The Tyranny of Meetings

May 14, 2009

A Business MeetingYesterday, I was about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been outside of a place of torture, sorry, a dentist. My bladder was near bursting, my hands were twisting a small notebook with the intent of tearing it two, my blood pressure was elevated to the point that I wondered if the scene was actually turning red or if was it just me. A trickle of sweat proceeded down my back: a chill counterpoint to my otherwise agitated state.

The source of my pronounced irritation was a meeting. I had been in this particular one for nearly two hours and had no possibility of escape. I had run out of my usual self-amusements: I was tired of doodling wooden frame houses in the margins of my notebook, and writing verses in tribute to my state of profound ennui. Every last cell in my body was screaming for me to get out of the room, and leave the interminable talking behind me.

As I sat there, growing more restless by the millisecond, it dawned on me that I was probably not alone. I certainly wasn’t the only one among my colleagues who wanted out: a shifty glance, a rueful smile, a pair of folded hands with the knuckles tight to the point that they were turning white, all suggested that the vast majority did not want to be there. I also thought about how many other conferences of a similar type were going on up and down the country: how many other people in the length and breadth of Britain were flexing their toes within their shoes to satisfy the primal urge to get up and run?

Meetings are a fact of modern working life. Many are indeed useful: I’ve found meeting with someone on a one-to-one basis is a good way of establishing a working relationship. Open seminars, in which genuine dialogue occurs, are similarly illuminating. I’d go so far as to say that meetings of equals can also be helpful, provided they are not imposed from on high. But these kinds of meetings are the exception, rather than the rule: in my experience the vast majority appear to be organised by management of a particular enterprise or team, so that they can talk to themselves about themselves. The labels for these congresses vary, they can be called “Operations Reviews” or “Team Building”, but they usually have three main purposes:

Grandstanding: usually this is done by management, whereby they try to convince the team that they’ve done something wonderful or to provide reassurance that all is well. Sometimes the grandstanding is done by individual team members in order to create the impression that they are doing something useful: a good rule of thumb is that the more self-promotion that’s done in this venue, the less likely the work is valuable.

Blame: in my experience, any company or endeavour that says it doesn’t have a blame culture is lying. Very few genuinely accept that they have human beings in their employ and that human beings are likely to make mistakes. Imperfections and irregularities which prevent the achievement of absolutely pristine work requires blame of individual employees. It is the blood sacrifice which lubricates an organisation’s illusions.

Procedure changes: these, in my opinion, are the worst of all. These kind of meetings are ostensibly called to see how processes can improve, yet the employees whose working lives are affected by the proposed changes are not supposed to speak their mind. Rather, these are reminiscent of an election in North Korea, you can vote any way you want, so long as you vote for the Dear Leader.

Yesterday’s shindig was of the last type. After hearing an annoying amount of rhetoric about re-organisation, and reviewing status reports which provided numbers but not facts, all accompanied by statements that things were going well, I remembered the wise words of Slovene philosopher Slavoj Zizek:

…sometimes, at least, the truly subversive thing is not to disregard the explicit letter of the Law on behalf of the underlying fantasies, but to stick to this letter against the fantasy that sustains it.

The explicit Law in this case states that dialogue is genuinely welcome. In reality, it is not: I had experienced this in previous meetings whereby my suggestions for improvements in technology were received with barely disguised hostility. The problem was that genuine change would require an acceptance that the employees might know something, and the management might not know everything: this goes against the management fantasy of perfect knowledge and control which is required by the organisation. I, as an employee, am expected to live with the illusion and not only surrender to it, but to believe in it as well. I am certain that the vast majority of my difficulties with the business world have come from the fact that I may be able to acquiesce to this mirage on the surface, but my underlying disbelief makes its presence felt. I cannot check my intellect or conscience at the door, and this generally makes my relationship with any kind of authority a hostile one.

Yesterday, in spite of my better judgement, I stuck to the letter of the Law and spoke up several times. I got the impression from the quickfire intervention of my superiors that my contribution was not welcome. Having done my duty to the team and Zizek, I was left almost literally stewing in my own juices. However, I am proud to say that I did give an honest unalloyed answer when an opportunity either to grandstand or to blame came about. Recently, I set up a new website for my department, and had not yet received any feedback from my colleagues. I was asked if I had; I did not blame anyone, nor did I say all was well, I merely stated that I had received no comment whatsoever. The meeting ended, then I left, taking a walk in the damp Spring air to clear my mind.

Despite the impression one may get, I am pleased to say that my work is not at all unpleasant (especially when I’m doing it somewhere other than the office), and it is very likely that in a little over a year, I will be taking up an academic position of some description. I am under no illusions, I am sure that meetings happen there too. I am sure also that every corner of our modern economy has some tyranny of meetings which imposes itself, trying to create the mirage of legitimacy for decisions which otherwise would not earn them. Life is filled with dictators and petty bureaucrats, bullies and careerists, politics and envy. However, what gives me hope is that people are not resigned to it. I refuse to accept this as an optimal way of working: I believe that no collaboration can truly succeed without utilising the talents and most importantly, the goodwill of all of its participants. Based on my colleagues’ rueful grins and shifting in their seats, I don’t think they agree with how things are run either. So long as the instinct to rebel remains, the voice which whispers that a hand grenade being rolled into the middle of the room would be a mercy refuses to keep silent, and people are unable to surrender their intellect to the illusion of meetings, then these pointless confabulations will be a continual failure in achieving any particular aims and making anyone believe in their stated goals. Failure does have a way of catching up with people eventually; it will be exciting to see how fate unfolds.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

The Revolt on Platform Seven

May 11, 2009

Waterloo Station EntranceLondon has lost much of its swagger over the past twelve months. When we think of economic gloom, we tend not to envisage it having a direct effect on how a city looks or feels, apart from there being more “for sale” or “closed” signs. However, there is a palpable sense that something is wrong in London; this particularly comes across in Spring, when depression seems less apropos given the beautiful golden sunlight and the fresh blossoms on the hawthorne and cherry trees.

Perhaps the most depressing place to be in London is Waterloo Station. While its comings and goings should symbolise that the country is still moving along, I found when I was there last week that there was a heaviness in the atmosphere that indicated that Londoners are “going through the motions”. There is a leaden weight in people’s strides, an ashen hue to commuters’ complexions that seems to say, “Oh God, another day, let’s just get it over with.” The only smiling faces I saw belonged to young tourists; there was a group of them, loudly speaking German and wondering when the next train to Portsmouth would be departing and from which platform.

My journey was much more prosaic: I was headed home. A strawberry yoghurt drink and a latte had cleared the detritus of fatigue from the previous night, and I was simply anxious to leave the city; after twenty four hours in the urban behemoth, I wanted fresh green meadows, clear blue skies, and the scent of mown grass. It would make a pleasant contrast to the slightly sickening scents of diesel fumes and frying oil that lingered in Waterloo.

My train was the 9:35. As such, I had bought an off-peak ticket, which meant that I was paying about a third less than the usual fare, though at £30, it was still outrageous. I saw my train had arrived at platform seven, and I approached the gate. I stuck my ticket into the appropriate slot: the machine spat the ticket back at me and said, “Seek Assistance”. I flagged down a guard: she was a middle aged woman in a florescent vest and had a sour disposition. She looked as if she hadn’t had a good morning in twenty years. Her hair was cut short, her glasses were dirty, and she peered at me as if to say, “What do you want?”

“Excuse me,” I said, “my ticket won’t let me in.”

She cast a glance at it. “It’s an off-peak ticket, sir,” she said, “you’re not allowed in until 9:30. That’s the rules.”

I looked at the clock. It was 9:20.

I tried reason. I pointed at the 9:35 train. “But that’s my train there, the 9:35.”

She looked at me, her toad-like face registering nothing but contempt. “You’re not allowed in until 9:30, that’s the rules.”

By now, a small crowd was starting to build behind the barrier, all of whom had off-peak tickets and were similarly unable to get in. To my left was an old gentleman wearing a khaki trenchcoat, grey suit and regimental tie. To my right were two young blonde university-age girls who were trying not to giggle too loudly at the absurdity of the situation: after all, it wasn’t like any of us were going to get across the barrier and then go to a slightly earlier train to a different destination just for the purposes of cheating South West Trains.

A young man with short black hair and black wire frame glasses approached. He asked, “What’s going on?”

“Do you have an off-peak ticket?” I queried.

“Yeah.”

“You can’t get in, they won’t let us in until 9:30.”

“So basically we have to run onto the train at 9:30 and hope to find a seat in five minutes?”

“Yes.”

One of the girls spoke up, “Well surely if we’re not all on the train, they can’t let it depart.”

I pointed at the guard, who was now pacing up and down, telling all the off-peak ticket holders in flat tones they weren’t getting in. It was 9:24. I wondered if she was enjoying herself.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said.

“It’s really rather a shambles,” the old gentleman added.

“I don’t believe it,” the young man continued, “no wonder this country is in such a mess.”

The queue continued to build up behind me. The guard looked more nervous, pacing up and down behind the barrier as if she was defending a fort. The university girls ran down to the next barrier and managed to convince the guard there, obviously a more reasonable sort, to let them in.

The queue pressed forward. I looked hard at the guard, and wondered what made her such a misery. Yes, monitoring a ticket barrier was not much of a job; was her sole pleasure to be found in getting in people’s way? Was it the only way that she could be noticed?

It hit 9:27. The train’s engine spun up and spun down, which was probably due to the driver doing a systems check. The queue now had become a mob. It was the first time I had been in the midst of a seething mass with one clear, strong message: let us in, LET US IN!

At 9:28, the guard finally decided to radio in for permission to open the barrier, and reluctantly, she let us all through. The movement and sound reminded me of birds fluttering away out of a cage. Freedom: to get out of the station, and to get out of London.

I boarded, found a place to sit and settled back. I looked out the window: the train departed, and I saw Waterloo and the London skyline stretching out behind me, eventually disappearing into the distance. But what the young man said stuck with me, “No wonder this country is in such a mess.” But I think it’s not the stupidity of rules that make the country a mess, it’s the inhumanity in their application and the belief that they substitute for ethics.

If I had shown up too early, and wanted to board a train at say, 8 AM, using the wrong ticket, then definitely, the rules should be there to prevent me from taking advantage. However, note the time, note the train: common sense would have suggested that this was not a group of fare dodgers who somehow wanted to cheat South West Trains. We were just a group of ordinary people who had paid the right fare, and wanted to get on the right train. The guard should have seen this and had the confidence to say, “OK, go through”, but she didn’t. Whether this was out of spite or fear is unclear: but this type of nit-picking, tight-fisted rule making and enforcement has become a motif in Britain these days. Bin men won’t pick up your trash unless you put it out precisely in the right way. Mobile phone companies won’t release your number if you change providers until you go through a set of security questions and are subjected to more marketing. Local councils won’t let you put up a wind turbine or solar cells unless you get planning permission. The number of rules and regulations has increased over the past ten years by a substantial margin and the perception is the accompanying common sense in their application has not risen appropriately.

Britain right now is in the throes of a scandal due to frivolous and outrageous expense claims by Members of Parliament. The retort from the Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, Harriet Harman, has been that the rules were followed; but in this instance, common sense and ethics would have said that it’s not right to claim the construction costs of a sauna on expenses, or to profit on property bought using MP’s allowances. Yet the politicians don’t apparently want to understand that the divergence between regulation and morals is precisely what is making the public so angry at them.

However, I think I caught a glimpse of what’s coming on platform seven. There is a limit to what people will take, how much nonsense will be tolerated. A natural sense of justice is more powerful than the iron fist of rules. Businessmen, politicians, leaders of all kinds should look to examples like Waterloo’s platform seven and realise that there will come a time when compassion, sense and logic will mean more than any petty dictum they can come up with. The barrier will come down: the question is, will it be broken down, or will they open it of their own accord?

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

Review: “Another Gulmohar Tree” by Aamer Hussein

May 10, 2009

[AMAZONPRODUCT=1846590566]

Few nations have as an anarchic a reputation as Pakistan. Because of its present political instability, its possession of nuclear weapons, and its proximity to the war in Afghanistan, it is hardly at the top of the list of tourist destinations. Even President Obama, who apparently believes in fostering peace whenever possible, previously spoke of bombing Pakistan should the need arise.

Amidst talk of the Taliban and regret at what might have been if Benazir Bhutto had lived, it’s easy to forget that there is another Pakistan, a country of warmth and beauty. It’s fortunate that we have this slender, touching novel from Pakistani author Aamer Hussein as a reminder.

I should point out that I am operating from a bias in composing this review. Mr. Hussein is my mentor, and thus I am approaching this novel from the perspective of an admiring student. It would not be unfair to say much of my evolution as a writer has occurred due to his wisdom, generosity and kindness. However, just because I am biased, doesn’t necessarily mean I am wrong.

“Another Gulmohar Tree” is divided into two discrete parts: the first is a series of parables, or rather, several parables chopped up into snippets whose segments are blended together. The effect is at first somewhat jarring, and furthermore one might think that these tales are rooted in Pakistan’s traditional folklore. They are, but they are also part of the wider story: this relationship only becomes clear in the second part. It is to Aamer’s credit that these fables fit and resonate well.

This second portion is a far more conventional tale, and this is where, to use the American term, the author “throws the hammer down”. Aamer is well known as a short story writer, and he brings an economical style which extends from this experience to the composition. If writing can be considered analogous to painting, and if on one end of the scale we have Tolstoy, whose works are akin to a gigantic oil painting by Titian, and on the other we have Dan Brown, whose screeds are rather like a print of a decrepit Elvis on velvet, Aamer’s work is distinctly Impressionist. He uses words like brush strokes; like a Monet or Van Gogh composition, these assemble a picture that is partially put together by the artist, but leaves enough for the eye of the beholder to assemble any remaining pieces on his or her own.

The second part begins in London, and we are introduced to the main protagonists, Usman and his future wife Lydia. They meet in 1949 at a setting which is familiar to many British academics: Senate House, the University of London, which is a rather severe, imposing structure. In my mind’s eye, I could imagine the grey London weather, the archaic clothing of the protagonists, the chill of the room where the meeting took place. Usman is there as a representative of his native land at a conference. At that time Pakistan was barely an infant nation; in response to a provocation from an Indian representative, Usman finds himself mounting a passionate defence of his country.

Lydia is an English woman who is partially of Georgian extraction. Her attraction to Usman, on the basis of his fiery speechifying, is understated and tenderly handled. Usman’s reluctance to reciprocate, given his desire to return to Pakistan is also managed with skill. While romantic love is not overt in this piece, it is evident: the two are in each other’s orbit, but the bodies do not meet, to Lydia’s frustration. Aamer also makes it clear that post-war London is not a particularly pleasant place to be: Lydia’s disdain for the scents of “unwashed hair” and “egg and bacon breakfast breath” on the London Underground is subtle, and yet stomach churning. The reader thus is unsurprised when Lydia follows Usman to Karachi. In contrast to London’s greys, Karachi reads like an explosion of colour and sunshine.

What follows is an account of how this unlikely couple settle down together, and how Lydia comes to terms with her new home. Usman quickly marries her; she changes her name to Rokeya, and converts to Islam. Soon, she abandons the vestiges of her former life by shedding English clothing for Pakistani garb. Yet at the same time, she continues to pursue her interests in painting and writing. Her husband also continues his work as a writer.

If this sounds like a domestic scene, by and large it is, but not unrealistically so. However, what makes this perhaps so timely is that the picture of a marriage with its ups and downs that this account provides is so out of whack with the generic Western portrayal of Pakistan. Lydia / Rokeya acknowledges this at the beginning: she is shown to have believed that Pakistani society was divided exclusively between the very rich and very poor. What gets obscured by such beliefs is the sheer amount of “normal” life that went on in Pakistan in the past, and continues to this day. However, it was probably wise of Aamer to pick the past as his setting, as it appears he doesn’t want politics to intrude too far into the life of the couple. Sadly, it appears that politics in Pakistan now is an obsession which has been foisted on a largely unwilling populace.

Intrusion in the novel, however, does happen, but again, in a gentle style: we are informed, for example, that because of Usman’s connections, it was far easier for the couple to get their home built than it would be for most people. That said, what matters most is that a life’s story is presented as a rich tapestry, whose bright threads are home, children, love and endurance. It is when the colours and patterns of this tapestry become clear that we understand the rationale for the parables in the first part of the book: they are in fact stories that Usman has put together utilising tales belonging to Pakistani tradition.

I read the novel once on a trip up to London, and found myself reading it again on my way back. Each time I read it, I found more to reflect upon. This book should get a wide readership, if not only on its own merits, but also for the salutary effect that it will have on anyone who reads about Pakistan in a newspaper or magazine afterwards. Beyond the turmoil, anarchy and pain that may occur there, at least there is the contrasting image of the Gulmohar tree in full bloom with its scarlet blossoms reaching towards golden sunlight, a loving couple that planted it, and their children playing beneath.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

Review: “Star Trek” starring Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto

May 9, 2009

Spock and KirkOne of mankind’s principal preoccupations is predicting its own demise. The Mayans supposedly put together a calendar that dated the end of the world at some point in 2012. Nostradamus said that the planet would be consumed by nuclear war in 1999. People in London were extremely nervous in 1666, given the year’s numerical relationship with the supposed “Sign of the Beast”; the Plague and Great Fire of that year were seen as confirmation of its diabolical properties. Switch on the television and one is apt to see stories about disease, climate change, economic catastrophe and war. We’re all going to die, seems to be the message, film at 11.

But what if the human race isn’t doomed? What if we are meant to overcome the obstacles ahead of us and survive into the future? Science fiction most readily provides us with this vision; Doctor Who recently suggested that mankind would survive, relatively intact, until the end of the universe itself. Star Trek takes a more prosaic view, saying that we have a few centuries left in us at least. When things are troubled, painful, and dark, perhaps we need this sighting of what is ahead more than ever.

We have been deprived of Star Trek’s idealism for a time; the series can be said to have lost its way. Several lacklustre films, plus the rather tedious “Enterprise” programme (in which the highlight was a naked female Vulcan with emotional problems and constant references by sneering fans to Scott Bakula’s role on “Quantum Leap”), seemed to have doomed it. But fortunately, it’s back in a new film, and in the process, it has likely revived the vision as a whole.

The film is quite clever from the start. If the continuity with the previous series had been maintained, then it was likely that the film would be subject to endless discussions among men (and a few women) in anoraks about how its plot didn’t fit in with what had been produced before. To avoid this, we are first thrust into a break in the previous continuity, an alternate timeline, which instantly means “anything goes”.

The images and impressions of the film are riveting. Many films exploit the motif of “too much going on”, i.e., too many explosions, too many vehicles, in order for all the information to be absorbed, but Star Trek’s first mind-blowing scenes are perhaps the most successful example of this technique. We are witness to an alternative birth scenario of James Kirk in the process, in a future which is darker, bleaker, and more tumultuous than its predecessor. In this sense, I could not help but be reminded of the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica, which re-cast the high-spirited original in a more melancholy setting.

The new Kirk, played by Chris Pine, is something that the original William Shatner model was not: he has greater depth, more issues, and is more of a rebel. He only joins Starfleet because it fills an emotional void, rather than it being the product of some lifelong aspiration or fascination.

Other characters are similarly re-made. Dr. McCoy, who is stunningly portrayed by Karl Urban, solely enlisted because of a divorce that robbed him of everything. Montgomery Scott (Simon Pegg) is a brilliant misfit who is exiled to an outpost on a hostile, icy world. We are also witness to the decision making process that drove young Spock (Zachary Quinto) into Starfleet: it’s shown to be due to the overt anti-human bigotry of the Vulcan Academy of Sciences. It would seem that an alternate timeline has redrawn Starfleet into an alternate version of itself: no longer is it solely a centre of excellence to which the best and the brightest aspire (though this is true for many of its cadets), it is a refuge for outcasts and the emotionally crippled.

How and why was the timeline disturbed? The driver behind this shift is a Romulan madman who was accidentally sent back in time after the destruction of his home world. As a result, he has decided to take revenge on the Federation due to its failure to save his home and his family. While this is a standard issue rationale, the villain (named Nero) is played by Eric Bana with sufficient menace. In a sense, he is refreshing because he is more a thug than a super-genius, a bad man who is improvising his dastardly deeds as he goes along.

Perhaps the most spectacular scene is when Nero uses some purloined technology to destroy Spock’s home world of Vulcan. Blowing up a planet has been a science fiction preoccupation since Alderaan was wiped out in the original Star Wars; however Vulcan’s elimination is not merely a matter of a laser being fired and the planet exploding in a shower of sparks. It disappears like sands being sucked into the bottom of an hourglass, and is all the more devastating for being so understated.

The trauma of this event further redraws Spock. Shockingly, he is shown to have surface emotions; indeed, his lack of emotional control is key to Kirk obtaining command. He is, at first, less tolerant of Kirk than one might have expected: the two bicker violently. He even shows overt signs of affection for a crew mate. Spock, in short, has been reborn as a man of some feeling, albeit these are tentative in many respects; mentions of logic are reduced, this Spock both hesitates and takes risks.

If this all sounds very exciting, it should, because excitement does mark out the film, as does its unwillingness to take itself too seriously. Pavel Chekhov’s Russian accent provides some comic relief, as does an incident involving Scott and a large water pipe. Chris Pine does a slight turn as Shatner towards the end, which is subtle, but noticeable, and certifies him as the Canadian actor’s true heir.

The film does lack depth of characterisation, but this is not Star Trek’s purpose. It is there to entertain, and it is there to give us hope. We are living in an era of diminished expectations, in which case, it was probably right to change Star Trek to exist in a tougher, grittier universe. This enables the viewer to connect to the story much more successfully and believe that somehow we are going to come through this, and that a future does lie ahead. It may be more grim than the Sixties’ pastiche version we know and have previously loved, but it still features starships and transporters, phasers and photon torpedoes, communicators which look like our cellphones (or vice versa), and races that bleed green fluid or have over-large, boggling eyes. In short, thanks to this film, Star Trek is back…and hopefully it’s here to stay.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

In Praise of Hyacinth Girls

May 5, 2009

White HyacinthsI clearly recall the day when I decided to become a writer. I don’t remember the exact date, however, I know it was a Saturday in November 2003. At the time, I was living and working in London: my employer was an online travel agency, and I was managing a team which developed their websites. I’d had some successes, in particular, I had assembled a group of people who worked well together and had bonded emotionally. However, I’d had failures too; I was unable to convince management of the need to change and adapt.

This part of the tale will sound like a cliche: I had met a woman. On the surface, she and I were an unusual pair, I was and am a rather bearish, bearded man and she was a very thin Goth with 4 earrings, bright red hair and a penchant for high heeled boots. However what united this young lady and I was a love of literature; our relationship began when she had made it clear that she was depressed beyond the bounds of traditional Gothic norms, and I purchased a copy of Jaroslav Hasek’s “Good Soldier Svejk” at a corner bookstore to cheer her up. From then on in, we met in the evenings, usually in the pub across the street, and talked for hours. Afterwards, we then would proceed to the train station, still talking, the warm bubbles of emotion floating up into the sheltering, dark London skies.

I had dabbled in writing since I was a boy; freshly inspired, I wrote a large number of poems for her: some moderate, some wretched, all sincere. She accepted them with grace, but perhaps not wholeheartedly: it may sound like a plot from a television drama, but she was married at the time, though she claimed that she was on the outs with her husband to the point that divorce was inevitable and indeed, in progress.

Still, it was a surprise that she phoned me on that rainy Saturday afternoon. It was usually much easier to meet when the working day was done; this led to loud office whisperings about the nature of our relationship, but neither of us seemed to care. When she called on the day in question, however, she sounded more agitated than usual, saying she wanted to meet. I suggested a Cuban restaurant on Upper Street, which was a few blocks away from my flat. She agreed.

There was nothing atypical about our meeting at the restaurant: I forget what we ate, I do remember that we drank margaritas, the alcohol having a lubricating effect on our tongues. Afterwards, we visited a nearby bookstore, and purchased a book of T. S. Eliot’s poetry: both she and I were fond of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. We also purchased a copy of the Cure’s “Disintegration”, one of those albums that I should have owned, but didn’t. Outside the bookstore was a stand selling flowers: it was a rather pathetic spectacle, given how intense and heavy the rain had become. The red and white striped canopy covering the plants was buckling under the torrent. She bought a stoneware pot which contained white hyacinths; it was a gift for me, she said, in remembrance of a verse from Eliot’s “The Waste Land”:

‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’

We then went back to my apartment, I put “Disintegration” on my stereo, and she lay on my sofa, eyes shut, with her feet across my lap. I read Prufrock to her; my voice stumbled when I reached these lines:

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

At that point, a single tear flowed down her cheek. I must confess that it was difficult not to be swept away by emotion, and after a second’s hesitation, I stopped trying to prevent it. It was at that moment that words truly began to flow freely through my consciousness, albeit ragged, undisciplined, untrained, but they have not ceased since.

It would be lovely to say that this tale has a happy ending. However, if my emotions were playing with all the grandeur of a symphony orchestra, it’s fair to say hers were performed on a dime-store kazoo. We were never “intimate”. The promised break up between her and her husband never happened; months later, she severed all connections to me. I eventually had to leave London in order to escape being haunted by memories. This turned out to be wise, as I discovered last autumn; there was a remote possibility that I would be working in a place that was near my former office. In spite of my better judgement, I passed by it before the interview and found that it was being extensively renovated. The pub where we had talked for hours had been turned into a “trendy” wine bar. Yet, I was focused on discerning the traces that remained.

As much as I would not wish what I felt on anyone else, I would not prevent it either; I have since gone on to do higher degrees in writing, and am on the verge of being both a Doctor in Philosophy and a published novelist. In many respects, the “hyacinth girl” helped me, without realising or intending it. Yet, we are living in age when strong emotions like the ones I experienced are positively discouraged, and this is perhaps a contributing factor to society’s present pathologies.

Being a “man of feeling” was encouraged in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; Jean Jacques Rousseau and the Romantic movement were focused on restoring the connection of man to nature, and emotion seemed a positively natural thing to have. In scientific terms, we would say that allowing emotion could be a key component of homeostasis, i.e., it maintains the balance in a system. Yet somewhere along the way, a judgement was made that we have to inocculate ourselves against feeling anything that might be remotely unpleasant or anti-social. However, the question remains, by killing emotion, are we, as a society, committing a form of suicide?

While there are extreme cases in which drugs are necessary to prevent self-harm or harm to others, they are undoubtedly the crutch of the modern age. One of my favourite comedians and streetwise philosophers, Chris Rock, summarised it well. He said pharmaceutical companies are pushing drugs to the extent it is conceivable that they will one day say in an advertisement, “Do you go to bed at night and get up in the morning?” in the hope that the average punter will say, “Hey, that’s me!” If a child is hyperactive, the first response in some quarters is to prescribe Ritalin. If one is depressed, Valium, Lithium and a whole bevy of other drugs are available to restore the chemical balance in the brain and take the edge off melancholy. Indeed the link between narcotics and quashing emotion is so pronounced that it leads to an inevitable question: how much of the problem of illegal drugs stems from a desire to “self-medicate” awkward feelings out of our lives?

Additional food for thought is provided by an analysis of the word “passionate”; if one looks at the connotations of this term in the past as compared to the present, there is an interesting disparity. Lord Byron was “passionate”, a “man of feeling” who produced great poetry; he was considered “mad, bad and dangerous to know”, but no one seriously considered locking him up. Yet, the word “passionate” today, when used in phrases like a “passionate advocate”, or “passionate performer” or indeed “passionate writer” hints at bohemianism, insanity or both. In short, it is an altogether disreputable quality.

Furthermore, our present cultural heroes also point towards our dislike of emotion: it is telling that the new Star Trek film chose Mr. Spock as the character to provide continuity between the new film series and the old. Spock is a character who has consistently fought any trace of emotion in his character, and largely won; this victory is mostly admired rather than considered sick. The continuance of the Terminator series is also indicative: the Terminator was a perfect role for Arnold Schwarzenegger because he never had to show any emotion whatsoever, a quality which well suited his acting range.

Yet, without emotion, there may be no art, no beauty, no grandeur, no character. Winston Churchill had his “black dog” moods, which he overcame in order to lead Britain successfully. John Quincy Adams’ letters indicate a man who suffered from depression as well, but who roused himself with the help of his loving wife. One of the end lines of Offenbach’s opera, “Les Contes d’Hoffmann” says:

One is great by love but greater by tears.

After which, Hoffmann picks up the quill and begins to write. But to be swept away by feeling in such a manner nowadays is an invitation to be embarassed and to be called a fool. We substitute and sublimate: substitution comes from “New Age”, self-help mantras which try to mask emotion with talk of auras and positive energy. Sublimation can be found in the casual way in which many modern relationships begin and end: we are no longer surprised that great romances flame up, fizzle, then burn out in a matter of months or sometimes, weeks. It’s no wonder that we need drugs to blot all this out.

In order to remedy this societal ill, perhaps we need to find the courage to risk appearing foolish, which often times deserts even individuals who are not afraid to die. We need to have our “hyacinth girls” and to allow ourselves to be affected by them. We need to be able to write bad verse and get tearful listening to sentimental tunes and poetry being read aloud. We need to be open to the possibilities that both positive and negative emotions accord. If we continue to emphasise severance, however, we may lose that which makes our existence distinctive from that of other animals, and that which may give our lives ultimate meaning in a universe that can seem devoid of it.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

The Greenest Generation

May 4, 2009

Dig for Victory PosterThe May Bank Holiday has to be one of the cleverest innovations that the British government has produced. Winters here can be long and depressing: they’re dark, soggy with rain, and their chill is worsened by the omnipresent moisture in the air. It’s very rare that we get a covering of snow to enliven the scene: an artist would have difficulty painting the landscape without resorting to shades of grey, black and brown.

This makes Spring all the more remarkable: the fresh green leaves and blossoms are a surprise, an explosion of colour where once there was nothing but bare branches. Furthermore, nature in Britain appears to optimised to provide attractions and exhibitions: as I was driving home the other day, I noticed that a small grass divide had suddenly become overrun with wild daisies. The Bank Holiday gives us a chance to be delighted by this without the static hum of work getting in the way.

Britain’s experience of Spring is not altogether dissimilar to the place from whence I came, namely, the suburbs of New York. Winters there were also damp and grey: as I think of it now, the sound of water slowly dripping off the roof of my grandparents’ home springs to mind. Spring then came out of nowhere and washed the scene clean, daubing it in shades of green, yellow, bright orange and deep azure. My grandfather, resplendent in a Norwegian cardigan which was unbuttoned for the first time that year, would then potter out to the garden to plant his seedlings and tend to his perennials. He always looked up before taking that first step off the porch; he squinted at the sun, as if he needed that hint of light and warmth to confirm that Spring had truly arrived.

My grandfather kept an extensive garden right up until the day he died. The habit was ingrained: he was slightly too old to go fight in World War II, however, he worked for the Navy as a labourer. As a result of this wartime ethos as well his inherent Scandinavian frugality, he took the motto of “Dig for Victory” seriously; my grandmother followed suit. I can still recall the flavour of fresh raspberries, the tangy bite of gooseberries plucked just off the bushes, the taste of home grown rhubarb in pies and jams. My grandfather also grew tomatoes: this was his primary crop. He used to take old orange juice cartons, cut them in pieces, and used the cardboard to create a perimeter around each seedling to protect them. Nothing was wasted. I recall picking tomatoes as a young boy, the ripe produce so large that I could barely get my small hands around them, and the slight acid scent which indicated they were full to bursting with juicy flavour.

It is tempting to think of environmentalism or greenery as something new and trendy; the terms “green” and “carbon footprint” have been so frequently utilised that Lake Superior State University felt compelled to suggest that they should be sent to the naughty corner of the English language. However, when I recall how my grandparents lived and how their generation survived, it becomes apparent that being “green” is actually a very old way of thinking with its emphasis on frugality, thrift, and its common-sense contempt for waste. Because of that generation’s triumphs in the Second World War, they’ve often been labelled “the Greatest Generation”; however it is also fair to call them “The Greenest Generation” too.

This moniker applies on both sides of the Atlantic. My grandfather was probably unaware of the British Minister of Food for much of the Second World War, a gentleman named Lord Woolton. I was introduced to him through an episode of “The World at War”, which featured a film urging the populace not to be wasteful. Lord Woolton, a dapper man with a smiling countenance said the following:

“If you eat what you need, rather than what you like, if you avoid waste…then you are helping to win the war!”

I liked him immediately. I found out that he had a dish named after him entitled the “Woolton Pie”; apparently, he had enlisted the chefs of the Savoy Hotel to create a dish that would make the root vegetables being cultivated in gardens throughout Britain somewhat more palatable, even have a touch of class. That said, not all of the reception to this recipe was favourable: a critic once stated that it was a shame that such a wonderful man should have such a terrible dish named after him.

However, the spirit of avoiding waste went beyond merely trying to jazz up the food that was available; much of British wartime propaganda was focused on defeating the “Squander Bug”, a rather nasty looking cartoon character which had swastikas dotted all over its bloated body. People were urged to “make do and mend”; rather than buy new clothes, they took their old ones and refashioned them.

My grandfather didn’t need to alter his clothes in such a manner; rather, he focused on preservation. I recall his clothes closet reeking of cedar; he would wear suits in the Eighties that he had purchased during the Truman Administration. He was buried in one that was purchased before the Beatles were a gleam in Paul McCartney’s and John Lennon’s eyes.

Like the war time British, he was careful about consuming fuel too: even during the grey, dreadful midwinter, he preferred to put on a scarf or extra sweater rather than turn up the thermostat. He was also the first person I knew to purchase energy saving light bulbs: in those days, it must be admitted, they weren’t particularly good. Each bulb had a flicker and hum that was annoying, even headache-inducing. However, he regarded each low energy bill as a personal victory; he was intense on squeezing value out of every last penny.

At this point, it might be tempting to think that this austerity is the result of an austere personality. My grandfather was nothing of the kind; he was an imaginative and colourful story teller, and my passion for writing is directly attributable to this trait. The same generosity of spirit holds true for the war-time British; in 1995, there was a celebration of the anniversary of the war’s end, and the “Greatest Generation” had an extended party which rolled through the streets of London. At Buckingham Palace, the Forces’ Sweetheart, Dame Vera Lynn sang “We’ll Meet Again” for the Queen Mother. In my part of West London, I happened across a pub where Vera Lynn’s and Gracie Fields’ songs were being played on an out of tune piano, while characters with nicknames like “Diamond Lil” were singing and dancing along with mugs of warm brown ale in hand.

I never asked my grandfather, nor the revellers in 1995, if they felt that the world they built after the war was to their liking; I’m not sure. My grandfather was openly contemptuous of waste, however, up until the very end. Thus, I regard my “greenery” as a torch passed from one generation to the next rather than anything new; perhaps it is a reflection of a statement once made by a Russian poet: “Oh let us return to the past, and what progress there will be!” While the application of this principle cannot be universal, at least we have a shining star by which to navigate our present lives. Like the Greenest Generation, we can and should be focused on eliminating waste, being self-sufficient, and finding our joy in things other than consumer culture. As their lives prove, and the arrival of Spring shows, there are pleasures to be had that lay outside gain, outside ambition, and outside relentless materialism, if only we care to look for them.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

The End of the American Era

May 3, 2009

Old Glory at SunsetPerhaps one of the funniest yet most obscure Monty Python sketches portrayed a meeting of senior British Civil Servants. John Cleese entered and spouted off a great deal of bureaucratic gibberish, which was then translated by his colleagues into a simple problem: the government needed something new to tax. Terry Jones then said, “…most things we do for pleasure are taxed…smoking is taxed, and drinking is taxed, but not thingy.” At first, the others looked nonplussed. “Poo poos?” Graham Chapman asked. “No,” Jones re-emphasised, “thingy.” The penny drops, and Eric Idle then states the punchline, “Oh thingy….well that would certainly make chartered accountancy a much more interesting job.”

When I saw it, I howled with laughter at the absolute madness of the idea. Taxing thingy indeed. How would you do it, put a monitor in every bedroom in the land? Who would have the gall to collect it? What would the forms be like? How on earth would an audit be performed? “I see, Mr. Smith, that you claim to have had sex with your wife forty times in the past fiscal year, but as she’s a hottie, we believe you did it fifty-five.”

As crazy as it sounds, this week’s Economist highlighted a similar absurdity in it’s analysis of Rhode Island’s present situation. It stated that in 1971, there was a proposal for taxing thingy, at a rate of $2 per time. Only men would be charged. Presumably this peculiar idea was mentioned as an attempt at humour, and also to emphasise the fact that Rhode Island has few means of generating extra revenue in light of the devastating effects of the present recession. However, the fact that such jokes are effective is a worrying sign.

When Monty Python’s sketch first aired, Britain’s finances were in a terrible state: the so-called “Dash for Growth” under Edward Heath had failed, and the nation was constantly reeling due to labour disputes. Eventually, the government had to go to the International Monetary Fund for assistance. Britain was a more highly taxed country at that time as well: the voice of complaint in response can clearly be heard in the Beatles’ song “Taxman”: “Now I say how it will be / there’s one for you, nineteen for me”. The thingy joke had teeth, not just comedic excellence.

The Economist’s jape also has bite; it hints at a state on the edge, in a country that is on the precipice. It highlights, albeit unconsciously, a wider issue that the United States and the wider world is going to have to come to grips with in following years: America is just not as wealthy as it was, and it can no longer afford to be what it was. For all intents and purposes, the so-called age of “Pax Americana” is drawing to a close.

The reasons for this decline are both technical and ethical. First, the United States is no longer a creditor nation and hasn’t been for some time. According to a January article in the New York Times, China owns over $1 trillion in American debt, and recently surpassed Japan in its ownership of Treasuries. The pace of this debt accumulation, which stopped under Clinton but accelerated thanks to Bush, is increasing. Last Christmas, I happened to walk down the street on which the infamous “Debt Clock” resides. By the time I had walked three blocks, a further $2 million dollars in debt had been added. As I write this, the debt has burst through the $11.2 trillion ceiling.

If this money had been spent in ways to make the American economy cleaner and more efficient, then we could conceivably see a return on the investment and the potential to pay it back. However, a great deal of it has been spent on useless military adventurism, which chipped away at the ethical edifice of American power. Let us be clear, the only reason why Britain and America went to war in Iraq was because President Bush wanted to do so. All other justifications came from facts which where hastily assembled around this particular desire. What Bush did not reckon on is what Colin Powell apparently advised him prior to the conflict, “You break it, you bought it”. Billions have been spent after the war trying to find some means of holding Iraq together (though it was an artificial construct to begin with) and to make their economy function again. The war thus weakened America in both economic and moral authority; we should be amazed that creditor nations like China didn’t simply pull the plug. It may be only because they needed to keep their currency’s value down in relation to the dollar (and thus bolster exports) that they continued to make these purchases.

Recklessness went hand in hand with neglect, namely, the financial industry was allowed to run riot. The titans of Wall Street believed they were protected from failure either because of personal hubris, or due to connections with Washington (after all, bailouts had happened before). A lengthy period of economic growth, bolstered by low interest rates, led to a “party hardy” psychology which few in power did anything to puncture. It largely had to burst due its own lack of internal logic: the “Greater Fool” theory which drives Wall Street altered slightly – the “greater fool” was not the person buying or selling, it was both the buyer and the seller.

President Obama has been left with a shabby state of affairs; furthermore, he is confronted with one of the greatest predicaments of his office: specifically, he only has a limited timeframe in which to achieve his agenda before he has to get involved in electioneering again. Those who criticise his present “hyperactivity” would do well to keep in mind that he has an effective eighteen months after wearing the Oath of Office before he has to start working on keeping the Democrats in power. Therefore, if he wants to fix the economy, change health care, and re-regulate the finance industry, he has no choice but to adhere to a punishing schedule; that said, as I have previously stated, he should repackage what he’s doing so it is more easily understood.

However, even if President Obama is successful, there is a limit to what one man can do. The most optimistic scenarios still suggest that America will be in hock for quite a long time, and there is an assumption that somehow, at least someone will continue buy this debt. However, as President Obama well knows, and his predecessor President Clinton understood, debt is straightjacket on any freedom of action to do other things: interest payments take away from being able to spend money on the poor, or creating new green industries, or providing better pensions or health care. Rather, it creates a deadly spiral, in which power transfers to those whom the money is owed (provided, unlike Japan, they are not in a state of collapse themselves).

The remedies in this situation also imply a crash in American power: the obvious choice for cuts is defence; however, this would require abandoning any “world policeman” role, potentially including any rescue of Darfur. When the choices all lead to a similar conclusion, fate becomes unavoidable: America’s relative stature is going to decline.

There are some who would welcome this change. I’m not sure dancing for joy is the proper response: for all the faults that America may have, at the very least, the government is elected, and while its application of its principles is irregular to say the least, at least these values exist and are codified. The Tibetians probably wish the Chinese had such scruples.

Furthermore, American decline is manna from heaven for demagogues of authoritarian intent. It was possible throughout much of the twentieth century to point at America as an example of what liberty and the rights of man could achieve; it was an elegant counterpoint to dictators in Berlin, Rome and Moscow. If the American model loses too much strength, then it could become an example of what liberty and the rights of man failed to do. There are other examples of representative government, of course, but “the Canadian Dream” doesn’t get as much press as its southern counterpart.

Decline, however, need not be a fall. It was always likely that more populous parts of the world like China and India, and nations that are tapping new-found potential like Brazil, would eventually see their status rise, while America’s had nowhere else to go but down. The change can be ameliorated if policy makers and people alike realise their greatness is going to have to be defined along a different scale. It may no longer be possible to project military power into every corner of the globe, but it is certainly possible that America can lead the way in defending the rights of its citizens. It may not be feasible for America to be the biggest manufacturer, but the country can lead the way in information technology, health care, and green energy. America may not be top-dog in finance and banking forever, but after the present crisis, who really wants that particular responsibility?

In short, it is possible for a great, lovely country to be rebuilt, provided the model changes, provided that debts are paid, and that the urge to hubris does not win out over old-fashioned Yankee pragmatism. Things are desperate to the point of talk of taxing thingy now, but the future is yet to be defined: the decisions made now will point the way.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

The Forgotten Commandment

May 1, 2009

MosesIt’s difficult to discern which of the Ten Commandments is most frequently ignored these days. Switch on a daytime television talk show, and it’s usually a toss up between “thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife” and “honour thy mother and father”: often both are violated at the same time. Perhaps it’s not entirely the fault of the trailer park residents who appear on such programmes: their ability to comply with these strictures is likely hindered by their inability to comprehend them in the first place.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” is also often cast aside. Crime dramas, erotic programming, and even situation comedies invoke the higher being in situations as mundane as running out of toothpaste, let alone scenarios of extreme pleasure or stress. Furthermore, even atheists have found it difficult to cry “Science!” when someone cuts them off in traffic.

“Thou shalt not steal” is also flamboyantly disregarded. Bernie Madoff is a prime example: despite having deep roots in the Jewish community, it is apparent that Judaism’s most sacred, clear and basic rules went in one ear and out the other. Billions passed through his hands, and then flowed into the tributaries of an opulent lifestyle; his recently expressed remorse has the tenor of a criminal who isn’t sorry he broke the law, but dreaded the consequences of being caught.

However, perhaps the winner of this “competition” is the final commandment, “thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s goods”. This is perhaps because it is the most awkward commandment to keep: it is one that frequently falls down the memory hole not just for lay people but for religious authorities as well. Yet, this is likely the precise commandment that the religions of the world should be emphasising the most.

There is no mainstream religion that preaches covetousness. There is no Gordon Gekko of Hinduism that informs believers that “greed is good”, no Ivan Boesky in the Orthodox pantheon of saints that informs the faithful that their way to heaven is paved with shares purchased utilising insider information. In Islam, Mohammed specifically told believers that usury was a sin: this dictum has created a complex Islamic finance industry which tries to mediate between religious obligations and the need of individuals to get mortgages and loans. Christ consistently challenged the rich to give up their possessions to the poor and follow him, warning that it would be easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for them to get into heaven. In 590, Pope Gregory I listed “Greed” as one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Yet avarice appears to be down the list of priorities for many religions in this day and age. The Taliban appears to be more concerned with executing adulterers than with discouraging, say, the opium trade and the illicit profits gained by it (rather, they benefit from this). The Pope makes a point about preaching about contraception in Africa but was relatively muted in railing against society’s recent failures to restrain its covetous impulses. Most Pentacostal preachers appear to live in a moral universe in which lust permeates and contaminates every microcosm of society and every pore of the individual, but when it comes to overreaching ambition, they have little to say.

Perhaps this curious silence can partially be explained by hidden motives. The Slovene philosopher Slavoj Zizek identified this in his description of what he called “psuedo-fundamentalists”:

In contrast to true fundamentalists, the terrorist pseudo-fundamentalists are deeply bothered, intrigued, fascinated by the sinful life of the non-believers. One can feel that, in fighting the sinful Other, they are fighting their own temptation.

This statement has a wider application than perhaps Zizek intended. For example, we have cases such as that of Ted Haggard, a former president of the National Association of Evangelicals, who was forced to admit that he’d taken illegal narcotics and engaged in what he called “sexual immorality” with a male prostitute. With his Evangelical hat on, he was most concerned with “family values”, but this was likely in part due to the tension with the temptations to which he had surrendered frequently.

Another possible motive is embarrassment. While the full extent of the Vatican’s wealth is unknown; back in 1965, it was estimated to be over $10 billion. Even if time, bad management and inflation have taken their toll, it is certainly true that the Vatican retains one of the most precious art collections and libraries in the world. Furthermore, while there are many charitable endeavours undertaken by the church, it is also certainly true that the Vatican is not adhering to a monastic vow of poverty either. I personally recall sitting in a Catholic church in an upscale New York suburb one Christmas Eve, and being fascinated by the Italianate opulence of the altar and nave. I have no idea if real gold was used, but certainly brass and marble were in abundance, as well as finely detailed oil paintings of the Saviour at various stations of the Cross. Under these circumstances a call to help the poor, abandon avarice, does seem mildly hypocritical; the priest, perhaps conscious of this and the fact that his parishioners were the type of people most likely to be afflicted by such a message, kept this call sotto voce.

But perhaps the strongest motive to avoid this subject is that people may associate religion with something difficult, and thus become unreceptive. For example, to live as Christ demanded, i.e., to give up one’s possessions, to be kind, merciful and to forgive one’s enemies no matter the injury they render, is extremely difficult. Pulling back on the message so that only personal lust need be addressed makes it simpler: after all, most people do not get the opportunity to live the life of an unbridled hedonist. It was only after the invention of effective birth control that restraints on sexual urges truly began to loosen, thanks to an absence of fear of potential consequences. Perhaps because there would be nothing left to hold onto, many major religions have decided to not pull back from their previous position in light of this social change; what they may have found more germane was to act as a moral voice against the excesses of consumerism and financial capitalism, rather than pay lip service to charity. The closest a major religion has come to preaching this message is certain sects of fundamentalist Islam; however, this element has largely been forgotten due to a change in emphasis towards an easier creed with which to rally people, i.e., attacking the West for its immorality.

Under these circumstances, it is perhaps understandable that increasing numbers of people in the West proclaim to have no religion at all. In 2002, a poll indicated that 44% of Britons had no religious affiliation whatsoever. Yet, the need for an ethical framework, whether it comes through humanist or theological values is greater than ever: the trader who risks the future of his company in order to get a bigger bonus needs to have the voice of conscience whispering in his ear that other lives depend on the firm remaining afloat. The businessman who intends to wreck a bit of unspoiled nature to build a factory needs to hear a message which says he is one of many stewards, not owners, of the earth. The political leader needs to understand that lying, backstabbing and deception in the name of gain is not acceptable. The fight against avarice needs to come from all locations and venues, and preached from churches and street corners, synagogues and university lecterns, mosques and talk shows. If religion, however, chooses to maintain its present focus, the only thing it may perpetuate is its own decline.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

For Sale: One Politician, Used, Inquire Within

April 29, 2009

Arlen Specter SpeaksIt must have been a nice 100-day anniversary present for President Obama to have Senator Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania defect to the Democratic Party. Provided that the Franken / Coleman court case in Minnesota is resolved in favour of the former Air America host, the Democrats will have gained an absolute majority in the Senate. Filibusters will become much more difficult to sustain, bills can’t then be talked to death: the way thus becomes clear for President Obama to get most of his ambitious agenda passed.

Senator Specter comes with an interesting pedigree; he’s long been what the Rush Limbaugh wing of the Republican Party call a “RINO”, i.e. a Republican In Name Only. The truth, as ever, is a bit more complex than talk radio would have one believe. While Specter is broadly in favour of gay rights and against banning abortion, he also voted to approve Samuel Alito’s appointment to the Supreme Court, for example. He approved of the President Obama’s recent stimulus package but also claims to be part of the Reagan Big Tent. Overall, he was definitely more leftish than most Republicans, but in his new guise, he’s more to the right than most Democrats; this may create some more spirited debates within the Democratic caucus, which is probably a good thing. I speak only for myself, but when there is a room full of people who agree on everything, that’s the moment I become nervous.

At the same time, I can’t help but dislike this development. It’s not because I’m a registered Independent in the United States and I intend to stay that way. There is something altogether sleazy about the entire setup; it feels like a Faustian bargain, as if there is some unseen Mephistopheles chuckling in the background at the hell that lurks around the corner. My foreboding is mostly due to the reasons Specter has given for making the change and the portents this event implies.

There’s no doubt that Specter would have a tough time getting re-elected had he remained with the GOP, though he remains sufficiently popular in his home state that re-election is not implausible. The trouble lay in the primaries: he barely held off a challenge from Congressman Pat Toomey during the last cycle; the polls I’ve seen suggest that Toomey had over a 20 point lead in the latest Pennsylvania Republican contest. Specter confirmed this impression by saying at a press conference, “I am unwilling to have my 29-year Senate record judged by the Pennsylvania Republican primary electorate. I have not represented the Republican Party. I have represented the people of Pennsylvania.” He also promised that he wouldn’t be an automatic Democrat vote: “My change in party affiliation does not mean that I will be a party-line voter any more for the Democrats that I have been for the Republicans,” he said.

Well, all right. But the disquiet in my soul comes from the following thought: “If he wants to be genuinely independent as he says he does, why didn’t he follow the precedent laid down for him by Senator James Jeffords of Vermont?” Jeffords too found the going rather tough within the Republican Party, and in 2001 he became an Independent. This gave him maximum flexibility in terms of standing for the causes in which he believed, and the ability to represent the people of Vermont rather than a political clique. Furthermore, it is by no means pre-determined that the Independent label is destined to lose elections: both Vermont and Connecticut retain Independent Senators (Bernie Sanders and Joe Lieberman, respectively). Joining a party always involves a tricky balancing act between what the constituents want and what the national leadership requires. If freedom of conscience is his concern, then he did something rather peculiar: he just swapped one tightrope act for another. Given that he is experienced enough to know this, I suggest that he’s only made the change in order to retain his seat, not defend his principles. He may rationalise it in any way he likes, but nothing can disguise this desperation sufficiently to make it appear any differently.

The Democrats have made it easy for him: President Obama has promised to campaign for Specter, and other Democrats such as Governor Ed Rendell allegedly will help him raise money. Under these circumstances, I hate to say it, it looks like a bribe. But the Democrats may not get what they bargained for: I don’t believe I am alone in interpreting this as a business deal rather than a genuine adherence to deeply-held principles or beliefs. I am certain, in fact, that the people of Pennsylvania are paying attention, and probably many of them don’t like what they see.

Additionally, this “deal” gives the Republicans all the material they need for their campaign advertisements; Rush Limbaugh is no doubt sharpening his rhetorical knives as I write this. Lurid soundbites about “Sell Out Specter” and “Benedict Specter” will no doubt be making their way onto television and the internet shortly. It’s worth remembering also that there are still enough wealthy Republicans out there who are willing to raise money for a “revenge” campaign. I have no doubt that Toomey’s war chest, regardless of what the President does, will be more than sufficient to match Specter’s.

Also, and this is perhaps most important, the bargain makes President Obama’s promises about a change of tone in Washington sound just a bit more hollow. We are supposed to be in an age of renewed idealism and optimism, not surrendering to warped ethics of the smoke-filled backroom. Yet, here we are.

Finally, it’s rare that defectors “work out”: this has certainly proven to be the case in Britain. After the Tory massacre of 1997, a number of Conservative MPs “crossed the floor” to join the Labour Party: the one that reminds me of Specter most is Shaun Woodward. Mr. Woodward is one of those standard-issue characters in British politics who was almost born to be a Tory politician: he went to Bristol Grammar School and Cambridge University, and after sufficient time, was “given” the safe seat of Witney in 1997. This constituency previously belonged to the equally well-heeled Douglas Hurd. However, Mr. Woodward changed parties in 1999, and was imposed on an less-than-willing constituency, St. Helens South, with which he had no personal connection. He’s gone on to become a confidant of Gordon Brown, but this access is a devalued commodity these days. Furthermore, by abandoning Witney, he left it open at the 2001 election to be taken up by David Cameron, the man who is likely to deprive Gordon Brown (and by extension Mr. Woodward) of office. This turn of events goes to prove the old saying that the law of unintended consquences is the one that is always passed.

What’s done is done, however, and I doubt anyone within the Democratic Party was going to argue with the President once he approved of this deal. For his part, President Obama has said that he’s “thrilled” that Specter has changed sides. Whether that passion has cause to wax or (more likely) to wane, remains to be seen.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

Of Swine and Swine Flu

April 28, 2009

A Dirty PigFor those who missed it, the source of the present swine flu pandemic may have been found. According to the Times, the disease has been traced to a Mexican town of 3000 people called La Gloria. La Gloria has the dubious distinction of being located near a massive pig farm, which is partially owned by the American firm Smithfield Foods. The Times says this company is one of the largest producers of pork products in the world.

Those who eat pork regularly should discontinue reading at this point. The pig farm in question is so large (approximately 1 million animals are raised there per annum) that in order to dispose of the resulting waste, the owners have created what can best be described as “manure lagoons”. This has the dreadful side-effect of drawing swarms of flies which attack La Gloria on a regular basis; according to reports, some sixty percent of the town’s population have sought medical attention since February. It is entirely possible it was this combination of filth, disease and lack of concern for the local population that caused the outbreak. Indeed, the first identified victim of swine flu is a 4 year old boy from La Gloria, who has since, fortunately, recovered.

The virus has spread as far as New Zealand; the United Nations, according to the BBC, has given up the idea of containment already. Apparently, we’re just going to have to buckle down, take our flu medication, and hope for the best. Optimism is unjustified, however: as of this morning the death toll from the epidemic is 152.

Much of the focus so far has been on tightening borders, which perhaps is a case of fixing the barn door after the proverbial horse has bolted. However there appears to be much less introspection in regards to how the disease began in the first place, and what can be done to prevent other such plagues from threatening us; what few are apparently willing to say is at the heart of the problem lays the current economic order, and the attitude of the West towards the Third World.

We live in an era of outsourcing. It is very rare that I can go to a clothing store or electronics shop and find anything that bears the label “Made in Britain” or “Made in the USA”. Most goods are now made in far flung destinations like China, India or Malaysia. The goods are cheaper, yes, but what is the real cost associated with producing them?

It is certainly true that we are outsourcing our carbon emissions, particularly to China; this is definitely a cost. However, the price of cheap food, clothing and chemicals has long had terrible implications for those who produce them. This has been evident since the Union Carbide disaster in Bhopal, India. For those who don’t recall this incident, in December 1984, Union Carbide’s pesticide factory exploded, releasing a toxic gas which killed over 8,000 people. The principal reasons for the disaster lay in the use of cheaper, but more hazardous chemicals, poor staff training and shoddy plant design and maintenance.

More recently, the author Naomi Klein visited facilities in Southeast Asia from which we get much of our sportswear as part of research for her magnum opus, “No Logo”: the conditions in terms of working hours, pay, and safety are appalling. Even items such as high-end basketball shoes generate little return for those who produce them. Low costs plus high prices have made a lot of companies extremely wealthy; however, low costs plus relatively low prices can also yield the same results.

For example, outsourced food: this is a more recent development. New preservation techniques mean that we can get cheap green beans from Kenya, chillies from Tanzania and bananas from South America without noticing anything amiss, at least until we try organic products and compare. Bananas are of particular interest, and illustrates the aggressive drive towards cheapness and its resulting costs to poor nations: the World Trade Organisation ruled against the European Union’s preferred trade agreements with former colonies, which had previously worked to give these Third World countries a protected income. This has been devastating to small countries like St. Lucia; while the costs to the consumer of the former regime were approximately $2 billion a year, now St. Lucia faces an uncertain future. According to the CIA World Factbook, St. Lucia is a transit point for illegal drugs from South America: faced with declining revenues from bananas and tourism, and vulnerable to external economic shocks, who is to say that this trade won’t increase?

The winner in the banana wars are not necessarily the consumer; rather, it is large corporations like Del Monte, which the Economist described as the “Wal Mart” of bananas. Because of their industrial farming processes, they can produce more bananas, more cheaply than St. Lucia could dare dream. We in the West get more low-cost bananas, however in terms of quality, this is as industrial as the processes which created them. All the while, St. Lucia suffers.

We should be warned, however: globalisation now means that problems rarely reside in one country alone. Swine flu’s arrival in the furthest flung corners of the globe illustrates the point: our demands for cheap pork led to cost cutting, which leads to bad hygiene, which in turn creates the conditions for disease which is now threatening humanity. The question that no one is asking is what’s next: do our demands for cheap bananas lead to more heroin on the streets of say, Miami or Chicago? Do our requirements for cheap electronics, now suddenly withdrawn, create an unstable China, which in turn becomes more militant as a way of mollifying its people? Disaster is only predictable to a certain extent: the true shape of horror often only crystalises after it is too late and is usually worse than our darkest dreams.

The only way around it, perhaps, is the Western consumer resigning himself or herself to the fact that things cost what they cost. This sounds simple, but the bargain hunter in all of us has led to an expectation that somehow everything we purchase can and should be cheaper. We go to stores like Aldi and Lidl in the hope that their chicken, for example, is the same as what we would get in a more expensive store; however, it’s a con, the chicken is injected with water and chemicals to bolster its weight. If manufacturers can’t get away with that trick, they send the pigs to La Gloria, and then the price gets paid when people die of swine flu in Mexico, Scotland, Spain or New Zealand.

The best hope, in my opinion, is that the Fairtrade movement, which has scored some successes, becomes more prevalent. While no regime is one hundred percent foolproof, at least we have more certainty that the conditions in which Fairtrade items are produced are less likely to have anything to do with “manure lagoons”. Fair trade, I suggest, should be extended not only to clothing (progress has been recently been made in this area), but perhaps also to electronics, toys and other manufactured goods. Furthermore, the link between cheapness and disaster needs to be better illustrated and understood; this should act as a powerful incentive to trade ethically and to make Westerners remember the real bottom line: things cost what they cost, just the costs can be paid up front, or swing ’round later and make us pay even more. Furthermore, the latter tally is not necessarily a price that is just paid in money: it’s a bill paid with one’s health, with one’s safety, and in some cases, with one’s life.

Facebook Icon Reddit Icon

Me And My Blog

Picture of meI'm a Doctor of both Creative Writing and Manufacturing and Mechanical Engineering, a novelist, a technologist, and still an amateur in much else.

By the Blog Author