Anxious Mo(ve)ments: Precision Guided Munitions and the Spatio-Temporal Delusions of Targeting

“[T]he desire for security and the feeling of insecurity are the same thing. To hold your breath is to lose your breath. A society based on the quest for security is nothing but a breath-retention contest in which everyone is as taut as a drum and as purple as a beet”

(Watts, 2011 [1951]: Loc. 818-820)

The logic of contemporary warfare has many different strands, but all, it seems, are characterised in some way by illusions of control: control over certain objects, over the future, over language. What’s more, this control is brazenly understood as being potentially absolute. There is no room for relativity in the discourse of the warring nation.

Therefore, where terms such as ‘clean’ and ‘precise’ are mobilised, it is with ignorance to their inherent relations to dirt and imprecision. In her discussion of Precision Guided Munitions (PGMs) for example, Maja Zehfuss (2011) explains in detail the multiple ways by which the associated meanings of that word – ‘precision’ – diverge in one direction from its use as a technical classification, and in the other from the reality of the weapons to which it is attached.

Traditionally, Zehfuss tells us, bombing from the air was an imprecise practice. A bomb might fall anywhere within 1000 metres of its target. The contemporary methods, the PGMs, by contrast, are said to be ‘precise’ because their guidance – either by GPS or laser systems – allows the likely radius of the target to be reduced from 1000 to between 3 and 13 metres. However, the difference between the traditional and the modern is not quite as great as it first seems. The military’s technical classification of precision is expressed in Circular Error Probable (CEP), a measurement of range which accounts for only 50% of the bombs that fall. The other 50%, Zehfuss notes, are granted no recognition: they simply fall elsewhere.

Through this ostracism, the use of the word ‘precision’ belies the continuation of an approach which assesses itself primarily from the perspective of the intended target. Either the target is hit, or it is missed. Correspondingly, risk is primarily interpreted not as the possibility of killing civilians, but as the possibility of not killing potential threats. And, if the risk is ‘not killing’, then the task of reducing it becomes a question of how to kill more thoroughly.

A strategy of insurance against imprecision – a strategy undifferentiated from ‘precision’ itself – is achieved by increasing the quantity of destruction delivered. In World War II – the blitz or the firebombing of Dresden – this involved many bombs of a small payload; now, it means fewer bombs which produce a considerably larger ‘lethal radius’. As in preparation for the hammering of a nail, a precise mark is drawn upon the surface of the proposed target. Yet, when the hammer falls, the point of the nail does not connect quite so accurately as the crosshairs suggest, perhaps slips, and then opens up a large, ungraceful hole as the tip enters and widens to its full beam.

Tracking Movements: The Denial of the Future

Already it is clear that a considerable gap exists between the usual cultural meaning of ‘precision’, and its realities in the context of PGMs. Furthermore though, since this rift is both vital to, and depends upon, the blotting out of the indiscriminate and chaotic moment of destruction, the military discourse has sought to distance itself even further by giving precision a more extreme, absolutist, definition.  The new definition aims to deny the chaotic moment by claiming to exercise control over it in advance, extending the notion of precision out into the future, thus refusing the possibilities of its inherent relativity. Imprecision, the very reason for precision to exist – as its counter, its sparring partner – is exorcised, thrown from the ring in this new absolutism.

By proxy to this refusal of imprecision, what the new meaning of precision also refuses is the realm in which imprecision resides: the future; or rather, the fundamental difference between the present and the future, the fact that the future does not (yet) exist. It is possible to argue that the present is a moment over which we have some degree of control. We might say, for instance, that when crosshairs are placed upon a target, they are done so according to the best, most up-to-date intelligence which the military possesses. However, to have control of this moment alone is no-longer good enough. In the face of mobile threats whose shadows are cast by politicians, and thrown long by media, the disjointedness of moments between a relatively assured present and an uncertain future breeds a deep feeling of anxiety.

In response to the unfortunate fact that the enemy moves, the military have sought to replace the two distinct moments of ‘taking aim’ and ‘firing’, the reactive moments of old-fashioned fighter pilots, with a smooth and uninterrupted process of ‘targeting’. The target moves in two vital senses: First, from non-threatening to threatening, or from potentiality to actuality, potentiality being the present state of an anticipated future. This notion has been covered well by James Der Derian among others: the body which is targeted is not the actualised ‘terrorist’ but the ‘terrorist’ coming into being, which is at present the body planning, plotting, or – since we may not be able to identify the plotting body with any certainty – the body meeting, talking, gathering with groups of other suspicious bodies in suspicious spaces, spaces previously deemed threatening in themselves, whether places of worship, or military ‘compounds’, or even an entire region or ‘rogue state’. In fact, it is increasingly the case that the term terrorist is conflated, via another term, militant, with the body of the not-yet-terrorist.

The process of targeting is an attempt therefore to cope with the movement of present into future, and the other, second kind of movement, geographical movement, which comes part and parcel with it. The problem with this transition, with claiming the “capability for total monitoring of any significant element moving on the surface of the earth”, is that it is in denial: it is in denial of the fact of the future as a realm that is ultimately beyond control (Virilio, 2007 [2000]: 19). It throws a rope into the future by claiming that there are no moments – along the path between the present moment and the moment when the target is destroyed – at which the objects, the missile and its target, are not under the subject’s control. As a result of the apparent cyborg state of the contemporary military subject – the drone pilot in particular – not only surrounded by but at one with, made up of the full input of ‘real-time’ intelligence, this control over movement amounts to ‘precision’ as it is fantasised by the tsars of technology.

Final Mo(ve)ments: The Ultimate Impossibility of Control

The fantasy of control exposes itself I think in its last resort assurance: the claim that, should the worst kind of movement, the movement of the target to within range of an unacceptable amount of civilian presence, occur, the PGM can simply ‘duck out’. Taking a simple everyday example, we can understand both the ultimate futility of this claim, and the true logic of the discourse as a whole. If you live in an urban area like me, you have, perhaps a thousand times, had the experience of walking towards a stranger coming at you on the same side of the pavement. Regardless of our grand experience, when it happens just once more, we are again faced by the same blank impossibility of knowledge. We spot them from a fair distance – our civilian target, as it were, whom we wish to avoid – so we have plenty of time; plenty of time between now, the present, and then, the future in which we imagine, with anxiety, smashing heads with the other person, or, with relief, passing smoothly by them. But despite the time we tell ourselves we have, we do not really have it at all, just as we do not have the other person. All that matters is that, from one moment to the next, as we approach, we twist and turn our body from one side of the path to the other, and it is purely a matter of chance as to whether the other will do the same. Really, it makes no difference whether we move or not, or at what moment(s), but we do it anyway because we wish to delude ourselves in the face of anxiety; because we believe that the self-deception will appease our psychological state.

“…at some point the weapon will be out of control. It will be beyond our intentions, in the realm of the future”

(Zehfuss, 2011)

Technology throws a rope, but the future cannot be lassoed. It is not something which may be tamed, reeled back in to our present moment. Nonetheless, political and military officials, large swathes of the media, and much of the Western public comfort themselves with the belief that it can. Like two strangers approaching one-another on the same side of the street, we combat our fears, though not our realities, with our own twists and turns, repeated technological innovations each one more ‘ethical’ and ‘precise’ than the last.

In this delusional state, it is not only precision which has mutated to suit our beliefs; the meaning of pre-emption too, has been blurred into that much more vague and distant concept of prevention. Despite the stated allegiance to the former policy, action is taken in advance not because the movement of the other can be pre-empted, but precisely because it can’t.

The point beyond control, though it may be postponed, can never be obliterated. As Zehfuss notes, this point may even occur after the weapon has struck. It may, for example, fail to detonate. According to Carl Conetta (2004: 24), 5-10% of guided cluster bomb munitions malfunction in this way, leaving ordinance buried in the earth, to be discovered in an ungoverned future by whosoever happens to have the misfortune of coming across it. In another sense, the weapon, or the conflict in general, can have a plethora of long-term effects. With NATO’s 1999 bombing of Serbian electricity generators in mind, Paul Virilio alerts us to the fact that an infrastructural form of violence, inflicted unfortunately, but not unintentionally, upon the civilian population, is increasingly relied upon for the fighting of modern wars. In spite of their low payload, the graphite bombs used in the offensive were ‘soft’ only in appearance, for it was known that the explosion of graphite in a high-voltage environment “would act like an electric arc…produc[ing] a serious fire and a terrible detonation (Virilio, 2007 [2000]: 27).

Make it Look Like an Accident: Death, Anxiety, and the Ignorance of the Present

The bomb’s explosion contains both the loud, quick blast of a past moment and this slow present participle of debilitating violence: “It exploded; we are suffering”. The misconception that we can track, and thus exercise control over, future mo(ve)ments leads us to foreclose considerations of what might occur beyond our intentions. Rather than being open to the future possibilities deriving from present actions – therefore taking some form of responsibility for them – everything that we did not intend is thrown outside, classed as an accident, some strange event without cause.

Here we have two seemingly contradictory tactics unified into a single strategy: on the one side, a tactic of pre-emption that feigns the ability to predict the future in order to justify taking action in advance; on the other, a “militarization of the accident” that feigns the inability to foresee a range of possible unfortunate futures in order to justify that same action retroactively, thus eluding criminal accountability (Virilio, 2007 [2000]: 55).

The taming of chance, as Ian Hacking (1990) once called it, is really a taming of anxiety, that present moment of not knowing with regards to the future. This not knowing is, of course, the condition of life itself. As Zehfuss (2011) states with precision, “[l]ife always interferes”. The tragic irony is that those twists and turns, those innovations employed to soothe our anxiety, serve only to work us up into an even more frenzied state. When they are so obsessively and thoughtlessly devised, securitising innovations can so easily become the root of the anxiety itself.

For Alan Watts (2011 [1951]), we fail to recognise the law of reversed effort: that sometimes, the more one tries to stay on the surface of the water, the more one sinks, but when one tries to sink, one floats. By the same token, our obsession with the anxious fiction of the future leads us to ignore the present moment, an ignorance which amounts to nothing less than the negation of life, that is, a self-inflicted death. Whereas we often refer to the act of suicide as the negation of the future, a future life, Watts turns the notion on its head, begging the question of whether that physical self-destruction which we call suicide is really only the post-factum of a life which has already been ended, or at least suspended, by anxiety. The tragedy of suicide is thus not that “they had so much to live for”, but that they were forced to consider this potentiality, this target of opportunity, to such an extent that they found themselves unable to live life itself.

The West accuses suicide bombers of cowardly tactics, of refusing to take responsibility for the violence they inflict by removing themselves from the scene, yet when their own forces militarize the accident, they also employ suicide as a strategy of warfare. In the same way, they absent themselves from the consequences of their actions; they too search for certainty, security; an end to anxiety, only to realise that they must escape responsibility for life – both their life and the lives of others – in order to find it.

References

Conetta, C. (2004). ‘Disappearing the Dead: Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Idea of a “New Warfare”’. Project on Defense Alternatives. Research Monograph No. 9, 18/02/2004. Available at: http://www.comw.org/pda/fulltext/0402rm9.pdf

Hacking, I. (1990). The Taming of Chance. Cambridge University Press.

Virilio, P. (2007 [2000]). Strategy of Deception (Trans. C. Turner). London & New York: Verso.

Watts, A. (2011 [1951]). The Wisdom of Insecurity: A Message for an Age of Anxiety. New York: Vintage Books [Kindle Version].

Zehfuss, M. (2011). ‘Targeting: Precision and the Production of Ethics’. European Journal of International Relations. 17(3), 543-556.

Reading List, and a Response to the Senate Select Committee Report on CIA Torture: The Body in Pain – The Making and Unmaking of the World. Elaine Scarry (1985). Oxford University Press.

In the light of the recent public attention paid to the CIA’s practices of torture and deception following the US Senate Select Committee study’s partial declassification, Elaine Scarry’s 1985 masterpiece illustrates the seriousness of the state we find ourselves in.

First of all, The Body in Pain serves as a rigorous outline of what it means to be in pain – a world-destroying sensation which, in its undeniable, immanent presence, forces us to surrender our sensuous interaction with the world. Pain blinds, deafens, reduces our voices to screams and, eventually, to inaudible gasps. In other words, it presses us back into ourselves; confines us to certain limits, both architectural – we are house-bound and bed-stricken – and corporeal, restricting our capacity for social existence.

Second, and most significantly, Scarry writes in depth on the different ways in which pain is inflicted. Two systematic modes: war and torture, are explored, compared, and come to be distinguished by a number of features, of which mutual consent is deemed the most important. However ‘asymmetrical’ it may be, war bears violence on both sides. Torture, on the other hand, is a wholly unilateral exercise: the pain that it inflicts panders, above and beyond its purported necessity in the name of intelligence, to the power and status of the torturer(s). Furthermore, Scarry identifies a dramatic element to torture which is necessary for its self-aggrandising effect. Where pain may destroy worlds, torture does so in an intentionally drawn out way, prolonged with extensive symbolisms. In Scarry’s language, it not only inflicts pain but simultaneously mimes that infliction, loudly announcing its own movements as it performs them.

Alone, this analysis is crucial, but the work is perhaps even greater for the way in which, by its clear division between torture and war, it alerts us, the 21st century reader, to the way in which the line separating these two forms of violence may now be far more blurred. With the rise of the drone as a military tool – a weapon to which those facing it can pose no threat beyond the economic cost of a small remote-controlled vehicle – can we still call war merely ‘asymmetric’? While the dissemination of drone technology will likely soon provide a tragic fix to this problem – soon everyone will have access to UAVs – it remains that the method by which the drone goes about its work corresponds, disturbingly, more closely to Scarry’s definition of torture than her definition of war.

One example in particular strikes me. From her examination of the testimonies of torture victims under numerous 20th century regimes, Scarry observes that, almost without exception, every one talks of “being made to stare at the weapon with which they were about to be hurt”. Not only the duration, but also the intimacy of torture resonates with the lengthy surveillance of the drone; its ability to linger in the air above a target for days, sometimes weeks before electing to strike. The possible victim/potential threat stares at the dormant weapon and – an interesting addition – the dormant weapon stares back at its prey. Like the props and acts of the interrogation room: domestic objects and medical procedures like chairs, tables, lamps, baths, even fridges; injections, rectal insertions and dentistry, accounts from those living under the drones repeatedly recount how their very environments and behaviours – the social gatherings at which the weapon aims, and the skies (particularly blue skies) in which the weapon hovers – are rendered from sources of light, warmth, life and joy, into the sites of fear, pain and death. A perverse inversion, as Scarry points out, from hospes: root of hospitality and the hospital, to its close etymological cousin, hostis: father of hostility. Just as in Kafka’s In the Penal Colony, where the instrument of torture replicates a giant sewing machine, the wars we currently wage are punishments of the order of torture, turning the domestic mechanisms of production and health into world-destroying instruments of domination and pain.

Reading List: Mengele’s Skull – The Advent of Forensic Aesthetics. Thomas Keenan & Eyal Weizman (2012), Sternberg Press

I am writing about this book now first of all because I love it, and second of all because I have lost it. Or rather, I attended a book-swap and, in a fit of foolish generosity, gave it away.

It is shorter and far more beautiful than you would ever believe that a book essentially about court processes could ever be.

Beginning from the case of Joseph Mengele, the Nazi leader whom was captured and trialed only posthumously, the authors work towards the hypothesis that dead bodies and other objects (including damaged buildings) have been increasingly utilised in courtrooms over the last few decades. Though often inserted, as objective, passive props for the proofs of scientific experts, Keenan & Weizman declare a more hopeful and open-minded trend towards viewing these things as occupying an uncertain identity between objective truth or evidence on the one hand, and the speaking testimony of a witness on the other.

In this sense, they envision a way of re-making a space of interpretation and performance for the law, thus ungrounding the technocratic, non-political, unbiased portrayal it is sometimes given. The law is, after all, about persuasion, and even objects; dead bodies; concrete structures, can persuade, negotiate, and lie.

This book, as well as having a great theoretical relevance to arguments of legal accountability which surround drone warfare as well as numerous other issues, is also directly relevant to current practice. For one, Eyal Weizman, as head of the organisation ‘Forensic Architecture’ at Goldsmiths University of London, is heavily involved in an ongoing UN inquiry into civilian casualties caused by drones.

 

Response to Derek Gregory Roundtable: Distance and the Myth of Drone Pilot Detachment

In his roundtable at the Centre for Research Architecture, Derek Gregory[i] makes two important points which I would like to pick up on. First, he asserts (as have others elsewhere), that the idea of the operation of military drones as a ‘joystick’ or ‘playstation war’ is false. He realises wisely that the material distance from battlefield to drone pilot[ii] does not necessarily equate to emotional distance. In fact, as he suggests, it is possible that drone pilots are in fact closer, in emotional terms, than the bomber pilots of WWII were to their targets. Both pre-assassination, in which time the drone pilot may follow their target for days, possibly even weeks, and post-assassination, when the pilot must carry out a ‘Bomb Damage Assessment’, they see, in graphic detail, the damage they inflict. The consequences of this visual clarity, together with the fact that drone pilots do not benefit from the camaraderie of regular soldiers – this is a 9-5 job and, at the end of the day, they must go home to partner and children, and repress all they have seen and done in the preceding hours – are evident in the high records of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) suffered by drone pilots[iii].

Secondly, Gregory argues that where more attention should perhaps be paid – rather than to the distance between pilot and victim – is to the notion of spectatorship: the way in which we in the West now always view war from afar, and via multiple layers of mediation.

What Gregory has, at least to my knowledge, not yet explored fully is the link between these two very valid points.

Put another way, what has not been answered is why it is vital that we do not perpetuate the myth that drone pilots are emotionally unattached, indifferent to their acts of violence. Of course, a pilot would say that it is vital because such a myth denigrates the work and character of drone pilots, creating the idea that they somehow ‘have it easy’. This pilot’s say would be true and legitimate.

However, I would argue that, for those of us who wish to bring greater accountability to the use of drones, the myth brings its own danger. Simply, it is that to pin the moral corruption of drone warfare on these individual pilots, and on the pure technical means by which they operate with the technology, takes aim, as it were, at the wrong target; at the wrong space.

According to the myth, the distance; the separation is located between the pilot and the people whom they watch and bomb; between the pilot’s virtuality and the victim’s violent reality. But what the accusations, using this myth as ammunition, inadvertently facilitate is the creation of another separation somewhere else. This separation – the more real and more dangerous one – occurs further back along the so-called ‘kill chain’, between the public on the one side, and the pilot (or the wider military establishment) and the victim – war as a whole – on the other. In arguing that drone pilots do not experience the horrors of war inflicted upon the victim, it is us who fail to comprehend the horrors of war experienced by both the victim of violence and the pilot whom inflicts it.

The link between Gregory’s points is thus established: Gregory’s first request, that we draw attention away from the distance between pilot and victim, is vital because focussing on this distance distracts us from Gregory’s second point, the distance between war and its western or global spectators.

To do this, to accomplish this epistemological shift from one space to another, is difficult not least because it requires the fighting of a temptation. The temptation is a temptation towards blissful ignorance; that is, our own blissful ignorance which our accusations of the blissful ignorance of the pilots has until now facilitated. While we claim, via the sphere of the media, that the pilots are ignorant of violence, we can appear to ourselves as knowledgeable of it, but, once we admit that the pilots are more knowledgeable than they first appeared, our own ignorance must be painfully confronted. Let me be clear about this ignorance: it is not the ignorance of violence or war itself; it is rather the ignorance of the fact that it is we who have the power and, more so, the responsibility, to change the situation. We appeal to the drone pilots to stop doing what they are doing, when we should be appealing to ourselves.

A caveat must be added here: that our ignorance, as facilitated by the myth of the pilot’s ignorance, in turn facilitates the ignorance of our politicians. It is they who, after all, make the decisions, and, until we are more obvious in our knowledge of our own guilt, they will live by our ignorance as we do. Both we and they have a moral conscience (though some of theirs may at times be very questionable), but, ultimately, if we do not make our objections explicit to them, then it gives their consciences the ultimate let-off. For me, our politicians’ seeming lack of morality on this and other issues derives from the fact that they come to be dependent on the democratic system for it. They survive by a democratic delusion in which, they say to themselves, “if I am immoral, then they will tell me with their votes”. And yet, the trouble with this is that all politicians seem to be reassuring themselves with the same whispers, leaving the voting public with little option, little power to vote for morality. This is why it falls to us to live politics outside of the political establishment; to give ourselves the options we have the responsibility to choose.

Putting the truth of the pilot’s experience aside then, it is regardless this space – a space of self-imposed public ignorance – which matters most in practical terms because, unlike that between the pilot and the victim, the space between public and victim carries at least the potential for influencing decision-making via politics. What I mean here is that the drone pilot, whether emotionally attached or not, will likely continue to bomb on the command of superiors. If they are not attached, as the myth goes, then they will bomb indifferently, and if they are, they will likely continue to bomb according to the justification and pride of a regular soldier, that theirs is a suffering necessary for the protection of the nation. This is not to say that the drone pilot is merely a passive cog in the machine, but they are nonetheless immersed in a system, an assemblage – or what is known in the US as a ‘kill chain’ – far larger than themselves. Their agency in this situation is to some extent restricted.

It is we who, being on the outside of the ‘kill chain’, have the agency, the choice of whether to become part of it or not.


Notes & References:

[i] Gregory, D. (2011). ‘The Everywhere War: PhD Roundtable with Derek Gregory’. Hosted by Eyal Weizman at The Centre for Research Architecture, Goldsmiths, University of London. 10.11.2011. Available at: http://www.forensic-architecture.org/seminar/everywhere-war/.

Derek Gregory is author of The Colonial Present (2004), and a forthcoming book on the historico-geographical evolution of military aircraft (including drones) called Killing Space. See also his blog: http://geographicalimaginations.com/

[ii] The fact that drone pilots operate their aircraft from great distances, for instance from Creech Airbase in Nevada, is oft-used as an insult towards them, leading to their labelling as ‘warrior geeks’.

[iii] See Benjamin, M. (2013). Drone Warfare: Killing by Remote Control. London & New York: Verso.

Lecture Response: Slavoj Zizek @ Birkbeck, University of London. 10/11/2014

Yesterday morning, the Drone Philosophical (in its human guise) attended a lecture at Birkbeck, University of London, from the Slovenian ‘pop-philosopher’ Slavoj Žižek[i]. The lecture did not directly address drones, but raised a number of more general political-philosophical ideas which are relevant or applicable. Given Žižek’s famed tendency to veer randomly from topic to topic (in his books, as well as in person), the thoughts are brief, but they are strong enough to be drawn upon and expanded into deeper explorations. At the start of the lecture, Žižek produces a very interesting notion. He says that the very act of allowing debate on the permissibility of torture – even when it is frequently reiterated throughout that debate that torture is not permissible – in itself normalises the idea of torture. Žižek seems to find this normalisation of ideas more worrying than their reality; that is, the reality that numerous states do carry out torture. In a sense then, Žižek feels that the most worrying trend is not the continuation of secret torture, but the increasing politicisation of its idea. This is a politicisation which comes with the growing knowledge of the public concerning the secret reality – the movement of torture from a secret secret to an open secret – so, oddly, it is not secrecy, but transparency, which is the danger. The difficult point is that this seems to imply that secrecy, or even ignorance, is positive. For this to not be the case then, we would need to identify a certain kind of transparency, a certain method by which inhuman acts such as torture currently enter the realm of knowledge. The currently predominant method normalises torture, as Žižek argues, by entering it into the context of a debate, a forum in which arguments for both sides are put forward. But what I would add is that it enters a forum of consensus; a forum in which everyone agrees that torture is unacceptable. Arguments for both sides are indeed put forward, but no one actually argues in favour of torture. There may be plenty of Devil’s advocates, but no devil, in such a debate. Take the BBC’s Question Time for example, in which you will notice that every member of the panel, whatever their political allegiance, begins their answer to the question of torture, civilian deaths, or any number of other similarly inhuman acts, with a generic statement of their personal and political disagreement with the act. But, if everyone makes this same statement, then what does it mean? If anything, does not the fact that they still feel the need to state the obvious – not to mention the fact that the audience still feel the need to applaud the obvious – imply an underlying and oppositional motive? In other words, if all are agreed in their disagreement with torture, and yet it is nonetheless repeatedly chosen as a subject for debate on shows such as this, then what purpose or effect does such a forum really have on the views of the listeners? In my opinion, the effect is most likely to be a mixture of boredom and self-congratulation. “We are all opposed to torture. Well done us”. Except of course, what usually emerges after this statement of the obvious is a real debate – with disagreements this time – over the technicalities, legal and moral, of torture. We have established, with ease, a rule: torture is unacceptable. But what shall we do with the rest of the show? What is left to do apart from argue about the ‘what’ and the ‘when’. First: what really counts as ‘torture’? And, second: when, given that torture is unacceptable, and yet exists (and is committed by liberal democracies), is torture in fact acceptable? The very establishing of the rule here facilitates exceptions to it. Rules truly are made to be broken. Žižek’s brief conclusion was that things such as these should not (need to) be debated, but if we leave the point at this simple level, I feel personally that we betray or rule out entirely the radical principle of violent disagreement, or what Jacques Rancière calls ‘dissensus’[ii] – a principle with which I suspect Žižek would, at least at a very fundamental level, agree. It is for me not debate itself, but the fact that the debate is simulated, that ends up lending a creeping legitimacy to acts of torture. The nature of the forum presents itself as an open democratic space in which the moral principle of torture is debated – “should we torture, or not?” – but really it is a forum which, from its very outset, has already accepted the reality – “torture is happening” – and thus its purpose is to answer the question of “why”, then broken down into ‘what’ and ‘when’. Such a focus on explaining the reality amounts to a ‘how’: “how does torture happen?”. Or, further, “how can torture happen?” Put otherwise, the purpose of the debate on torture is precisely to answer the question of how we can legitimise/facilitate the torture that does, inevitably, happen. The whole process, from the statement of morality at the top of the show, is one of discarding that morality; of finding exceptions to it. It is the movement from morality to reality or technicality. Where morality and reality are in contradiction to one-another, it is reality; ‘the way things are’, which must be favoured. Normalisation and the Drone How, you are probably asking, does all the above relate to the drone that is the subject of my blog? It is quite simple: like torture, the extrajudicial killing of terror suspects, whom sit on a blurred definitional boundary with non-combatant civilians, is an open secret that sits outside international law and, I would argue, outside moral/ethical standards as defined by the states (such as the US, the UK, and Israel) and publics which nevertheless conduct or tolerate the conduction of the act. The extreme lack of accountability in the campaigns of drone surveillance, bombing, and targeted assassination in Palestine, Pakistan, Somalia, Yemen and Afghanistan by various governments and their agencies is, I think, in part maintained by their open secret status, and by the form of debate whereby it is not the principles themselves, but their technicalities – the exceptions to the rule – which are contested. The Italian political theorist Giorgio Agamben[iii] has said that the law functions via exceptions to itself, and has warned that the present liberal-democratic politics is one of permanent exception. This theory remains controversial, but it is surely fair to say that, owing to the tendency for western democracies to not only claim, but in fact presume their own moral values, moral principles go undebated and in fact may be discarded in favour of technical arguments over the definition of legitimate exceptions, explanations, and excuses. What needs to be questioned is the moral fabric itself. If we state that we think torture and unlawful killing are unacceptable, but then go on to facilitate their continuation, should we really be allowed to make the first statement? [i] Žižek, S. ‘Freedom – For Whom? To Do What?’. Lecture at Birkbeck, University of London. 10.11.2014. [ii] See Rancière, J. Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics. (2003). London & New York: Continuum. [iii] See Agamben, G. (2005). State of Exception. University of Chicago Press.