is overpolicing the Israel-Hamas protests should rationally desire reforms to Title VI, so that more campus speech is deemed acceptable. In reality, most social-justice-oriented faculty and students are either highly selective about whose controversial viewpoints they want protected or loath to recognize the long-standing conflict between tolerance for free speech and antidiscrimination law. Vilifying Shafik without acknowledging the regulatory environment she confronts is much easier.On the ideological right, meanwhile, is sudden zeal for draconian Department of Education enforcement of antidiscrimination law. “This is what’s known as a Title VI violation,” Ilya Shapiro of the Manhattan Institute posted Monday on social media. “Send in the National Guard and otherwise put Columbia and its morally bankrupt leadership into federal receivership.”[Adam Serwer: The Republicans who want American carnage]That is terrible advice, but stakeholders seem to disagree radically about the overall tenor of protests to date. Have they violated the Civil Rights Act as they’ve actually unfolded? The American Association of University Professors doesn’t seem to think so. In a recent statement, it declared that “Shafik’s silencing of peaceful protesters and having them hauled off to jail does a grave disservice to Columbia’s reputation and will be a permanent stain on her presidential legacy.” In contrast, as protesters flooded back onto campus Sunday, Jake Tapper of CNN reported that an Orthodox rabbi at Columbia sent a WhatsApp message to almost 300 Jewish students urging them to leave campus and go home because the institution “cannot guarantee Jewish students’ safety in the face of extreme antisemitism and anarchy.”Calls for Shafik to resign have come from people on both sides of the conflict. On Wednesday, House Speaker Mike Johnson piled on. But under a new president all of the same challenges and constraints on resolving them would remain. Debate about Columbia would improve if it focused on the thorniest, most contested conflicts between protest rights and antidiscrimination law rather than imagining that a better leader could reconcile the most expansive versions of both projects.

The Happiness Trinity

Why it’s so hard to answer the question What makes us happiest?

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No One Has a Right to Protest in My Home

The difference between a private yard and a public forum

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The Rise of Big Vet

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In the pandemic winter of 2020, Katie, my family’s 14-year-old miniature poodle, began coughing uncontrollably. After multiple vet visits, and more than $1,000 in bills, a veterinary cardiologist diagnosed her with heart failure. Our girl, a dog I loved so much that I wrote an essay about how I called her my “daughter,” would likely die within nine months.Katie survived for almost two years. My younger son joked that Katie wasn’t going to let advanced heart failure get in the way of her life goal of never leaving my side, but the truth was that I was the one who wouldn’t let her go. Katie’s extended life didn’t come cheap. There were repeated scans, echocardiograms, and blood work, and several trips to veterinary emergency rooms. One drug alone cost $300 a month, and that was after I shopped aggressively for discounts online.People like me have fueled the growth of what you might call Big Vet. As household pets have risen in status—from mere animals to bona fide family members—so, too, has owners’ willingness to spend money to ensure their well-being. Big-money investors have noticed. According to data provided to me by PitchBook, private equity poured $51.6 billion into the veterinary sector from 2017 to 2023, and another $9.3 billion in the first four months of this year, seemingly convinced that it had discovered a foolproof investment. Industry cheerleaders pointed to surveys showing that people would go into debt to keep their four-legged friends healthy. The field was viewed as “low-risk, high-reward,” as a 2022 report issued by Capstone Partners put it, singling out the industry for its higher-than-average rate of return on investment.[From the December 2022 issue: How much would you pay to save your pet’s life?]In the United States, corporations and private-equity funds have been rolling up smaller chains and previously independent practices. Mars Inc., of Skittles and Snickers fame, is, oddly, the largest owner of stand-alone veterinary clinics in the United States, operating more than 2,000 practices under the names Banfield, VCA, and BluePearl. JAB Holding Company, the owner of National Veterinary Associates’ 1,000-plus hospitals (not to mention Panera and Espresso House), also holds multiple pet-insurance lines in its portfolio. Shore Capital Partners, which owns several human health-care companies, controls Mission Veterinary Partners and Southern Veterinary Partners.As a result, your local vet may well be directed by a multinational shop that views caring for your fur baby as a healthy component of a diversified revenue stream. Veterinary-industry insiders now estimate that 25 to 30 percent of practices in the United States are under large corporate umbrellas, up from 8 percent a little more than a decade ago. For specialty clinics, the number is closer to three out of four. And as this happened, veterinary prices began to rise—a lot. Americans spent an estimated $38 billion on health care and related services for companion animals in 2023, up from about $29 billion in 2019. Even as overall inflation got back under control last year, the cost of veterinary care did not. In March 2024, the Consumer Price Index for urban consumers was up 3.5 percent year over year. The veterinary-services category was up 9.6 percent. If you have ever wondered why keeping your pet healthy has gotten so out-of-control expensive, Big Vet just might be your answer.To get a sense of what might happen when the profit-seeking dial gets turned up too high in veterinary medicine, we need look no further than human health care. An extensive body of research shows that when private equity takes over a hospital or physician practice, prices and the number of expensive procedures tend to go up. A study found serious medical errors occur more frequently after private equity buys the hospital. Another study found that costs to patients rise, too, sometimes substantially. And that’s in a tougher regulatory environment. In veterinary medicine, there is no giant entity like Medicare capable of pushing back on prices. There is no requirement, in fact, to provide care at all, no matter how dire the animal’s condition. Payment is due at the time of service or there is no service. Whenever I told people I was working on this article, I was inundated with Big Vet complaints. Catherine Liu, a professor at UC Irvine, took her elderly pit-bull mix, Buster, to a local VCA when he became lethargic and began drooling excessively. More than $8,000 in charges later, there was still no diagnosis. “Sonograms, endoscopy—what about just a hypothesis of what the symptoms could be? Nothing like that at all was forthcoming,” Liu told me. Shortly before Buster died, a vet in private practice diagnosed him with cancer. The disease, Liu said, had not once been mentioned by the vets at VCA. (Mars Petcare, VCA’s parent company, declined to comment on the episode.)I don’t mean to single out VCA here—in fact, I should note that a VCA vet’s medical protocol was almost certainly responsible for my dog’s longer-than-expected life. One reason Mars-owned chains attract outsized attention for their high costs and customer-service failures is that the company actually brands its acquisitions. That’s unusual. A study conducted by the Arizona consumer advocate Todd Nemet found that fewer than 15 percent of corporate-owned practices in the state slap their own brand identity on their vets; most keep the original practice name, leaving customers with the illusion of local ownership. (When I asked Thrive Pet Healthcare, a chain majority-owned by TSG Consumer Partners, about why the company doesn’t brand its clinics, a spokesperson replied, “We realize the value of local hospital brands and are committed to preserving and supporting them.”) Indeed, some pet owners told me that they realized that ownership of their vet had changed only after what they thought was a routine visit resulted in recommendations for mounds of tests, which turned out to have shot up in price. Paul Cerro, the CEO of Cedar Grove Capital, which invests in the pet industry, says this issue is frequent in online reviews. “People will say, ‘I’ve been coming here for four years, and all of a sudden I’m getting charged for things I’ve never been charged for,’ and they give it one star.”[Read: The great veterinary shortage]Big Vet denies charging excessive prices. VCA Canada, for instance, recently told The Globe and Mail that prices can increase after an acquisition because “the quality of the care, the quality of everything we offer to them, goes up as well.” A spokesperson for Mars told me, “We invest heavily in our associates, hospitals, state-of-the-art equipment, technology, and other resources.” NVA, which is planning an initial public offering in 2025 or 2026, did not directly answer a question about why veterinary prices were rising so rapidly, instead sending me a statement saying, in part, “Our vision is to build a community of hospitals that pet owners trust, are easy to access, and provide the best possible value for care.” Do rising prices really just reflect higher-quality care? There may be some truth to this, but there is also evidence to the contrary. A study published last year in the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association, for example, found that vets working for large corporations reported more pressure to generate revenue, whereas veterinarians working for independent practices reported higher levels of satisfaction for such things as the “ability to acquire new large equipment” and the “ability to get new/different drugs.” Preliminary research by Emma Harris, the vice president of Vetster, a veterinary telehealth start-up, found significant differences in pricing between corporate and privately owned veterinary clinics in the same geographic region. Usually, she told me, the increases “occurred immediately after the sale to a private-equity-owned group.”All of this doesn’t sit well with many in the sector. Vets tend to be idealistic, which makes sense given that many of them rack up six figures in student-loan debt to pursue a profession that pays significantly less than human medicine. One vet, who worked for an emergency-services practice that, they said, raised prices by 20 percent in 2022, told me, “I almost got to the point where I was ashamed to tell people what the estimate was for things because it was so insanely high.” (The vet asked for anonymity because they feared legal repercussions.) Others described mounting pressure to upsell customers following acquisition by private equity. “You don’t always need to take X-rays on an animal that’s vomited just one time,” Kathy Lewis, a veterinarian who formerly worked at a Tennessee practice purchased in 2021 by Mission Veterinary Partners, told me. “But there was more of that going on.” Prices increased rapidly as well, she said, leading to customer complaints. (Mission Veterinary Partners did not respond to requests for comment.)The combination of wheeling-and-dealing and price increases in the veterinary sector is beginning to attract the government’s attention. In the United States, the Federal Trade Commission required, in 2022 consent decree, that JAB seek prior approval before purchasing any emergency or specialty clinic within 25 miles of one it already owns in California and Texas for the next decade. In her written comments, FTC Chair Lina Khan said she feared these one-by-one purchases could lead to the development of a stealth monopoly. (JAB denied any wrongdoing.) And in the United Kingdom, where corporate ownership is higher than in the United States (even the practice originally owned by the author of the classic veterinary novel All Creatures Great and Small has been rolled up), government authorities are moving forward with an investigation into high prices and market concentration after an initial inquiry drew what regulators called an “unprecedented” response from the public.Pet owners used to have an easier time accepting the short lives of domestic animals. Few people were taking the barnyard cat or junkyard dog in for chemotherapy or ACL surgery, to say nothing of post-op aquatic physical therapy. “When we started out over 20 years ago, you had to live near a veterinary teaching hospital to have access to something like an MRI,” Karen Leslie, the executive director of the Pet Fund, a charity that aids people with vet bills, told me. “Now it’s the standard of care. It’s available basically everywhere—but that starts at $2,000.”Big Vet, in Leslie’s view, helped fuel an increase in expensive services. The same medical progress that’s helped humans beat back once-fatal diseases is doing the same for cats and dogs, extending their life spans to record lengths. But only if you have the money to pay for it. Some pets—my late Katie, Liu’s late Buster—receive one expensive test or treatment after another, sometimes helpful, sometimes not. Other equally loved pets may go without basic care altogether, or even fall victim to what the industry calls “economic euthanasia,” where they are put down because their owners can’t afford their medical bills. (Pet insurance, widely promoted by the industry, is unlikely to help much. Uptake rates are in the low single digits, a result of relatively high costs and often-limited benefits.)[Watch: Volunteer veterinarians in Ukraine]The American Veterinary Medical Association’s tracker shows that vet visits and purchases of heartworm and flea-and-tick medications are down compared with this month last year, even as practice revenues are up, suggesting that some owners are having trouble affording routine, preventative care. The market researcher Packaged Facts found that a full third of pet owners say that they would take their animal to the vet more often if it were less expensive. Shelter Animals Count, an animal-advocacy group, reports that the number of pets surrendered to shelters rose in the past two years. Carol Mithers, the author of the upcoming book Rethinking Rescue, told me that some people give up pets because they believe the shelter system will provide them with necessary medical treatment—something that is, heartbreakingly, not true.The veterinary past is easy to romanticize. The truth is that pets have never received all the needed care, and that wealthy pet owners have always had access to more care. But the emergence of Big Vet and the injection of cutthroat incentives into a traditionally idealistic, local industry threatens to make these problems far worse. It portends a future in which some pet owners get shaken down, their love for their pets exploited financially, while others must forego even basic care for their pets. I don’t think Katie, who loved all animals, would approve. I certainly don’t.

How the Campus Left Broke Higher Education

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Fifty-six years ago this week, at the height of the Vietnam War, Columbia University students occupied half a dozen campus buildings and made two principal demands of the university: stop funding military research, and cancel plans to build a gym in a nearby Black neighborhood. After a week of futile negotiations, Columbia called in New York City police to clear the occupation.The physical details of that crisis were much rougher than anything happening today. The students barricaded doors and ransacked President Grayson Kirk’s office. “Up against the wall, motherfucker, this is a stick-up,” Mark Rudd, the student leader and future member of the terrorist Weather Underground, wrote in an open letter to Kirk, who resigned a few months later. The cops arrested more than 700 students and injured at least 100, while one of their own was permanently disabled by a student.In other ways, the current crisis brings a strong sense of déjà vu: the chants, the teach-ins, the nonnegotiable demands, the self-conscious building of separate communities, the revolutionary costumes, the embrace of oppressed identities by elite students, the tactic of escalating to incite a reaction that mobilizes a critical mass of students. It’s as if campus-protest politics has been stuck in an era of prolonged stagnation since the late 1960s. Why can’t students imagine doing it some other way?Perhaps because the structure of protest reflects the nature of universities. They make good targets because of their abiding vulnerability: They can’t deal with coercion, including nonviolent disobedience. Either they overreact, giving the protesters a new cause and more allies (this happened in 1968, and again last week at Columbia), or they yield, giving the protesters a victory and inviting the next round of disruption. This is why Columbia’s president, Minouche Shafik, no matter what she does, finds herself hammered from the right by Republican politicians and from the left by her own faculty and students, unable to move without losing more ground. Her detractors know that they have her trapped by their willingness to make coercive demands: Do what we say or else we’ll destroy you and your university. They aren’t interested in a debate.[Michael Powell: The unreality of Columbia’s ‘liberated zone’]A university isn’t a state—it can’t simply impose its rules with force. It’s a special kind of community whose legitimacy depends on mutual recognition in a spirit of reason, openness, and tolerance. At the heart of this spirit is free speech, which means more than just chanting, but free speech can’t thrive in an atmosphere of constant harassment. When one faction or another violates this spirit, the whole university is weakened as if stricken with an illness. The sociologist Daniel Bell, who tried and failed to mediate a peaceful end to the Columbia occupation, wrote afterward: In a community one cannot regain authority simply by asserting it, or by using force to suppress dissidents. Authority in this case is like respect. One can only earn the authority—the loyalty of one’s students—by going in and arguing with them, by engaging in full debate and, when the merits of proposed change are recognized, taking the necessary steps quickly enough to be convincing. The crackdown at Columbia in 1968 was so harsh that a backlash on the part of faculty and the public obliged the university to accept the students’ demands: a loss, then a win. The war in Vietnam ground on for years before it ended and history vindicated the protesters: another loss, another win. But the really important consequence of the 1968 revolt took decades to emerge. We’re seeing it now on Columbia’s quad and the campuses of elite universities around the country. The most lasting victory of the ’68ers was an intellectual one. The idea underlying their protests wasn’t just to stop the war or end injustice in America. Its aim was the university itself—the liberal university of the postwar years, which no longer exists.That university claimed a special role in democratic society. A few weeks after the 1968 takeover, the Columbia historian Richard Hofstadter gave the commencement address to a wounded institution. “A university is a community, but it is a community of a special kind,” Hofstadter said—“a community devoted to inquiry. It exists so that its members may inquire into truths of all sorts. Its presence marks our commitment to the idea that somewhere in society there must be an organization in which anything can be studied or questioned—not merely safe and established things but difficult and inflammatory things, the most troublesome questions of politics and war, of sex and morals, of property and national loyalty.” This mission rendered the community fragile, dependent on the self-restraint of its members.The lofty claims of the liberal university exposed it to charges of all kinds of hypocrisy, not least its entanglement with the American war machine. The Marxist philosopher Herbert Marcuse, who became a guru to the New Left, coined the phrase repressive tolerance for the veil that hid liberal society’s mechanisms of violence and injustice. In this scheme, no institution, including the university, remained neutral, and radical students embraced their status as an oppressed group.[Charles Sykes: The new rules of political journalism]At Stanford (where my father was an administrator in the late ’60s, and where students took over a campus building the week after the Columbia revolt), white students compared themselves to Black American slaves. To them, the university was not a community dedicated to independent inquiry but a nexus of competing interest groups where power, not ideas, ruled. They rejected the very possibility of a disinterested pursuit of truth. In an imaginary dialogue between a student and a professor, a member of the Stanford chapter of Students for a Democratic Society wrote: “Rights and privacy and these kinds of freedom are irrelevant—you old guys got to get it through your heads that to fight the whole corrupt System POWER is the only answer.”A long, intricate, but essentially unbroken line connects that rejection of the liberal university in 1968 to the orthodoxy on elite campuses today. The students of the ’68 revolt became professors–the German activist Rudi Dutschke called this strategy the “long march through the institutions”—bringing their revisionist thinking back to the universities they’d tried to upend. One leader of the Columbia takeover returned to chair the School of the Arts film program. “The ideas of one generation become the instincts of the next,” D. H. Lawrence wrote. Ideas born in the ’60s, subsequently refined and complicated by critical theory, postcolonial studies, and identity politics, are now so pervasive and unquestioned that they’ve become the instincts of students who are occupying their campuses today. Group identity assigns your place in a hierarchy of oppression. Between oppressor and oppressed, no room exists for complexity or ambiguity. Universal values such as free speech and individual equality only privilege the powerful. Words are violence. There’s nothing to debate.The post-liberal university is defined by a combination of moneymaking and activism. Perhaps the biggest difference between 1968 and 2024 is that the ideas of a radical vanguard are now the instincts of entire universities—administrators, faculty, students. They’re enshrined in reading lists and codes of conduct and ubiquitous clichés. Last week an editorial in the Daily Spectator, the Columbia student newspaper, highlighted the irony of a university frantically trying to extricate itself from the implications of its own dogmas: “Why is the same university that capitalizes on the legacy of Edward Said and enshrines The Wretched of the Earth into its Core Curriculum so scared to speak about decolonization in practice?”A Columbia student, writing to one of his professors in a letter that the student shared with me, explained the dynamic so sharply that it’s worth quoting him at length: I think [the protests] do speak to a certain failing on Columbia’s part, but it’s a failing that’s much more widespread and further upstream. That is, I think universities have essentially stopped minding the store, stopped engaging in any kind of debate or even conversation with the ideologies which have slowly crept in to every bit of university life, without enough people of good conscience brave enough to question all the orthodoxies. So if you come to Columbia believing in “decolonization” or what have you, it’s genuinely not clear to me that you will ever have to reflect on this belief. And after all this, one day the university wakes up to these protests, panics under scrutiny, and calls the cops on students who are practicing exactly what they’ve been taught to do from the second they walked through those gates as freshmen. The muscle of independent thinking and open debate, the ability to earn authority that Daniel Bell described as essential to a university’s survival, has long since atrophied. So when, after the October 7 Hamas attack on Israel, Jewish students found themselves subjected to the kind of hostile atmosphere that, if directed at any other minority group, would have brought down high-level rebukes, online cancellations, and maybe administrative punishments, they fell back on the obvious defense available under the new orthodoxy. They said that they felt “unsafe.” They accused pro-Palestinian students of anti-Semitism—sometimes fairly, sometimes not. They asked for protections that other groups already enjoyed. Who could blame them? They were doing what their leaders and teachers had instructed them was the right, the only, way to respond to a hurt.[Adam Serwer: The Republicans who want American carnage]And when the shrewd and unscrupulous Representative Elise Stefanik demanded of the presidents of Harvard and Penn whether calls for genocide violated their universities’ code of conduct, they had no good way to answer. If they said yes, they would have faced the obvious comeback: “Why has no one been punished?” So they said that it depended on the “context,” which was technically correct but sounded so hopelessly legalistic that it led to the loss of their jobs. The response also made nonsense of their careers as censors of unpopular speech. Shafik, of Columbia, having watched her colleagues’ debacle, told the congresswoman what she wanted to hear, then backed it up by calling the cops onto campus—only to find herself denounced on all sides, including by Senator Tom Cotton, who demanded that President Joe Biden deploy the United States military to Columbia, and by her own faculty senate, which threatened a vote of censure.The right always knows how to exploit the excesses of the left. It happened in 1968, when the campus takeovers and the street battles between anti-war activists and cops at the Democratic convention in Chicago helped elect Richard Nixon. Republican politicians are already exploiting the chaos on campuses. This summer, the Democrats will gather again in Chicago, and the activists are promising a big show. Donald Trump will be watching.Elite universities are caught in a trap of their own making, one that has been a long time coming. They’ve trained pro-Palestinian students to believe that, on the oppressor-oppressed axis, Jews are white and therefore dominant, not “marginalized,” while Israel is a settler-colonialist state and therefore illegitimate. They’ve trained pro-Israel students to believe that unwelcome and even offensive speech makes them so unsafe that they should stay away from campus. What the universities haven’t done is train their students to talk with one another.

The Inflation Plateau

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Just a few months ago, America seemed to have licked the post-pandemic inflation surge for good. Then, in January, prices rose faster than expected. Probably just a blip. The same thing happened in February. Strange, but likely not a big deal. Then March’s inflation report came in hot as well. Okay—is it time to panic?The short answer is no. Core inflation (the metric that policy makers pay close attention to because it excludes volatile prices such as food and energy) is stuck at about 4 percent, double the Federal Reserve’s 2 percent target. But that’s a long way from the crisis of 2022, when core inflation peaked at nearly 7 percent and the price of almost everything was going up dangerously fast. Instead, we seem to be facing a last-mile problem: Inflation has mostly normalized, but wringing out the final few percentage points in a handful of categories is proving harder than expected. There are two conflicting views of what exactly is going on, each with drastically different implications for how the Federal Reserve should respond. One camp worries that the Fed could lose control of inflation all over again; the other fears that the central bank will—whoops— unnecessarily bring the U.S. economy to its knees.The “vanishing inflation” view is that today’s still-rising prices reflect a combination of statistical quirks and pandemic ripple effects that will almost surely resolve on their own. This camp points out that basically all of the current excess inflation stems from auto insurance and housing. The auto-insurance story is straightforward: Car prices spiked in 2021 and 2022, and when cars get more expensive, so does insuring them. Car inflation yesterday leads to car-insurance inflation today. That’s frustrating for drivers right now, but it carries a silver lining. Given that car inflation has fallen dramatically over the past year, it should be only a matter of time before insurance prices stabilize as well.[Annie Lowrey: Inflation is your fault]Housing, which made up a full two-thirds of excess inflation in March, is a bit more complicated. You might think that housing inflation would be calculated simply by looking at the prices of new homes or apartments. But for the majority of Americans who already own their home, it is calculated using a measure known as “owners’ equivalent rent.” Government statisticians try to determine how much money homeowners would reasonably charge for rent by looking at what people in similar homes are paying. This way of calculating housing prices has all kinds of flaws. One issue is that inflation data are calculated monthly, but most renters have one- or two-year leases, which means the official numbers usually lag the real housing market by a year or more. The housing market has cooled off considerably in the past year and a half, but the inflation data are still reflecting the much-hotter market of early 2023 or late 2022. Sooner or later, they too should fall. “The excess inflation we have left is in a few esoteric areas that reflect past price increases,” Ernie Tedeschi, the director of economics at Yale’s Budget Lab, told me. “I’m not too worried about inflation taking off again.”The “hot wages” camp tells a very different story. Its members note that even as price increases appeared to be settling back down at the beginning of 2024, wages were still growing much faster than they did before the pandemic. When wages are rising quickly, many employers, especially those in labor-intensive service industries, raise prices to cover higher salary costs. That may show up in the data in different ways—maybe it’s groceries one month, maybe airfares or vehicle-repair costs another month—but the point is that as long as wages are hot, prices will be as well. “The increase in inflation over the last three months is higher than anything we saw from 1992 to 2019,” Jason Furman, the former director of Barack Obama’s Council of Economic advisers, told me. “It’s hard to say that’s just some fluke in the data.”Adherents of the “vanishing inflation” idea don’t deny the importance of wages in driving up prices; instead, they point to alternative measures that show wage growth closer to pre-pandemic levels. They also emphasize the fact that corporate profits are higher today than they were in 2019, implying that wages have more room to grow without necessarily pushing up prices.Although this dispute may sound technical, it will inform one of the most pivotal decisions the Federal Reserve has made in decades. Last year, the central bank raised interest rates to their highest levels since 2001, where they have remained even as inflation has fallen dramatically. Raising interest rates makes money more expensive for businesses and consumers to borrow and, thus, to spend, which is thought to reduce inflation but can also raise unemployment. This leaves the Fed with a tough choice to make: Should it keep rates high and risk suffocating the best labor market in decades, or begin cutting rates and risk inflation taking off again?If you believe that inflation is above all the product of strong wage growth, then cutting interest rates prematurely could cause prices to rise even more. This is the view the Fed appears to hold. “Right now, given the strength of the labor market and progress on inflation so far, it’s appropriate to allow restrictive policy further time to work,” Fed Chair Jerome Powell said in a Q&A session following the release of March’s inflation data. Translation: The economy is still too hot, and we aren’t cutting interest rates any time soon.[Michael Powell: What the upper-middle class left doesn’t get about inflation]If, however, you believe that the last mile of inflation is a product of statistical lags, keeping interest rates high makes little sense. In fact, high interest rates may paradoxically be pushing inflation higher than it otherwise would be. Many homeowners, for instance, have responded to spiking interest rates by staying put to preserve the cheap mortgages they secured when rates were lower (why give up a 3 percent mortgage rate for a 7 percent one?). This “lock-in effect” has restricted the supply of available homes, which drives up the prices.High rates may also be partly responsible for auto-insurance costs. Insurance companies often invest their customers’ premium payments in safe assets, such as government bonds. When interest rates rose, however, the value of government bonds fell dramatically, leaving insurers with huge losses on their balance sheets. As The New York Times’s Talmon Joseph Smith reports, one reason auto-insurance companies have raised their premiums is to help cover those losses. In other words, in the two categories where inflation has been the most persistent, interest rates may be propping up the exact high prices that they are supposed to be lowering.The Fed’s “wait and see” approach comes with other risks as well. Already, high rates have jacked up the costs of major life purchases, made a dysfunctional housing market even more so, and triggered a banking crisis. They haven’t made a dent in America’s booming labor market—yet. But the longer rates stay high, the greater the chance that the economy begins to buckle under the pressure. Granted, Powell has stated that if unemployment began to rise, the Fed would be willing to cut rates. But lower borrowing costs won’t translate into higher spending overnight. It could take months, even years, for them to have their full effect. A lot of people could lose their jobs in the meantime.Given where inflation seemed to be headed at the beginning of this year, the fact that the Federal Reserve finds itself in this position at all is frustrating. But given where prices were 18 months ago, it is something of a miracle. Back then, the Fed believed it would be forced to choose between a 1970s-style inflation crisis or a painful recession; today it is deciding between slightly higher-than-typical inflation or a somewhat-less-stellar economy. That doesn’t make the central bank’s decision any easier, but it should perhaps make the rest of us a bit less stressed about it.

The Point of Having a Spiritual Quest

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Want to stay current with Arthur’s writing? Sign up to get an email every time a new column comes out.The United States has long had a great deal of religious diversity, and was built on the idea of religious tolerance. But one type of belief was always rare: none. Until recently, that is. According to the Pew Research Center, the percentage of Americans who profess no religion (as opposed even to having one that they rarely or never practice) has risen from 16 percent in 2007 to 29 percent in 2021. (Back in the early 1970s, only about 5 percent of Americans espoused this position.)This phenomenon of declining belief is of great concern to many religious leaders, as one can easily imagine. The Catholic theologian and bishop Robert Barron has built an enormous internet-based ministry in no small part by seeking to reach these so-called nones. Rather than simply railing against a secular culture, Barron turns the criticism around and calls the growth of this disavowal “an unnerving commentary on the effectiveness of our evangelical strategies.”The growing phenomenon of the nones, however, is not evidence of a lack of interest in spiritual life. Many today who previously fell away from their faith—or never had one to begin with—are seeking something faith-like in their life. They are open to thinking about such commitments, but just don’t know what to look for. Maybe this describes you. If so, ironically, the research data on why people say they became nones in the first place might hold the answer of what to focus on to set you on your spiritual path.In tracking the rise of the nones in American religious life, Pew has also studied people who had faith in childhood but left it in adulthood. In 87 percent of the cases, this came down to one of three reasons: They stopped believing (49 percent), they felt too uncertain (18 percent), or they didn’t like the way the faith was practiced (20 percent). More concisely, most people leave their faith because of belief, feeling, or practice.[Derek Thompson: The true cost of the churchgoing bust]These are the reasons people quit religion, but we can also infer that these same three aspects of religious experience are central to maintaining faith—or to finding it anew and then keeping it. You might say that belief, feeling, and practice are the macronutrients—the necessary elements—of healthy faith. With only one of them, you will be spiritually malnourished: Belief alone is desiccated theory; by itself, feeling is unreliable sentimentality; practice in isolation is dogmatism. To build a new, sustaining spiritual diet, you need to focus on all three.Many great thinkers have made essentially this point. For example, the ardently religious Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy wrote in his book of daily pensées, A Calendar of Wisdom, that in times of trouble, “you have to embrace what the wisdom of humanity, your intellect, and your heart tell you: that the meaning of life is to serve the force that sent you into the world.”Feeling is fundamental to religious experience, as scholarship on emotion has shown. Some religions elevate trancelike states of ecstasy, such as samadhi in both Hinduism and Buddhism, which involves complete meditative absorption. Most faiths emphasize the role of the emotional adoration of the divine, as in the Prophet Muhammad’s teaching that believers should “love Allah with all of your hearts.” One cannot rely on feeling alone, however, because it is so mutable. As the 16th-century founder of the Jesuit Order, Saint Ignatius of Loyola, noted, faith features feelings of not only consolation but also desolation, at moments when God feels absent from one’s life.The second element of faith is belief, which are tenets you have accepted as truths, at least provisionally. These truths are not testable as scientific propositions are, so, in Thomas Aquinas’s definition, they are the “mean between science and opinion.” These are the propositions that you learn from reading and listening to other believers, and that you ultimately choose to accept; examples would be God’s laws for the Jewish people or the Eightfold Path to enlightenment for Buddhists.Accepting such beliefs as truth does not mean they’re impossible to revise. In fact, research has shown that spiritual people are generally open to reflection on existential questions and willing to modify their views. But these tenets of faith are based on considered arguments, rather than feelings, so they tend to be stable and enduring.[Peter Wehner: David Brooks’s journey toward faith]Finally, religious practice offers a set of actions and rituals that you commit to observing in order to demonstrate your adherence to the faith for yourself and others. This is the element of faith that takes it out of the realm of abstraction and makes it part of your real, physical life. You can say you believe in the ideas of Zen, but Zen itself will not become a meaningful part of your life until you practice Zen meditation. Similarly, you can say you believe in the divine inspiration of the Quran, but that doesn’t mean much if you don’t actually read it.You might assume that any practice requires both belief and feeling—entailing that, for example, you would feel impelled to go to a political demonstration only if you already believed in the cause. But you may have noticed the opposite occurring in your life: If you go to a demonstration uncommitted, you may find that the experience stimulates feelings and belief, which might then lead you to go to future demonstrations.This is a basic form of what academics call “path dependence,” a phenomenon in which past decisions lead to similar actions in future. The concept is usually used by economists and political scientists to explain institutional inertia or resistance to organizational change, but the same principle can suggestively be applied to individual human behavior. Such path dependence can be affected by both positive and negative feedback, the sense either that people’s choices elicit increasing returns or that they are self-reinforcing or “locked in.”That feedback loop can be a problem if your religious practice makes you become rigid in your ideology; economists, for example, have modeled that voter path dependence might be one of the causes of our increasing polarization. As it pertains to faith, the trick, then, is to be wary of your path dependence if it results in negative feedback: If you feel or behave like a “locked-in” party-line voter, you might be too rigid in your belief. Yet if you use path dependence on your faith exclusively for positive feedback—that is, your belief elicits increasing returns, perhaps boosting your altruism, community ties, or sense of meaning in life—then you will be using it as a force for good.Put simply, be completely honest with yourself about why you’re practicing your faith; if your belief spurs positive feedback, carry on.[Faith Hill: The messy line between faith and reason]A healthy faith thus requires all three sources of spiritual nourishment. The data suggest that when one or more of those elements—of belief, feeling, and practice—are missing, people fall away. So if you’re looking for faith in your life, you need to seek all three.Here is an optimal way to do so. In Tolstoy’s Calendar of Wisdom, he quotes an ancient Chinese proverb: “Those who know the rules of true wisdom are baser than those who love them. Those who love them are baser than those who follow them.” In other words, to develop a healthy faith, practice is more important than feeling, and feeling is more important than belief. This implies the reverse of what most people do to develop a spiritual life: They read and think to acquire knowledge and opinions—that is, beliefs—then they see if they “feel” their faith, and only then will they move on to practicing it. But as the proverb implies, this order of priorities won’t work very well.The right approach is to start practicing, notwithstanding your current state of belief and feeling. If the practice evokes sentiment in you, then study the faith to develop knowledge and opinions. This is an experimental, hands-on approach, much in the manner of how many inventions and innovations come about: An inventor tries something, sees whether it works, and then figures out precisely what’s going on.In a faith context, this means that you might go to a service of worship a few times. Then you could interrogate your feelings as to whether the services stimulated something deep within (or, alternatively, whether they left you cold). Finally, if the former feels true, you could start investigating the belief system intellectually.[Arthur C. Brooks: Jung’s five pillars of a good life]The three elements of faith can be useful to apply to many parts of life, not just your spiritual quest. Consider marriage, for instance: Without the feelings of love and affection, a relationship is dead; without knowledge and opinions about your spouse, it has no depth; without practicing the rituals of love, your partnership will wither. This same algorithmic progression of faith can also map out your path to marriage. You start out with practice in the form of a date; you continue the relationship if you feel attraction and the beginnings of love; the pairing develops as you gain knowledge and form favorable opinions about your partner.Obviously, this connubial example is not a random one. To find faith is to find a form of love—a love of the divine, or a rapturous spiritual connection with the universe. But like all good and worthwhile things in life, faith and love merit deep thought and serious effort.

The Republicans Who Want American Carnage

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Tom Cotton has never seen a left-wing protest he didn’t want crushed at gunpoint.On Monday, the Arkansas senator demanded that President Joe Biden send in the National Guard to clear out the student protests at Columbia University against the Israel-Hamas war, which he described as “the nascent pogroms at Columbia.” Last week, Cotton posted on X, “I encourage people who get stuck behind the pro-Hamas mobs blocking traffic: take matters into your own hands. It’s time to put an end to this nonsense.” He later deleted the post and reworded it so that it did not sound quite so explicitly like a demand for aspiring vigilantes to lynch protesters.This is a long-standing pattern for Cotton, who enjoys issuing calls for violence that linger on the edge of plausible deniability when it comes to which groups, exactly, are appropriate targets for lethal force. During the George Floyd protests of 2020, Cotton demanded that the U.S. military be sent in with orders to give “no quarter for insurrectionists, anarchists, rioters, and looters,” insisting unconvincingly in a later New York Times op-ed that he was not conflating peaceful protesters with rioters. Senator Josh Hawley of Missouri, who had raised a fist in apparent solidarity with the mob that assaulted the Capitol on January 6 before fleeing through the halls to avoid them once the riot began, echoed Cotton’s call for deploying the National Guard to Columbia. (Both men, as it turns out, are in favor of some quarter for “insurrectionists” who happen to be on the right side.)Michael Powell: The unreality of Columbia’s ‘liberated zone’What Cotton and Hawley are doing is simple demagoguery. When Donald Trump was inaugurated president, he spoke of an “American carnage” that he would suppress by force. Trump’s attempts to apply the maximum level of violence to every problem did not solve any of them. Migration at the southern border surged in 2019 until a crackdown in Mexico and the coronavirus pandemic brought it down; Trump’s presidency ended with a rise in violent crime (another likely pandemic effect, among other factors) and with widespread civil-rights protests. The protesters at Columbia and other college campuses around the United States are voicing opposition to U.S. support for Israel’s war against Hamas, which began in retaliation for a Hamas raid that killed some 1,200 Israelis last October. Since then, more than 30,000 Palestinians have been killed, about 2 million displaced, and many driven to the brink of starvation. No sympathy for Hamas or anti-Semitism is necessary to believe, as I do, that Israel’s conduct here has been horrifically disproportionate; the U.S. government itself has acknowledged substantial evidence of human-rights violations by Israeli forces as well as by Hamas. There have been documented instances of anti-Semitic rhetoric and harassment surrounding the protests; a rabbi associated with Columbia University urged Jewish students to stay away for the time being, and the university’s president, Nemat Shafik, recommended that students not living on campus attend classes remotely for the time being. In the same way that the Israeli government’s conduct does not justify anti-Semitism, the anti-Semitic acts of some individuals associated with the protests do not justify brutalizing the protesters. As of this morning, the National Guard had not been called in, but hundreds of students participating in demonstrations across the country had been arrested.If the campus authorities need to act to protect the safety of any of their students, including from threats, discrimination, and harassment, then they must. But the university is facing pressure from pro-Israel donors and elected officials to shut down the protests, less because they are dangerous than because these powerful figures find the protesters and their demands offensive.Yet the kinds of mass violence and unrest that would justify deploying the National Guard are currently absent, and the use of state force against the protesters is likely to escalate tensions rather than quell them. The New York Times reported that after Shafik asked the NYPD to clear the protesters’ tent city located on a campus quad, the “decision to bring in the police also unleashed a wave of activism across a growing number of college campuses.” As for Columbia, NYPD Chief John Chell told the Columbia Spectator that “the students that were arrested were peaceful, offered no resistance whatsoever, and were saying what they wanted to say in a peaceful manner.” Nor did the arrests end the protest.The calls from Cotton and Hawley to deploy the National Guard are not about anyone’s safety—many of the pro-Palestinian protesters, against whom the might of the U.S. military would be aimed, are Jewish. As the historian Kevin Kruse notes, sending the National Guard to campuses facing Vietnam War protests led to students being killed, including some who had nothing to do with the protests, rather than to anyone being safer. The most likely outcome based on past precedent would be an escalation to serious violence. Which might be the idea.Conor Friedersdorf: Against the Insurrection ActAs we approach the summer of 2024, the economy is growing, migration to the border has declined at least temporarily owing to what appears to be a new crackdown by Mexican authorities, and in many major cities, crime is returning to historic lows, leaving protests as the most suitable target for demagoguery. The Biden administration’s support for Israel divides Democrats and unites Republicans, so the longer the issue remains salient, the better it is for the GOP. More broadly, the politics of “American carnage” do not work as well in the absence of carnage. Far-right politics operate best when there is a public perception of disorder and chaos, an atmosphere in which the only solution such politicians ever offer can sound appealing to desperate voters. Social-media bubbles can suffice to maintain this sense of siege among the extremely online, but cultivating this perception among most voters demands constant reinforcement.This is why the Republican Party is constantly seeking to play up chaos at the border and an epidemic of crime in American cities, no matter what the reality of the situation might actually be. Cotton and Hawley are demanding that Biden use force against the protesters not just because they consistently advocate for state violence against those who support causes they oppose as a matter of principle, but also because any escalation in chaos would redound to their political benefit. They don’t want to solve any problems, they want to make them worse so that the public will warm to “solutions” that will continue to make them worse. They don’t want order, or safety, or peace. What they want is carnage.