1 4 8 Y C R I M I N A L A N D E N E M Y I N T H E P O L I T I C A L I M A G I N A T I O N P A U L W . K A H N The criminal is not the enemy; the enemy is not the criminal. The enemy can be killed but not punished. Because enemies are not criminals, they can become friends. Veterans often find they share something with their old enemies: they do not hold each other accountable. Indeed, they may feel as if they cannot even remember why they were enemies. Hatred of the enemy is more than a little like love: once it is past, it is hard to recall how it could ever have been so powerful. On the other hand, criminals can be punished but, in most of the West, they cannot be killed. Punishment was once a display of sovereign power – the spectacle of the scaffold . That display cast the criminal as the enemy. The sca√old is long gone, replaced by the largely invisible, highly regulated space of the penitentiary. A bordered space of law has displaced a limitless assertion of sovereignty. Even released, criminals have a ‘‘permanent record.’’ Marked by the law, they are simultaneously included and excluded. Criminals and enemies may do the same violent acts, destroying property and persons. Nevertheless, the modern political imagination carefully maintains the distinction as a matter of both formal law and informal representation. Thus, the distinction of enemies 1 4 9 R from criminals is central to the international law of warfare. The Geneva Conventions identify those who may be killed but not punished; they also delineate a form of detention that is not punishment . Conversely, the domestic law of due process protects alleged criminals from violence that is not punishment, while the Eighth Amendment serves a roughly analogous function for those who have been convicted. Informally, warfare is imagined as a sort of duel: a reciprocal relationship of threat, of killing and being killed. The reciprocity of threat, of course, says nothing about an equality of means. We do not handicap the enemy, even as we imagine that our threat of violence will be matched by a counterthreat. This is why every war is imagined as ‘‘self-defense’’ by both sides of the conflict. The confrontation with the criminal, on the other hand, is certainly not imagined as a duel. Criminals have no right of self-defense against the police. The force of law is asymmetrical. For this reason, we think of the violence of law – policing – as ‘‘depoliticized .’’ There is a corresponding depoliticalization of the violence of crime: it is not political threat but personal pathology. Law enforcement aims to prevent the violence of the criminal from becoming a source of collective self-expression. Were it to become so, we would confront an enemy. Everything about the criminal is defined by law, from the elements of the crime to the procedure of adjudication to the character of punishment. The criminal’s depoliticalization is accomplished through his or her complete juridification. The law, however, will not tell us who are our enemies. It will not define the conditions of victory or defeat. It will not tell us how seriously to take a threat or how devastating to make the response. The enemy, despite the e√orts of international law, is not a juridical figure at all. Much depends upon the maintenance of the distinction between criminals and enemies. Not just the humanitarian law of warfare but also the elimination of practices of torture against criminals. Collapse of the distinction of criminals from enemies is always a sign of political crisis. This begins with treason: the formal point of intersection of criminal and enemy. The shock of treason was traditionally expressed in its punishment – horrific, including drawing and quartering. Occupying the intersection, the traitor had to be both punished and killed. The distinction 1 5 0 K A H N Y regularly collapses in moments of revolution: the American revolutionaries worried that they would be executed as traitors rather...