Art, truth and politics

Russia: Harold Pinter (Nobel Lecture, December 7, 2005)
Translated from English: Kadri Mehmeti

In 1958 I wrote the following:

“There are no hard and fast distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily true or false. It can be both true and false. Even today I believe that these statements contain a resonant essence and remain valid for the journey towards truth through art. As a writer I stand by them with conviction, but as a citizen I must stop and ask: What is true? What is false?

Truth in drama is an eternal pursuit, a dark pursuit towards the light. It is never fully grasped, but its search is an existential necessity, an unquenchable thirst. This search is what inspires the effort itself. It is what animates the path of art.

Often the truth appears to you suddenly, in the darkness of ambiguity, like a painful collision or a pale mirror that seems to resemble it. And often you don't even realize that you have touched it. But here's the great thing: in art there is no single truth. There are many, infinite ones, which clash among themselves, reject each other, reflect, challenge and sometimes repel each other like waves crashing on rocks. And when you think you have captured that magical moment, that bit of truth, it slips like sand through your fingers and dissolves.

I'm often asked: How do your plays come about? I don't know how to answer. I don't even know how to summarize them. I can only say: This is what happened. These were the words they said. These were the actions they performed. Nothing more, nothing less.

Most plays arise from a word, an image, or a simple thread of thought. The spoken word often takes shape in an image that appears in the same spontaneous flow. I will give two examples from two plays, Homecoming and Old Times, which were born from lines that came to me like lightning, followed by an image and, finally, by myself.

The first line of Returning home is: "What did you do with the scissors?" While she Old times it's just one word: “Dark.” In both cases I had no prior knowledge.

In the first case, someone was looking for a pair of scissors and demanding answers from someone they suspected of stealing. But I immediately realized that the person being addressed didn't really care about the scissors or what they were asking.

“Dark” sounded to me like a description of a woman’s hair, an answer to unspoken questions. In each case, I found myself compelled to follow this thread of thought. It happened through a visual discovery – a slow plunge from shadow into light, a process where the invisible is conceived into clarity.

It always starts a drama to name the characters A, B, and C.

In what later became Returning home, I saw a man enter a room naked, and direct the question to a younger man, sitting on an ugly sofa, reading a horse racing newspaper.

It seemed to me that A was a father, while B was his son, but I had no proof. This was later proven when B (later called Leni) says to A (later called Max):

"Dad, do you mind if I change the subject? I want to ask you something. The dinner we had earlier, what was it called? What do you call it? Why don't you buy a dog? You're a dog chef. Seriously. You think you're cooking for a pack of dogs."

Therefore, since B called A "father," it seemed reasonable to me to assume that they were father and son.

He was also clearly the cook, and his cooking did not seem to be highly regarded. Did that mean he had no mother? I did not know. But, as I told myself at the time, our beginnings can never know our endings.

In the case of Old times: A large window. The evening sky. A man, A (later called Dill), and a woman, B (later called Kate), sitting with glasses in their hands. “Fat or skinny?” the man asks. Who were they talking about?

Suddenly I saw another woman, C (later called Ana), already standing by the window, in a different light, with her back turned to them, her hair dark as night.

That a sight that revealed more than could be immediately understood – a shadow of the past wandering in the light of the present. It is a very special moment, that of the creation of characters who until that moment have not known existence. What happens next is a shaky, unclear journey, often even with traces of hallucinations, although sometimes it can erupt like an unstoppable avalanche. The author's position in this process remains strange. In a way, the characters do not welcome him with open arms. They challenge him, confront him with resistance; they are difficult to define, impossible to assimilate. The author is not given the opportunity to dictate to them. Instead, he plays an endless game with them – cat and mouse, winking, hiding and revealing. But, in the end, he is confronted with living people, with flesh and soul, people with independent will and a sensitivity of their own, shaped by component parts that the author cannot change, distort, or manipulate.

Language in art remains a difficult and multifaceted act - a swamp that swallows you up, a springboard that throws you up without warning, a surface of ice that can crack at any moment under the author's feet.

However, as I have emphasized, the search for truth cannot be stopped. It cannot be postponed, nor sidestepped. It must be confronted immediately, where the creative act itself occurs.

Political theater, in itself, brings with it a whole other set of problems. Sermons and moralizing must be avoided at all costs. Objectivity is absolutely essential. The characters must be given complete freedom to breathe in their own space. The author cannot confine them to the limits of his taste, inclinations, or prejudices. He must be willing to approach them from every angle, when exploring a wide spectrum of views, sometimes catching them by surprise, but still giving them the freedom to follow their own path. This, of course, does not always work. Meanwhile, political satire follows a completely opposite approach. It embraces the opposite, and this is precisely its task.

In the drama Birthday party I believe I have allowed a multitude of possibilities to float through a dense forest of possibility before settling on a final act of submission. On the other hand, The language of Mali does not pretend to cover such a stretch. It is brutal, short, and grim, but the soldiers in this drama find some amusement in their own harshness. We sometimes forget that torturers get bored easily; they need some amusement to keep their spirits up. This is, unfortunately, confirmed by the well-known events at Abu Ghraib in Baghdad. The language of Mali it only lasts 20 minutes, but it could go on indefinitely, repeating the same pattern in a relentless loop, hour after hour.

Meanwhile, Ashes to ashes It seems to me like it happens underwater. A woman drowning; her hand reaches through the waves, then falls into the depths, vanishing from view. She searches for others, but finds no one – neither above nor below the water. There are only shadows, reflections, a floating void. The woman becomes a lost figure within a suffocating landscape, a being powerless to free herself from the fate that once seemed to belong only to others.

But, just as they died, she too had to die.

Political language, as used by politicians, does not enter this terrain, because most politicians, based on the evidence we have, are not interested in truth, but in power and its preservation. To keep this power intact, it is essential that people remain in the darkness of ignorance, to live blinded by the absence of truth, even the truth of their own lives.

What envelops us, then, is a vast web of deception upon which we feed.

As every soul here knows, the justification for the invasion of Iraq was the claim that Saddam Hussein possessed a number of deadly weapons of mass destruction, some of which could be deployed within 45 minutes, to bring about horrific destruction. We were assured that this was true. It was not. We were told that Iraq had links to Al-Qaeda and shared responsibility for the tragic act of September 11, 2001. We were assured that this was correct. It was not. We were told that Iraq posed a threat to global security. We were assured of this. It was not true.

The truth is something else entirely. The truth has to do with how the United States perceives its role in the world and how it chooses to embody it.

But before I turn to the present, I want to dwell on the recent past, by which I mean the foreign policy of the United States since the end of World War II. I believe it is our duty to subject this period, however limited, to analysis, even though time limits us here.

We all know what happened in the Soviet Union and throughout Eastern Europe in the period after World War II: the systematic violence, the widespread atrocities, the ruthless suppression of free thought. All of this is fully documented and verified. But my contention is that the crimes of the United States in the same period have been only superficially recorded, not to say ignored, denied, or refused to be acknowledged as crimes. I believe that this should be put to rest and that this truth carries great weight in determining the position of the world today. Although partly restrained by the existence of the Soviet Union, the actions of the United States around the globe made it clear that it had decided to act as it pleased, without restraint.

Direct invasion of a sovereign state has never been America’s preferred method. Mostly, it has embraced what is described as “low-intensity conflict.” Low-intensity conflict means thousands of people die, but more slowly than from a bomb that explodes in an instant. It means infecting the heart of a nation, planting a malignant cancer that spreads and fester like a gangrenous wound. When the population has been subdued—or violently suppressed to death—the same thing—and your friends, the military and big business, have settled into power, you stand before the cameras and declare that democracy has triumphed. This was a common practice of American foreign policy in the years I am talking about.

The tragedy of Nicaragua is a particularly significant case. I have chosen it here as a clear example of the way America conceived its role in the world, then and now. I was present at a meeting at the American embassy in London in the late 1980s. The American Congress was deciding whether to continue supporting the Contras (a rebel group in Nicaragua) in their campaign against the Nicaraguan state. I was part of a delegation that spoke in defense of Nicaragua, but the most important member was Father John Metcalfe. The head of the American contingent was Raymond Seitz (then deputy ambassador, later ambassador). Father Metcalfe said: “Sir, I lead a parish in northern Nicaragua. My faithful built a school, a health center, a cultural center. We lived in peace. A few months ago a Contra force attacked the parish. They destroyed everything: the school, the health center, the cultural center. "He raped nurses and teachers, massacred doctors in the most cruel way. He behaved like barbarians. Please ask the American government to withdraw from this horrific terrorist activity."

Raymond Seitzi, a man known for his reasonableness and elegance, admired in diplomatic circles, listened attentively. Then, after a heavy pause, he spoke solemnly:

"Father," he said, "let me tell you something. In war the innocent always suffer."

A freezing silence filled the room. We all stared at him, motionless. He didn't move either.

Innocent people, in fact, always suffer.

Finally, someone said: “But in this case, the 'innocent people' were the victims of a bloody atrocity supported by your government, one of many.

If Congress allows more funding for the Contras (rebel groups in Nicaragua) more atrocities of this nature will occur. Isn't that right? Isn't your government, then, guilty of supporting acts of murder and destruction against the citizens of a sovereign state?"

Seitz remained unperturbed. “I disagree that the facts, as presented, support your assertions,” he said.

As we were leaving the embassy, ​​an American aide told me that he liked my plays. I didn't respond.

I want to remind you that at that time President Reagan made this statement: The “Contras” are the moral equivalents of our Founding Fathers. The United States supported the violent Somoza dictatorship in Nicaragua for more than 40 years. The Nicaraguan people, led by the Sandinistas, overthrew this regime in 1979, a remarkable popular revolution.

The Sandinistas were not perfect. They had their share of arrogance, and their political philosophy contained contradictory elements. But they were wise, reasonable, and civilized. They tried to create a stable, dignified, and pluralistic society. The death penalty was abolished. Hundreds of thousands of poor peasants were brought back to life.

More than 100 families received land titles. Two thousand schools were built. An extraordinary campaign to combat illiteracy reduced it to less than one-seventh. Free education and a health system were established. Infant mortality was reduced by a third. Polio was eradicated.

The United States condemned these achievements as Marxist/Leninist subservience. According to the American government, a dangerous precedent was being set. If Nicaragua were allowed to establish basic norms of social and economic justice, improve health care and education, and achieve social unity and self-respect, neighboring countries would begin to ask similar questions and take similar steps. At the time, of course, there was fierce opposition to the status quo in El Salvador.

Earlier I spoke of a 'web of lies' that surrounds us. President Reagan used to describe Nicaragua as a 'totalitarian prison'. This was generally accepted by the media and, no doubt, by the British government, as a fair and accurate observation. But in fact, there was no record of death squads under the Sandinista government. There was no record of torture. There was no record of systematic or official military violence. No priests were ever killed in Nicaragua. In fact, three priests were part of the government, two Jesuits and a Maryknoll missionary. Totalitarian prisons actually existed side by side, in El Salvador and Guatemala. The United States had overthrown the democratically elected government of Guatemala in 1954, and it is estimated that over 200 people had been victims of successive military dictatorships.

Six of the world’s most distinguished Jesuits were brutally murdered at the University of Central America in San Salvador in 1989 by a battalion of the Alcatl regiment, trained at Fort Benning, Georgia, USA. That extraordinarily courageous figure, Archbishop Romero, was killed during mass. It is estimated that 75 people lost their lives. Why were they killed? They were killed because they believed that a better life was possible and should be achieved. For this reason, this belief immediately marked them as communists. They died because they dared to challenge the status quo, this endless level of poverty, disease, deterioration and oppression, which had been their inheritance since birth.

The United States finally overthrew the Sandinista government. It took years and years of effort and suffering, but the relentless economic persecution and 30 deaths finally broke the spirit of the Nicaraguan people. They were exhausted and impoverished again. The casinos returned to the country. Free health care and education were gone. Big business returned with a vengeance. 'Democracy' had won.

But this 'policy' was not limited to Central America. It was implemented all over the world. As such, it had no end. And it's as if it never happened.

The United States supported and in many cases created every right-wing military dictatorship in the world since the end of World War II. I point to Indonesia, Greece, Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Haiti, Turkey, the Philippines, Guatemala, El Salvador, and, of course, Chile as examples. The horrors that the United States inflicted on Chile in 1973 cannot be undone and can never be forgiven.

Hundreds of thousands of deaths occurred in these countries. Did they happen? And are they in all cases related to US foreign policy? The answer is yes, but they did happen and they are the responsibility of US foreign policy. But you wouldn't know it.

As if it had never happened. Nothing ever happened. Even when it did, as if it hadn't happened. It didn't matter. It didn't interest. The crimes of the United States have been systematic, ruthless, violent, unstoppable, but very few people have actually talked about them. We should congratulate America. It has exercised an unprecedented manipulation of power around the world, masquerading as a force for universal good.

However, it is a brilliant, even humorous, act, an extraordinary and very successful act of hypnosis.

I'm telling you, the United States is without a doubt the greatest show there is. It can be cruel, callous, contemptuous, and ruthless, but it is also very smart. As a salesperson, it is unparalleled, and its most marketable commodity is self-love. It is a winner. Listen to all the American presidents on television saying the words "the American people," as in the phrase: "I say to the American people that it is time to pray and to defend the rights of the American people, and I ask the American people to trust the president in the action he will take on behalf of the American people."

This is actually a brilliant and brilliant way of doing things. Language is actually used to keep thought at bay. The words 'the American people' create a real soothing cushion. There's no need to think. Just lie down on that cushion. This cushion may stifle your intelligence and critical thinking, but it's very comfortable.

So this description obviously doesn't apply to the 40 million people who live below the poverty line and the two million men and women held in the massive prisons that stretch across the US.

The United States no longer worries about low-intensity conflicts. It no longer sees any reason to be timid or secretive. It lays its cards on the table without fear or favor. For this reason, the United Nations is simply not bothered at all by international law or by external criticism, which it sees as impotent and irrelevant. It also has a little lamb following it like a toy on a chain, the miserable and submissive Great Britain.

What has happened to our moral sensibilities? Have we ever had them? What do these words mean? Do they refer to a term rarely used these days – conscience? A conscience not only for our own actions, but for our shared responsibility in the actions of others? Is all of this dead? Look at Guantanamo Bay. Hundreds of people detained without charge for over three years, without legal representation or due process, technically detained forever. This completely illegal facility is being maintained in open defiance of the Geneva Convention. Not only is it tolerated, it is barely thought of by what is called the ‘international community’. This criminal scandal is being perpetrated by a country that proclaims itself the ‘leader of the free world’. Do we think about the people of Guantanamo? What does the media say about them? They appear now and then – a small news item on page six. They are thrown into a no-man’s land, from which they will probably never return. Right now many of them are on hunger strike, and are being force-fed, including British residents. There is no courtesy in these acts of force-feeding. Without any sedatives or anaesthetics. Just a tube that goes up your nose and down your throat. You vomit blood. This is torture. What has the British Foreign Secretary said about this? Nothing. What has the British Prime Minister said about this? Nothing. Why not? Because the United States has said: criticism of our behaviour at Guantanamo Bay is taken as an act of unfriendliness. You are either with us or against us. And so Tony Blair is silent.

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an unacceptable act of state terrorism, which showed a complete disregard for the concept of international law. This invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies and gross manipulation of the media and, thus, of the public; an action intended to reinforce US military and economic control in the Middle East, to be disguised – as a last resort, after all other justifications had failed – as a liberation. A powerful assertion of military force, responsible for the death and maiming of thousands of innocent people.

We brought violence, cluster bombs, depleted uranium, the deeds of endless cases of routine murder, misery, humiliation, and death to the Iraqi people and we call this “bringing freedom and democracy to the Middle East.”

How many people do you have to kill before you are called a mass murderer and a war criminal? A hundred thousand? Enough, I would think. Therefore, it is right that Bush and Blair should be indicted before the International Court of Justice.

But Bush has been smart. He has not approved the International Criminal Court of Justice. So if any American soldier or politician finds himself in the dock, Bush has warned that he will send in the Marines. But Tony Blair has approved the Court and is therefore ready to prosecute. We can let the Court have his address if they are interested. It is 10 Downing Street, London.

Death in this context is irrelevant. Both Bush and Blair put death far in the background. At least 100 Iraqis were killed by American bombs and missiles before the insurgency in Iraq began. These people are not of a moment. Their deaths do not exist. They are empty. They are not even marked as dead.

"We don't do body counts," said US General Tommy Franks.

At the start of the invasion, a front-page photograph of Tony Blair kissing the cheek of a little Iraqi boy was printed in British newspapers. “A grateful child,” the caption read. A few days later there was a story and a picture, on an inside page, of another four-year-old boy without arms. His family had been blown up by a rocket. He was the only survivor. “When do I get my arms back?” he asked. The story was taken down. Well, Tony Blair was not holding the body of another mutilated child, nor the body of a bloody corpse. Blood is dirty. It stains your shirt and tie when you are giving a heartfelt speech on television.

The 2 American dead are a disgrace. They are carried to their graves in the dark. Funerals are unobtrusive, out of danger. The cripples rot in their beds, some for the rest of their lives. So both the dead and the cripples rot in different graves.

Here is an excerpt from a poem by Pablo Neruda, “I am explaining some things”: And one morning everything was burning, one morning fires burst from the earth devouring human beings, and from that time on, fire, from that time on, and from that time on, blood.

Bandits with Moorish planes, bandits with rings on their fingers and duchesses, bandits with black friars who distributed blessings, came through the sky to kill children, and the blood of children flowed through the streets without a fuss – like the blood of children. Jackals that jackals would despise, stones that even dry thorns would bite and spit, snakes that even snakes would loathe. Before you I have seen the blood of Spain rising like a tide, to drown you in a wave of pride and knives.

Traitor generals: see my destroyed house, see Spain broken: from every house flows burnt metal instead of flowers. From every wound of Spain comes Spain. And from every murdered child is born a rifle with eyes. And from every crime are born bullets that will one day find the mark of the bull of your hearts. And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams, of leaves, of the majestic volcanoes of his homeland? Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see the blood in the streets!” Let me make it quite clear that in quoting from Neruda's poem, I am in no way comparing Republican Spain to Saddam Hussein's Iraq. I quote Neruda because nowhere in contemporary poetry have I read such a powerfully emotional description of the bombing of civilians.

I have said before that the United States is now completely honest about putting its cards on the table. That is the case. Its officially stated policy is now defined as “comprehensive dominance.” That is not my term. It is theirs. “Comprehensive dominance” means control of land, sea, air, and space and all the attendant resources.

The United States of America today maintains 702 military bases spread across the globe, in 132 countries, with the worthy and admirable exception of Sweden.

We don't know exactly how they ended up there, but they are there, without a doubt.

The United States possesses 8 active and operational nuclear warheads. Two thousand of them are on alert, ready to be launched within 000 minutes of a warning. They are developing new nuclear force systems, known as “bunker destroyers.” The British, ever the collaborator, are planning to replace their nuclear missile, the Trident. I wonder: Who are they targeting?

Osama bin Laden? You? Me? Joe Dokes? China? Paris? Who knows?

What we do know for sure is that this infantile folly – the possession and threat of use of nuclear weapons – is the core of today’s American political philosophy. We must remind ourselves that the United States is in a perpetual state of military preparedness and shows no sign of softening this stance.

Thousands, if not millions, of people within the United States itself are shocked, ashamed, and angry at the actions of their government. However, at this moment, they do not yet constitute a sustained political force. But the anxiety, uncertainty, and fear that are growing day by day in America do not seem destined to abate. I know that President Bush has many extremely capable writers, but I would like to volunteer for this job. I propose the following short address that he might make to the nation on television. I see him in the grave, hair neatly combed, serious, winning, sincere, often deceptive, sometimes using a wry smile, strangely attractive, a manly man.

“God is good. God is great. God is good. My God is good. Bin Laden’s God is bad. He is a bad God. Saddam’s God was bad, except he didn’t have one. He was a barbarian. We are not barbarians. We don’t cut people’s heads off. We believe in freedom. So is God. I am not a barbarian. I am the democratically elected leader of a freedom-loving democracy. We are a compassionate society. We give compassionate electric shocks and compassionate lethal injections. We are a great nation. I am not a dictator. He is. I am not a barbarian. He is. And he is. They all are. I have moral authority. See this fist? That is my moral authority. And don’t forget it.”

The life of a writer is a very vulnerable, almost naked activity.

We shouldn't cry about it. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it's true to say that you are exposed to all winds, some of them really icy. You are out there alone, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection – unless you are lying – in which case of course you have built your own protection and it can be argued, you become a politician.

I have referred to death several times this evening. Now I will quote a poem of mine called Death.

Where was the dead body found?

Who discovered the dead body?

Was the body dead when it was found?

How was the body discovered?

Who was that dead body?

Who was the father, daughter, brother, uncle, sister, mother, or son of the lifeless and abandoned body?

When was the dead body abandoned?

Is he really abandoned?

Who was it neglected by?

Was the body naked, or dressed for a final journey?

What made you declare the body dead?

Did you announce his death yourself?

How well did you know that body?

How did you know that the body was dead?

Did you clean the dead body?

Did you close your cold eyes?

Did you bury the body?

Did you leave it abandoned?

Did you kiss the dead body?

When we look at ourselves in a mirror, we think the image that appears to us is accurate. But move just a millimeter and the view changes. In reality, we are contemplating an infinite expanse of imagination. However, sometimes a writer must break the mirror – because beyond it, on the other side, the truth stares us straight in the eye.

I am convinced that, despite the great obstacles that surround us, an unwavering intellectual perseverance, a relentless and determined commitment to uncovering the essence of truth in our lives and societies, as citizens, is a fundamental duty that belongs to all of us. Indeed, it is a necessity.

If such a vision is not embodied in our political thinking, we can have no hope of restoring what is close to being lost – human dignity. /Akademia Magazine/