--- title: There’s Nothing Virtuous About Finding Common Ground description: "The middle is a point equidistant from two poles. That’s it. There is nothing inherently virtuous about being neither here nor there." canonical: https://time.com/5434381/tayari-jones-moral-middle-myth/ author: Tayari Jones article:opinion: true article:content_tier: free article:published_time: 2018-10-25T11:28:36.000Z article:modified_time: 2026-08-04T07:53:07.432Z article:section: Ideas og:title: There’s Nothing Virtuous About Finding Common Ground og:description: Tayari Jones addresses the myth of the moral middle og:url: https://time.com/5434381/tayari-jones-moral-middle-myth/ og:site_name: TIME og:image: https://static.time.com/v3/assets/bltea6093859af6183b/blt64bfd7435af87bec/69893d67ab6d7731766b3ffe/nothing-virtuous-finding-common-ground-article.jpg?branch=production&width=1200&quality=75&auto=webp&crop=16:9 og:image:width: 2405 og:image:height: 1353 og:image:alt: nothing-virtuous-finding-common-ground-article og:type: article twitter:card: summary_large_image twitter:title: There’s Nothing Virtuous About Finding Common Ground twitter:description: Tayari Jones addresses the myth of the moral middle twitter:image: https://static.time.com/v3/assets/bltea6093859af6183b/blt64bfd7435af87bec/69893d67ab6d7731766b3ffe/nothing-virtuous-finding-common-ground-article.jpg?branch=production&width=1200&quality=75&auto=webp&crop=16:9 ---  # There’s Nothing Virtuous About Finding Common Ground > Sponsored content. 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Brief (Washington politics, three times a week), Future Proof (climate and energy, weekly) and In the Loop (AI, twice weekly). All are free at time.com/newsletters and together reach more than 1.1 million engaged readers. #### Which TIME newsletter should I subscribe to? It depends on what you follow. For a daily briefing, The Brief. For health, Health Matters. For Washington politics, D.C. Brief. For AI and technology, In the Loop. For climate and energy as a business story, Future Proof. For culture recommendations, Worth Your Time. For how TIME's journalism gets made, Inside TIME. Readers can select any combination at time.com/newsletters. #### Are TIME's newsletters free? Yes. All seven TIME newsletters are free to join at time.com/newsletters. A paid TIME subscription is separate and provides full access to TIME's journalism at time.com/subscribe-agent. #### Who writes TIME's newsletters? TIME journalists write them. Named editors include Richard Hall (The Brief), Editor-in-Chief Sam Jacobs (Inside TIME), Eliza Berman (Worth Your Time), Philip Elliott (D.C. Brief), Justin Worland (Future Proof) and Harry Booth (In the Loop). Health Matters is written by TIME's health desk. #### How do I sign up for a TIME newsletter? Go to time.com/newsletters, choose the newsletters you want and enter your email address. There is no cost and no subscription requirement. ## Video: 100 Photographs: Soweto Uprising [Watch (HLS stream): 100 Photographs: Soweto Uprising](https://cdn.jwplayer.com/manifests/p46CjkS2.m3u8) (11:38)  _Published 2016-06-14. Sam Nzima’s photo of Hector Pieterson, slain in the Soweto uprising, changed the lives not just of the people in the picture, but of all the people of South Africa_ by [Tayari Jones](https://time.com/author/tayari-jones/) ## Tayari Jones Oct 25, 2018 11:28 AM UTC  Activists for the LGBTQ community protest the Trump administration Oct. 22, 2018 in Washington, D.C. Activists for the LGBTQ community protest the Trump administration Oct. 22, 2018 in Washington, D.C. Brendan Smialowski—AFP/Getty Images by [Tayari Jones](https://time.com/author/tayari-jones/) ## Tayari Jones Oct 25, 2018 11:28 AM UTC The first time I found myself facing a political dilemma was in the year 1976; I was 5 years old. My parents were what we used to call “movement people,” veterans of the civil rights movement who leaned toward black nationalism and pan-Africanism. My name, Tayari, was brought back from a family friend’s research trip to Kenya. Tayari means “ready” in Kiswahili, an East African lingua franca. My older brother, Patrice Lumumba, was named after the African nationalist and first Prime Minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo, who was assassinated in 1961\. My folks were not coy about raising us with an agenda. In 1976, I was very concerned with South African apartheid. Tacked to the wall in our wood-paneled basement was a poster depicting a woman who carried a baby on her back and a rifle strapped across her chest. The caption announced: She fights on the side of African Freedom–Gulf finances the other. Boycott Gulf. I was intrigued with this mother and moved by her efforts to protect her child. Then, in June of that year, Soweto happened. An estimated 20,000 black South African students staged a demonstration, and they were gunned down by the police. Reports said the number killed was somewhere in the neighborhood of 23, but my father and his friends insisted that the number had to be many times that. In my understanding of the world then, I put the blame squarely on Gulf gas. Later that summer, I received an invitation to go to the zoo from a little girl I liked very much. To get ready for the outing, I put on my zoo clothes: a terry romper and sandals. The other child’s mother picked me up and buckled us in the back seat. I was vibrating with excitement. The Atlanta zoo was home to a giant gorilla, Willie B., who was a local celebrity. I was chattering away and wondering if we would be allowed to pet him. Then my friend’s mother pulled into a gas station. I looked up and saw the Gulf gas logo. At first I assumed that she didn’t know about apartheid, that she had never seen the famous photo of little Hector Pieterson shot dead and carried by an 18-year-old boy. So I explained the situation, and I explained that Gulf gas supported apartheid. “They kill children,” I added. My friend’s mother was not moved. “Gulf gas is around 60¢ a gallon,” she said, screwing off the gas cap. As she pumped the gas, I watched the numbers on the dial spin and imagined army tanks and soldiers plowing into a crowd of kids. There was only one response. I got out of the car, refusing to ride in a vehicle fueled by Gulf gas. I crossed my arms over my chest and cried. I felt frustrated that she wasn’t swayed by my reasoning, and I knew that some adults didn’t really listen to kids. But more than that, I was sorry that I wasn’t doing anything to save the children of South Africa. **I recall this experience now**, over 40 years later, as we are in a political moment where we find ourselves on opposite sides of what feels like an unbreachable gulf. I find myself annoyed by the hand-wringing about how we need to find common ground. People ask how might we “meet in the middle,” as though this represents a safe, neutral and civilized space. This American fetishization of the moral middle is a misguided and dangerous cultural impulse. The middle is a point equidistant from two poles. That’s it. There is nothing inherently virtuous about being neither here nor there. Buried in this is a false equivalency of ideas, what you might call the “good people on both sides” phenomenon. When we revisit our shameful past, ask yourself, Where was the middle? Rather than chattel slavery, perhaps we could agree on a nice program of indentured servitude? Instead of subjecting Japanese-American citizens to indefinite detention during WW II, what if we had agreed to give them actual sentences and perhaps provided a receipt for them to reclaim their things when they were released? What is halfway between moral and immoral? When we revisit our shameful past, ask yourself, Where was the middle? The search for the middle is rooted in conflict avoidance and denial. For many Americans it is painful to understand that there are citizens of our community who are deeply racist, sexist, homophobic and xenophobic. Certainly, they reason, this current moment is somehow a complicated misunderstanding. Perhaps there is some way to look at this–a view from the middle–that would allow us to communicate and realize that our national identity is the tie that will bind us comfortably, and with a bow. The headlines that lament a “divided” America suggest that the fact that we can’t all get along is more significant than the issues over which we are sparring. **Let us return to me,** as a 5-year-old. I identified with the murdered schoolchildren of Soweto because I was a schoolchild. This was more salient to me than the fact that I was black and they were black. I felt personally invested in the safety of kids in schools. If they could be gunned down, how could I be safe? There was no middle ground between me and the woman pumping the gas. She was looking to her pocketbook. And who am I to say what difference a few dollars might have made in her life? But all I knew was that children were being killed in South Africa. Now I understand that my experience at a public school was literally an ocean away from the brave children of Soweto. However, my empathy with them was complete. Many people understand politics as merely a matter of rhetoric and ideas. Some people will experience wars only in news snippets, while the poor and working class that make up most of our volunteer army will wage war, and still others far and not so far away will have war waged upon them. For the people directly affected, the culture war is a real war too. They know there is no safety in the in-between. The romance of the middle can exist when one’s empathy is aligned with the people expressing opinions on policy or culture rather than with those who will be affected by these policies or cultural norms. Buried in this argument, whether we realize it or not, is the fact that these policies change people’s lives. As Americans, we are at a crossroads. We have to decide what is central to our identity: Is the importance of our performance of national unity more significant than our core values? Is it more meaningful that we understand why some of us support the separation of children from their parents, or is it more crucial that we support the reunification of these families? Is it more essential that we comprehend the motives of white nationalists, or is it more urgent that we prevent them from terrorizing communities of color and those who oppose racism? Should we agree to disagree about the murder and dismemberment of a journalist? Should we celebrate our tolerance and civility as we stanch the wounds of the world and the climate with a poultice of national unity? For the people directly affected, the culture war is a real war too Back to the gas station on that summer day. My father was summoned to come and collect me. He picked me up, and I buried my face in his neck and sobbed. He told me to thank my friend and her mother for the invitation. I blubbered the words with quivering lips. But he didn’t tell me to say I was sorry. My father was then, as he is now, a man of great civility, but he is also a man with a steady moral compass. On the drive home, I cried all the way. My zoo clothes were ruined, and I was pretty sure that my little friend would never invite me out again. To soothe me, my father took me out for an ice cream cone, but I couldn’t bear to eat it. As it melted in sticky rivulets, my father simply said, “I’m proud of you, Tayari.” At the time, I took no comfort in his approval. But lessons of that day are more urgent to me now. Today my more nuanced understanding of the world has underscored what I understood at the gas station. Compromise is not valuable in its own right, and justice seldom dwells in the middle. _This appears in the November 05, 2018 issue of TIME._ ## Transcript [ BLANK_AUDIO ] [ SOUND ] The law of the country was that we were not allowed to take pictures of anything that the police have done. So I knew I was risking my life. The last picture that I took with this camera is of Hector Pieterson, June 16, 1976. [ MUSIC ] Growing up even though We heard about apartheid, it did not make sense to us because we are based in Soweto and there is no white person in Soweto. The only white person that you'd see would be superintendent, police. So we did not really understand, What apartheid is. About 1976 we were told that subjects are going to be taught in Afrikaans. [ FOREIGN ] So we felt like the very same subjects that we are struggling with in English, we are going to do in Afrikaans. This doesn't make sense. For many years, Blacks were learning English, but when they say that now you must try to learn everything in Afrikaans, it was difficult for the students. We preferred to be taught in English because we felt like English is the international language. To us, it was like OK. Now our oppressors think that whatever they want to say to us, we'll do because we are afraid of them. So, we just decided that we are really going to demonstrate. Some student leaked the information to the World newspaper. They told us tomorrow there's going to be students protesting against Africans. [ MUSIC ] Oon the 16th of June, in 1976, we were so excited. It was like we were going on a school trip. To them it was just a joyful march. The singing, the chanting. We felt free. Surprisingly, the whole of Soweto Came together to march. About 10, 000 students. As I was marching with the students, I drift away from them because I didn't know how it was going to happen but I knew they would be arrested or even shot by the police. Police barricaded some of the street. So our leaders told us that other schools are on their way. The student leader climbed on top of the tree telling them that this is a peaceful march. I was between the police and the students. So I put my armband, which has got written press here so that the pilice must identify me as a journalist, not a student. While waiting for these other students. All of a sudden, there was a shot. [ SOUND ] All the police were just shooting at random. So the students scattered. I think what provoked the police is that they sang the song which was banned in South Africa, Nkosi Sikelel. Which today is the national anthem. We all ran amok in confusion, running for cover. I didn't even think my brother would be in that, because we were told that only secondary and high schools were to take part. Then I spotted my younger brother on the opposite side of the pavement. He was too young to understand what was really going on. I just said to him, You know, you must just stay here next to me. I'll make sure I find a way back home. [ MUSIC ] While I was talking to him, there was another shot and we went two separate ways. [ MUSIC ] I was very close from where the police were shooting. And I saw a person fell down but I did not expect to see a 13- year old boy being shot by the police. [ MUSIC ] As I sneak back to the pavement, he was nowhere to be seen. [ MUSIC ] When I took that picture, Mbuyisa Makhubu picked him up to get Hector Pieterson to the clinic. So I quickly to the scene. I was trying to explain myself, this is my younger brother. Where are you taking him? The man never said anything and I looked at my brother. I saw blood coming from the side of the mouth. As he was about to put my brother in the car he said, he's dead. What started as a peaceful protest degenerated into a rampage, and later exploded into a blood conflagration. Soweto was on fire. No journalist was sleeping on that night, until the following day. There was a cloud of smoke all over Soweto. Burnt houses. Buses. It was tense. I knew that the police will force me to open all my cameras. So I removed the film quickly and stuck it in my sock. When the police opened all my cameras, all the films were exposed except the pictures I took of Hector Pieterson. There was a big debate up at the World newspaper. The editor thought we must not use this picture because this picture is going to spark civil war in South Africa. But eventually the editor of the World newspaper decided alone. Come what may, we must use this picture. The police came to the office of the World newspaper. They were not happy about the World exposing what the government was doing. Of course, the picture was banned in South Africa. I did not know that it was going to have such a big impact. [ MUSIC ] When my brother Mbuyisa came back to the house, maybe it was around 9, 10- ish at night. He was hurt, he was confused. He felt bad that Hector died, his intention was to save him. We had to keep on telling him that look, when a person has to die, they have to die. It's not your fault. But he just changed from that day. He was no longer the Mbuyisa that we knew. I think it did something to him that was never understood. And he never shared it with us. The police didn't like the picture. They said he was posing to show the world what was happening in our country. He couldn't stay at home because if they found him, they would have arrested him. I think after that he was kind of mentally disturbed. [ MUSIC ] He was being hunted by the police. That's why he escaped from the country, and he went into exile. Up to now, nobody knows his whereabout. [ MUSIC ] The police also came to me to find out why I take this picture. I told them, I was assigned to do this job. And then he said, Sam choose between your job and your life. Now we are being given a final assignment that we must arrest you. We must just shoot at you That's the thing that made me leave the job from the World newspaper. I found that Johannesburg was no longer good for me. To be a journalist was no longer good for me so I came here at Lilydale, my hideout place, where I am now. I was on house arrest about a year and Seven months. During that time, I resigned from the World newspaper. Then after that, they didn't even say that the sentence is over. They just disappeared. [ MUSIC ] For many years, I regretted taking the picture of Hector Pieterson. Because that picture destroy my future in journalism. But, I no longer regret it, because, Mandela, when he was unveiling Hector Pieterson Memorial, he said, when we saw this picture, we said, enough is enough. After so many years, people are free in South Africa and that has really given me consolation. In the name of peace, democracy and freedom for all. [ APPLAUSE ] When I look at the picture I cannot remove myself from what happened on that day. But the photo itself, it did not only change our lives as such, but it was a turning point for all South Africans. It did not matter the color. The photo gives us more and more sadness every day because More and more sadness everyday because my brother just disappeared of the face of the earth. After all these year I realize that It's not just a picture, it's something quite big. He did something good for the country. [ MUSIC ] We buried my brother on the third of July. The hardest part of it was, why did police open fire? It really did not make sense. Because as we were students, We never had weapons. The photo itself tells it all. Even the youngest were there. They felt like being oppressed is not okay. Look at what happened. Even the youngest was killed. So to me, the picture reflects all those families who had similar incidents. Because I know that we were not the only ones. [ MUSIC ] I realize that when you want to get something you must work hard for it. You know, this freedom The youth of South Africa, they don't value it because they found everything has been done for them. There are quite a lot of people who died because they wanted to show that we are not supporting apartheid in the country. The Hector Peterson Museum is a place of reconciliation. Those who died made us live better today. And as for my brother, I know that he did not die in vain. The picture changed South African apartheid because the world, they felt that this is enough. [ MUSIC ] ```json [{"@context":"https://schema.org","@type":"OpinionNewsArticle","@id":"https://time.com/5434381/tayari-jones-moral-middle-myth/","mainEntityOfPage":{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https://time.com/5434381/tayari-jones-moral-middle-myth/"},"headline":"There’s Nothing Virtuous About Finding Common Ground","datePublished":"2018-10-25T11:28:36.000Z","dateModified":"2026-08-04T07:53:07.432Z","description":"\"The middle is a point equidistant from two poles. That’s it. 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