For you, the tricky question is: How do you get someone to realize that they're in a dual state, when its darker half has not yet touched their life personally?
To start with, you can give them a frame, and Fraenkel's explanation of the dual state is the most helpful one I've found. But you can also make it more powerful by placing a particular picture inside the frame — a concrete illustration of the dual state dynamic.
And here is where you might want to talk about Renee Nicole Good.
The 37-year-old who was shot to death by ICE was not armed. She simply sat idling in her car and observing an ICE operation. And she was a white woman. And a citizen. By all accounts, not someone you'd expect to be targeted.
She was killed anyway, and that makes her, tragically, an illustration of Fraenkel's insight: Authoritarianism feels a lot like normal, predictable life — until it doesn't. There's a hidden tripwire you can step on, but you often don't realize you've stepped on it until you find yourself with a gun in your face.
The Russian American journalist M. Gessen made this point in a recent New York Times column, which argues that it's precisely the unpredictability that we're seeing in Minneapolis that reveals that state terror — something like Fraenkel's prerogative state — is happening in the US, not just run-of-the-mill repression.
"The randomness is the difference between a regime based on terror and a regime that is plainly repressive," Gessen writes. "Even in brutally repressive regimes, including those of the Soviet colonies in Eastern Europe, one knew where the boundaries of acceptable behavior lay… A regime based on terror, on the other hand, deploys violence precisely to reinforce the message that anyone can be subjected to it."
In other words, if it happened to Good, it can happen to more or less anyone.
By talking about Good in the context of Fraenkel's analysis, you can try to bring this home to your friends.
And if that fails? Try what I call "the grandkid test."
I grew up in a Jewish community that focused heavily on Holocaust education; many of our grandparents were Holocaust survivors. And I remember that my peers and I used to always ask ourselves: If we were non-Jewish Germans in 1940s Germany, how would we have acted? Would we have hidden Jews in our attics? Would we have stood up to the Nazis? Or would we have complied in hopes of saving our own skin?
Again and again, we came back to this: We hope that we would have acted as the brave people in our grandparents' generation acted. We hope that we would have done something that would make our grandkids proud.
You can present this thought experiment to your friends. Tell them that one day their grandkids may ask them what they did in the wake of Minnesota, or under this administration more broadly. Will they be able to answer in a way that makes that young, upturned face beam?
To pass the grandkid test, people don't necessarily need to put their bodies in the street in Minneapolis. Everyone exists at a different risk level, and we shouldn't expect a noncitizen or someone who is undocumented, say, to put themselves at risk to the same degree as someone with more privilege.
For some, taking action will mean attending a peaceful protest in their own city; for others, it might mean making donations so that Minnesotans can afford safety equipment, dash cams, or legal aid; for others still, it might mean bringing groceries to a family that feels extra vulnerable and is afraid to leave the house.
But the grandkid test is a powerful way to bring home the realization that taking some kind of action is in everyone's best interest — not because of an abstract moral obligation, but because it's in moments like these that we choose what kind of people we will be, and what kind of legacy we'll leave behind for the next generations to follow.
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