Violence in Roman Egypt. Ari Z. Bryen
empty in themselves, violent and unfinalized; they are impersonal and can be bent to any purpose. The successes of history belong to those who are capable of seizing these rules, to replace those who had used them, to disguise themselves so as to pervert them, invert their meaning, and redirect them against those who had initially imposed them; controlling this complex mechanism, they will make it function so as to overcome the rulers through their own rules.41
To continue in this vein rapidly exposes one of two problems, depending on how one approaches the analysis: at one level, if all is violence and violence is everywhere, then violence is also nowhere and nothing particularly remarkable—it’s just turtles all the way down. In this sense, the concept becomes sociologically useless; it has the additional disadvantage of making the writing of the history of violence along these lines excruciatingly boring.
The other way that these moves have changed historical discourse on violence is perhaps more important, as well as being both philosophically and methodologically dangerous. To return to Arendt’s move in bringing the language of religion to bear on questions of totalitarian violence, we could say that, if violence is both everywhere and nowhere, then it is not sociologically empty, but instead paradoxical in the Kierkegaardian sense: that is, it implies or induces a critical stance in which violence can only be beheld with a horror religiosus, observed with awe but not understood, because, like the sacrifice of Isaac, it suspends the ethical and as such touches on the sublime or the indescribable.42 This is the second legacy of critical theory, namely, the involvement of the language of religion and mystified awe in the study of violence. While initially proposing to expose the violence of the Enlightenment by marking it as mythical, it is no small irony that subsequent critical projects often have come to echo their own objects, returning to the language of religion in a sort of inversion in which acts, images, or descriptions of violence come to exercise a power of fascination;43 from this fascination it is only a short step further to where violence can be treated as something transcendent, sublime, or even joyous: think here, for example, of Jean-Paul Sartre’s glorification of revolutionary violence in the end of his preface to Fanon’s Wretched of the Earth, where violence has became therapeutic, purgative, and humanizing;44 or of the ludicrous mutterings of Jean Baudrillard, expressed with what can only be described as tittering glee, in the aftermath of September 11, 2001, in which actor is indistinguishable from victim, in which what is real is inextricable from what is fiction, in which the ethical has been overtly suspended, and all that matters is the putative purity of a collective sacrifice.45
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To return, briefly, to Arendt, and from there to the problem of how historians should treat violence: it is to Arendt’s credit that she came to understand the nature of the methodological impasse that her early use of the term “radical evil” provoked: she rejected the term in Eichmann in Jerusalem, explaining in a letter to Gershom Scholem that “I changed my mind and…. It is now my opinion that no evil is ‘radical,’ that it is only extreme, and that it possesses neither depth nor any demonic dimension. It can overgrow and lay waste the whole world precisely because it spreads like a fungus on the surface. It is ‘thought-defying,’ as I said, because thought tries to reach some depth, to go to the roots, and the moment it concerns itself with evil, it is frustrated because it finds nothing. That is its banality. Only the good has depth and can be radical.”46 It is not the task of historians, fortunately, to identify, in the same ways as may be critical for normative political theory, what has genuine or radical depth. It is, however, the job of historians to avoid or untangle concepts that are “thought-defying,” to subject them to scrutiny, and to avoid methodological paths that lead only to hopeless irrationalism. This is the task for understanding violence, one with which ancient historians have likewise grappled (in many respects unsuccessfully).47 The fact that such a broad range of concepts might fall under the rubric of “violence” has led to hand-wringing and despair, and to the dismissal of the problem, in the words of Bruce Frier, as “all but intractable, especially because it is virtually impossible to define and depends so much on the perspective of the observer.”48
It is unfortunate that Frier dismissed the problem, however, primarily because his central insight is correct. Violence is not so much a thing to be defined as it is a label used in a process of defining the actions of another, and locating those actions (and sometimes also the motives and character) of others within a discourse of claim-making. In other words, using the label “violent” to describe an action or a person is a way of declaring unacceptable something that another thought appropriate, natural, or necessary.49 By applying the label of violence, individuals engage in a process of actively challenging the legitimacy of what might otherwise be understood to be innocuous, necessary, or well deserved, unmasking these things for what they “really” are. It is not that it “depends so much on the perspective of the observer,” but rather that it depends on the perspective of both the victim and the observer—the receiver of the complaint—and ultimately, on whether the observer can be convinced and—just as important—can convince others that the label of violence is correct.
Two examples might be brought to bear here. The first comes from a cache of documents, largely petitions, surviving from Euhemeria, a small town at the edge of Lake Moeris in the Fayyum in the first century A.D. The petitions are largely addressed to the epistates phylakiton, the local commander of the guards (police chief would be a misnomer, as his function was not policing in the contemporary sense). The commander of the guards was sent petitions from villagers complaining of a predictable set of annoyances in village life: theft, trespass, interpersonal violence, and the like. He had to make decisions about which complaints were reasonable and required official attention, and when he decided that a complaint did, he would forward the petition to the archephodos, who, it appears, was in charge of “arresting” or “sending” the people about whom the petitioner complained.50 Among the petitions one stands out:
Ἀθηνοδώρωι ἐπιστάτῃ φυλακιτῶν παρὰ Ἰσίωνος δούλου Χ[α]— ιρήμονος ἐξηγητοῦ. τῇ Σεβαστῇ β τοῦ ἐνεστῶτο(ς) μηνὸς Παῦνι τοῦ β (ἔτους) Γαίου Καίσαρος Σεβαστοῦ Γερμανι[κ]ο(ῦ) παραγενομένου μου εἰς Εὐημέρειαν τῆς Θεμίστου μερίδ(ος) περὶ μετεώρων ἐλ[ογ]οποιήσαμην πρὸς Ὀννῶφριν Σίλβωνος τῶν ἀπὸ τῆς κώμης ὑπὲρ οὗ ἔχω πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐνεχύρου, ὃς δὲ ἐκ τοῦ ἐναντίου ἄλογον ἀηδίαν μοι ἐπιχειρήσας παρεχρήσατό μοι πολλὰ καὶ ἄσχημα καὶ ἐνειλούμενός ̣ μοι ἀπώλεσα πινακίδα καὶ ἀργυ(ρίου) (δραχμὰς) ξ, ἔτι δὲ καὶ ἐτόλμησεν φθόνους51 μοι ἐπαγαγεῖν αἰτίας τοῦ μὴ ὄντος. διὸ ἀξιῶ γράψαι ἀχθῆναι αὐτὸν ἐπὶ σὲ πρὸς τὴν δέουσαν ἐπέξοδον. εὐτύχ(ει).
To Athenodoros, commander of the guards,
From Ision, slave of Chairemon the exegetes. On the 2nd of the present month of Pauni, dies augusta, in the second year of Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, I was present in Euhemeria of the division of Themistos due to some unfinished business, and I had an argument with Onnophris son of Silbon, one of those from the town, about a pledge that I have from him. But he, for his part, treated me with irrational violence, abused me in many unpleasant ways, and beat me. I lost my account book and 60 silver drachmas. Still he dared to cast envy at me, though for no good reason (?). Therefore I ask that you write for him to be brought before you for the necessary punishment. Farewell.52
A lot can be learned about the power of the label of violence and related claimmaking discourses from this