Is it the economy (stupid), or racism (stupid)?

(The title is a riff on ‘It’s the economy, stupid!’)

Why did so many people vote for Trump? Over the last year I’ve read a lot of articles and posts that, starting from dismay, take one of the following two lines:

  • It’s unfair, patronising, and simplistic to just write off Trump-votes as expressions of xenophobia – we should focus on the real economic distress that these people are feeling, on stagnant wages and lost jobs.
  • It’s evasive special-pleading to not recognise the driving force of xenophobia or racism here (and actually more patronising not to take people at their word); xenophobic racism is a real and powerful phenomenon in Western societies, not just an epiphenomenon of economic interests.

Are Trump (and Le Pen, UKIP, etc.) doing well because of economic hardship, or because of racism? Do they reflect fallout from the 2008 financial crisis or a backlash against multiculturalism and the progress of things like the civil rights movement? (Here’s just one example, which expresses the dispute especially clearly: is “White Nationalism… the prime mover, [or] a symptom”?)

I always feel torn by this question,  and I think part of the challenge is that it’s really more than one question, wrapped up together. On one level it’s a causal question, of the sort that dispassionate social science could investigate: what in fact led to all this? Which past events would have had to not occur, for this not to have occurred?

Would all this not have happened, if there had been no financial crisis and average incomes had kept on increasing (or, more radically, if the benefits of that increase had been spread more evenly)?

Or was some sort of xenophobic backlash inevitable, however well people were doing economically, with things like the financial crisis just providing the pretext and the catalyst, and global movement of jobs and labour just providing the target?

It’s hard to say with confidence. And the two aren’t mutually exclusive factors: maybe both factors are necessary, maybe the outcome we see wouldn’t have happened without both economic stagnation and also pre-existing traditions of xenophobic nationalism. More social science is needed, I suppose, and if anyone can suggest relevant data I’d welcome it.

But there’s another question lying beneath the causal one, a question of emotional relating. The movements in question express a lot of anger, and whether we think of xenophobia as the prime mover or as a symptom decides, in part, how we relate to that anger.

If this anger is really a product of economic distress, then most left-of-centre people will think that the anger is, in itself, appropriate and warranted – just displaced, misdirected. The reaction will be “yes, you’re right to be angry – but the right target isn’t migrants, it’s capitaism/neoliberalism/laissez-faire economics/globalisation/etc.”

But if xenophobia is the prime mover, then most left-of-centre people will think that the anger is unwarranted, something that should simply be let go of. The reaction will be “no, you’re not right to be angry – the things you’re angry about (racial diversity, the declining prestige of Christianity, etc.) are good things that don’t deserve your anger. Maybe the lefties also think you should be angry about capitalism, but that would be a distinct, independent anger.

(Note that both of these views are compatible with being angry at Trump voters – and they should! The question is whether that condemnation says ‘you’ve made a terrible mistake in directing your in-itself-warranted anger’ or ‘you’ve made a terrible mistake out of unwarranted anger’.)

If this is the question on left-leaning people’s minds – whether to endorse xenophobic anger but see it as misdirected, or reject it as something that should be let go – how could we answer it? Well, a question of what this anger is ‘really about’ is a question of meaning, of what a pattern of feelings and thoughts in someone’s mind is representing.

Unfortunately, the most plausible way of thinking about this question of meaning would take us back to the causal question. Someone’s anger is ‘really about’ whatever most directly caused it, even if they for whatever reason express it as being about something else. But then we’re back to asking what caused the anger in question – what in fact made these people so angry in the first place? If the right answer is “a mixture of things”, then is there even a determinate fact about what the anger is ‘really about’?  And if there isn’t, how should left-leaning people relate to it – as something to be redirected, or simply rejected? Is it psychologically or sociologically possible to do ‘a bit of both’?

(Apologies for a post that began with a question and ended with more questions. I’m not saying I’m uncertain about whether to fight this xenophobic movement with all means available – we have to.)

Posted in Political Philosophy | 5 Comments

Why migration is a right

Migration seems to be at the heart of the rising wave of right-wing populism: a major motivator for Brexit, a major campaign issue for Trump and the European Neo-Nazis who look to him for inspiration. I’m probably going to talk a lot about this being a problem, and what to do about it, so I should probably start by articulating my own starting point for thinking about migration, why I think migration is a right and why the drive to ‘take back control’ of migration flows and make border controls tougher and more stringent is not just misguided, not just needlessly cruel, but fundamentally illegitimate.

The anti-migrant position has two layers. The first, usually implicit, is the feeling of ownership over a territory: that our government has the right, on behalf of ‘us’ the people of X nation, to decide who does and who doesn’t enter, and to imprison or forcibly deport those who disobey. That frames the debate as a question of how ‘we’ should exercise that right – more carefully or more generously.

The second layer is then a certain answer to that question: ‘we’ should exercise that right very carefully, because letting in too many people could be harmful and dangerous, and any harms or dangers to people already living here ought to be assigned the highest priority. It’s ‘our’ country, so we are entitled to (for instance) weight the slim chance that one out of a thousand refugees might harm someone over the near-certainty that hundreds of them will be brutally killed if turned away, or the very certain harm inflicted by holding them in indefinite detention. ‘America First’, adjusted to local tastes.


‘The Real Spirit of Australia is a Fair Go For All’; from Adam and Ned Richards’ Walk to Canberra 

A lot of progressive responses engage on the terrain of that second question, arguing that ’we’ ought to exercise our right to control entry in a generous, compassionate, open-handed way. They say – we ought to let them in because the alleged dangers and harms are incredibly over-stated. Or – we ought to let them in because they bring all sorts of benefits, paying taxes and working in our public services. Or – we ought to let them in because that’s what ‘we’ stand for, that’s the kind of virtuous collective we should try to be (see ‘give me your tired, your poor…’, or the image to the left).

I think these kinds of response are completely right. Migration is usually beneficial, and the supposed harms associated with it pale into insignificance next to the harms caused by border controls – deaths in illegal transit, customers generated for people-traffickers, lives wasted in refugee camps, lives wasted in detention centres.

But there’s a deeper problem with the anti-migrant position. That first layer, the assumption that we have the right to exclude and include at our collective discretion, is already wrong. People have the right to move and live and work peacefully, and any infringement of these rights needs to be justified by specific evidence of wrongdoing or danger.

I could support this just by claiming that people’s right to exercise basic human functions like movement and habitation is more basic than the the rights of states and other institutions. Travelling between countries is like travelling within a country, or like having children (the other major determinant of population dynamics), a simple human action that institutions should collect data on and regulate the safety of but shouldn’t directly interfere with. Even when the pattern of how many people are having babies, and where and when, is socially inconvenient (too many babies born here, too few born there, pressure on housing, pressure on healthcare, etc.)! When the overall ebb and flow of human lives causes problems, institutions can and should look for solutions to those problems, but those solutions can’t include forbidding people from travelling or breeding, let alone declaring that only people who enter or are born with official sanction are ‘legal’. Babies or migrants, no-one is illegal.

But it might be more persuasive to argue negatively, by explaining why the opposite view seems to me self-undermining. So, here’s a question: if a national population has a right to control entry to its territory, is that because of history or present reality?

79bbe928425335163eac45d1168a74cbcc97bbeff88889bbafbdbb391f3f9824You might say it’s from history: ‘we’ have been here for a long time, that makes it ours. But if history matters, then I think actual history has to matter, and actual history is largely a succession of forcible, illegitimate, seizures of power. If ‘we’ took the land by force, then it never became legitimately ‘ours’. This problem is particularly obvious with settler societies like Australia, Canada, and the US, and that’s why it makes sense to ridicule anti-immigrant movements in those countries using cartoons like these, where Native Americans sardonically comment on white people calling for an end to illegal immigration.

I think the same self-undermining logic is present in non-settler societies too. Even setting aside the competing claims on British land of the Celts, Romans, Anglo-Saxons and so on, there’s also the fact that the reason why those lands have their current governments and borders is, ultimately, because some factions won and others lost in  various wars in the 17th century.

Of course 17th-century wars seem pretty irrelevant to modern politics – but doesn’t that just suggest that what matters is what’s going on now, not back then? Maybe national groups get ownership of land from the fact that they’re living there right now? But, for a start, that makes it hard to deny that someone who has lived in a country ‘illegally’ for 20 or 10 or 5 years has thereby acquired a right to stay, so it undermines any case for deportations.

But more basically, this approach is self-undermining too. If the idea is that the ongoing process of people living their lives generates a right to the land where they do it, why does someone’s living their life in Oregon give them a right to a say in who can enter Texas, but someone else’s living their life just over the border in Mexico doesn’t, even though the latter is way closer? The only answer is: because the person in Oregon lives under institutions that also rule Texas, and the person in Mexico doesn’t. But now we’re in a circle – we’re appealing to the very facts about borders and governments that claim rights over territory that we were meant to be justifying.

The upshot is, we can’t really say that we own our national territory. It would be better to say that we borrow it from humanity, and our institutions administer it in a kind of stewardship. If that stewardship is to be legitimate, it can only be because it serves the interests of human beings – all human beings.

Posted in Political Philosophy, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

Blogging Again

I’m re-starting this blog after a hiatus of six years – a hiatus significantly longer than the roughly one year that I actually blogged for, so honestly I’m surprised it’s still here. But here it is, good old wordpress I suppose.

When I ran this blog before I was a 23-year-old PhD student in Toronto; now I’m a 29-year-old Postdoc in Canberra. Looking back, I sadly have to admit that my engagement in politics was fairly low even then, and subsequently declined. I’m re-starting the blog because I want to reverse that decline. I feel like recent developments in world politics demand it.

Part of the reason for that decline was a longstanding sense of directionlessness. My formative political experience was the Iraq war, and that was in many ways a demoralising experience: firstly in that the movement didn’t achieve anything, and secondly in that it was the supposedly left-wing party that was launching the war. It made it easy to feel that all parties and politicians were basically the same, that ‘the system’ was insulated from popular influence, that things had settled permanently into a soft-Neoliberal centrist equilibrium.

I suppose that means I should be grateful that the opposite seems true now. Parties are being captured by insurgencies from both left and right, ‘the system’ reels from one unanticipated upheaval or intrusion to another, and I, like many people, feel like I genuinely have no idea what the world will look like, politically, in a few years. There’s no longer any difficulty in identifying the right direction: it is, in the first instance, against Trump, Bannon, Farage, Wilders, Le Pen, and their ilk.

Another part of the reason I lapsed out of political engagement was my situation as an immigrant. Should I mainly follow the politics of the UK (where I’m from), of Canada (where I lived, and where my partner still lives), of Australia (where I live now), or of the USA (which is what everyone talks about endlessly)? To some extent the events of the last few months have helped here, in showing more clearly that it’s the same issues, the same ideas, the same movements, all over the world. But also to some extent I’ve just realised that, well, it’s important and I had better start paying more attention to all of them.

So I’m hereby trying to re-radicalise myself: attending protests, lobbying MPs, donating money, and of course, most fun though most uncertain in usefulness, blogging.

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Occupy Wall Street: An 8-Point Non-manifesto

I’m stuck in a bit of a dilemma over ‘Occupy Wall Street.’ I support it, of course, but I feel torn over what to say about it. On the one hand, as a supporter, and someone paid to think about things like ‘justice’, if I don’t make an effort to articulate what I think it’s about, I seem to be playing into the hands of those who accuse it of having no message beyond “smash capitalism and replace it with something nicer”.

On the other hand, if I try to say something I run several risks: Who told me I can speak for a movement of hundreds of thousands? And then it could too easily become long, elaborate, over-theorised, explaining how everything everywhere fits into my favoured framework. Or I might say something really stupid – I am an amateur, and about as good at detailed institutional design and political strategising as I am at carpentry or volleyball.

So what follows is an attempt to find some middle path between saying nothing and burdening a promising movement with one more philosophy student’s half-baked ill-edited manifesto. I’m throwing out this non-manifesto (it’s honestly not a manifesto) mainly to see if people agree with me behind the shared-but-sometimes-uninformative slogans.

Eight Points, Beginning with ‘Why Want More Economic Equality?’

1)      Firstly, economic equality promotes equality of consumption, and this promotes net happiness, due to the diminishing marginal utility of money.

(That is, the same resources can do more to improve people’s lives if distributed equally. If you lack food, shelter, security, or healthcare, then the money to pay for that can be a huge benefit, whereas if you’ve already met all your pressing needs, and spend the same money on comparative luxuries, you won’t benefit as much.

This way of putting the point is fairly abstract, but is implicit in complaints about poverty and related suffering – the suffering of the poor is objectionable because it’s avoidable, i.e. because we could avoid it without inflicting equal suffering on someone else.)

2)      Secondly, economic equality promotes equality of power, and this promotes better and fairer collective outcomes.

(Money gives power in obvious political senses, campaign funds etc., but also in changing the bargaining positions in lots of individual dealings – making employees less dependent on employers, and non-working partners less dependent on working partners, allowing people to respond more effectively if they’re abused or mistreated.

This also affects large-scale but unplanned market outcomes. If people have money to spend, there’s an incentive to meet their needs; if they have no money, then there’s no incentive. And if people have so much money that the whole economy depends on them not going bankrupt, then there’s a powerful incentive for others to make sure they don’t go bankrupt.)

3)      Thirdly, economic equality expresses and symbolises equality of value. Two people who have equal ‘human dignity’ should have similar chances to live happy and comfortable lives.

(This could be taken as a matter of moral principle, or simply as a question of psychology: that people a likely to be less alienated, less inclined to anti-social behaviour, etc. when their economic position makes them feel respected – at least, under some cultural conditions)

4)      Fourthly, right now greater economic equality will tend to promote overall economic growth.

(Because economies are governed by extensive feedback, more money, services, and jobs for the majority of the population means more money for them to spend, more jobs in providing them with things to spend that money on, etc.

Of course the money has to come from somewhere, most likely either borrowing or increased progressive taxation. But both of these are fine. If funded by government borrowing (i.e. if an economic stimulus) then there are more goods and services in circulation, borrowed at extremely low present interest rates, which will be easier to pay back if growth raises state revenues and reduces state expenditures.

If funded by taxation (i.e. if a redistribution of wealth), it still has a net stimulating effect because poorer people tend to spend more of their money, while firms are at present spending and investing little.)

5)      Consequently, the requirements of general economic growth presently coincide with the principled considerations of egalitarian philosophy, forming an powerful case for measures to increase economic equality.

(Such measures would, in particular, include redistribution of wealth downwards, increased provision of public services available to all, increased organisational power and legal rights for unions and workers generally, and increased restrictions on actions by wealthy individuals and companies, especially financial ones, that might enrich them at the expense of others.)

6)      In spite of the above points, the general trend of political change across the Western world is the opposite.

(That is, governments are either leaving inequality untouched, or increasing it, by cutting public services, providing the rich with advantageous tax regimes, etc. There does not at present appear, nor has there in recent years appeared, a major electoral option that would reverse this trend.)

7)      Consequently we can infer that for some reason  the present political system of the Western world will not act to promote economic inequality unless compelled to so.

(The ‘some reason’ might be the vices of individual politicians, the prevalence of right-wing ideology, the political influence of powerful economic actors, or some subtle combination. What is widespread at the occupations, it seems, is not an analysis of why the state serves the rich, merely a sense that it does.)

8)      Hence it is necessary for a social force supporting greater economic equality to be formed. The congregation of large numbers of people in symbolically important locations can serve as one step in the formation of such a force. 

Posted in Canadian Politics | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Why I Hate Grading

(EDIT: I keep meaning to give some link-love to a friend’s new blog, If Truth Were a Tomboy, but then forgetting to, so here – go read it)

I hate grading.

(this post is partly inspired by reading the comments here, and partly by the fact I’m in the middle of grading right now)

It’s not because it’s hard. Sometimes it is, because it combines the wearying, mechanical repetition that stops you getting mentally engaged, with the challenge of synthesising features of a complex written object, which stops you from coasting through on auto-pilot. And when it is hard I dislike it for that reason, but that’s not why I hate it.

I hate it because it makes me feel dishonest. When grading student work, whether I like it or not, I’m participating in the manufacture of authority on a number of levels.

Firstly, the authority of certain texts. Why should they wrack their brains learning what this dead man meant? It’s not enough that he’s smart and has interesting things to say – thousands of people were, and the students are being forced to learn about a particular few, because they’re the ones it would be embarassing not to have heard of, in certain conversations. And they have that status because everyone else has been taught them, because their teachers were taught them, etc.

Secondly, the authority of certain styles and methods. I have to correct people on their format, their writing style, their correct use of symbolic notation, etc. And it is genuinely necessary to do this, not because certain sorts of notation are objectively better but because if they don’t know how to use them, people won’t take them seriously.

But I think the message such corrections send out is ‘this way of putting things is objectively superior’. Even if I don’t say that, even if I deny it, that’s what the brain learns if it’s punished for not fitting them.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I’m reinforcing the authority of the grading process. I have to try and trick my students into thinking that grading is a reliable procedure, and that each numerical grade reflects a set of judgements that could be publically explained and justified.

It really isn’t. It’s a ‘judgement’ in the sense that it involves processing large quantities of subtle information without being able to distinguish all of the pieces of information. As far as I can tell, rubrics with ‘5 sections and 5 sub-sections in each’, supposedly meant to let you calculate a mark in a transparent, reliable way, just disguise and intensify the subjectivity of that judgement.

And I don’t think that’s a bad thing, in itself. It’s just an argument for focusing less on grades and more on comments, discussions, etc. As anyone will tell you, I have absolutely no problem telling people what they’re doing wrong, or how they should improve. I just hate having to back it up with “and that’s why you got a 78 and not an 80, possibly changing some number in your future life that will stop you getting a job.”

I mean, imagine trying to have a seminar discussion where each comment was immediately assigned a mark out of 10 by the chair. It would be the worst possible way to encourage lively debate.

Anyway. That’s why I hate grading.

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One of the More Idiotic of False Equivalences

Sometimes you hear people complain about ‘politically correct’ changes in language by comparing them to Orwellian ‘newspeak’ – for instance, this article makes that claim about the BBC’s move to use ‘CE’ and ‘BCE’ in place of ‘AD’ and ‘BC’. This article doesn’t go quite that far but does call it “an example of the BBC trying to undermine Christianity by pushing an aggressive secularism.”

Without wanting to dignify with a response the claim that this represents “a Marxist plot to destroy civilisation from within”, I think it’s worth pointing out that the aims of ‘political correctness’ and of ‘newspeak’ are actually precise opposites.

The goal of newspeak, in 1984, was the narrow the range of available thoughts, by having fewer words, so that each word would cover and blur together a greater range of meanings. The goal of the linguistic tendencies labelled ‘PC’ are, at bottom, to widen the range of available thoughts, by separating distinct meanings.

For instance, replacing ‘chairman’ with ‘chairperson’ doesn’t abolish the words ‘chairman’ and ‘chairwoman’, it keeps them as gender-specific terms for when you want to convey information about gender, rather than having a single term that means both ‘person who chairs, of unspecified gender’ and ‘man who chairs’. That’s not a narrowing of the range of available meanings.

The AD/CE case is similar, though the meanings here are very subtle associations. If you want to specify a year and also suggest that the birth of Jesus of Nazareth was the most important event in human history, you can still do that, but saying CE also allows you to do the former without doing the latter. Maybe that’s a trivial benefit, but if it’s not worth doing it’s also not worth predicting the end of Western Civilization over.

As for the idea that these linguistic changes make bigoted claims impossible, it seems they do quite the opposite. If the people who just want to specify sexual orientation, and the people who want be generically insulting, both stop using the word ‘faggot’, your ability to use it to insult people with specific reference to their sexual orientation is increased. And if you’re worried people will misunderstand, you can still always fall back on more complex phrases like “your romantic habits render you subhuman”.

Now, this diversification of words might work against ease and naturalness of speech, might make people inconveniently self-conscious; indeed in the short-term that’s probably inevitable. But that’s the opposite of what you would go for if your aim was to make people docile and unthinking drones who automatically accept a party line. If you want to indoctrinate people you want to make the words just slip from their mouths like a vegan lactose-free spread that mimics the viscosity and melting point of butter. If you see what I mean. You can be a pedant or a populist but not both at once.

Anyway, I’m probably beating a dead horse in a barrel of fish, but I’ve seen this link made a few times and it just struck me how upside-down it is.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Bush is a War Criminal, but I don’t believe that Bush is a War Criminal

“Former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has been stripped of legal immunity for acts of torture against US citizens authorized while he was in office.

The 7th Circuit ruling is the latest in a growing number…Criminal complaints have been filed against Rumsfeld and other Bush administration officials in Germany, France, and Spain.

Bush recently curbed travel to Switzerland due to fear of arrest following criminal complaints lodged in Geneva… And this month Canadian citizens forced Bush to cancel an invitation-only appearance in Toronto.

The Mayor of London threatened Bush with arrest for war crimes earlier this year should he ever set foot in his city, saying that were he to land in London to “flog his memoirs”

Colin Powell’s Chief-of-Staff Col. Lawrence Wilkerson surmised on MSNBC earlier this year that soon, Saudi Arabia and Israel will be “the only two countries Cheney, Rumsfeld and the rest will travel too.”

When I saw the title of the article linked to here, which includes the phrase “Mr. Rumsfeld, you’re under arrest”, I felt an unexpectedly strong surge of happiness. Upon reading it, of course, I found that such an arrest was merely being speculated about, not reported. But still the thought of it makes me happy. They deserve it if anyone does, and it would be a sort of symbolic execution of the king, and I’m not ashamed to admit how much I love that idea.

But there’s not much point telling you how much I’d like to see those fuckers in court. For one thing, it’s unlikely to happen – what’s exciting here is only that it’s become not-quite-certain to not happen.

For another thing, sharing strong expressions ofanger, hatred, or vengefulness on a blog is rarely edifying or informative. So instead, I want to say something about the war crimes themselves, and my representations of them.

The paradox is that to me, these facts seem both obviously real, and yet only pretend.

I mean, there’s no need for you to click the above link, really, and read all about the deaths and the penis-slicing is that you probaly already know enough. After you’ve read that they killed a bunch of guys, or that warlords arrest random people and give them to the Americans to torture just because it builds their relationship, or seen a video of kids being gunned down from a helicopter, etc. etc. why do you need to know more?

And it’s not like this is speculation, really. I’ll admit I haven’t done in-depth research, but the drip-feed of information, whistleblowers, allegations, etc. doesn’t leave me in that much doubt. There’s official denials, of course, but they’re not persuading anyone.

And yet… and yet it still feels slightly unreal. Like, sure these people had thousands of people abused in various ways, but it’s not as though they’re criminals. I mean, you wouldn’t be scared talking to them. It wouldn’t be like talking to Hannibal Lecter, or that creepy homeless guy who stabbed someone.

At the back of my mind, this all feels like partisan rhetoric, like calling Bush a ‘Nazi’. He’s not a Nazi. He’s a bad, bad, man but that concept just factually doesn’t fit him, or his political role. If we call him a Nazi, it’s a sort of inflated rhetoric, exaggerating things, demonising him because it feels good. Like telling a crowd that they live in the world’s greatest country, or that we should make poverty history. It’s standard politics:  you say things that fit the emotional tone you’re going for, even if everyone knows they’re not strictly true.

And when you’re engaged in that sort of rhetoric, you know you are, at some level. You can feel, if you pay attention, that you don’t really believe what you’re saying. You can feel that at bottom you’re pretending, even though it may be the sort of pretence where you tell people you believe it.

The strange thing is that when I say that the US committed war crimes, I still have that feeling. And I don’t think there’s any amount of evidence that would get rid of it. Without actually seeing it first-hand, I will always feel like the authorities of Western countries can’t really be murderers.

It produces a pattern of feelings typical of such pretence. When I read about some horrific thing, I get angry, and I feel frustrated – at my actual powerlessness, but also that I don’t really believe it. I want to believe it, and what do you do when you want to believe something but know you really don’t? You express it more strongly – you search desperately for words you can say that will have enough force to make you believe them. Like, “Bush is Hitler”, or “Bush eats babies.”

Maybe it works at first, but later when you look back at it, it only reinforces the problem, because here you are were just pretending. Bush is not Hitler, and doesn’t eat babies. You picked those words because they were emotive, not because they were true. And that just reinforces the feeling that the whole thing is that kind of rhetorical pretence.

What underlies this phenomenon? I think it’s about social relations. If you think someone is guilty of massive and egregious crimes,  you have to act like it – you can’t just meet them and make small talk, shake their hand and make polite eye contact, on pain of implicitly normalising them.

That’s what the ‘moralised’ notion of criminal I’m using here means – not that they broke some specific human law, but that they broke the basic requirements for human interaction. They put themselves outside of the human community. They are a ‘public enemy’, and hence your enemy, so you should treat them like one.

But in the case of Western political leaders, I’m socially required to treat them, not as enemies, but as authorities. Of course I don’t interact with them directly, but I interact with a sort of ‘collective agent’ of which they are an influential part. I interact, for instance, with US border guards, and with US laws, and institutions funded by the US government, etc. I can’t treat them as enemies, and at some level of my mind that behaviour determines what I can genuinely believe.

So even if I try to tell you that I regard all capitalist governments as public enemies and hence my own enemies, no evidence or argument will make me actually believe that – subconsciously I still look at these figures as authorities, and so it seems like a fantasy that I might judge them murderous criminals.

So I end up in the bizarre position of pretending to believe what I honestly believe I ought to believe.

As Marx said “It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being, but, on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness.”

Posted in Political Philosophy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments