When Push Comes to Shove

University presidents across the country have something new to worry about. Over the last few weeks, a wave of students protesting sweatshop labor have targeted the offices of college presidents who haven't agreed to the code of conduct demanded by the activists. At Duke, students seized President Nannerl O. Keohane's office for 31 hours. At Georgetown, a four-day occupation of President Leo J. O'Donovan's office ended last week after Georgetown acceded to the student demands. And it could happen here. Daniel M. Hennefeld '99, one of the organizers of the sweatshop protest at Harvard earlier this week, told The Crimson Tuesday that occupying an administration building isn't out of the question: "Push comes to shove if Harvard adopts and commits to a weak policy," he said.

The people coordinating the sweatshop protests aren't the first to think of this strategy. The storming of administration buildings has been part of the campus protester's handbook since the mid-'60s, when anti-war students discovered how powerfully symbolic seizing the heart of a university could be. Harvard has its own famous example; the University Hall takeover by members of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) in spring 1969, the first and most violent of the building seizures on campus during the Vietnam era. Other takeovers followed, including a weeklong occupation of Mass. Hall in April 1972 by students protesting the University's investments in Angola.

It's no surprise, then, that the leaders of the sweatshop protests have decided to revive this strategy. Building takeovers, like most of the conventions of the '60s anti-war movement, hold an undeniable nostalgic appeal, especially now when student apathy seems to be hitting new highs. We imagine the protesters of the '60s as ideologically pure, people who renamed University Hall after Che Guevara--and meant it. It seems the protesters today are trying to prove they have the same zeal. The protesters at Georgetown certainly didn't decide to take over O'Donovan's office solely to evoke the radical romanticism of the 60s, but they--along with anti-sweatshop groups across the country--are clearly trying to inspire comparisons between themselves and protesters of an earlier era. In their haste to emulate their predecessors, however, sweatshop protesters seem to have forgotten that some of the tactics SDS used in the '60s--taking over buildings in particular--are indefensible and shouldn't be used as a model for future student activism.

The goal in this situation--to alleviate poor working conditions for sweatshop laborers--is an admirable one, just as ending the University's involvement with Vietnam was in 1969. And it's all too tempting to argue that the plight of oppressed workers in the Third World justifies whatever means it takes to end Harvard insignia apparel makers' use of sweatshop labor.

But taking over a building is by its nature a violent act, and though the takeovers at Duke and Georgetown may have come and gone without forcibly removing deans from their offices, there's no guarantee that it won't happen next time. Some would argue that, in extreme situations, violence (or, in the words of a 1969 Crimson editorial, "militant action") is justified. But it's hard to believe that forcing deans and secretaries from their desks is truly justified under any circumstances.

It doesn't seem like the current crop of student activists have even tried to make that calculation: protesters occupying buildings today do so almost as if it's part of a public relations game. The headline "Students Occupy President's Office" no longer resonates with earthshaking, symbolic significance; it's a tired cliche. Administrators at Duke hardly took the students occupying their offices seriously, instead praising them for their cleanliness and studiousness. Everyone seems to have forgotten that, however routine and perfunctory taking over administration buildings may have become, symbolic action can become very real, very quickly. The potential for real damage, real violence, remains.

Putting aside ethical considerations, are confrontational tactics even effective? The Georgetown and Duke sit-ins both succeeded in forcing the administrations of those schools to come to the bargaining table with activists. But both of these groups, in a sense, got lucky; the takeovers never evolved into an actual physical confrontation (though, most likely, the students never intended to take the protest that far).

The most famous episode from Harvard's history of student activism teaches a better lesson in the dangers of building takeovers. SDS occupied University Hall to press the Harvard Corporation to abolish the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) and to give in to five other related demands. Though the great majority of students at Harvard were against the war, most were also against SDS--and were aghast by the violence at University Hall, where deans were accosted and pushed from the building. The afternoon of the takeover, close to 1,000 students rallied outside the occupied building, many of them opposing the tactics of the protesters whose very cause many supported.

It was not until the bust the next morning that campus opinion turned against the administration, when then-president Nathan M. Pusey '28 showed that his own judgement was even worse than that of the student activists by sending in Cambridge cops at the break of dawn to remove protesters from the building. Without this backlash, the tactics used by SDS could very well have doomed their cause--a possibility current protesters dabbling in confrontation should keep in mind.

To be fair, the people behind the anti-sweatshop movement at Harvard have given no real indication that they will follow the lead of their colleagues at other campuses. Hopefully, they won't; ending the University's involvement with sweatshop labor is a noble goal, but not one that justifies violent recourses like taking over buildings. Seizing University Hall would be as unwise a tactic now as it was in 1969.

Alan E. Wirzbicki '01, a history and literature concentrator in Eliot House, is associate editorial chair of The Crimson.