By Glenn
Greenwald
 |
| Margaret Thatcher Photograph: Don Mcphee |
The dictate that one "not speak ill of
the dead'" is (at best) appropriate for private individuals, not influential
public figures.
News of Margaret Thatcher's death
this morning instantly and predictably gave rise to righteous sermons on the
evils of speaking ill of her. British Labour MP Tom Watson decreed:
"I hope that people on the left of politics respect a family in grief
today."
Following in the footsteps of Santa Claus, Steve Hynd quickly
compiled a list of all the naughty boys and girls "on the
left" who dared to express criticisms of the dearly departed Prime
Minister, warning that he "will continue to add to this list throughout
the day".
Former Tory MP Louise Mensch, with no apparent sense of irony,
invoked precepts of propriety to announce:
"Pygmies of the left so predictably embarrassing yourselves, know this:
not a one of your leaders will ever be globally mourned like her."
This demand for respectful silence in
the wake of a public figure's death is not just misguided but dangerous. That
one should not speak ill of the dead is arguably appropriate when a private
person dies, but it is wildly inappropriate for the death of a controversial public
figure, particularly one who wielded significant influence and political power.
"Respecting the grief" of Thatcher's family members is appropriate if
one is friends with them or attends a wake they organize, but the protocols are
fundamentally different when it comes to public discourse about the person's
life and political acts.
I made this argument at length last year when
Christopher Hitchens died and a speak-no-ill rule about him was instantly
imposed (a rule he, more than anyone, viciously violated), and I won't repeat
that argument today; those interested can read my reasoning
here.
But the key point is this: those who
admire the deceased public figure (and their politics) aren't silent at all.
They are aggressively exploiting the emotions generated by the person's death
to create hagiography. Typifying these highly dubious claims about Thatcher was
this
(appropriately diplomatic) statement from President Obama: "The
world has lost one of the great champions of freedom and liberty, and America
has lost a true friend."
Those gushing depictions can be quite
consequential, as it was for the week-long tidal wave of unbroken reverence
that was heaped on Ronald Reagan upon his death, an episode that to this day
shapes how Americans view him and the political ideas he symbolized.
Demanding
that no criticisms be voiced to counter that hagiography is to enable false
history and a propagandistic whitewashing of bad acts, distortions that become
quickly ossified and then endure by virtue of no opposition and the powerful emotions
created by death. When a political leader dies, it is irresponsible in the
extreme to demand that only praise be permitted but not criticisms.
Whatever else may be true of her,
Thatcher engaged in incredibly consequential acts that affected millions of
people around the world. She played a key role not
only in bringing about the first Gulf War but also using her
influence to publicly
advocate for the 2003 attack on Iraq.
She denounced Nelson Mandela
and his ANC as "terrorists", something even David Cameron ultimately
admitted was wrong. She was a steadfast friend to
brutal tyrants such as Augusto Pinochet, Saddam
Hussein and Indonesian
dictator General Suharto ("One of our very best and most
valuable friends").
And as my Guardian colleague Seumas Milne detailed last
year, "across Britain Thatcher is still hated for the damage
she inflicted – and for her political legacy of rampant inequality and greed,
privatisation and social breakdown."
To demand that all of that be ignored
in the face of one-sided requiems to her nobility and greatness is a bit
bullying and tyrannical, not to mention warped. As David Wearing put it this
morning in satirizing these speak-no-ill-of-the-deceased moralists:
"People praising Thatcher's legacy should show some respect for her
victims. Tasteless."
Tellingly, few people have trouble understanding the
need for balanced commentary when the political leaders disliked by the west
pass away. Here, for instance, was what the Guardian
reported upon the death last month of Hugo Chavez: "To the millions who detested him as a
thug and charlatan, it will be occasion to bid, vocally or discreetly, good
riddance."
Nobody, at least that I know of,
objected to that observation on the ground that it was disrespectful to the
ability of the Chavez family to mourn in peace. Any such objections would have
been invalid.
It was perfectly justified to note that, particularly as the
Guardian also explained that "to the millions who revered him – a third of
the country, according to some polls – a messiah has fallen, and their grief
will be visceral."
Chavez was indeed a divisive and controversial figure,
and it would have been reckless to conceal that fact out of some misplaced
deference to the grief of his family and supporters. He was a political and
historical figure and the need to accurately portray his legacy and prevent
misleading hagiography easily outweighed precepts of death etiquette that
prevail when a private person dies.
Exactly the same is true of Thatcher.
There's something distinctively creepy - in a Roman sort
of way - about this mandated ritual that our political leaders must
be heralded and consecrated as saints upon death.
This is accomplished by this
baseless moral precept that it is gauche or worse to balance the gushing praise
for them upon death with valid criticisms. There is absolutely nothing wrong
with loathing Margaret Thatcher or any other person with political influence
and power based upon perceived bad acts, and that doesn't change simply because
they die.
If anything, it becomes more compelling to commemorate those bad acts
upon death as the only antidote against a society erecting a false and
jingoistically self-serving history.
Source: guardian.co.uk
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