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Title: On Resistance Author: Noam Chomsky Date: December 7, 1967 Language: en Topics: resistance Source: Retrieved on 30th October 2020 from https://chomsky.info/19671207/ Notes: The New York Review of Books, December 7, 1967
Several weeks after the demonstrations in Washington, I am still trying
to sort out my impressions of a week whose quality is difficult to
capture or express. Perhaps some personal reflections may be useful to
others who share my instinctive distaste for activism, but who find
themselves edging toward an unwanted but almost inevitable crisis.
For many of the participants, the Washington demonstrations symbolized
the transition “from dissent to resistance.” I will return to this
slogan and its meaning, but I want to make clear at the outset that I do
feel it to be not only accurate with respect to the mood of the
demonstrations, but, properly interpreted, appropriate to the present
state of protest against the war. There is an irresistable dynamics to
such protest. One may begin by writing articles and giving speeches
about the war, by helping, in many ways, to create an atmosphere of
concern and outrage. A courageous few will turn to direct action,
refusing to take their place alongside the “good Germans” we have all
learned to despise. Some will be forced to this decision when they are
called up for military service. The dissenting Senators, writers, and
professors will watch as young men refuse to serve in the Armed Forces,
in a war that they detest. What then? Can those who write and speak
against the war take refuge in the fact that they have not urged or
encouraged draft resistance, but have merely helped to develop a climate
of opinion in which any decent person will want to refuse to take part
in a miserable war? It’s a very thin line. Nor is it very easy to watch
from a position of safety while others are forced to take a grim and
painful step. The fact is that most of the 1000 draft cards turned in to
the Justice Department on October 20^(th) came from men who can escape
military service, but who insisted on sharing the fate of those who are
less privileged. In such ways the circle of resistance widens. Quite
apart from this, no one can fail to see that to the extent that he
restricts his protest, to the extent that he rejects actions that are
open to him, he accepts complicity in what the Government does. Some
will act on this realization, posing sharply a moral issue that no
person of conscience can evade.
On October 16^(th) on the Boston Common I listened as Howard Zinn
explained why he felt ashamed to be an American. I watched as several
hundred young men, some of them my students, made a terrible decision
which no young person should have to face: to sever their connection
with the Selective Service System. The week ended, the following Monday,
with a quiet discussion in Cambridge in which I heard estimates of the
nuclear megatonnage that would be necessary to “take out” North Vietnam
(“some will find this shocking, but…”; “no civilian in the Government is
suggesting this, to my knowledge…”; “let’s not use emotional words like
‘destruction’ “; etc.), and listened to a leading expert on Soviet
affairs who explained how the men in the Kremlin are watching very
carefully to determine whether wars of national liberation can succeed —
if so, they will support them all over the world. (Try pointing out to
such an expert that on these assumptions, if the men in the Kremlin are
rational, they will surely support dozens of such wars right now, since
at a small cost they can confound the American military and tear our
society to shreds — you will be told that you don’t understand the
Russian soul.)
The weekend of the Peace Demonstrations in Washington left impressions
that are vivid and intense, but unclear to me in their implications. The
dominant memory is of the scene itself, of tens of thousands of young
people surrounding what they believe to be — I must add that I agree —
the most hideous institution on this earth, and demanding that it stop
imposing misery and destruction. Tens of thousands of young people. This
I find hard to comprehend. It is pitiful but true that by an
overwhelming margin it is the young who are crying out in horror at what
we all see happening, the young who are being beaten when they stand
their ground, and the young who have to decide whether to accept jail or
exile, or to fight in a hideous war. They have to face this decision
alone, or almost alone. We should ask ourselves why this is so.
Why, for example, does Sen. Mansfield feel “ashamed for the image they
have portrayed of this country,” and not feel ashamed for the image of
this country portrayed by the institution these young people were
confronting, an institution directed by a sane and mild and eminently
reasonable man who can testify calmly before Congress that the amount of
ordnance expended in Vietnam has surpassed the total expended in Germany
and Italy in World War II? Why is it that Senator Mansfield can speak in
ringing phrases about those who are not living up to our commitment to
“a government of laws” — referring to a small group of demonstrators,
not to the ninety-odd responsible men on the Senate floor who are
watching, with full knowledge, as the State they serve clearly,
flagrantly violates the explicit provisions of the UN Charter, the
supreme law of the land? He knows quite well that prior to our invasion
of Vietnam there was no armed attack against any State. It was Senator
Mansfield, after all, who informed us that “when the sharp increase in
the American military effort began in early 1965, it was estimated that
only about 400 North Vietnamese soldiers were among the enemy forces in
the South which totalled 140,000 at that time”; and it is the Mansfield
Report from which we learn that at that time there were 34,000 American
soldiers already in South Vietnam, in violation of our “solemn
commitment” at Geneva in 1954.
The point should be pursued. After the first International Days of
Protest in October, 1965, Senator Mansfield criticized the “sense of
utter irresponsibility” shown by the demonstrators. He had nothing to
say then, nor has he since, about the “sense of utter irresponsibility”
shown by Senator Mansfield and others who stand by quietly and vote
appropriations as the cities and villages of North Vietnam are
demolished, as millions of refugees in the South are driven from their
homes by American bombardment. He has nothing to say about the moral
standards or the respect for international law of those who have
permitted this tragedy.
I speak of Senator Mansfield precisely because he is not a
breast-beating superpatriot who wants America to rule the world, but is
rather an American intellectual in the best sense, a scholarly and
reasonable man — the kind of man who is the terror of our age. Perhaps
this is merely a personal reaction, but when I look at what is happening
to our country, what I find most terrifying is not Curtis LeMay, with
his cheerful suggestion that we bomb everybody back into the stone age,
but rather the calm disquisitions of the political scientists on just
how much force will be necessary to achieve our ends, or just what form
of government will be acceptable to us in Vietnam. What I find
terrifying is the detachment and equanimity with which we view and
discuss an unbearable tragedy. We all know that if Russia or China were
guilty of what we have done in Vietnam, we would be exploding with moral
indignation at these monstrous crimes.
There was, I think, a serious miscalculation in the planning of the
Washington demonstrations. It was expected that the march to the
Pentagon would be followed by a number of speeches, and that those who
were committed to civil disobedience would then separate themselves from
the crowd and go to the Pentagon, a few hundred yards away across an
open field. I had decided not to take part in civil disobedience, and I
do not know in detail what had been planned. As everyone must realize,
it is very hard to distinguish rationalization from rationality in such
matters. I felt, however, that the first large-scale acts of civil
disobedience should be more specifically defined, more clearly in
support of those who are refusing to serve in Vietnam, on whom the real
burden of dissent must inevitably fall. While appreciating the point of
view of those who wished to express their hatred of the war in a more
explicit way, I was not convinced that civil disobedience at the
Pentagon would be either meaningful or effective.
In any event, what actually happened was rather different from what
anyone had anticipated. A few thousand people gathered for the speeches,
but the mass of marchers went straight on to the Pentagon, some because
they were committed to direct action, many because they were simply
swept along. From the speakers’ platform where I stood it was difficult
to determine just what was taking place at the Pentagon. All we could
see was the surging of the crowd. From second-hand reports, I understand
that the marchers walked through and around the front line of troops and
took up a position, which they maintained, on the steps of the Pentagon.
It soon became obvious that it was wrong for the few organizers of the
march and the mostly middle-aged group that had gathered near them to
remain at the speakers’ platform, while the demonstrators themselves,
most of them quite young, were at the Pentagon. (I recall seeing near
the platform Robert Lowell, Dwight Macdonald, Msgr. Rice, Sidney Lens,
Benjamin Spock and his wife, Dagmar Wilson, Donald Kalish.) David
Dellinger suggested that we try to approach the Pentagon. We found a
place not yet blocked by the demonstrators, and walked up to the line of
troops standing a few feet from the building. Dellinger suggested that
those of us who had not yet spoken at the rally talk directly to the
soldiers through a small portable sound system. From this point on my
impressions are rather fragmentary. Msgr. Rice spoke, and I followed. As
I was speaking, the line of soldiers advanced, moving past me — a rather
odd experience. I don’t recall just what I was saying. The gist was, I
suppose, that we were there because we didn’t want the soldiers to kill
and be killed, but I do remember feeling that the way I was putting it
seemed silly and irrelevant.
The advancing line of soldiers had partially scattered the small group
that had come with Dellinger. Those of us who had been left behind the
line of soldiers regrouped, and Dr. Spock began to speak. Almost at
once, another line of soldiers emerged from somewhere, this time in a
tightly massed formation, rifles in hand, and moved slowly forward. We
sat down. As I mentioned earlier, I had no intention of taking part in
any act of civil disobedience, until that moment. But when that
grotesque organism began slowly advancing — more grotesque because its
cells were recognizable human beings — it became obvious that one could
not permit that thing to dictate what one was going to do. I was
arrested at that point by a Federal Marshal, presumably for obstructing
the soldiers. I should add that the soldiers, so far as I could see
(which was not very far), seemed rather unhappy about the whole matter,
and were being about as gentle as one can be when ordered (I presume
this was the order) to kick and club passive, quiet people who refused
to move. The Federal Marshals, predictably, were very different. They
reminded me of the police officers I had seen in a Jackson. Mississippi
jail several summers ago, who had laughed when an old man showed us a
bloody home-made bandage on his leg and tried to describe to us how he
had been beaten by the police. In Washington, the ones who got the worst
of it at the hands of the Marshals were the young boys and girls,
particularly boys with long hair. Nothing seemed to bring out the
Marshals’ sadism more than the sight of a boy with long hair. Yet,
although I witnessed some acts of violence by the Marshals, their
behavior largely seemed to range between indifference and petty
nastiness. For example, we were kept in a police van for an hour or two
with the doors closed, and only a few air holes for ventilation — one
can’t be too careful with such ferocious criminal types.
In the prison dormitory and after my release I heard many stories, which
I feel sure are authentic, of the courage of the young people, many of
whom were quite frightened by the terrorism that began late at night
after the TV cameramen and most of the press had left. They sat quietly
hour after hour through the cold night; many were kicked and beaten and
dragged across police lines. I also heard stories, distressing ones, of
provocation of the troops by the demonstrators — usually, it seems,
those who were not in the front rows. Surely this was indefensible.
Soldiers are unwitting instruments of terror; one does not blame or
attack the club that is used to bludgeon someone to death. They are also
human beings, with sensibilities to which one can perhaps appeal. There
is, in fact, strong evidence that one soldier, perhaps three or four,
refused to obey orders and was placed under arrest. The soldiers, after
all, are in much the same position as the draft resisters. If they obey
orders, they became brutalized by what they do; if they do not, the
personal consequences are severe. It is a situation that deserves
compassion, not abuse. But we should retain a sense of proportion in the
matter. Everything that I saw or heard indicates that the demonstrators
played only a small role in initiating the violence that occurred.
The argument that resistance to the war should remain strictly
nonviolent seems to me overwhelming. As a tactic, violence is absurd. No
one can compete with the Government in violence, and the resort to
violence, which will surely fail, will simply frighten and alienate some
who can be reached, and will further encourage the ideologists and
administrators of forceful repression. What is more, one hopes that
participants in nonviolent resistance will themselves become human
beings of a more admirable sort. No one can fail to be impressed by the
personal qualities of those who have grown to maturity in the civil
rights movement. Whatever else it may have accomplished, the civil
rights movement has made an inestimable contribution to American society
in transforming the lives and characters of those who took part in it.
Perhaps a program of principled, nonviolent resistance can do the same
for many others, in the particular circumstances that we face today. It
is not impossible that this may save the country from a terrible future,
from yet another generation of men who think it clever to discuss the
bombing of North Vietnam as a question of tactics and
cost-effectiveness.
I must admit that I was relieved to find people whom I had respected for
years in the prison dormitory — Norman Mailer, Jim Peck, David
Dellinger, and a number of others. I think that it was reassuring to
many of the kids who were there to be able to feel that they were not
totally disconnected from a world that they knew and from people whom
they admired. It was touching to see that defenseless young people who
had a great deal to lose were willing to be jailed for what they
believed—young instructors from State Universities, college kids who
have a very bright future if they are willing to toe the line.
What comes next? Obviously, that is the question on everyone’s mind. The
slogan “from dissent to resistance” makes sense, I think, but I hope
that it is not taken to imply that dissent should cease. Dissent and
resistance are not alternatives but activities that should reinforce
each other. There is no reason why those who take part in tax refusal,
draft resistance, and other forms of resistance, should not also speak
to church groups or town forums, or become involved in electoral
politics to support peace candidates or referenda on the war. In my
experience, it has often been those committed to resistance who have
been most deeply involved in such attempts at persuasion. Putting aside
the matter of resistance for a moment, I think it should be emphasized
that the days of “patiently explain” are far from over. As the coffins
come home and the taxes go up, many people who were previously willing
to accept government propaganda will become increasingly concerned to
try to think for themselves.
Furthermore, the recent shift in the Government’s line offers important
opportunities for critical analysis of the war. There is a note of
shrill desperation in the recent defense of the American war in Vietnam.
We hear less about “bringing freedom and democracy” to the South
Vietnamese and more about the “national interest.” Secretary Rusk broods
about the dangers posed to us by a billion Chinese; the Vice President
tells us that we are fighting “militant Asian Communism” with “its
headquarters in Peking” and adds that a Viet Cong victory would directly
threaten the United States; Eugene Rostow argues that “it is no good
building model cities if they are to be bombed in twenty years time,”
and so on (all of this “a frivolous insult to the US Navy,” as Walter
Lippmann rightly commented). This shift in propaganda makes it much
easier for critical analysis to attack the problem of Vietnam at its
core, which is in Washington and Boston, not in Saigon and Hanoi. Those
who were opposed to the Japanese conquest of Manchuria a generation ago
did not place emphasis on the political and social and economic problems
of Manchuria, but on those of Japan. They did not engage in farcical
debate over the exact degree of support for the puppet Emperor, but
looked to the sources of Japanese imperialism. Now opponents of the war
can much more easily shift attention to the internal reasons for their
own country’s aggression. We can ask whose “interest” is served by
100,000 casualties and 100 billion dollars, expended in the attempt to
subjugate a small country half way around the world. We can point to the
absurdity of the idea that we are “containing China” by destroying
popular and independent forces on its borders. We can ask why those who
admit that “a Vietnamese communist regime would probably
be…anti-Chinese” (Ithiel Pool, Asian Survey, August, 1967) nevertheless
sign statements which pretend that in Vietnam we are facing the
expansionist aggressors from Peking. We can ask what factors in American
ideology make it so easy for intelligent and well-informed men to say
that we “insist upon nothing for South Vietnam except that it be free to
chart its own future” (Citizens Committee for Peace with Freedom, New
York Times, Oct. 26), although they know quite well that the regime we
imposed excluded all those who took part in the struggle against French
colonialism, “and properly so” (Secretary Rusk, 1963); that we have
since been attempting to suppress a “civil insurrection” (General
Stillwell) led by the only “truly mass-based political party in South
Vietnam” (Douglas Pike); that we supervised the destruction of the
Buddhist opposition; that we offered the peasants a “free choice”
between the Saigon Government and the NLF by herding them into strategic
hamlets from which NLF cadres and sympathizers were eliminated by the
police (Roger Hilsman); and so on. The story is familiar.
More important, we can ask the really fundamental question. Suppose that
it were in the American “national interest” to pound into rubble a small
nation that refuses to submit to our will. Would it then be legitimate
and proper for us to act “in this national interest”? The Rusks and the
Humphreys and the Citizens Committee say “Yes”. Nothing could show more
clearly how we are taking the road of the fascist aggressors of a
generation ago.
Some seem to feel that resistance will “blacken” the peace movement and
make it difficult to reach potential sympathizers through more familiar
channels. I don’t agree with this objection, but I feel that it should
not be lightly disregarded. Resisters who hope to save the people of
Vietnam from destruction must select the issues they confront and the
means they employ in such a way as to attract as much popular support as
possible for their efforts. There is no lack of clear issues and
honorable means, surely, hence no reason why one should be impelled to
ugly actions on ambiguous issues. In particular, it seems to me that
draft resistance, properly conducted (as it has been so far ), is not
only a highly principled and courageous act, but one that might receive
broad support and become politically effective. It might, furthermore,
succeed in raising the issues of passive complicity in the war which are
now much too easily evaded. Those who face these issues may even go on
to free themselves from the mind-destroying ideological pressures of
American life, and to ask some serious questions about America’s role in
the world.
Moreover, I feel that this objection to resistance is not properly
formulated. The “peace movement” exists only in the fantasies of the
paranoid. Those who find some of the means employed or ends pursued
objectionable can oppose the war in other ways. They will not be read
out of a movement that does not exist; they have only themselves to
blame if they do not make use of the other forms of protest that are
available.
I have left to the end the most important question, the question about
which I have least to say. This is the question of the forms resistance
should take. We all take part in the war to a greater or lesser extent,
if only by paying taxes and permitting domestic society to function
smoothly. A person has to choose for himself the point at which he will
simply refuse to take part any longer. Reaching that point, he will be
drawn into resistance. I believe that the reasons for resistance I have
already mentioned are cogent ones: they have an irreducible moral
element that admits of little discussion. The issue is posed in its
starkest form for the boy who faces induction and, in a form that is
somewhat more complex, for the boy who must decide whether to
participate in a system of selective service that may pass the burden
from him to others less fortunate and less privileged. It is difficult
for me to see how anyone can refuse to engage himself, in some way, in
the plight of these young men. The ways to do so range from legal aid
and financial support, to such measures as assisting those who wish to
escape the country, and finally to the steps proposed by the clergymen
who recently announced that they are ready to share the fate of those
who will be sent to prison. About this aspect of the program of
resistance I have nothing to say that will not be entirely obvious to
anyone who is willing to think the matter through.
Considered as a political tactic, however, resistance requires careful
thought, and I do not pretend to have very clear ideas about it. Much
depends on how events unfold in the coming months. Westmoreland’s war of
attrition may simply continue with no foreseeable end, but the domestic
political situation makes this unlikely. If the Republicans do not
decide to throw the election again, they could have a winning strategy:
they can claim that they will end the war, and remain vague about the
means. Under such circumstances, it is unlikely that Johnson will permit
the present military stalemate to persist. There are, then, several
options. The first is American withdrawal, in whatever terms it would be
couched. It might be disguised as a retreat to “enclaves,” from which
the troops could then be removed. It might be arranged by an
international conference, or by permitting a government in Saigon that
would seek peace among contending South Vietnamese and then ask us to
leave. This policy might be politically feasible; the same public
relations firm that invented terms like “revolutionary development” can
depict withdrawal as victory. Whether there is anyone in the executive
branch with the courage of imagination to urge this course I do not
know. A number of Senators are proposing, in essence, that this is the
course we should pursue, as are such critics of the war as Walter
Lippmann and Hans Morgenthau, if I understand them correctly. A detailed
and quite sensible plan for arranging withdrawal along with new, more
meaningful elections in the South is outlined by Philippe Devillers in
Le Monde Hebdomadaire of October 26, Variants can easily be imagined.
What is central is the decision to accept the principle of Geneva that
the problems of Vietnam be settled by the Vietnamese.
A second possibility would be annihilation. No one doubts that we have
the technological capacity for this, and only the sentimental doubt that
we have the moral capacity as well. Bernard Fall predicted this outcome
in an interview shortly before his death. “The Americans can destroy,”
he said, “but they cannot pacify. They may win the war, but it will be
the victory of the graveyard. Vietnam will be destroyed.”
A third option would be an invasion of North Vietnam. This would saddle
us with two unwinnable guerrilla wars instead of one, but if the timing
is right, it might be used as a device to rally the citizenry around the
flag.
A fourth possibility is an attack on China. We could then abandon
Vietnam and turn to a winnable war directed against Chinese nuclear or
industrial capacity. Such a move should win the election. No doubt this
prospect also appeals to that insane rationality called “strategic
thinking.” If we intend to keep armies of occupation or even strong
military bases on the Asian mainland, we would do well to make sure that
the Chinese do not have the means to threaten them. Of course, there is
the danger of a nuclear holocaust, but it is difficult to see why this
should trouble those whom john McDermott calls the “crisis managers,”
the same men who were willing, in 1962, to accept a 50 percent
probability of nuclear war to establish the principle that we, and we
alone, have the right to keep missiles on the borders of a potential
enemy.
There are many who regard “negotiations” as a realistic alternative, but
I do not understand the logic or even the content of this proposal. If
we stop bombing North Vietnam we might well enter into negotiations with
Hanoi, but there would then be very little to discuss. As to South
Vietnam, the only negotiable issue is the withdrawal of foreign troops —
other matters can only be settled among whatever Vietnamese groups have
survived the American onslaught. The call for “negotiations” seems to me
not only empty, but actually a trap for those who oppose the war. If we
do not agree to withdraw our troops, the negotiations will be
deadlocked, the fighting will continue, American troops will be fired on
and killed, the military will have a persuasive argument to escalate: to
save American lives. In short, the Symington solution: the victory of
the graveyard.
Of the realistic options, only withdrawal (however disguised) seems to
me at all tolerable, and resistance, as a tactic of protest, must be
designed so as to increase the likelihood that this option will be
selected. Furthermore, the time in which to take such action may be very
short. The logic of resorting to resistance as a tactic for ending the
war is fairly clear. There is no basis for supposing that those who will
make the major policy decisions are open to reason on the fundamental
issues, in particular the issue of whether we, alone among the nations
of the world, have the authority and the competence to determine the
social and political institutions of Vietnam. What is more, there is
little likelihood that the electoral process will bear on the major
decisions. As I have argued, the issue may be settled before the next
election. Even if it is not, it is hardly likely that a serious choice
will be offered at the polls. And if by a miracle such a choice is
offered, how seriously can we take the campaign promises of a “peace
candidate” after the experience of 1964? With the enormous dangers of
escalation and its hateful character, it makes sense, in such a
situation, to search for ways to raise the domestic cost of American
aggression, to raise it to a point where it cannot be overlooked by
those who have to calculate such costs. One must then consider in what
ways it is possible to pose a serious threat. Many possibilities come to
mind: a general strike, university strikes, attempts to hamper war
production and supply, and so on.
Personally, I feel that disruptive acts of this sort would be justified
were they likely to be effective in averting an imminent tragedy. I am
skeptical, however, about their possible effectiveness. At the moment, I
cannot imagine a broad base for such action, in the white community at
least, outside the universities. Forcible repression would not,
therefore, prove very difficult. My guess is that such actions would,
furthermore, primarily involve students and younger faculty from the
humanities and the theological schools as well as some scientists. The
professional schools, engineers, specialists in the technology of
manipulation and control (much of the social sciences) would probably
remain relatively uninvolved. Therefore the long-range threat, whatever
it proved to be, would be to American humanistic and scientific culture.
I doubt that this would seem important to those in decision-making
positions. Rusk and Rostow and their accomplices in the academic world
seem unaware of the serious threat that their policies already pose in
these spheres. I doubt that they appreciate the extent, or the
importance, of the dissipation of creative energies and the growing
disaffection among young people who are sickened by the violence and
deceit that they see in the exercise of American power. Further
disruption in these areas might, then, seem to them a negligible cost.
Resistance is in part a moral responsibility, in a part a tactic to
affect government policy. In particular, with respect to support for
draft resistance, I feel that it is a moral responsibility that cannot
be shirked. On the other hand, as a tactic, it seems to me of doubtful
effectiveness, as matters now stand. I say this with diffidence and
considerable uncertainty.
Whatever happens in Vietnam, there are bound to be significant domestic
repercussions. It is axiomatic that no army ever loses a war; its brave
soldiers and all-knowing generals are stabbed in the back by treacherous
civilians. American withdrawal is likely, then, to bring to the surface
the worst features of American culture, and perhaps to lead to a serious
internal repression. On the other hand, an American “victory” might well
have dangerous consequences both at home and abroad. It might give added
prestige to an already far too powerful executive. There is,
furthermore, the problem emphasized by A.J. Muste: “the problem after a
war is with the victor. He thinks he has just proved that war and
violence pay. Who will now teach him a lesson?” For the most powerful
and most aggressive nation in the world, this is indeed a danger. If we
can rid ourselves of the naïve belief that we are somehow different and
more pure — a belief held by the British, the French, the Japanese in
their moments of imperial glory — then we will be able honestly to face
the truth in this observation. One can only hope that we will face this
truth before too many innocents, on all sides, suffer and die.
Finally, there are certain principles that I think must be stressed as
we try to build effective opposition to this and future wars. We must
not, I believe, thoughtlessly urge others to commit civil disobedience,
and we must be careful not to construct situations in which young people
will find themselves induced, perhaps in violation of their basic
convictions, to commit civil disobedience. Resistance must be freely
undertaken. I also hope, more sincerely than I know how to say, that it
will create bonds of friendship and mutual trust that will support and
strengthen those who are sure to suffer.