GUEST COLUMNIST: A summer to remember
(07/20/00 9:00am)
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COLUMN: A star witness without a voice
(02/29/00 10:00am)
On Saturday, a grave crime occurred. Four killers were set free. Since then, huge protests have been held across the country. Blacks and non-blacks alike, fed up with the status quo in terms of police "protection," are speaking up in a united voice. Others have sat proudly in agreement with the verdict. Any lawyer or law student will tell you that the prosecution was missing evidence. For them, with all that is right and wrong with the system, justice has been served. With all of the finger-pointing happening now, it is easy to forget who the true victim in this case is. It is not the millions of black people in this country who live in constant fear of the police; it is not the police who can be held liable for split-second actions that may save their own lives; and it is certainly no one in between. Amadou Diallo is the victim. This is so easy to forget when people use his death as an impetus for protest or as a defense of the criminal justice system. Amadou Diallo now only exists in our memories. He was a man without any prior convictions, an immigrant of two years just trying to make a living. He was a devout Muslim living in a poor community in the Bronx, peddling on the street to barely scrape together a living. He was only 22. The way he died was far from humane. The prosecution had no case because its star witness was massacred. Nineteen of the 41 shots fired at Diallo hit him, and most ripped through his body after he had already fallen to the ground. Regardless of whether the policemen did feel a real threat, one must question their firing 41 bullets. That is not protocol -- it's cruelty. The real tragedy of this case is that we will never know what really happened that fateful night. Our star witness' body was sent back home to his native Guinea in a casket. His is a story that was never told due to a barrage of gunfire; his perspective on that night very possibly could have changed the outcome of the trial. Instead, the testimony of the four plain-clothed police officers on trial was given more credibility than that of the prosecution witnesses. With Diallo silenced, the state could not fully challenge the policemen's stories, and thus lost the case. But we'll never know what really happened that night a little more than one year ago -- and speculation is useless. For the next few weeks, this verdict will surely be the topic of many a discussion. Many will cite police brutality as the cause of this tragedy. Others will crassly blame the victim for running away from four plain-clothed men with guns. Still others will look at a very imperfect system characterized by mistrust between the police and lower-income black communities. Let us take from this tragedy what we can. Let us learn from the strength of the victim's mother, who -- through all the pain -- still urges the masses to stay calm. Or let it become a springboard for discussion. Believe what you will, but the police went overboard when they killed Diallo. He was treated more as an animal than as a human being. He was an innocent man who was suspect because of a system of racial profiling. What turned out to be an innocent man was picked off the street, and eventually gunned down, because he was black. Everything else is presumption. Who truly knows the motive behind Diallo's decision to flee or the police officers' motives to empty their guns? The police officers might have been racist. Diallo might have used poor judgment in running away. Or maybe not -- we just cannot know. When forming an opinion on the verdict, focus on the faulty system and less on the motives of a few individuals. Stick with the facts. And most of all, remember that an innocent man lies dead today. His voice, now silenced, might then speak volumes.
GUESS COLUMNIST: Twelve months of recognition
(02/29/00 10:00am)
But I would also like to comment on the issue of Black History Month. February is the only time when institutions feel obligated to recognize -- or make some attempt at recognizing -- the great things that black people have done. We have all learned about Dr. King and his dream. We may have learned about Harriet Tubman andESojourner Truth as well as many other great mothers.ESomewhere along the lineEyou may have learned aboutEW.E.B.EDuBois orEBooker T. Washington and felt that youEhad a solid understanding of black history. IEmust say that I am not satisfied with this. As a descendent of the people on whose backs this country was built, I am not allowed to be satisfied with this. I feel personally responsible for keeping the truth of my history alive by telling the stories over and over.EBlack history is not only what is written in the textbooks and taught duringEFebruary. It isEa rich history deeply rooted in oral tradition. Listening to stories told by our grandparents is more valuable than any school textbooks could ever be. Because we often rely solely on what we have been taught,Eit is no wonder that many of us do not know that the first female millionaire was a black woman, or that it was a black man who invented the process of manufacturing paper.EMany of usEdo not know that a black man created theEspark plug and that others created the fire extinguisher, the gas mask, the fountain pen, the traffic light and the refrigerator. We take for granted the contributions that black people have made to our society and our everyday life.EWe should not have to wait until February to acknowledge everything that black people have done for this country. Have we ever been formally thanked for creating the foundation of this country and for laboring on its land for centuries, against our will?EHas anyone taken the time to apologize for everythingEour ancestors were put through so that America could be what it is today? Yes, we have been thanked.ESociety has thanked us by way of disparate treatment in education, employment and housing. We are thanked when we get pulled over on highways for Driving While Black. What better way to thank someone than to frisk him on the side of the road because his tail light is out? People continually second-guess our intelligence, they second-guess our mere presence at such institutions as Penn and, worst of all, they fear us. I have been at Penn almost two years now and before that I was in a prestigious boarding school. One thing IEhave learned is that the amount of educationEyou have does not matter at all because when you walk down the street, there will still beEpeople who will clutch their bags a little tighter or feel for their wallets after you accidentally bump into them, even if you are wearing a Penn sweatshirt. Mr. Lowinger is correct inEsaying that no one will ever understand the struggles of black people in this country. No matter how anti-racism you are, how pro-affirmativeEaction and pro-diversityEyouEare, you will never understand what it is like to be repeatedly denied, doubted, misunderstood, suspected, accused, underestimated and rejected simply because you are a black person.ENor will you ever understand what it means to beEa member of a race of people who -- despite everything to which it has been continually subjected -- has remained strong and has persevered. I can only ask that you take the time to think when you move through your day-to-day actions. When you see a black man on campus and you feel yourself getting anxious, stop and think, "Has this man ever done anything to me?" When you open the doors to your classes, remember that it was one of us who created the doorknob. Take the time to give credit where credit is due, andEtry to acknowledge the historical and present contributions that black peopleEmake and have made to society. February is not the only month that you reap the benefits of our contributions, so don't limit appreciation to this one month.
Opinion: My enemy, my friend
(01/18/00 10:00am)
A clammy hand cut through the mist to grasp the flesh of my palm. Unable to see, I knew where to look only by focusing on the glowing embers of the faint light directly before me. "I am Zohar," said the faceless voice in a very pronounced accent, "Salaam Aleikem!" As it turned out, Zohar would be my chain-smoking Arab roommate for the duration of my time in Room 301-Gimel of Haifa University's dormitory. He was gruff, shorter in stature than myself, with a thick five o'clock shadow and deliberately spiky hair. "You speak to me in English, I speak to you in Hebrew and Arabic. We be good friends." He finally let go of my hand, and my arm recoiled as if it had touched a flame. He was a strong one, he was, and I nervously muttered the first reply I could think of, "Sh-Shalom?." Initially, I should have had reservations about living in a suite of five Arab students. Growing up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, I was all but conditioned to fear Arabs. I was brought up to believe that they were all terrorists, with a taste for killing in the name of Allah. Such views were only strengthened by images and stereotypes of Arabs to which I had been exposed all of my life, in Hollywood and in the media. I did not tell my roommate right away that I was Jewish. Over the duration of the semester, Zohar and I slowly became very good friends. Although he was an Arab citizen of Israel, he was in the elite-fighting unit of Tzahal, the Israeli Defense Force. On his bookshelf, next to the Koran, sat a large coffee table-like book with long descriptions of Israel's greatest military victories. On his desk, pictures said it all: an image of Zohar smoking a cigarette was flanked on the right by Zohar wearing military gear, and on the left by Zohar standing next to his nine brothers in his small Arab village. Zohar had explained to me almost all the sides of the Arab-Israeli conflict, and I was beginning to understand -- beginning to understand how sheltered and biased my upbringing was. And then it happened. Just when I thought I had some sort of grasp on the Arab-Israeli conflict, I heard a friend scream, "Ow!" I could not believe it, and I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. We were walking in the predominantly Arab East Jerusalem. It was a Friday night, and we were on the way to the Western Wall. Out of nowhere, a child no older than five picked up a rock and pelted it at the back of my friend, who was dressed in traditional Jewish Sabbath garb. Not knowing whether to scream or run, we chose to freeze in our tracks. Needless to say, I was shocked. That initial shock did eventually die down. My suitemates explained that relations between Arabs and Jews were much more strained in Jerusalem than in Northern Israel. And I slowly came to realize that the child was not much different than me at that age: instilled with a rage directed at another people, by people who are older but not necessarily wiser. I was disappointed. I thought I had learned it all. My optimistic hopes of Arabs and Jews living together in harmony were put on hold for the moment. Long after the end of the semester, I found myself hiking in the ancient city of Petra (made famous by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) in Jordan. I had finally reached the top of the last climbable mountain, called the High Place of Sacrifice. "So sorry," the guard said in his best broken English. "Everyone must leave now." I was still following the magnificence of the sun as it fell behind mountains in the distance, and I pleaded for another moment. The guard sat down next to me and offered me a cigarette. We chatted for a while and I explained that I had come into Jordan from Israel. He replied, "Yes, Israel. It is beautiful country. The Jewishes, they are cousins of Islam. Peace -- yes, is good. Now I have new friend." I smiled at him, took a drag and basked for one last moment in the beauty before me. Here on this mountain, at that moment, there was no conflict, no rage, no Jews and no Arabs. Under the dimming rays of a shared sunset sat two human beings, cherishing the sweet simplicity of a true peace.