One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This

Omar El Akkad

58 pages 1-hour read

Omar El Akkad

One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This

Nonfiction | Autobiography / Memoir | Adult | Published in 2025

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Themes

The Moral Vacancy of Western Liberalism

Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of graphic violence, racism, and death.


In One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This, Omar El Akkad critiques the moral foundations of Western liberalism. He argues that contemporary liberal politics function primarily as a performance of righteousness rather than an actualization of moral principles, particularly when confronted with violence committed by Western powers or their allies. According to El Akkad, this moral vacancy manifests not as an absence of stated values but as a fundamental disconnect between professed ideals and political action. The author argues that the liberal establishment’s primary concern is maintaining its self-image as morally superior while evading responsibility for the violence it enables or ignores.


El Akkad identifies a central contradiction within modern American liberalism: its reliance on lesser-evil arguments that ultimately serve to perpetuate systems of violence. He writes: “What is the use, once elected, of doing anything of substance, when what was necessary, the negation of some other hypothetical outcome, has by definition already been achieved?” (115). This rhetorical question critiques a political philosophy that justifies itself not through positive moral action but through comparison to hypothetical worse outcomes. According to El Akkad, the argument that liberals must be supported because conservatives would be worse creates a political framework in which avoiding maximum harm becomes the only moral benchmark, replacing any affirmative ethical stance. This framework allows liberals to engage in or support violence—from drone strikes to supporting foreign military actions—while maintaining moral superiority through comparison. He argues that the emptiness of this moral position becomes most apparent during crises when difficult ethical choices must be made, revealing that what appeared to be deeply held principles were merely situational preferences.


El Akkad also examines how liberal institutions apply moral standards inconsistently, despite their rhetoric of universal human rights. He says the media coverage of Gaza exemplifies this pattern, with differences in death counts, contexts of violence, and assignation of responsibility based on the identities of perpetrators and victims. El Akkad argues that this selective application of moral principles reveals that Western liberalism’s ethical framework is not universal but entirely contingent on maintaining existing power structures. He says that for meaningful moral action to emerge, political discourse must move beyond performative righteousness and lesser-evil arguments toward an ethics grounded in recognition of universal human dignity: Only by acknowledging the contradictions between liberal self-perception and the violence it enables can a more honest and just politics begin to take shape.

Sanitized Language as a Shield for Empire

El Akkad examines how sanitized language functions as a critical tool for imperial powers to distance themselves from the moral implications of their violence. He argues that the deliberate manipulation of language serves not just as a rhetorical strategy but as an essential mechanism that enables the continuation of violence while maintaining the empire’s morally neutral or positive self-image.


He highlights how the use of passive voice and strategic linguistic omissions erase agency from acts of violence, protecting perpetrators from moral scrutiny. For instance, The Guardian headline he critiques—”Palestinian journalist hit in head by bullet during raid on terror suspect’s home” (70)—exemplifies this pattern, where the bullet becomes a disembodied agent rather than something fired by a specific person with intent. This linguistic sleight-of-hand creates a world where violence simply happens rather than being perpetrated. El Akkad writes: “[I]t is not simply a case of hiding behind passive language so as to say as little as possible, risk as little criticism as possible” (70). The strategic absence of a perpetrator who fired the bullet shifts focus from moral responsibility to an apparently neutral description of events. This pattern extends beyond individual headlines to entire frameworks of understanding, in which acts of violence are systematically divorced from their agents when those agents represent imperial interests. El Akkad argues that the linguistic distance created between action and actor allows individuals to observe violence without confronting their own connection to it, providing emotional and moral insulation for institutional violence.


El Akkad also argues that this pattern operates not only through what is explicitly stated but also through what is implicitly assumed. He connects post-9/11 practices of labeling military victims as “terrorist[s] until proven otherwise” with the broader pattern of making victims culpable for their own deaths (72). He says that this practice creates a circular logic where the act of being killed becomes evidence of a person’s guilt, making the victim responsible for their own death. El Akkad extends this analysis to Palestine, where the scale of violence requires increasingly extreme characterizations of Palestinian victims. He writes: “Soon, Palestinians become indistinguishable from Nazis, and then worse than Nazis. As their eradication continues, they must transform the worst human beings on earth, the weight of their deaths only then sufficiently lightened” (54). The mechanics of this linguistic transformation reveal how sanitized language operates not merely as euphemism but as a comprehensive system for managing moral perception; it facilitates dehumanization to match escalating violence.


He further describes how linguistic frameworks divide victims into moral categories by using different frameworks for describing violence against “worthy” victims versus those deemed outside the boundaries of full moral consideration. El Akkad says: “It may as well be the case that there exist two entirely different languages for the depiction of violence against victims of empire and victims of empire” (70). He explains that “[v]ictims of empire, those who belong, those for whom we weep, are murdered, subjected to horror” (70). In contrast, “Victims of empire aren’t murdered, their killers aren’t butchers, their killers aren’t anything at all. Victims of empire don’t die, they simply cease to exist” (70). This dual linguistic system creates comprehensive narrative frameworks in which certain deaths trigger moral outrage while others remain technically visible yet morally invisible. El Akkad argues that the separation between these frameworks is maintained through consistent patterns of language that shape how violence is perceived, discussed, and remembered. He says that these divergent linguistic frameworks extend beyond media coverage to structure political discourse, cultural production, and personal understanding, creating comprehensive systems for processing violence that protect empire from moral reckoning.

Future Disavowal of Present Complicity

El Akkad explores how individuals and institutions enable and participate in violence while preserving the ability to later distance themselves from their actions. He identifies how historical revisionism functions not just as a retroactive rationalization but as an active component of present violence. He writes: “Far enough gone, the systemic murder of a people will become safe enough to fit on a lawn sign. There’s always room on a liberal’s lawn” (185). This statement critiques the transformation of past atrocities into expressions of virtue that require no present accountability. El Akkad argues that this eventual acceptance of distant horror serves as permission for present inaction. He says that this dynamic allows individuals to ignore or rationalize current violence, with the expectation that it will eventually be filtered through a lens that absolves them of responsibility. The transformation of genocide into a lawn sign symbolizes the trivialization of suffering. This recognition of how future memorialization shapes present inaction reveals how the machinery of disavowal operates continuously rather than merely retrospectively.


Throughout the text, El Akkad describes how systems of information, governance, and culture actively produce the conditions for future denial. In one passage, he imagines a government official in a town car, reflecting on the implications of her decision to veto a ceasefire resolution. He writes: 


I imagine the quiet insides of that town car before and then after this person has followed the orders she must follow. I wonder whether, in that momentary silence, watching through the window as this scummy world of the everyday living flows by, deeply unimportant, this person might wonder, even briefly, if this is what she wanted for her life (159). 


This passage illuminates how institutional structures create psychological distance between actors and their actions, facilitating forms of participation that can later be disavowed. El Akkad portrays the architecture of power—the town cars, the assistants, the coffee that “appears by magic” (158)—as machinery that allows individuals to participate in atrocities while maintaining psychological barriers that preserve their self-conception as moral agents. According to him, the infrastructure of power thus simultaneously becomes an infrastructure of deniability, creating layers of removal between decision and consequence that can later be invoked as evidence of non-complicity. This institutional distancing serves both present violence and future denial, allowing individuals to participate in systems whose outcomes they can later claim not to have intended or understood.

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