Bauschard Debate 9/25/15 5: 06 pm refugees Pre-Release



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Con



Morality

A2: US Responsible -- US Could Have Intervened in Syria

Intervention would almost certainly have failed

Stephen M. Walt is the Robert and Renée Belfer professor of international relations at Harvard University, 9-21-15, Foreign Policy, Could We Have Stopped this Tragedy?, http://foreignpolicy.com/2015/09/21/could-we-have-stopped-this-tragedy-syria-intervention-realist/ DOA: 9-22-15

Having thought a lot about it, and having spoken with a number of knowledgeable friends who hold different views on this matter, I still believe intervening in Syria was not in the United States’ interest and was as likely to have made things worse as to have made them better. I take no pleasure in my conclusions; I base my unhappy verdict on the following arguments.

The Limits of Air Power. Proponents of “no-fly zones” typically exaggerate their impact and in so doing overstate the capacity of air power to determine political outcomes. The U.S. Air Force and U.S. naval air power can do a lot of impressive things, but air power remains a crude instrument and is not very good for controlling events on the ground. Remember that the United States operated “no-fly zones” over Iraq throughout the 1990s, and Saddam Hussein remained solidly in power until we invaded in 2003. Similarly, the United States has flown thousands of sorties in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past decade or so (not to mention drone strikes), and these efforts didn’t allow Washington to dictate terms to those on the ground or shape their political futures in any predictable way.

To be sure, a no-fly zone would have limited some of the Assad regime’s worst excesses — such as its use of barrel bombs — and would probably have saved some lives. But grounding the Syrian air force would not have prevented Assad & Co. from using other means to a greater extent. And it would not have driven Assad from power quickly. As skeptics warned at the time, a “no-fly zone” was the first step onto a potentially slippery slope: If air power had failed to dislodge Assad, demands to do more would surely have increased, thereby putting the United States and others on course for a more costly and consequential involvement.



Assad’s “Gamble for Resurrection.” From the very start, a key problem in Syria was the lack of an attractive exit option for the entire Assad regime. As the titular leader of the Alawite minority that has dominated Syria since 1970, Assad and his followers saw relinquishing power as a mortal threat. (Needless to say, Muammar al-Qaddafi’s brutal murder at the hands of Libya’s rebels likely did little to reassure the Syrian president.) And it wasn’t just Assad and his immediate entourage that were in danger: Losing power could open the door to violent retribution against the entire Alawite minority. Thus, the Assad regime had little choice but to “gamble for resurrection” — to fight on no matter how bleak things appeared and to use any and all methods to ensure they were still standing at the end of the day or at least were in a position to bargain for survival.

Given these incentives, U.S. demands that “Assad must go” fell on deaf ears, and outside intervention (air power, no-fly zones, arms for rebels, etc.) weren’t likely to alter Assad’s calculations very much. The only possibility for ending the war quickly had to include leaving Assad in a defensible position, but the United States had ruled that (admittedly unappealing) option out from the start. Add to this the widespread tendency to assume early on that the Syrian government was on its last legs, and you can see why many believed a little nudge from the outside would have been enough to topple him completely and that serious and flexible diplomacy wasn’t necessary.



What About the Jihadis? Intervening to push Assad out faced another obvious objection: It might open the door for al Qaeda or other violent extremists. This concern also complicated proposals to arm anti-Assad forces like the Free Syrian Army. How could Washington ensure U.S. weapons didn’t end up in the wrong hands? To make matters worse, the most effective anti-Assad forces were precisely those groups the United States most feared. That’s the real lesson of Benghazi: Early U.S. intervention might have reproduced the Libyan disaster, reminding us that that only thing worse than a truly awful government is no government at all.

Why Can’t Uncle Sam Teach Anyone to Fight? In theory, early U.S. intervention might have been accompanied by a sustained effort to build up pro-Western or at least moderate Syrian forces, thereby creating the kernel of a new and more benign Syrian regime. And in theory, I have a chance to win a gold medal in the 2016 Olympics. The problem here is two-fold. It was impossible to find very many Syrians who fit this job description, and the Pentagon doesn’t seem to be very good at training foreign forces anymore.

Something seems to have gone badly wrong with U.S. military training efforts over the last 15 years. The Pentagon has poured tens of billions of dollars into training Afghans, Iraqis, and, more recently, a few friendly Syrians, but all we seem to get for it are foreign forces that lose battles, desert at a whim, and remain dependent on U.S. logistics, command advice, and other kinds of support. The groups our various proxies are fighting against — the Taliban, Hezbollah, al-Nusra Front, for example — don’t get any American training or advice, yet they consistently out-perform the recipients of American largesse. What gives? In any case, our recent track record at building reliable and competent foreign security forces cautions against believing that quicker and more vigorous U.S. involvement would have produced a successful outcome.



Face It: The United States Is Toxic. The ineffectiveness of U.S. training efforts and other forms of advice may be partly due to the negative opinion most people in the Middle East have of U.S. policy. America may be admired for its democracy, its achievements in science and technology, and the friendliness of its people, but U.S. Middle East policy is widely reviled. The United States was once regarded in positive terms — in particular, it wasn’t seen as a duplicitous imperial power like France or Britain — but that was 70 years ago. I won’t delve into the diverse sources of local anti-Americanism (some of them justified, others bogus), but there’s no sense in denying it at this point. Overt U.S. intervention can easily backfire by reinforcing prevailing narratives about “Western” interference and encouraging more people to conclude Osama bin Laden was right. In short, even if the United States and its allies had gone into Syria with the noblest of intentions, plenty of people in the region would have been suspicious, if not actively hostile. When mistakes occurred and civilians died — as they inevitably would, for such is the nature of war — Washington would have been blamed and fresh conspiracy theories would have proliferated.

Whose Interests Are Truly Engaged? There is a clear humanitarian interest in ending the Syrian civil war. But neither great nor minor powers typically run big risks or bear large costs for strictly humanitarian reasons. For most leaders, convincing their fellow citizens to make significant sacrifices usually requires a strategic justification as well. As noted above, for the United States, the strategic issues were complicated and do not point directly or unambiguously toward deeper involvement. After all, neither Democratic nor Republican administrations ever cared very much that a thuggish minority was running Syria before 2010, and the United States did business with Assad — père et fils — when it seemed useful. In this sense, U.S. strategic interests in Syria are limited (and all the more so now that Assad’s chemical weapons arsenal is gone).

By contrast, the interests of other states, including the Europeans, are much more deeply engaged. The problem, however, is that hardly anyone else has the capacity to exert a decisive impact on the war. Even Russian goals seem limited to preserving Assad for as long as possible and giving him an escape route if he needs one in extremis. Even as Russia increases its support for the Syrian regime, Moscow still hasn’t sent nearly enough arms or Russian forces to tip the balance in Assad’s favor. Perhaps the refugee crisis will convince the EU that it can no longer sit disarmed in its post-modern Garden of Eden and that it needs to rebuild a more serious military capability, but that task will take years and I wouldn’t bet on it happening anyway.

So as I wrestle with a counterfactual history and turn these problems over in my head, where do I come down? Should the United States have intervened to try to end Syria’s civil war or not? I conclude — with some genuine reluctance — that my non-interventionist instincts were correct in this case. Given what we’ve witnessed, I wish I could think up a clever strategy that would allow the United States and its allies to fix this problem, but I’ve drawn a blank. Nor has anyone else come up with a compelling solution, either.

It follows that the least bad option at this point would be a re-energized effort to end the fighting. The United States should stop insisting Assad must go, and listen carefully to the other powers with a stake in the outcome, including Russia. The good news is that the Obama administration is taking some tentative steps in that direction, but we don’t know yet if they will pay off or not. If ending the fighting and stopping the refugee exodus requires preserving a visible role for Assad, so be it. That outcome wouldn’t make me happy, but neither does a seemingly endless war. I don’t know if it will be possible to reconstitute a unified Syrian state; if not, then an organized and internationally supervised partition plan will have to be negotiated and implemented.

Politics, it is often said, is the art of the possible. This maxim is especially true in foreign policy and especially when dealing with the chaos of civil war. There are some problems for which there are no good solutions, only lesser evils. Back in 2011, I thought the most important tasks in Syria were caring for refugees and finding some way to end the bloodshed. I think I was right back then, and I think that’s the right course now. But am I 100 percent certain? No, and you shouldn’t be either.

A2: Responsibility to Refugees




Most of the “refugees” are just people seeking Europe’s riches, they aren’t from war zones

Scott Greer, September 24, 2015, Daily Caller, Illegal Immigrants Don’t Follow the Pope’s Golden Rule, http://dailycaller.com/2015/09/24/illegal-migrants-dont-follow-the-popes-golden-rule/ DOA: 9-25-15


Ever since becoming pope in 2013, Francis has been an outspoken advocate for illegal immigrants in both Europe and the United States. He started visiting the migrant camps that now dot the coastlines of France and Italy, demanding European Union states take in these migrants almost immediately upon his coronation. These camps house thousands of African migrants, the majority of whom came to Europe not to flee war or oppression, but to find employment or simply enjoy the benefits of the welfare state. (RELATED: Bleeding Hearts Will Only Make Europe’s Migrant Crisis Worse)

The same is also probably true with many of the so-called refugees who flooded Europe this summer from the Middle East — another group Francis believes deserves the unquestioning support of Europe. Of course, a sizable number are fleeing war-torn Syria, bringing their families to the continent in hopes they’ll be granted asylum. But the overwhelming number of “refugees” are young men leaving the safety of Turkey, Jordan and other states in the hopes they’ll enjoy the wonders of Europe.



A2: Infinite Ethical Responsibility to the Other




Infinite responsibility fails – a responsibility we can never fulfill does not drive us to calculate in favor of the other, but rather to surrender to self-interest

Dr John Fitzsimmons and Dr Wally Woods, Faculty of Arts, Health and Sciences at Central Queensland University, “Chapter 3 - Herman Melville's "Bartleby, the Scrivener" and "Benito Cerino," 2000, http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/humanities/litstud/52283/schedule/chap3/p5.htm, accessed 11/8/02

Anderson believes that the lawyer’s charity seems to go beyond what most would have given. This raises a question, he believes, which underpins the story: is it possible to perform acts of altruism without, finally, having regard to self–interest? What this suggests is that Christ’s commandments reflect an ideal, one that the rest of us find impossible to live up to because, at a certain point, we all turn back to self–preservation (that is, unlike Christ who went "all the way" and gave up his life) (386). The contrast between capitalism (Wall Street being one of its dominant symbols) with its self–interest, and the Christ–like Bartleby could not, Anderson argues, be stronger. He concludes that the "divine–logos," which Bartleby represents, shows itself as an impossible practice within the confines of "institutionalised self–interest" (386). Or to put it another way, if we are our brother’s keeper, Bartleby, in demanding to be kept without offering anything in return, is so exasperating that even the apparently charitable lawyer gives in and moves out when Bartleby refuses to quit his offices (387).


The Pro obliterates the infinite. Providing concrete examples of responsibility creates artificial connections that hide the face of the infinite other


Karim Benammar, Faculty of Cross-cultural Studies at Kobe University, “The Project of Community,” Acta Institutionis Philosophiae et Aestheticae, Vol 14, 1996

http://ccs.cla.kobe-u.ac.jp/Kihan/karim/project.html

The other in Levinasian ethics is thus certainly not faceless, because it is precisely the face of the other, the individual face of this other, which puts me under an ethical imperative not to kill and not to harm. This is an imperative to always consider the other as a fellow-human, as someone whose humanity, right to live and right to respect are sacred and inviolable. And yet, although this other is an individual, with an expressive, individual face, with brown or green eyes, with features deep-set or hard to fathom, the other must be a stranger. The other who commands me, who puts me under an ethical obligation to refrain from harm, is not my father or sister-in-law, is neither my boss nor my neighbor, cannot be my business partner or high-school friend. The force of the ethical obligation I am put under comes from the fact that the other is a stranger to whom I owe nothing and who owes me nothing. The other we encounter in Levinas is thus an other with a face, a unique and individual other, who is nevertheless not primarily related to me or engaged in any constructive endeavor or relation with me. The other in contemporary French philosophy fait irruption, emerges to dislodge the symmetrical and determined relations between individuals, comes from the outside, unknown, to break up the status quo. The relational context, which was so neatly defined in Watsuji's ethics, is never enclosed, finished, exhaustively described, or even at rest. This is, after all, partly what we mean by "other": someone who is not the same as us, who cannot be reduced to or tamed by the I, who cannot be exhaustively described in terms of categories that apply to the I. The other is the unknown who destroys the possibility of reciprocity and balance, the chance at a self-enclosed relationship between equals. The other is always something of an alien.

Levinas’s ethics create Nazi-like ideological blindness – they can’t account for the nuance of post-ethics decisions

Didier Pollefeyt, Professor of Moral Theology, Katholieke Universiteit, 1999, Ethics After the Holocaust, p. 37

Second, in an important way Levinas's thought leads towards a reduction of the Jewish religion to an ethical religion. Religion is threatened in that its concerns can become exclusively a matter of ethics, that is, doing what is good. But what if the person fails, if courage falls short, and one falls into sin? An ethical God can only judge. Here the danger and terror of ethics arises. The paradox is that Nazism could also be interpreted along these lines, as becomes clear in the thought of Peter Haas. Nazism seems to be founded on a definite, ruthless (indeed perverted) "ethical" code. Nazism was in all possible respects merciless. Whoever did not comply with its "ethical" demands inevitably "deserved" to be eliminated. Of course, Levinas's ethics and Nazi ethics are fundamentally different (see my contribution to this volume), precisely because Levinas's ethics is centered on openness and Nazi ethics on closedness. But at the same time, Levinas's ethics should also be questioned as to its possibility of becoming fanatic in confrontation with evildoers. We must there- fore also put forth the question: "What comes after ethics?" The Judaeo-Christian tradition is also a tradition of mercy. Ethics can hereby be saved from its mercilessness. A persons existence can never be completely reduced to one moment. One is always more than what one has done. For ethics after Auschwitz, however, one of the most pressing questions is whether there are situations where humanity has done such great violence that we find ourselves in the ethical impossibility of forgiveness. In the case of genocide one can without the least doubt speak of him pardonable." If not, a forgiveness that is too easily granted leads once again to a trivialization of ethics. The philosophy of Levinas, in other words, should be an occasion that initiates reflection on the relationship between ethics and forgiveness.

They claim responsibility outweighs everything else. Levinas only concludes responsibility is inherent in all action. Treatment of it as an absolute undermines decidability and true responsibility which is grounded in recognition of consequences

David Campbell, professor of international politics at the University of Newcastle, Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics and World Politics, ed. by Campbell and Shapiro, 1999, p. 43-44

"Undecidability" is one of the Derridean concepts that most attracts criticism. Often (mis)understood as licensing an anarchical irresponsibility, it is taken to be the very negation of politics, understood in terms of the decision, and a concomitant denial of responsibility. However, as Derrida makes clear, he has never "proposed a kind of 'all or nothing' choice between pure realization of self-presence and complete freeplay or undecidability.” Indeed, the very notion of undecidability is the condition of possibility for a decision. If the realm of thought was preordained such that there were no options, no competing alternatives, and no difficult choices to make, there would be no need for a decision. Instead, the very existence of a decision is itself a manifestation of undecidability, so that we can comprehend undecidability "as an opening of the field of decision and decidability." As Derrida argues, "even if a decision seems to take only a second and not to be preceded by any deliberation, it is structured by this experience and experiment of the undecidable.” It is for this reason that Derrida has talked in terms of undecidability rather than indeterminacy: the former signifies the context of the decision, a context in which there is "always a determinate oscillation between possibilities," whereas the latter suggests a relativism or indeterminism absent from deconstruction.” Moreover, just as deconstruction is necessary for politics, undecidability is a prerequisite for responsibility. Were there no decisions to be made, were all choices eradicated by the preordination of one and only one path, responsibility— the ability to respond to differing criteria and concerns — would be absent. Rather than being its abnegation, the possibility of decision ensured by undecidability is the necessary precondition for the existence and exercise of responsibility. Which leads Derrida to state: "There can be no moral or political responsibility without this trial and this passage by way of the undecidable.

The call for infinite responsibility degrades into revulsion for the incurable other.

Ted Billy, Department of English at SUNY Binghamton, “Eros and Thanatos in ‘Bartleby,’” Arizona Quarterly, 31, 1975, http://www.ku.edu/~zeke/bartleby/billy.htm, accessed 11/8/02



Just as Bartleby embodies thanatos, separation, the death instinct, Melville's narrator represents eros, the impulse toward unification, the life instinct in the author's psyche. The "life instinct also demands a union with others and with the world around us based not on anxiety and aggression"7 but on love, freedom, and the release of nervous tensions. "The principle of unification or interdependence sustains the immortal life of the species and the mortal life of the individual; the principle of separation or independence gives the individual his individuality and ensures his death."8 In this regard, the narrator acts as the agent of the life impulse to react against the death drive of Bartleby in Melville's literary dialectic. Eros operates through the narrator's personality chiefly in the guise of Christian compassion. The theoretical Christian concern for the community of souls is diametrically opposed to Bartleby's heightened individuality and the diseased consciousness it engenders. The greatest example of love for Melville, as it is for St. Paul, is the act of charity. Surely charity is the predominant virtue in the narrator's character. Time after time he offers substantial financial help to the morose scrivener with the promise of further aid. The narrator visits him in prison and sees to it that Bartleby will receive good treatment, should he "prefer" to accept it. The narrator exhibits generosity and selflessness in reaction to Bartleby's eccentricities. "... when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him .... simply by recalling the divine injunction: 'A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.'... charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle--a great safeguard to its possessor .... no man, that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should ... prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy" (p. 52). There is only one thing wrong with the narrator's charitable behavior toward Bartleby--it doesn't work. No amount of well-meaning humanitarianism can unravel the knot of tension built into the conflict of eros and thanatos in human nature. The narrator is most vulnerable to appeals to the bond of "fellow-feeling." He finds it difficult to divorce himself from Bartleby's plight. "The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam" (p. 40). Bartleby's corrosive individuality would not permit him to share this sentiment. His self is severed from its natural relation to life. The narrator's original feeling of pity turns to repulsion when Bartleby's pervasive despair infects him with the hopelessness of ever relieving the scrivener's anguish. "Disarmed" and "unmanned" by Bartleby's fatalistic resignation, the narrator feels "sundry twinges of impotent rebellion" (p. 38) in the antagonism. Despite the constant sympathy he expresses for the scrivener, the narrator is overburdened by the afflictive "millstone" of Bartleby on his conscience. The cross is too heavy for this Christian to bear. "The scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach" (p. 42).

Being for the Other grounds discussion of impacts, it doesn’t trump them. Even if they win their framework, if they make things worse, they lose

D. G. Myers, Associate professor of English and religious studies at Texas A & M, “Responsible for Every Single Pain: Holocaust Literature and the Ethics of Interpretation,” Comparative Literature, 51, Fall, 1999, p. 266-288, http://www-english.tamu.edu/pers/fac/myers/responsible.html

Nevertheless, I must expect to betray them more often than I am adequate to the challenge of their need. Holocaust literature is a summons to responsibility for the victims of genocide, but this merely describes what is possible, not what is real. Historicity is a reminder that some things are past changing. The reality of six million deaths is something I can neither alter nor deny; the suffering on six million faces is something to which I can never adequately respond. But if I can do nothing about the past I may yet affect the future. It is often said that the purpose of studying the Holocaust is to prevent it from ever happening again. As the sociologist Zygmunt Bauman says: Much more is involved in [studying the Holocaust] than the tribute to the memory of murdered millions, settling the account with the murderers and healing the still-festering moral wounds of the passive and silent witnesses. Obviously, the study itself, even a most diligent study, is not a sufficient guarantee against the return of mass murdere[r]s and numb bystanders. Yet without such a study, we would not even know how likely or improbable such a return may be. (88) What this indicates is that the Holocaust does not belong only to history but also to possibility. If we cannot affect its outcome we can still do something about its meaning. Events mean nothing in themselves; they must be interpreted. But what this also indicates is that meaning arises from our responsibility. The counterfactual possibility of doing something appropriate about the Holocaust is what creates our responsibility to it, and if what we want is to discover its meaning—that is, to interpret the Holocaust—then our interpretation must be shaped and guided by our responsibility.

Not Just Europe’s Responsibility

It’s a global problem, not just the European problem

Michael Ignatieff is a professor at the Harvard Kennedy School, September 5, 2015, New York Times, The refugee crisis isn’t a ‘European Problem,” http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/06/opinion/sunday/the-refugee-crisis-isnt-a-european-problem.html?_r=0 DOA: 9-22-15

THOSE of us outside Europe are watching the unbelievable images of the Keleti train station in Budapest, the corpse of a toddler washed up on a Turkish beach, the desperate Syrian families chancing their lives on the night trip to the Greek islands — and we keep being told this is a European problem.

The Syrian civil war has created more than four million refugees. The United States has taken in about 1,500 of them. The United States and its allies are at war with the Islamic State in Syria — fine, everyone agrees they are a threat — but don’t we have some responsibility toward the refugees fleeing the combat? If we’ve been arming Syrian rebels, shouldn’t we also be helping the people trying to get out of their way? If we’ve failed to broker peace in Syria, can’t we help the people who can’t wait for peace any longer?

It’s not just the United States that keeps pretending the refugee catastrophe is a European problem. Look at countries that pride themselves on being havens for the homeless. Canada, where I come from? As few as 1,074 Syrians, as of August. Australia? No more than 2,200. Brazil? Fewer than 2,000, as of May.

The worst are the petro states. As of last count by Amnesty International, how many Syrian refugees have the Gulf States and Saudi Arabia taken in? Zero. Many of them have been funneling arms into Syria for years, and what have they done to give new homes to the four million people trying to flee? Nothing.

The brunt of the crisis has fallen on the Turks, the Egyptians, the Jordanians, the Iraqis and the Lebanese. Funding appeals by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees have failed to meet their targets. The squalor in the refugee camps has become unendurable. Now the refugees have decided, en masse, that if the international community won’t help them, if neither Russia nor the United States is going to force the war to an end, they won’t wait any longer. They are coming our way. And we are surprised?



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