Samhain '98 Samhain '98In April 1995, I was the victim of an “aggravated burglary”. Two young men broke into my house on a Saturday night when I was alone. They asked for money and jewellery, which I did not have. They ransacked my bedroom, took my bank card, got me to tell them the PIN number, and took my car and my housekeys. They left me tied up with computer cables, a handkerchief forced into my mouth and a pillow case over my head, after threatening me to set me on fire, to set my house on fire, and to come back and beat me up if I had given them a false number for the card.
This event left me in a state of shock. In the weeks that followed, I struggled through extra errands and endeavours, while poor sleep left me exhausted. The endless ensuing tasks seemed to be an attempt to dress a wound: one I could not see, but one that has left me with scars. For months, I felt afraid at night in my house, sometimes petrified. I still feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the event. This emotional shock led to a new awareness of the precariousness of life, of what being a victim, and a survivor, means; I grew more reflective upon the political meanings of crime.
One is that crime is a revenge of the poor against the wealthy, but this is a myth of politicians and the media: the main victims of crime are the poor. I recognised my attackers’ accent as working-class, but I am not “wealthy”. Neither am I politically conservative; I have always been a “leftist”. In the night after my attack, I wondered how I could stick to my ideals, whether people were born vicious or became like that, and whether we could improve our existences through a “better” society. I also felt that this attack was incongruous, considering my lifestyle and values; I now live with bolts and locks over all my doors and windows, when there are no valuables in my house and when I believe in an open door policy.
Still, my values were paradoxically strengthened by my ordeal. I became even more convinced that violence is wrong, whatever its context or reasons. My ordeal also taught me of the danger of drug addiction, of unemployment, of poverty, if nothing is done. I was further convinced of the value I give to friendship, to sharing, to communal living, because my friends and neighbours gave me something money cannot buy: caring. It is in this spirit that in the weeks after the attack I joined the Green Party, in the hope of overcoming my powerlessness, and in the belief that society, and the way we live, could definitely be improved.
As I hear people discussing crime, I am aware that they can be manipulated by the fear oozing from crime statistics, and by whatever they are told of the “crime problem” in Dublin. The stable Ireland we believe in is no longer, if ever it was. I learnt from the Gardaí that my attackers had been arrested. They were recidivists, and heroin addicts: an explanation, but not an excuse. When I told people my attackers had been arrested, some said, “you must feel relieved”. Why should I? Another “crop” is bound to come up, and my attackers will probably keep on doing what they have done already for the rest of their lives. We all know that prison does not curb crime. The basic question remains for me: what should be done with criminals?
In the summer of 1995, challenged by my ordeal, I joined the campaign to save the life of Mumia Abu-Jamal, a Black American well known for his radical political views. Mumia had been condemned to death for killing a white policeman. There is, however, little evidence that he committed this crime. Rather, it emerged that his presence on the scene allowed authorities to accuse him of the murder and get rid of a man they considered a trouble maker. Given the lack of evidence against Mumia, his powerful personality as an articulate journalist, and that the death penalty is a “rather problematic” remedy to crime, a world wide campaign was organised to save this man’s life; this was seen as the first “political” use of the death penalty since the Rosenbergs.
The campaign was dominated by people much further on the left than I let myself stand. For them, this case highlighted the role of policing in industrialised society, and the brutality of police forces, the partial nature of justice when facing a Black radical. Yet my personal experience is that the role of the police is more ambivalent. Although it was my neighbours who actually called the Gardaí after I escaped, I would have done so anyway. Maybe we have been conditioned to report wrongdoings. But the Gardaí helped to locate my car, and to get the bank to reimburse me the stolen money. In other words, the police and the legal system can be used also as a resource.
Ciarán McCullagh’s controversial reading of criminality argues that criminals are stereotyped as young, male, unemployed and drug-addicted, and that white collar criminality such as tax evasion receives much less attention and punishment. In other words, our approach to crime and criminals is biased. This makes me feel uneasy. How can crimes against property be compared crimes against individuals? The answer might be that the distinction is very artificial. Further, white collar criminality affects all members of the community, maybe particularly the most vulnerable ones.
However, the contrast between the role of policing in my case and in Mumia’s reminded me of some very basic political and ethical issues. As simple as it might sound, I realised once again that it is fine to stand for the most radical ideas, or to adopt the most unconventional lifestyle imaginable, but hurting others – especially on purpose – is not. Holding to one’s beliefs and conventions should not be seen as a privilege – it is a right one should not have to fight for. I also became convinced that people hurting others ought to face their responsibilities. In the most tangible cases of hurting, people are punishable by the law, which is one form of redress. However, the law does not make wrongdoers face their responsibilities, which is why legal forms of punishment fail to reform people. We should challenge those who have hurt us, either on purpose or not, for no one should be able “to get away with it”. One is responsible for one’s actions, no matter how troubled one’s personal and social history. The legal system operates out of this premise, and I think it is fair. Recounting my ordeal to an older Green, I told him that my aggressors were the victims of unemployment, drug addiction, poverty and powerlessness. He agreed, but added “but you were not victims in the same way. They should challenge governments, not attack people like you”. I felt he was right. Still, policing plays a very ambivalent role, for it has been given the power by the wealthy and by tradition to protect the social order in a way which confuses criminals and radicals.
In conclusion, one might ponder upon a society free of policing: a classic dream for social activists. In the immediate future, given our massive social problems, the chances for a stateless, policing-free, society look scarce. Still, I feel that if everyone was “reasonable” and “decent” enough, we would not need laws and police. Maybe not all evil and harm perpetrated by people are the consequences of social problems, and a stateless, policing-free society, might still have its own evils.
Jocelyne Rigal is a sociologist
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