Academia

I have a piece over at the London Review of Books Blog about the UK government’s appalling changes to the way refugees are treated in the country.

“After the home secretary, Shabana Mahmood, announced the government’s new policies for ‘Restoring Order and Control’ in the House of Commons yesterday, one MP after another stood up to commend the British people for their ‘proud tradition’ of giving sanctuary, for their openness and toleration, before moving onto questions of ‘stopping the boats’, ‘fairness for the British taxpayer’ and whether asylum seekers might be housed near their constituents. The European Convention on Human Rights was mentioned so often that one might have imagined it to be the international treaty at the centre of refugeehood. It isn’t: that’s the Refugee Convention of 1951, largely absent from the debate.”

Read the continuation over there.

If you want to know more about how the current form of capitalism is undermining (a thick conception of) democracy, and what can be done about this, then you should read Lisa Herzog’s latest book The Democratic Marketplace. The book is written for a broad audience, and I suspect that anyone who regularly reads this blog will enjoy Lisa’s book and learn something new; and it will also provoke debate and discussion on important questions regarding the state of our economic system, our democracies, and how these two are related.

Lisa argues that genuine democracy (which is much more demanding than merely elections/counting votes) requires that democratic values be embedded in all public spheres of life. And therefore we should democratize the economy. This requires, among other things, workplace democracy, reducing economic inequality, shifting our focus from economic growth to the functions of the economy, and adopting a different policy of time that allows citizens to do the much-needed democratic work.

This Thursday 20 November, between 14:00 and 16:00 hours CET, the Visions for the Future Project is organizing an online discussion of Lisa’s book. Julie Rose and Tom Parr will kick off with comments. The online book workshop will take place via MS Teams. To get the link (which you will get within the next working day after registering), you can register via the link on the bottom of the event’s announcement page. Enjoy the reading, and enjoy becoming inspired to take (more) civic action by reading (and discussing) Lisa’s book!

With another COP starting today, and the question of climate change having played no role at all in the Dutch elections recently, and, well, for a zillion different reasons – it seems like a good time to ask the question: what books can help to make people move on this topic? (or if you think books are the wrong medium, and we should only look at TikToks or cinema movies or Netflix series, I’d love to hear arguments for that view too).

To me, the most magnificent fiction book on climate change is Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Ministry for the Future. It is phenomenal. I hadn’t read it yet when Henry organised a seminar on the book here at Crooked Timber, but I can only say: do read it. Admittedly, the book is very long – and this might be asking too much of many people, given the very many other demands on our lives. But there’s an easy solution: listen to it. This book is perfect as an audiobook. You listen while walking, and you’ll gradually get through the entire book while enjoying your daily walk. Given the many different voices in the book, it might even be better as an audio-book than to read it from paper/screen.

But since The Ministry for the Future already was discussed at length here, let me focus on two other books that might help to centre our awareness and political debates on climate change: Eleanor Catton’s Birnam Wood and Kimberly Nicholas’s Under the Sky We Make. The first is fiction, the second is non-fiction for citizens. Attention: one spoiler about Birnam Wood under the fold. [click to continue…]

If you’ve ever been at a Dutch PhD ceremony, you’ve come across the toga – which is, unfortunately not a Greek or Roman toga as pictured here. Instead, it’s a kind of black gown, made from heavy cloth, with velvet facings, accompanied by a white collar and a velvet hat that resembles the mortarboards that students around the world wear (and throw) at graduation. This outfit is worn not only at doctoral defenses, but also at inaugural lectures or the official opening of the academic year (here you get an impression of what this looks like in Groningen). Other countries and universities have their own versions of academic regalia, probably with Oxford and Cambridge leading the crowd.

As a foreigner (“international”, as they say in the Netherlands), I got introduced to this custom for the first time when being on a doctoral committee while still working outside the country. When asked whether I wanted to borrow a toga, I was baffled, and found some kind of excuse (probably that I wasn’t a full professor yet). I had an instinctive defensive reaction, which, at the time, I couldn’t quite make sense of. What had spontaneously come to my mind was a slogan of the German 1968 student movement that is hard to forget if you’ve heard it once: “Unter den Talaren, Muff von 1000 Jahren”, “Under the gowns, fug of 1000 years” (see e.g. here for a nice picture and historical account, in German). Although this has often been read as directed against a generation of professors many of whom had a Nazi past (the “1000 year Reich”), it was in fact directed mostly against academic hierarchies and the exclusion of students from university governance. And these latter points – especially the rejection of German university hierarchies, with permanent jobs only for professors – I wholeheartedly share.

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Death comes for us all. We are outlived, as Barkandji man Woddy Harris would have it, by Mother Nature, who holds us in something that I think he would liken to ‘eternity’.

By what logic, then, must Mother Nature also die?

The Barkandji in Wilcannia and nearby Menindee had been protesting and putting their effort into protecting what they feared might be a dying river – the Barka, their mother – for years when in 2018 the first horrors of mass fish kills hit the news.

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I’ve been visiting family in Germany, with only a phone, so I couldn’t post on Sunday. But here are some crows from Hamburg.

In the Wilcannia cemetery a lot of plastic is on display. This cemetery is an important local monument not because it celebrates the working class, because it doesn’t. Unlike in Broken Hill, there are no tourist guides to the cemetery, no famous people that I know of. I camped on the river in Wilcannia, often for weeks at a time. Local people often invited me to go there, to see where their family was buried. For all that is literally houses the dead, I understood from this that the cemetery is very alive in the town’s shared consciousness. I felt I shared in their love and loss there and in this next section of my essay, I invite you to respectfully share it too.

This cemetery was established at the height of Wilcannia’s once-considerable economic power as the third-largest port in Australia, on the Barka, the Darling River, shipping ore and wool to Victoria and thence to the world. Now, like the rest of Wilcannia, the cemetery has been adapted by local Barkandji people who have built meaning and life from the debris of colonialism. There are some large traditional tombstones, but most are lovingly cobbled together by family and friends.

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Today’s post focuses on the ‘design flaw(s)’ in the US Constitution. It turns out, again, that the system of checks and balances is no such thing. And the reason it is no such thing is because an energetic presidency may overpower the other branches and slide the whole ship of state into a species of despotism (in the technical sense of arbitrary government).

Some libertarians may feel vindicated by the previous paragraph, but it is quite notable that public libertarianism has imploded during the last decade. (About that some other time more.) My own view, which is not original with me, is that the underlying problem is not the size or extent of the government (these may be problems, too), but that the American presidency combines too many functions in one office/person: (i) head of state; (ii) leader of the government; (iii) head of the executive branch/administration; (iv) leader of the party, including fund-raiser in chief. This understates the problem because some American presidents can shape prosecutorial power and parts of the judiciary through a spoils system; and have law-enforcement or trade-policy be directed at partial ends. (And so on.) Since America is still the global imperial power, I don’t mean to deny some of the attractions of this way of proceeding.

When 19th-century liberals (French and English Victorians) contemplated this evolving edifice, which was, of course, not yet reshaped by WWI and the New Deal, they understood the risk of elected despotism and advocated for the separation of the first three of these functions by advocating for a (A) constitutional monarch, who could be a source of (theatrical) unity and be the ‘dignified institution’ of the polity; in particular, the monarch could fill the affective space that a demagogue or cult of personality might otherwise fill. A prime minister who would (B) be politically accountable to fellow politicians and the voters for securing the common good and who could be removed by a majority in parliament (including his/her own party) or by the voters in a general election. (C) A minister of the interior or a high-ranking civil servant who would run the civil service with considerable independence from (A and/or B). (D) A leader of the ruling party who could serve in government or parliament or stay outside of elected office altogether. A very good book on the underlying nineteenth-century analysis is Parliamentarism: From Burke to Weber by William Selinger (Cambridge University Press, 2019; see also Vincent Ostrom (1991) The Intellectual Crisis in Public Administration, 2nd ed, pp. 123-124).

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On the longer time scale that we feel in nature, the violence of colonial capitalism seems almost fleeting. ‘Mother Nature will outlast all of this’, Barkandji man Woddy Harris told me, gesturing across his hometown of Wilcannia, two hours’ drive from Broken Hill, and which has a majority Barkandji population.

I wondered about this when, on a later visit, I attended a funeral at the Broken Hill cemetery. There, the Aboriginal wife of the white working-class man we mourned handed me a plastic rose. As instructed, I threw the rose into the grave, materially connecting me and the other mourners who did likewise, to his body.

That connection might almost last forever. The plastic rose will certainly take many hundreds of years longer than his body to decompose. It will probably outlast Creedon Street and all the gravestones in the cemetery. It will likely still be there under the ground when BHP is a lost memory. It may outlast even the stock exchanges that BHP and other mining enterprise have helped to succeed. Success seems an understatement, in fact: finance’s influence has sometimes exceeded the power wielded by governments and politicians, including American Presidents and UK Prime Ministers.

Some things are eternal, or near-enough, but that doesn’t necessarily make them nourish. In the moment, at the funeral, the plastic rose nourished something. Global petrochemicals, turned into plastic, were articulated in a moment of everyday life that Michel de Certeau would certainly have called ‘agency’. In this way of thinking, we would take heart from the ways the product of capitalist environmental contamination was translated into new meaning at the graveside, a logic that mirrored the world-class restaurant that produced touristic beauty on the old slag heap. The problem with this perspective is that it does nothing to end the production of plastic, nor the infection of soils, oceans and food with microplastics that poison us all. We might have to admit that the plastic rose, so simple and beautiful a gesture, also performs something akin to pollution.

These intersections of agency and structure, of meaning and matter are particularly noticeable at funerals, and in cemeteries, where small things accrue abundant significance and where each life, mourned, celebrated and remembered, also somehow represents us all. In the cemetery, the structures of big capital articulate not only with the everyday life that was the focus of de Certeau’s politics, but in everyday death. In everyday death, individual agency might pollute in the same moment that it nourishes. And the sheer inclusivity of death, universal as it is, embraces and celebrates working class activism on the same street as the Aboriginal families that the very same town pushed to the margins if not to die, at least to live materially close to the dead.