President Obama: Pitch Perfect on Trayvon, yet Silent on Abdulrahman

Do Americans care as much about justice and individual rights when Muslim Americans are killed?
obama trayvon full reuters.jpg

Few things divide us as quickly and powerfully as criminal trials that contain or spark racial controversy. Think of the police officers who beat Rodney King; the murder case against O.J. Simpson; the rape charges filed against members of Duke's lacrosse team; and the recently concluded trial of George Zimmerman, who was acquitted after killing Trayvon Martin on the streets of a Florida subdivision. In many ways, the cases could hardly be more different. But all stand out as polarizing cultural moments, when trials came to stand for more than the incident under review, and divisions in the way different Americans experience their country were exposed.

President Obama took a risk last week by speaking about Trayvon and race in America, even as a polarized debate raged about racial profiling, Stand Your Ground, and whether any of it mattered in the death of the 17-year-old. Obama spoke when emotions were at their most raw and people were in the streets protesting. It's easy to see how he could have made matters worse, for himself or the country. Yet he delivered remarks so pitch perfect that, for 15 minutes, I wasn't just glad he was president; I wished America could've benefited from his calming, unifying rhetoric during bygone controversies. Labeling him the "Defuser-in-Chief," Andrew Sullivan wrote, "He tried to explain -- in a simple, uncondescending way -- one shared communal experience to another," adding that "in a polarized America, this mixed-race president is doing what he can to foster mutual understanding and respect -- by lowering the temperature." That captures the tone and substance of Obama's remarks. Do read them if you haven't already.


Many observers thought that Obama's remarks were at their most powerful when he said:

You know, when Trayvon Martin was first shot, I said that this could have been my son. Another way of saying that is Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago. And when you think about why, in the African American community at least, there's a lot of pain around what happened here, I think it's important to recognize that the African American community is looking at this issue through a set of experiences and a history that doesn't go away.

There are very few African-American men in this country who haven't had the experience of being followed when they were shopping in a department store. That includes me.  There are very few African-American men who haven't had the experience of walking across the street and hearing the locks click on the doors of cars. That happens to me -- at least before I was a senator. There are very few African Americans who haven't had the experience of getting on an elevator and a woman clutching her purse nervously and holding her breath until she had a chance to get off. That happens often. And I don't want to exaggerate this, but those sets of experiences inform how the African-American community interprets what happened one night in Florida.  And it's inescapable for people to bring those experiences to bear.

I felt the power of those words. But as I re-read that part of the speech, as well as the passage where the president said, "I want to make sure that, once again, I send my thoughts and prayers, as well as Michelle's, to the family of Trayvon Martin, and to remark on the incredible grace and dignity with which they've dealt with the entire situation," I can't help but harbor complicated feelings about Obama and the American people generally. You see, right around the same time that Obama gave his speech, the grandfather of a 16-year-old American, killed in an apparent incident of profiling, wrote in the New York Times, "They showed me the grave where they buried his remains. I stood over it, asking why my grandchild was dead. Nearly two years later, I still have no answers." As he put it, "the United States government has refused to explain."

The 16-year-old "lived in America until he was 7, then came to live with me in Yemen. He was a typical teenager -- he watched 'The Simpsons,' listened to Snoop Dogg, read 'Harry Potter' and had a Facebook page with many friends. He had a mop of curly hair, glasses like me and a wide, goofy smile." In the autumn of 2011, Abdulrahman set out from his grandfather's home in search of his father, who he hadn't seen in years. He was still hundreds of miles away when the U.S. government killed his father, Anwar al-Awlaki, in a drone strike due to his affiliation with al-Qaeda. "Abdulrahman called us and said he was going to return home," his grandfather wrote. "That was the last time I heard his voice. He was killed just two weeks after his father."

The U.S. government was behind the killing. "The missile killed him, his teenage cousin and at least five other civilians on Oct. 14, 2011, while the boys were eating dinner at an open-air restaurant in southern Yemen." I've written about the boy's case before, though I hadn't thought about it for awhile.

But Obama's speech brought it to mind. There are, of course, many differences between the killing of Trayvon Martin and the killing of Abdulrahman al-Awlaki. But they were just a year apart in age when killed. When I heard Obama muse about how 35 years ago, he could've been Trayvon Martin, I started to think about a young Barack Hussein Obama, having not seen his father in years; and it didn't seem so far-fetched to think that he could've been Abdulrahman too -- not someone whose father was an international terrorist, necessarily, but a young American citizen venturing off to a volatile foreign country in search of an absent father, and getting killed in the course of his search, despite not having done anything wrong himself. If a mixed race 16-year-old named Barack Hussein Obama had been killed overseas circa 1978, how many Americans would have cared? Would the U.S. government have investigated? Had a George W. Bush or a Bill Clinton been killed abroad at that age would it have been different? Experience would lead African Americans and Muslim Americans to think so.

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Conor Friedersdorf is a staff writer at The Atlantic, where he focuses on politics and national affairs. He lives in Venice, California, and is the founding editor of The Best of Journalism, a newsletter devoted to exceptional nonfiction.

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