Laura Poitras's Survival Guide for Living Under Total Surveillance
Artist Laura Poitras—the filmmaker who helped Edward Snowden—shows Americans how to survive total surveillance in a new exhibition.
When whistleblower Edward Snowden encrypted a file containing evidence of mass surveillance by the National Security Agency of the U.S. Government, he titled it “Astro Noise,” the name scientists give to the faint traces of thermal radiation left over from the “Big Bang” that gave birth to the universe. Snowden entrusted that explosive file to journalist Glenn Greenwald and filmmaker-artist Laura Poitras, who turned it into the film Citizenfour. Poitras (shown accepting an award “with” Snowden above) now makes more noise with the exhibit Laura Poitras: Astro Noise in hopes of giving Americans a visual survival guide for living under total surveillance.
Poitras’ association with Snowden through Citizenfour (whose trailer appears above) catapulted her into the spotlight, but she stirred up trouble for the powerful long before that. She made My Country, My Country in 2006 to educated Americans about living conditions for Iraqis under U.S. occupation post-Saddam and earned an Oscar nomination. In 2010, Poitras told the story of Abu Jandal and Salim Ahmed Hamdan, two Yemini men entangled in the American legal system as part of the War on Terror, in her film The Oath. Snowden wasn’t even Poitras’ first government whistleblower. When 32-year NSA employee William Binney disclosed details of the Stellar Wind program he helped design in 2012, Poitras was there to listen and turn it into a film. Such work led Snowden to choose Poitras when looking for an outlet for his revelations in 2014. For her efforts, Poitras found herself monitored, searched, detained, and interrogated by the U.S. Government—an achievement she still wears as a badge of honor in the fight for full transparency of government activities.
After all that success with film, why does Poitras turn to art to tell this story? Quite simply, the issue of government surveillance remains a complex story that most Americans understand poorly, if at all. As Snowden himself has found, it’s frustratingly hard to describe such a complicated web of programs and technologies to a society conditioned to digest sound bites. Comedian John Oliver tried to help Snowden explain the issue in a hilarious interview and strained to make the issue relatable (specifically by referring repeatedly to “dick pics”), but it remained devilishly difficult to comprehend. Rather than humor, Poitras tries to take the realities of surveillance and make them relatable as visual experiences. “I very much like the idea of creating a space that challenges the viewer and asks them to make decisions,” Poitras explains. “My films are about these questions—what do people do when confronted with choices and risks?” Rather than just show footage of a drone, Poitras “ask[s] people to lie down and gaze upward in Bed Down Location, for example,… to enter an empathetic space to imagine drone warfare.” Images such as ANARCHIST: Israeli Drone Feed (Intercepted February 24, 2009) (shown above) make you feel viscerally the reality of drone attacks in a way that news stories and interviews cannot.
On one hand, Poitras wants you to feel and understand issues of surveillance more clearly. On the other hand, Poitras wants you to feel and understand just how deliberately disorienting the issue is as well. “In another piece,” Poitras says, “there is both the seduction of shafts of light to look into, but also the choreography of bodies in the space, bodies facing walls and the things you associate with that, like firing squads. I’m interested in making things hard to see, just like the deep state is hard to see.” If you have trouble seeing the point, that’s the point Poitras is making. Looking at images such as ANARCHIST: Data Feed with Doppler Tracks from a Satellite (Intercepted May 27, 2009) (shown above) might be frustrating for those looking for answers, but it should motivate you to understand this real life-or-death issue that literally hangs over us all, whether we acknowledge it or not.
Poitras subtitles the catalogue to the exhibition “A Survival Guide for Living Under Total Surveillance” (excerpts from which can be seen here). The catalogue collects “responses to the modern-day state of mass surveillance and the ‘war on terror’ from a diverse group of artists, novelists, technologists, graphic storytellers, and data journalists, among others,” including Poitras, Snowden, artist Ai Weiwei, and author Dave Eggers. Even if you can’t get to see Laura Poitras: Astro Noise in person, you should look for your own “survival guide” to the age of surveillance and the possible death of privacy. Before you come down on one side or the other of the Apple versus FBI debate over iPhone security, for example, let Laura Poitras (shown above, filming the NSA Utah Data Repository being built in 2011) help you cut through all the distracting noise to hear and judge the facts clearly for yourself.
The Lumina Foundation lays out steps for increasing access to quality post-secondary education credentials.
- America's post-high school education landscape was not created with the modern student in mind. Today, clear and flexible pathways are necessary to help individuals access education that can help them lead a better life.
- Elizabeth Garlow explains the Lumina Foundation's strategy to create a post-secondary education system that works for all students. This includes credential recognition, affordability, a more competency-based system, and quality assurance.
- Systemic historic factors have contributed to inequality in the education system. Lumina aims to close those gaps in educational attainment.
- In 2019, Lumina Foundation and Big Think teamed up to create the Lumina Prize, a search to find the most innovative and scalable ideas in post-secondary education. You can see the winners of the Lumina Prize here – congratulations to PeerForward and Greater Commons!
French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- The French government initially invested in a rural solar roadway in 2016.
- French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- Solar panel "paved" roadways are proving to be inefficient and too expensive.
During World War II, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in concentration camps throughout the West.
- Now that the issue of concentration camps in the U.S. has once again reared its head, it can be beneficial to recall the last time such camps were employed in the U.S.
- After Pearl Harbor, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in camps, ostensibly for national security purposes.
- In truth, the incarceration was primarily motivated by racism. What was life like in the U.S.'s concentration camps?
On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized and directed military commanders "to prescribe military areas … from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War or the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion." Under the authority of this executive order, roughly 112,000 men, women, and children of Japanese descent — nearly two-thirds of which were American citizens — were detained in concentration camps.
How did the camps get their start?
With the benefit of a nearly 80-year perspective, it's clear that the internment of Japanese Americans was racially motivated. In response to Japan's growing military power in the buildup to World War II, President Roosevelt commissioned two reports to determine whether it would be necessary to intern Japanese Americans should conflict break out between Japan and the U.S. Neither's conclusions supported the plan, with one even going so far as to "certify a remarkable, even extraordinary degree of loyalty among this generally suspect ethnic group." But of course, the Pearl Harbor attacks proved to be far more persuasive than these reports.
Pearl Harbor turned simmering resentment against the Japanese to a full boil, putting pressure on the Roosevelt administration to intern Japanese Americans. Lieutenant General John DeWitt, who would become the administrator of the internment program, testified to Congress
"I don't want any of them here. They are a dangerous element. There is no way to determine their loyalty... It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen, he is still a Japanese. American citizenship does not necessarily determine loyalty... But we must worry about the Japanese all the time until he is wiped off the map."
DeWitt's position was backed up by a number of pre-existing anti-immigrant groups based out of the West Coast, such as the Joint Immigration Committee and the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. For many, the war simply served as an excuse to get rid of Japanese Americans. In an interview with the Saturday Evening Post, Austin Anson, the managing secretary of the Salinas Vegetable Grower-Shipper Administration, said:
"We're charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selfish reasons. We do. It's a question of whether the White man lives on the Pacific Coast or the brown men. ... If all the Japs were removed tomorrow, we'd never miss them in two weeks because the White farmers can take over and produce everything the Jap grows. And we do not want them back when the war ends, either."
Ironically for Anson, the mass deportation of Japanese Americans under Executive Order 9066 meant there was a significant shortage of agricultural labor. Many Caucasians left to fight the war, so the U.S. signed an agreement with Mexico to permit the immigration of several million Mexicans agricultural workers under the so-called bracero program.
Life in the camps
Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Circa 1943: Aerial view of a Japanese American relocation center in Amache, Colorado, during World War II. Each family was provided with a space 20 by 25 ft. The barracks were set in blocks and each block was provided with a community bath house and mess hall.
For the most part, Japanese Americans remained stoic in the face of their incarceration. The phrase shikata ga nai was frequently invoked — the phrase roughly translates to "it cannot be helped," which, for many, represents the perceived attitude of the Japanese people to withstand suffering that's out of their control.
Initially, most Japanese Americans were sent to temporary assembly centers, typically located at fairgrounds or racetracks. These were hastily constructed barracks, where prisoners were often packed into tight quarters and made to use toilets that were little more than pits in the ground. From here, they were relocated to more permanent camps — replete with barbed wire and armed guards — in remote, isolated places across the seven states of California, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, and Arkansas.
Many of these camps, also known as War Relocation Centers, were little better than the temporary assembly centers. One report described the buildings as "tar paper-covered barracks of simple frame construction without plumbing or cooking facilities of any kind." Again, overcrowding was common.
As a result, disease became a major concern, including dysentery, malaria, and tuberculosis. This was problematic due to the chronic shortage of medical professionals and supplies, an issue that was not helped by the War Relocation Authority's decision to cap Japanese American medical professional's pay at $20 a month (about $315 in 2019 dollars), while Caucasian workers had no such restriction. As a comparison, Caucasian nurses earned $150 ($2,361) a month in one camp.
The U.S. government also administered loyalty questionnaires to incarcerated Japanese Americans with the ultimate goal of seeing whether they could be used as soldiers and to segregate "loyal" citizens from "disloyal" ones. The questionnaires often asked whether they would be willing to join the military and if they would completely renounce their loyalty to Japan. Due to fears of being drafted, general confusion, and justified anger at the U.S. government, thousands of Japanese Americans "failed" the loyalty questionnaire and were sent to the concentration camp at Tule Lake. When Roosevelt later signed a bill that would permit Japanese Americans to renounce their citizenship, 98 percent of the 5,589 who did were located at Tule Lake. Some apologists cite this an example of genuine disloyalty towards the U.S., but this argument clearly ignores the gross violation of Japanese Americans' rights. Later, it became clear that many of these renunciations had been made under duress, and nearly all of those who had renounced their citizenship sought to gain it back.
Since many children lived in the camps, they came equipped with schools. Of course, these schools weren't ideal — student-teacher ratios reached as high as 48:1, and supplies were limited. The irony of learning about American history and ideals was not lost on the students, one of whom wrote in an essay --
"They, the first generation [of Japanese immigrants], without the least knowledge of the English language nor the new surroundings, came to this land with the American pioneering spirit of resettling. ...Though undergoing many hardships, they did reach their goal only to be resettled by the order of evacuation under the emergency for our protection and public security."
Potentially the best part of life in the camps — and the best way for determined prisoners to demonstrate their fundamental American-ness — was playing baseball. One camp even featured nearly 100 baseball teams. Former prisoner Herb Kurima recalled the importance of baseball in their lives in an interview with Christian Science Monitor. "I wanted our fathers, who worked so hard, to have a chance to see a ball game," he said. "Over half the camp used to come out to watch. It was the only enjoyment in the camps."
When the camps finally closed in 1945, the lives of the incarcerated Japanese Americans had been totally upended. Some were repatriated to Japan, while others settled in whichever part of the country they had been arbitrarily placed in. Those who wished to return to the West Coast were given $25 and a train ticket, but few had anything to return to. Many had sold their property to predatory buyers prior to being incarcerated, while theft had wiped out whatever else they had left behind. Many, many years later, the 1988 Civil Liberties Act mandated that each surviving victim be paid $20,000, though that seems like a small fine to pay for irrevocably changing the courses of more than 100,000 lives.