political talk

Please scroll down for further posts

What is politics? There have been times when I was confident of the answer: politics was class struggle, a view complicated at different times and in different ways by disputes over the scientific credentials of Marxism (disputes that encouraged among some participants the belief that working on Marxist theory was an important kind of political action); feminism; the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament; anti-racism; the Movement for Colonial Freedom and anti-imperialism. However, my interest in this blog is not in defining the term ‘politics’ or stipulating how it should be used but rather in exploring some of the ways ‘politics’ ‘political’ and related terms are used. ‘Political’ is used sometimes to commend (for example, when Western figures say they prefer a political to a military solution of the conflict in Syria) and sometimes to disparage (for example, when the then Australian Treasurer dismissed Labor and Greens criticism of his two budgets as ‘political’). The exploration of these different usages is one way in which the name of this blog ‘talking politics’ can be interpreted. Max Weber’s discussion of the various forms of social action in Economy and Society is as good a place as any from which to start. ‘Political action’, in his view, simply is the work or activity of governing a political organization, the most important example of which is the state. ‘Politically oriented action’, in contrast,
aims at exerting influence on the government of a political organization; especially at the appropriation, redistribution or allocation of the powers of government. (1978[1922], p.55)
Weber offers a different account of politics in a celebrated essay ‘Politics as a Vocation’ (see ‘Politically-Oriented Men’, posted below) and few people today bother with his distinction. ‘Politics’ and ‘political’ are still used in Weber’s sense to refer to the conduct of states but his ‘politically-oriented action’ is commonly called ‘political’. Electoral competition between individuals or between parties is a clear example, as is much of the work of pressure groups and social movements.

Relations between words and deeds are rarely straightforward. In a series of essays drawing in part on the work of J.L.Austin (many of them now collected in vol 1 of his Visions of Politics) Quentin Skinner advocated a new approach to the history of political thought, arguing that utterances and written texts should not always be read as merely propositional; they could also be performative.

There are cases in which deeds are performed through their affirmation. The conventional British, American or Australian marriage ceremony is the classic example. Imagine that Jennifer Smith and Stephen Jones after living together for some years ‘in sin’, as some of their relatives say, decide to step away from this particular sin by getting married. They organise a state and/or church-approved ceremony in the course of which a person authorised to do so asserts ‘I now declare you man and wife’ (or other authorised form of words to the same effect). Instantaneously, where previously there had been just two people, there is now one married couple and, unless she decides to hold on to her father’s family name, Jennifer Smith magically becomes Jennifer Jones. Of course, Stephen might choose to spare her the trouble by changing his name instead, say, to Stephen Smith, but he could not do so as part of the same ceremony.

The point of this example is that, in the case of marriage, the words are the deed: the pair are married if and only if an authorised person, in the course of a state/church-sanctioned ceremony, asserts that they are married. Legislation under consideration by the Australian parliament at the time of writing (early December 2015) seems likely to authorise a Minister to strip their citizenship from Australians who are also citizens of another state, if they are convicted (or even suspected) of committing a terrorism offence. In this case, too, the words would perform the deed unless the courts get in the way. Yet, it seems clear that the word perform the deed only if the Minister’s decision was enforceable by a complex set of institutional arrangements, including an immigration control system, police and compliant courts. A similar point, obscured by my use of the word ‘authorised’, applies to the marriage example except that the necessary institutional arrangements will be rather different. While, at first sight, it seems that the words perform the deed, they do so only within suitable institutional arrangements.

In most other cases, relations between words and deeds are more complex. Undocumented immigrants do not suddenly become law-breakers when, as often happens in Australia and the USA, some authorised person, declares him /her to be ‘illegal’. And we clearly need to consider the converse relationship between words and deeds, cases in which deeds take the place of words, cases in which, for example, police, a criminal gang, IS or the US military employ violent means to ‘send a message’ to their opponents

In the case of politics, which is my concern here, talking (and writing) are integral to its existence. At one level (Weber’s political action), Governments of independent states interact with their own populations (and with individuals and public or private organisations within them) in part by issuing instructions such as ‘No Dogs, Bikes or Skateboards’, ‘No Entry’, ‘No parking’ or ‘No right turn’. Governments issue instructions on how to apply for a driver’s licence, a passport, visa or identity card, a sickness, unemployment or other benefit, along with appropriate forms for the applicant to complete. Governments interact with the Governments of other states through diplomacy, declaring War or threatening them by asserting sovereignty over hitherto unclaimed areas of land or sea. Within their own jurisdiction, they declare States of Emergency, Public Holidays, periods of national mourning or what they describe as new policies. At another level (Weber’s politically-oriented action), active involvement in politics whether through membership of political parties or social movements, involves participating in, and even organising, meetings, having to listen to others talk and sometimes having one’s own say. Electoral competition between individuals and between parties invariably requires lots of talk.

Words are essential components of political life. Thus, ‘talking politics’ may refer either to the talking (or writing) that goes on within politics or to talking, or writing, about it. Regarding the former, while the words used are often important, we should be careful not to judge political actions by the words employed in their performance. Treaties described by Government agencies as promoting ‘free trade’ or, as Australian Government advertisements called them in late 2015, ‘Free Trade Export Agreements’, particularly those involving the USA, are often concerned less with freeing trade in general, than with enacting complex forms of protectionism, aiming to protect the ‘intellectual property’ of large chemical, IT and other businesses in return for concessions in other areas.

Why there is so little serious examination of political talk in Australia and other anglo ‘democracies’ remains an open question at this stage. My guess is that the answer has a lot to do with the widespread application of the view that thinking can be presented as entertainment – call it cogitainment – as it is, for example, in popular science broadcasts, Q&A, TED talks, the Sydney Festival of (all-too-familiar) Dangerous Ideas – ideas that are dangerous only in the sense that raptors in the film ‘Jurassic Park’ are dangerous (most members of us know that they are not likely to climb down from the screen and bite) and Writers Festivals all over the place

I noted earlier that talking about politics can be a way of doing politics or, making a slightly different point concerning the spoken word, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’. The Coalition’s accusation ‘A Big New Tax’ that arose whenever someone in Government or even advising it raised the possibility of pricing as a mechanism for reducing carbon emissions was more than just a misleading description: it was also a powerful attack on the (Labor) Government in power.

The line ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ is to be spoken by Cardinal Richelieu in Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s 1839 play Richelieu; or The Conspiracy. It is easily read as celebrating the power of the written word and thus of the writer. Yet, even if this reading is what Bulwer-Lytton had in mind when he penned this line, it does not properly reflect Richelieu’s situation as depicted in the play. Richelieu’s words, written or spoken, were mightier than his sword only because numerous state functionaries, some of them weilding swords, were ready to act on his command. The pen is mightier than the sword only if it is wielded by an authorised person, like Richelieu himself. Few French people in Richelieu’s day or since could wield their pens to such effect.

Yet, if ‘talking about’ is sometimes a way of ‘doing’ politics it is not always effective in the manner that some of its practitioners might wish. Intellectuals may be tempted to combat racism, for example, by arguing that there is no foundation for the view that there are biologically distinct human races, each with their own distinctive levels of intelligence, industriousness, deviousness or whatever. While criticising what used to be called ‘scientific racism’ in this way may steer undergraduates and some journalists away from supporting racist arguments, its impact in other contexts is likely to be limited. Indeed, if racial difference is not a biological given but rather a social construct, we should not expect it to be particularly vulnerable to rational critique.

There are times when the usage of words in political talk is worth treating seriously. My first two posts, from November and December 2015 – both written before this ‘introductory’ one – are responses to wild talk by Australian politicians, security specialists and media commentators about something called ‘radicalisation’. ‘Against radicalisation’ is an angry rant about the concept of ‘radicalisation’, which is a seriously bad and dangerous idea. I should add that my objection is not to the idea that people may sometimes become more radical, which seems pretty obvious, but rather to the current usage of the term specifically to target muslims. I offered this piece to several Australian media outlets, both print and on-line, all of whom, with the notable exception of the AIM Network, rejected it – as indeed I should have expected. The Folk Devils paper takes up two influential concepts, ‘Folk Devils’ and ‘Moral Panics’, from 1970s academic criminology to argue that, in spite of real limitations, these concepts can help us to understand the current ‘radicalisation’ scare. A third post, ‘Politically-Motivated Men’, due to appear in December 2015, examines what else might be going on when professional politicians and commentators use ‘political’ as a pejorative term in order to dismiss political views or actions other than their own. A good example is Joe Hockey’s responses to Labor and Green criticism of his two budgets which he could only disparage as ‘political’. Other posts will be aded from time to time. In some cases, rather than an excessively long post, i have posted only the title and opening paragraphs of a longer paper. in such cases the papers themselves can be found at academia.edu

Advertisements

Folk Devils Rise Again

Barry Hindess

My title takes the term ‘Folk Devils’ from Stan Cohen’s Folk Devils and Moral Panics: The Creation of the Mods and Rockers (1972), part of an influential push by a group of British sociologists and criminologists (Cohen 1972; 1980; 2002; Hall et al. 1978; Young 1971) who reacted against the tendency of public debate and far too many of their colleagues to treat deviance as a matter of readily observable characteristics of behaviours and/or individuals rather than as an ascribed social category. Public debate around ‘deviant’ behaviour or persons sometimes escalated into panics about perceived threats to social order. The Moral Panic push argued that the media, police and socially credentialed experts played prominent roles in the labelling of certain individuals and behaviours as deviant and further that ‘the societal reaction may in fact increase rather than decrease or keep in check the amount of deviance’ (Cohen 2002: 8, emphasis in original)

Cohen (2002: 1) describes moral panic as a condition, episode, a person or group of persons emerges to become defined as a threat to societal values and interests; its nature is presented in a stylized and stereotypical fashion by the mass media; the moral barricades are manned by editors, bishops, politicians and other right-thinking people; socially accredited experts pronounce their diagnoses and solutions; ways of coping are evolved or (more often) resorted to; the condition then disappears, submerges or deteriorates and becomes more visible.’

It is described more concisely in Charles Krinsky’s Introduction to The Ashgate Research Companion to Moral Panics, a useful survey of the Moral Panic literature and its critics. He tells us (2013: 1) that a moral panic may be understood ‘as an episode, often triggered by alarming media stories and reinforced by reactive laws and public policy, of exaggerated or misdirected public concern, anxiety, fear, or anger over a perceived threat to social order’ While the roles of the media, law and public policy are indicated here, it would be remiss in the Australian context not to bring into the mix State and Commonwealth Governments, professional politicians and academics only too willing to market themselves as specialists on the latest generation of folk devils.

Cohen’s term ‘Folk Devils’ points to the ways in which media organisations, police and other authorities focus on deviant individuals or groups seen as embodying a new or extraordinary social threat. The image of folk ‘devils’ is a powerful one but the concept appears designed to resist clear definition (Hayle, 2013). The term ‘Devil’ evokes demonic, almost super-human, capacities for evil but these capacities are attributed to particular human individuals or groups. ‘Folk’ refers to popular perceptions of these beings, and such perceptions are notoriously difficult to pin down. Partly for this reason, moral panic studies have focused on media representations and statements by public authorities, read as if they feed directly into popular perceptions. In effect, ‘folk devils’ are popular perceptions, inferred from public representations of all too human individuals who conduct themselves in ways that can be represented as deviant. The role of public representation and ascription suggests that the threat posed by Folk Devils is socially constructed, while the term itself suggests that the threat arises from demons, who are largely imaginary but somehow associated with real persons.

While the moral panic concept is not without its difficulties, some of which I register in this discussion (Thompson 1998; McRobbie & Thornton 1995; Hall 2012). I use it here, in spite of its limitations, to throw light on the recent proliferation of Australian talk about radicalisation and of policies designed to counter or at least contain it. Moral panics have been familiar features of Australian public life, focusing variously in the years since WW2 on the threats posed by communism; immigrants, first from Eastern Europe and later from Asia; bikie gangs, who were accused of trafficking drugs, guns and sex workers; refugees; sexual abuse of children and, at another level, ‘political correctness’ and ‘postmodernism’, both of which have been presented as fads that effectively undermine academic integrity. At other levels again, we might think of the, only partly successful, political panics around indigenous land rights and the threats of economic rationalism, neoliberalism, the return of work choices and Labor’s carbon tax. While some of these panics, especially the fears of communism and Eastern Europeans, have died off, others continue to bubble away in the background.

The full paper can be found at academia.edu

What is a refugee?

The shambolic, destructive closure of Australia’s detention centre on Manus Island and New Zealand’s offer to take some of the survivors off our hands offer yet another opportunity to reconsider Australia’s refugee regime.

So, what exactly is a refugee? After noting that the term was first used to refer to Protestants fleeing religious persecution in seventeenth & eighteenth century France, the Oxford English Dictionary identifies the following meaning as one that is in extended use today:
A person who has been forced to leave his or her home and seek refuge elsewhere, esp. in a foreign country, from war, religious persecution, political troubles, the effects of a natural disaster, etc.; a displaced person.
There are two elements here: someone who (1) has been forced to leave home for reasons ranging from war through persecution to natural disaster; and (2) is now seeking refuge elsewhere. However, in today’s Australia, the more specific definition provided by the 1951 UN Refugee Convention is probably the most prominent: it says that a refugee is

any person who… As a result of events occurring before 1 January 1951 and owing to well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is out-side the country of his nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country (Article 1.A(2))

This differs from the OED definition, first, in the specific time-frame, before 1951, and second in the reference to a “well-founded fear,” neither of which figure in the OED definition. The reference to 1951 reflects the fact that the Refugee Convention was designed to acknowledge the widespread European failure to provide for refugees, mostly Jewish, from the Nazis or for those displaced by the changes to national boundaries that followed the war. Article 1B specifies that “events occurring before 1 January 1951” should be taken to mean “events occurring in Europe before 1 January 1951”; or “events occurring in Europe or elsewhere before 1 January 1951”. Signatory sates were asked to choose which interpretation they would opt for. European refugees are central here. Care for anyone else appears to be optional

Its hard not to notice the Eurocentric wording of the Convention. The “or elsewhere” reads like the product of non-European states’ efforts to get round the original focus on Europe. At the time of the Convention, there were many displaced persons in other parts of the world, notably in Palestine, South Asia (following partition) and China (from the civil war). Palestine is covered by another part of Article 1: “This Convention shall not apply to persons who are at present receiving from organs or agencies of the United Nations other than the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees protection or assistance” (1D) – an introductory note from the UNHCR gives the example of refugees from Palestine who fall under the auspices of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA). Here, Palestinian and other refugees from the Near East are not Europe’s problem! Refugees from South Asia & China may be covered by the Convention’s “or elsewhere”, otherwise they don’t rate a mention.

After a few years, it became clear that any remaining refugees from Nazi oppression and Europe’s post-WW2 chaos were declining in numbers. The reference to 1951 was finally removed by a 1967 Protocol, which left “well-founded fear…etc..” still in place. As David Marr suggested some years ago (https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/oct/22/iillegals-refugees-immigration-australia) this part of the Convention’s definition appears to have been written more as an apologetic gesture towards those who fled Nazi persecution and post-war chaos and who Western states so conspicuously failed than as a comprehensive definition of those who might need support in the future. Yet governments, in Australia & throughout the world have read it as the latter. In fact, the Convention’s definition tells signatory states who they are obliged to offer asylum – nothing more. Migrants who do not fall under the definition are people to whom Australia is not obliged by the Refugee Convention to provide asylum.The Convention does not say that we have no responsibilities for theme nor does it give us licence to malign or penalise them – for example, by asserting they are ‘economic refugees’ or not ‘genuine refugees’ or to incarcerate them in conditions that reflect, at best, Australia’s traditionally mean-spirited treatment of welfare recipients. We now have the absurd situation in which ABF officials are left to decide whether undocumented migrants fear of persecution is well-founded. Isn’t it enough that someone is sufficiently afraid to up sticks and run?

In fact, this part of the 1951 definition has always been incomplete. As the OED definition recognises, fear of persecution has never been the only reason people flee their homeland; also important are war and natural disasters. We should bear in mind that ‘natural disasters’ may result from, or be exacerbated by, government policies – as they were in famines in nineteenth century Ireland, in Bengal under British rule, 1930s USSR & the American dust-bowl disaster. Moreover, in dry regions and many Pacific Islands, even small changes – a shift from very little rainfall to none at all, increasing salinization of groundwater or changes to the level of the water-table – can render existing agricultural/pastoral practices unviable. Here, New Zealand’s decision to recognise climate change as producing a legitimate category of asylum-seeker should be a welcome model for Australia.

Its high time that Australians faced up to the world in which we live and in which, for the foreseeable future, there will be many people fleeing droughts, floods, wars and other conditions they regard as intolerable. There is no excuse for not respecting their judgements on such matters. For the moment, Australia can decide who to allow in and who to keep out, but this fortunate condition is unlikely to last. Meanwhile, we should, at least, recognise that our responsibilities to others are not exhausted by the 1951 Refugee Convention.

[An earlier version of this post appeared on Independent Australia, Sunday, November 5, 2017]

Moral Panic

Moral Panic 101: safe schools and new folk devils
(another version of this paper appeared in Independent Australia 24 October 2017: https://independentaustralia.net/politics/politics-display/moral-panic-101-safe-schools-and-the-new-folk-devils,10860)

Many social scientists of an older generation will have felt a warm glow at the appearance of Benjamin Law’s Moral Panic 101. Its title reminds us of important battles over academic & public discussion of deviants at a time when, as now, Universities, and Social Science faculties, schools and departments within them, were under pressure to show that they could made useful contributions to public policy. While Marshall McLuhan had used the term Moral Panic to refer to a pervasive sense of fear, its most familiar usage and the closely associated concept of Folk Devil were introduced by a few junior academics in British Universities, notably Jock Young and Stan Cohen, who put their careers at risk by arguing that significant policy concerns relating to policing and social control were responses, not so much to what was happening in the wider society but rather to what we would now call media ‘beat-ups.’

The British story of Moral Panic – the American story is rather different, while the Australian story draws on both – begins in Clacton in Essex, the closest seaside resort east of London, over the rain-soaked 1964 Easter weekend, when groups of bored young people, collectively known as mods & rockers, deprived of their anticipated beaches, fought in the wet streets frightening bystanders and damaging public property – a few seats and lamp-posts – in the process. Mods/rockers fights resumed a few weeks later at a number of seaside resorts in the South of England.

Mods, for the most part, got around on scooters while rockers used motor bikes. They dressed differently if only because most bikes available in Britain at the time leaked oil onto their riders’ clothing and scooters did not: rockers wore jeans & leathers; mods dressed more conventionally and generally looked smarter.

Media reports of their clashes referred to riots and represented both groups, along with young people in general, as threats to public safety, a view reinforced by ill-informed pronouncements by an Anglican Archbishop, police and politicians. Moral Panic, in this case, was not based on a total fabrication: groups of young people did indeed fight in Clacton over Easter 1964 and in other resorts a few weeks later. Yet, the scale of the violence and the threat posed to innocent bystanders and to public order more generally were vastly exaggerated.

The Moral Panic here was the fear that Britain’s youth were getting out of control, a fear both promoted and reported as fact by the media and by important public figures. The Folk Devils were the mods & rockers who were represented as threatening public order and social values. One important implication of the Cohen/Young approach was seen to be that, rather than allowing media beat-ups or politicians, to define their research problems, social scientists would do better to investigate how social problems came to be identified, if not actively fabricated, both in the media and by politicians.

While they would now be seen as rather conservative, Cohen & Young’s arguments were widely interpreted in their time as a radical critique of current policing practices and of conservative thinking in the fields of criminology and sociology. This critique was soon given a distinctly Gramscian twist in Stuart Hall’s powerful analyses of Thatcherism & neoliberalism. Many of its supporters hoped, naively perhaps, that this critique would reduce the impact of, if not put an end to, Moral Panics around what was seen as deviant behaviour and the associated stigmatisation of the alleged deviants – and, for a time, it did seem that police chiefs and other public figures were becoming a little more circumspect in their pronouncements.

In the longer term, however, the impact of this critique is not so clear. What many of us read as critical of current thinking and practices could also, with a bit of effort, be read as an admirably clear guide to action, showing would-be perpetrators what they need to do to mobilise a successful panic.

Subsequently, police chiefs and senior clergy have become more imaginative in the threats they claim to identify while the mainstream media appear to have fewer qualms and political parties continue desperately promoting Moral Panics, particularly around law and order, in the hope of electoral advantage.

Overall, leaving aside wildly successful campaigns to demonise asylum-seekers and Muslims, Moral Panics involving coordinated action on a national scale between police, clergy, politicians & media organisations seem relatively uncommon, although, in the Australian context, this observation should be qualified in at least two ways: first, the existence of distinct state police forces makes coordinated perpetration of panic more difficult to achieve in Australia than in the more centralised British system; second, it is hard not to notice the contemporary international Moral Panic promoting fear of Islamic radicalisation, which has taken hold right across Australian jurisdictions. Like the British mods/rockers Panic of the 1960s, this last has not been built entirely out of nothing: there have been documented cases of young Muslims becoming radicalised. Yet, again as in 1960s Britain, the extent and significance of this phenomenon have been greatly exaggerated.

We should also note a number of more or less successful Australian attempts to conjure up Moral Panics: John Howard’s campaigns against the ‘black-armband’ view of Australian history; the children overboard affair; the Coalition’s valiant efforts to demonise latte-sipping elites and trades union activists and its unscrupulous use of security as an excuse for granting draconian powers to police and security agencies; Labor’s effective Mediscare campaign during the 1916 election; the current No campaign’s efforts to demonise supporters of marriage equality, representing them as intolerant extremists; and, of course, the anti ‘safe schools’ campaign’s attempts, admirably dissected in Benjamin Law’s Moral Panic 101, to convince us that safety for LGBTQI kids would make schools unsafe for heterosexuals.

As a recovering sociologist, the first things. I looked for in Moral Panic 101 were references to the Cohen/Young material, the work of their successors and the rather different American history of the idea. Since he was not writing primarily for an academic audience, Benjamin Law decided, not unreasonably, to follow a different route by providing an angry but careful account of the scandalous campaign against safe schools. My only worry about his impressive discussion concerns a point noted earlier, that a good, clear examination of an only partially successful Moral Panic campaign might provide future panic perpetrators with a practical guide to action and what they might do to be more effective in future, exactly as the 101 in his title suggests.

Two essays on Australia’s treatment of asylum-seekers

1.Never Walk Away (a slightly different version was published on the Independent Australia website, 27 July 1917: https://independentaustralia.net/australia/australia-display/never-walk-away,10526)

Ursula le Guin’s powerful short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” first appeared in 1973, more than 40 years ago. Yet, it offers us an opportunity to reflect on Australia’s treatment of asylum-seekers. The story depicts a happy, prosperous city, marred by one barbaric practice: it always keeps one young child locked away alone in “a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings.” The people of Omelas all know the child is there. “Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, …. depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.” Many are disgusted at what Omelas is doing to this child – Often, when they have seen the child, “the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, …” – yet most of them appear to accept it as an disagreeable necessity. Omelas has made a Faustian bargain in which happiness must be balanced by misery: the “terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.” Others who don’t accept the bargain simply walk away. They appear to have despaired of their fellow citizens: “Each one walks alone [as they] leave Omelas … and they do not come back…. it is possible that [the place they go towards] does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.” End of story!

Science fiction writers – le Guin prefers to be called a novelist – rarely aim at prediction. Sometimes they propose a possible future or, as in Margaret Attwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a plausible alternative present, with an alternative history leading up to it, but in both cases the imagined world serves as metaphor. It raises questions about the present. Ursula le Guin’s regards her imagined futures as safe, sterile laboratories for trying out ideas: in The Left Hand of Darkness (1969) she invites readers to imagine a society without gender as we currently understand it while in The Word for World is Forest she reflects on the impacts of European colonialism and less directly on what America was doing in its destructive war on Vietnam and its SE Asian neighbours. The Omelas story depicts neither an imaginary future nor an alternative present but a fragment of another reality that could plausibly belong to either. Its partial portrayal of a different society performs a similar function to le Guin’s imagined futures.

There is no exact parallel between le Guin’s imaginary Omelas and today’s Australia. Omelas like le Guin’s America has no hereditary ruler and no slavery and while Australia also has no slavery or none that is legal, it does have an hereditary monarch, at least for the moment, but she is widely thought to play no active part in government. The Omelans, like today’s Americans and Australians appear to govern themselves but, unlike us, they have no stock market, advertising or secret police. Le Guin insists that the people of Omelas are different, but not less complex than us. We would not contemplate keeping just one solitary child locked away in a basement just to benefit the rest of us, although we do lock far too many non-Australians away in immigration detention, a practice that outrages many of us – not to mention the many indigenous people we incarcerate.

Australia’s disaffected citizens, unlike those of Omelas, do not have the option of walking away: whether we walk, drive or take public transport, we still find ourselves somewhere in Australia. Instead of walking away, all we can manage is to retreat into our heads: we can tell ourselves and anyone who will listen that our Government is not acting in our name.

Nor, it seems, does Omelas have any politics. Le Guin tells us there is no King. Otherwise she tells us nothing about how Omelas is governed. Perhaps it is ruled by a few powerful families or by what we now think of as democratic means. Those who despair and finally walk away are not described as engaging in protests, signing petitions, attending demonstrations or joining political parties in the hope of change. They despair, not only of their leaders but also of their fellow citizens.

Omelas’ leaders, like Australia’s, appear to believe that there is no alternative to their barbaric policies. They believe also that most of their citizens do not understand why these policies are necessary. Omelas sticks to its Faustian bargain and we hold fast to the view that penalising several hundred strangers will protect us from the world’s rising tide of refugees. No matter, most citizens are content to leave such issues to their leaders.

While le Guin’s Omelans can walk away, albeit to an uncertain destination and, with some effort, disaffected Americans could walk or drive to another country (Mexico or Canada) without being entirely sure of how they would be received, disaffected Australians can walk away only in their minds. If disaffected Omelans take the risk of not knowing where they will end up – it could be somewhere worse – something similar holds for disaffected Australians who mentally walk away but physically remain – our heads might end up in a worse political space.

The risk of a worse political space is particularly acute for anyone tempted to use the ‘dog-whistle’ metaphor to explainr why many Australians support our asylum-seeker policies. What is going on when we accuse John Howard or some younger Coalition politician of dog-whistling? Obviously, we accuse the dog-whistler of appealing deliberately and indirectly to racist sentiments. But the metaphor also points to those who respond, comparing them to trained sheep-dogs who hear the whistle and follow the command it contains. To use this metaphor is to compare many of our fellow Australians to trained animals – smart enough to follow commands but not to think for themselves. The risk here is the temptation to see those who follow the whistle as lesser beings – not a good headspace for anyone on the left to occupy.

Finally, if disaffected Omelans despair of their fellow citizens – why else would they walk away alone, not in groups large enough to make others notice? – there is no good reason for disaffected Australians to despair of our fellow citizens, although there are reasons to despair of our political leaders. Sure, there have been polls purporting to show majority support for our brutal treatment of asylum-seekers, with a significant minority appearing to follow the dog-whistle script, but we all know that poll results turn on the wording of the question and the context in which it is asked – and there have also been polls showing just the opposite.

If we cannot walk or drive away from Australia except into the sea and we should not retreat into the attractive seclusion of our heads, there is no alternative to the hard slog of engaging our fellow Australians politically.

2 A Comment on Paul Muldoon’s ‘Contesting Australian Asylum Policy’ (final version forthcoming in The Australian Journal of Politics and History)

The core of Paul Muldoon’s ‘Contesting Australian Asylum Policy’i is a subtle and sophisticated reading of Plato’s tale of the last days of Socrates which he uses it to throw light on the dilemma facing Australians who despair of their government’s asylum-seeker policy. While I do not dispute his commentary on Socrates, its bearing on the position of those who reject Australia’s asylum-seeker policies is less straightforward than Muldoon suggests. I argue first, that the parallel he draws between the situations of the latter and Plato’s Socrates is too big a stretch, and second, more specifically that, while both the Athens of Plato’s Socrates and contemporary Australia present their citizens with dilemmas of democratic citizenship, the two dilemmas are so radically distinct as to render problematic any attempt to draw lessons for one from the other.

From opposition to Asylum-seeker Policy to Plato’s Socrates

Ever since Schiller’s 1795 ‘On naïve and sentimental poetry’,ii Western commentators have derived lessons for their own time from simplified accounts of Western classical antiquity.iii Paul Muldoon performs a sophisticated variation on this manoeuvre, taking classical Athens more seriously than most. His argument begins by identifying opposition to Australian asylum-seeker policies with a kind of cosmopolitanism and noting that cosmopolitans may be tempted by an irresponsible abandonment of political engagement, both of which lead him to focus on Socrates’ engagement as an alienated citizen with Athenian laws and other Athenian citizens. His paper ‘explores how “we cosmopolitans” [among whom he clearly includes himself] might make effective use of our citizenship in circumstances where our views about “aliens” … put us at risk of being treated as enemies of “the people”’. He questions, in particular, ‘the way humanitarians,’ [i.e. cosmopolitans], have distanced themselves from government policy [through] acts of moral dissent’, acts that ‘incline towards irresponsibility and are no substitute for an ongoing interrogation of the ethos of the democratic community.’ In effect, Muldoon ‘calls for an explicitly political philosophy which… seeks to isolate and amplify those strains within the local political culture that open out to general moral claims.’iv

I agree that it would be a mistake for those opposed to Australia’s asylum-seeker policies to withdraw from political engagement but would not invoke responsibility in the Arendtian sense to make the point.v

Arendt’s political thinking draws on an idealised image of the Greek polis, as governed by the collective action of its citizens, to argue, inter alia, that the citizens are collectively and individually responsible for its actions.vi Muldoon endorses her view ‘that citizens remain “collectively responsible” for things done in the name of the political community [and further that] for the future generations who stand in judgement, it will not be the moral stance we take as individuals, but the political action we undertake as a collective, that will really truly matter.’vii Here, two observations are called for: first, for many of those who object to what our Government is doing to asylum-seekers today the judgement of future generations is a secondary concern; and, second, if what matters is our collective action, it seems perverse to treat one individual, Socrates, as an exemplar

Moreover, while it is easy to understand why many political theorists might wish to frame their opposition to offshore detention in universalistic terms, we might wonder how far Australians who oppose such policies are motivated by ‘general moral claims’ of the kind Muldoon has in mind rather than by more straightforward feelings of sympathy and disgust – i.e. by principles that are both particularistic and strongly held.

Some might even appeal to ‘general moral claims’ of a different order than those Muldoon cites – claims that apply, for example, to states rather than to individual humans. A case in point would be the claim that states should abide by rules they have voluntarily agreed to follow – like the rule contained in the 1951 Refugee Convention and many subsequent Conventions that individuals seeking asylum should not be penalised for doing so – or else publicly withdraw from the agreement. Some of us have been angered by the sight of political leaders – who, in other contexts, seem happy enough to criticise others in the name of a rules-based international order – complaining about UNHCR rules-based criticisms of Australia’s treatment of asylum-seekers as if it were some kind of interference in Australia’s internal affairs. Such criticism could easily be avoided by our withdrawal from the Refugee Convention.

Muldoon’s appeal to ‘general moral claims’ introduces the topic that takes up the bulk of his paper concerning ‘one of the greatest exemplars of moral individualism in the Western tradition: Socrates …. [whose] example helps to clarify the stakes of principled dissent and to provide an insight into the role that universal moral philosophy can play in relation to local democratic politics.” Muldoon portrays Socrates as both exemplary individualist and conformist, who stands against the customs of his community, yet still follows its laws. The final step leading up to Muldoon’s principal focus is to portray opposition to asylum-seeker policies as acts of moral dissent against the ethos of a ‘general public [that] has either willingly followed or actively encouraged this hard-line approach to asylum-seekers,’ thereby establishing a parallel with Socratesviii

This last point deserves more careful consideration than I have space for here. Suffice it to say first, that media representations of popular opinion are normally less than entirely reliable and second, that, while Muldoon cites evidence to support his negative view of Australians’ perceptions of asylum-seekers,ix it is not hard to find evidence to the contrary, that Australian attitudes towards outsiders may be more welcoming and the ethos of its general public more complex than Muldoon’s opening discussion suggestsx

We should be wary of reading opposition to Australia’s asylum-seeker policies as a courageous act of moral dissent from majority opinion – a reading that serves to legitimise Muldoon’s treatment of Plato’s Socrates as a pertinent exemplar. On June 29, 2016 The Guardian reported a poll purporting to show that a majority of Australians at the time believed that refugees arriving by boat should be allowed to settle in Australia.xi Dissent from Government asylum-seeker policies cannot always be seen as dissent from the views of one’s fellow citizens – although this would not stop influential media outlets and senior politicians from portraying it as an anti-democratic elitism.

Democratic politics in Socrates’ Athens and today’s Australia

However, my principle concern is to dispute Muldoon’s use of Socrates to provide insights into the role Australian dissidents could ‘play in relation to local democratic politics’. If Socrates is hardly an appropriate role model for contemporary citizens who reject their government’s policies, neither is the Athens of Socrates’ time a fruitful model for understanding the Governments of contemporary democratic states. Australia and other contemporary democratic states have little in common with Socrates’ Athens apart from being open to awkward rhetorical appeals to popular rule & popular responsibility – appeals that are central to both Arendt’s & Jasper’s rather different discussions of individual & collective responsibility.xii

At first sight, contemporary democracies seem far removed from what we might understand as government by the people. They are, for the most part, governed by a mixture of elected representatives and unelected public servants operating, at least in part, within institutional arrangements – constitutional monarchy, a quasi-independent judiciary, police and military apparatuses that are nominally under civilian control – inherited from an even less democratic past. In today’s democracies, the people play an important part in their own government, mainly through electing representatives, but in what Madison calls ‘their collective capacity’, they are kept well away from the actual work of government.xiii

In practice, of course, something similar might be said about Socrates’ Athens.xiv Like Socrates himself, many citizens took no part in the activities of the Assembly or Council and the practical work of government was performed by slaves and by citizens chosen by lot, the latter ensuring that many citizens had the experience both of ruling and being ruled, and that democratic Athens was not a case of government by the one or by the few – although what remained of its aristocracy was more influential than those who regard Athens as an exemplary democracy would find entirely comfortable. It would be an exaggeration to say that the people of Athens in ‘their collective capacity’ actually governed themselves – or that they were collectively responsible for the actions of the polis.

Yet, if both contemporary democracies and Socrates’ Athens deviate significantly from the ideal image of the people acting ‘in their collective capacity’ they do so in their own ways and neither is a useful model for understanding the workings of the other. While the same ideal image underlies Arendt’s account – and also, I suspect, Muldoon’s – of collective responsibility, just as it underlies the long history of Western opposition to democracy,xv it has little to offer our understanding of the workings of contemporary democracies – or of Socrates’ Athens – or the role of disaffected citizens within them.

If today’s Australians hardly enjoy collective responsibility in Arendt’s sense for the conduct of their Government, neither are dissidents who, having despaired of their fellow citizens, give up on them exactly irresponsible although they do risk losing any chance of making a difference

Notes

1. Paul Muldoon, 2017, ‘Contesting Australian Asylum Policy: Political Alienation, Socratic Citizenship, and Cosmopolitan Critique’ AJPH: 63, 2, 2017, pp.238-253

11. F. von Schiller. “On Naive and Sentimental Poetry” in Walter Hinderer & Daniel O. Dahlstrom (eds.) Friedrich Schiller: Essays: (London, Bloomsbury 1993) pp.179-201. Schiller was by no means the first to return to the Greeks: cf E.M.Butler, The Tyranny of Greece over Germany (Cambridge, CUP 2012)

111. See my “‘The Greeks had a Word for It’: the polis as political metaphor”, Thesis Eleven 40, 1995: 119 – 132.

iv. Contesting…, p. 239 first emphasis added

v. As I have argued elsewhere: https://independentaustralia.net/australia/australia-display/never-walk-away,10526

vi. The Greeks…

vii. Contesting… p. 242 Note Arendt’s distinction : ‘What I am driving at … is a sharper dividing line between political (collective) responsibility, on the one side, and moral and/or legal (personal) guilt, on the other’ (‘Collective Responsibility’, in James Bernauer (ed) Amor Mundi: Explorations in the Faith and Thought of Hannah Arendt, (Dordrecht, Martinus Nijhoff) pp. 43-50, at p. 46). In her view, guilt is a moral and/or legal category, whereas responsibility is political.

viii. Contesting…, pp. 239, 40

ix. Cf, Daniel Flitton, ‘Asylum seeker boat turn-backs supported by 71% in poll’ Sydney Morning Herald, June 4, 2014

x. See, for example, Andrew Markus, 2001, Race, John Howard and the Remaking of Australia (Allen & Unwin, Sydney) and his annual (since 2007) Mapping Social Cohesion Reports (Scanlon Foundation with Monash University & The Australian Multicultural Foundation, Carlton, Vic) and David Marr’s 2017 discussion in ‘The White Queen: One Nation and the Politics of Race’, Quarterly Essay 65, pp10f

xi. 2016 was a year of intense debate on the legitimacy of Australia’a offshore detention, culminating in The Guardian’s release of a huge cache of leaked incident reports from the Nauru detention centre, in August. Muldoon hardly refers to the journalism of this period & his last dated reference cites the Sydney Morning Herald, 13 February 2016.

xii. Arendt, “Collective Responsibility” ; Jaspers, Karl, 1961, The Question of German Guilt, E.B. Ashton (trans.), New York: Capricorn.

x111. Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay 2003 [1787] The Federalist Papers (Bantam, New York) #63. cf my ‘Representation Ingrafted upon Democracy’. Democratization 7 (2) 2000: 1-18

xiv. See Christopher Blackwell’s useful discussion, “Athenian Democracy: a brief overview,” in Adriaan Lanni, ed., “Athenian Law in its Democratic Context” (Center for Hellenic Studies On-line Discussion Series). Republished in C.W. Blackwell, ed., Dēmos: Classical Athenian Democracy (A. Mahoney and R. Scaife, eds., The Stoa: a consortium for electronic publication in the humanities http://www.stoa.org])

xv. Jennifer Tolbert Roberts, 1997, Athens on Trial: The Antidemocratic Tradition in Western Thought (Princeton University Press)

Another Balfour Declaration

Abstract: Arthur James Balfour is remembered today as the British Foreign Secretary who signed a letter, dated November2, 1917, to Baron Rothschild. Generally known as the Balfour declaration, this letter affirmed that the British government viewed ‘with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object’ and added the qualification ‘it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country’. In Chapter One of Orientalism, Edward Said examines another, somewhat earlier and less familiar declaration, this time in the course of a speech on June 13, 1910 to the House of Commons. Here Balfour spoke of ‘the problems with which we have to deal in Egypt’, problems that he described as belonging ‘ to a wholly different category’ than those ‘affecting the isle of Wight or the West Riding of Yorkshire’1

At a time when what many of us know about Balfour and other historical figures is largely derived from secondary sources, I argue that, while it might seem unexceptional, Said’s insistence on what they have actually said operates as a salutary form of criticism.

Edward Said begins ‘Knowing the Oriental’, the first chapter of his Orientalism by commenting on a speech to the British House of Commons, 13 June 1910, by Arthur James Balfour, a former Conservative Prime Minister and still a senior figure in the Party. Balfour spoke of ‘the problems with which we [the British Government] have to deal in Egypt’, problems that he described as belonging ‘ to a wholly different category’ than those ‘affecting the isle of Wight or the West Riding of Yorkshire’.2 Rather than cite problems that arise from the difference in size between Egypt and these parts of Britain or in their distance from London, Balfour focuses on the fact, as he sees it, that in the history of the East,

you never find traces of self-government. All their great centuries – and they have been very great [unlike, we might add, Yorkshire and the Isle of White] – have been passed under despotisms, under absolute government. All their great contributions to civilisation – and they have been very great – have been made under that form of government….[T]he working government which we have taken upon ourselves in Egypt and elsewhere is not a work worthy of a philosopher… it is the dirty work, the inferior work, of carrying on the necessary labour3

Balfour insists that the Egyptians have benefited from British rule

Experience shows that they have got under [our rule] far better government than… they have ever had before, and which not only is a benefit to them, but is undoubtedly a benefit to the whole of the civilised West.

Balfour says nothing about how far the Egyptians appreciate what British rule has done for them. On this point, Said notes, it does not occur to him to let the Egyptians speak for themselves, since presumably any Egyptians who speak out are more likely to be agitators who wish “to raise difficulties” than good natives prepared to overlook the ‘”difficulties” of foreign domination’ (p.33)

Following this opening discussion, Balfour’s name does not appear much in the text, except in a few references to ‘the Balfour declaration’. So, we might ask, why would Said start his book with Lord Balfour? One possible answer is that Balfour’s name would already be known to many of Said’s readers as that of the British Foreign Secretary who signed an infamous letter, dated 2 November, 1917, to Baron Rothschild, a prominent member of the British Jewish community who was expected to forward the letter to the Zionist Federation of Great Britain and Ireland. It was, in effect, a letter to British and thence to international Zionism. Generally known as the Balfour Declaration,4 this letter affirmed that the British government viewed ‘with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object’. The letter adds a qualificatio: ‘it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country’.

Balfour’s earlier speech to the British Parliament about British rule in Egypt, with its striking declarative quality, was written only a few years before its more famous counterpart. Said’s examination of this speech gives his readers who know of Balfour only as signatory of his eponymous Declaration an important clue about how he may have understood the rights of non-Jewish communities in Palestine. It was clear to Balfour that, like most other peoples of the East and unlike those of Yorkshire and other parts of Britain, they had no understanding of self-government. Except for a few agitators, they would not know what to do with self-government if it were offered to them. What their rights and their interests are is not a matter to be decided by people who have no understanding of what might be involved in governing themselves.

On this reading, Said’s discussion of Bafour’s 1910 speech performs an important critical function by informing his readers what Balfour seems to have thought about the people who were likely to be displaced by the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people. It reminds us that little weight should be put on Balfour’s qualification concerning the rights of the non-Jewish communities of Palestine.

We can take this critical point a little further by recalling that, unusually for leaders of the British Conservative Party, Balfour was something of an intellectual who, a year or so before issuing his famous declaration, had published a critical Preface to the English translation of Heinrich von Treitschke’s Politics, a selection of his political lectures. Here, Balfour identifies himself as a liberal, unlike Tretschke, who had once been a member of the National Liberal Party but had abandoned his early liberalism long before the publication of this book,. Liberalism, Balfour says in a footnote, ‘is a name for principles of constitutional liberty and representative Government which have long been the common property of all parties throughout the English-speaking portions of the world.’ (p.ix). ‘All parties’ here naturally includes the British Tories, of which Balfour was a leading light. Since there is no reason to think that Balfour’s 1916 commitment to liberal principles was a recent development in his thought, we see here, and not for the first time, that influential liberal thinkers do not treat their principles as applying to the government of Orientals, to peoples of the East.

Balfour was a senior figure in the British Conservative Party. So, Balfour is a liberal, by his own assessment, and he is also a conservative. This raises the question of who we identify as liberal. One option, which I follow for the most part in this paper, is to say, as political theorists tend to do, that liberals are those who profess something like the principles that Balfour sets out in the footnote cited earlier. Other options are, first, to identify liberalism with a concern for economy in government, as Foucault sometimes appears to do5 and, second, like many historians, to describe as liberal anyone who belongs to a party or movement with the term ‘liberal’ in its name.6 Tony Abbott, Liberal Prime Minister of Australia at the time of writing, would be liberal in this last sense while Malcolm Turnbull, a senior figure in the Australian Liberal Party, would be liberal in all three senses.

I take Said’s insistence on what significant historical figures, like Balfour, have actually said to be a salutary form of criticism. I should qualify this immediately by adding that he would not want to copy out every word that Balfour may have said and nor would we want him to. There has to be an element of strategic calculation, a calculation that determines what is worth focusing on. In Said’s case, this is clearly a political calculation. This focus on what people say may not seem to be anything special, I will devote the remainder of this paper to indicating why I think it is important.

First, I can imagine some of my readers thinking: isn’t this just a standard feature of academic scholarship; isn’t it what we all do? Well, No, I don’t think we do, and for two reasons: first, we all know colleagues who will do anything to avoid critical engagement and, second, careful reading of familiar texts is the last thing that many academics now do. I say this, not because I see them as lazy – most, in my experience, work extremely hard – but for other reasons.

At one level, the reasons for this are fairly straightforward – I’ll add a few complications a little later. Even in areas, like literary criticism, political theory/history of political thought, and parts of cultural studies, most of us already know, from our own training, what the big names – Kant, Hume, Mill, Fanon, Said – have said. So, under pressure of time and rather than challenge the received wisdom, we find it easier to trot out the familiar quotations. Consider, as an example, the familiar principle of individual liberty stated in J.S. Mill’s On Liberty:

the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good… is not a sufficient warrant (1977 [1859], p.223, emphasis added)

This sounds nice and we’ve all seen it before, but the qualification, ‘member of a civilized community’ is disturbing. While the quoted passage taken as a whole could be read as identifying one of the distinguishing features of a civilised community, Mill’s qualification tells us that the principle need not apply to large sections of humanity, that is, to anyone who is not a member of a civilized society. We can see the consequences of this point in Mill’s next book Considerations on Representative Government, published only a couple of years after On Liberty. He describes representative government as
the ideal type of the most perfect polity, for which, in consequence, any portion of mankind are better adapted in proportion to their degree of general improvement. As they range lower and lower in development, that form of government will be, generally speaking, less suitable to them (1977 [1861], p.413)

In fact,

There are … conditions of society in which a vigorous despotism is in itself the best mode of government for training the people in what is specifically wanting to render them capable of a higher civilization (1977 [1861], p.567)

Earlier in the same book, Mill gives an example of the kind of vigorous despotism he has in mind:
Even personal slavery, by giving a commencement to industrial life, and enforcing it as an exclusive occupation of the most numerous portion of the community, may accelerate the transition to a better freedom than that of fighting and rapine (1977 [1861], pp.394-5)

So much for the principle of individual liberty. Like many liberals of his time, Mill hated slavery. He invokes it here to make the point that it may be acceptable to sacrifice individuals but only under certain conditions – only, that is, if they belong to societies that range ‘lower and lower in development’, societies that, in other words, are not civilized.

Not only do many of our colleagues appear not to have read Representative Government carefully but, without wishing to name names,I have even heard people in conferences and seminars insist that Mill could not possibly have said anything like what I have just quoted him as saying – essentially because of his commitment to individual liberty and his well-known antipathy to slavery.

How can one respond to such comments: ‘Take yourself off to a good library and don’t leave until you’ve read the bloody text?’ One might say something similar to those philosophers who seem reluctant to acknowledge the racist assertions of Hume and Kant.7

My point is simply that the careful reading of texts is not as common amongst political theorists or historians of political thought as one might wish and that, as a result, misleading accounts of the views of significant figures and thus of the doctrines – such as liberalism – they are said to have espoused are widely accepted. This is one reason why a careful, critical reading of these historical figures have actually said can be politically important.

I promised earlier to complicate this straightforward story. The problem is that, in the absence of extensive serious critical engagement with their work, blandly conventional views of significant historical figures are still widely accepted and promulgated, giving us an anemic version of, in this case, liberal political thought. (Of course, Kant and Mill are not the only figures I could have picked on to make this point.) Something similar could be said about significant historical events but I need not go into that issue here.

What are we to make of all this? One complication worth noting here is that the publication of Uday Mehta’s Liberalism and Empire in 1999 provoked the emergence of a minor industry in the history of political thought concerned to explore whatever relationships there might be between liberal political thought and imperialism. Mehta had noted (pp.6-7) that most British political theorists in the nineteenth century were deeply involved with the empire in their writings but the historians’ debate has focused on the narrower issue of whether or not liberals supported imperialism (Bell, 2007). (It turns out, not surprisingly, that some did and others did not.) Some historians (eg Muthu 2003) confuse liberal criticism of colonial practices in particular cases, which, as Mehta notes (pp2-3), was not uncommon, with criticism of imperialism in general.8

Mehta argued that liberalism is centred on an inflexible epistemological stance in which the unfamiliar is forced into familiar schema and that this results in liberals being insensitive to difference. Encounters with others therefore involve subordination, not a conversation between equals. In this respect, Mehta argues, to adopt the liberal stance towards others is to rely on the backing of imperial power. His point here is not so much that liberalism favours empire but rather the reverse, that imperial power favours liberalism. Thus, the focus of the historians of political thought on whether or not liberals supported imperialism evades the point of Mehta’s argument. The major problem with Mehta’s argument, missed by the historian’s response, is that his focus on epistemology lets liberals of the hook too easily – suggesting that what is seriously objectionable about liberalism’s take on empire is not so much its politics as its theory of knowledge.
Leaving the historians’ response to one side, am I suggesting that there is a conspiracy among liberal political theorists to misrepresent liberalism’s past? Well, Yes. Conspiracy theories are not always wrong and there are real conspiracies out there, some of which involve people who identify as liberal: the Liberty Fund, for example, and several competing varieties of Straussian (see the revealing discussion in Jaffa, 2013). Liberals who teach political theory or the conventional ‘ideologies’ or ‘-isms’ courses in politics departments generally aim to present a positive image of their own doctrine.

Another part of the story is that prominent liberals have seemed uncertain about the ramifications of their imperial responsibilities. When J. S. Mill, who, like his father, spent much of his adult life as a senior officer with the British East India Company, discusses in his Autobiography (1873) the different influences on his thinking, it reads as if his work for the Company – in effect, his work in imperial administration – had no real impact on the development of his political thought. Zastoupil’s careful discussion (1994) clearly undermines this congenial fantasy. More to the point, Mill’s reflections on his experience at the London Office of the Company show up in the closing chapters of Representative Government.

Like other imperial administrators in London or Paris around his time, Mill tried to distance himself from the more unsavoury practices of the Company’s subordinates in the field. In his remarks on the people of British India towards the end of Representative Government, Mill observes that, in marked contrast to the enlightened views of the colonial government itself – that is, of Mill himself and his London colleagues – administrators on the ground will often be tempted to ‘think the people of the country mere dirt under their feet’ (p. 571) and to treat them accordingly. He adds that it will always be extremely difficult for the colonial government itself to eradicate these feelings. This observation, and the more general discussion of imperial rule in which it appears, is revealing in a number of respects: first and most obviously it displays Mill’s recognition that practices which he regarded as distinctly unsavoury were an unavoidable part of the Company’s rule over its Indian subjects; and second, in the suggestion that he and his colleagues in the London office would not themselves have condoned such practices, it also serves to convey a corresponding sense of Mill’s own degree of civilisation. Balfour’s reference, in a passage quoted by Said, to ‘the dirty work, the inferior work, of carrying on the necessary labour’9 convey’s a similar sense of Balfour’s own refinement. He does this ‘dirty work’ because it has to be done, not because he enjoys it.

Balfour’s speech brings us back to my starting point. Balfour had been challenged by the Liberal – in the sense of Party member – MP, J. M Robertson, ‘What right have you to take up these airs of superiority with regard to people you call Oriental’10

His reply begins, “I take up no attitude of superiority…” – and this from a man who goes on to say that Egyptians, unlike Britons, cannot be trusted to govern themselves. ‘That is the fact’, he insists. ‘It is not a question of superiority and inferiority.’

Some years earlier, while he was Chief Secretary for Ireland, 1887-91, Balfour had directly linked the issues of the superiority of some people and the relative inferiority of others with their capacities for self-government. His New York Times obituary (20 March 1930) reports him as saying that ‘in many respects they [the Irish] are our superiors. But in one respect they are our inferiors and no amount of Gladstonian rhetoric can make them otherwise. They are politically incapable of self-government.’11

In some of his later writing, Said insists on reminding his readers of what he clearly sees as the chaacteristic hypocrisy of many liberals. For example his Oxford Amnesty lecture refers us to Aimé Césaire’s view (1972) that ‘unpleasant European practices against people of colour’ were routinely covered by ‘a façade of appeals to the greater civilisational levels attained by the white race (Said 1992:184, emphasis added). Said goes on to say that powerful imperial governments ‘ babble on about how really moral they are as they do some particularly gangsterish thing.’ How, he asks, is there any ‘appeal for liberals in such rhetoric’? (190).

It is tempting to see this example just as Said presents it, that is, as yet another instance of liberal hypocrisy, as showing that, like the rest of us, liberals have acquired the habit of saying one thing and doing something else and of varying both what they say and what they do according to context. Yet, this perception would be neither interesting nor informative. Hypocrisy is a common enough feature of public life and pointing out that liberals engage in its practice would not distinguish them from anybody else. Much better, I think, to pay close attention to what liberals say or write and to the internal, if not particularly logical, ‘logic’ that connects its conflicting elements and thereby serves to generate the familiar hypocrisy: we should pay attention, for example, to Mill’s principle of individual liberty, which I quoted earlier. As Mill presents it, the principle applies to some people, who are members of civilized societies, but not to those who are not members of such societies. In these terms, the ‘hypocritical’, differential treatment of the English and their colonial subjects makes some kind of sense. Or when Balfour tells us that governing the people of Britain is not like governing Egyptians, his point, as he understands it, is simply that Egyptians require a more authoritarian kind of government – ‘its what they understand’, he might well have said, ‘what they are used to’ – than the inhabitants of the Isle of Wight or Yorkshire, not that one group is inferior and the other superior. We have seen that this last is exactly what he does think but it is not the point he tries to make in this speech:here are two kinds of people in the world – those who do and who do not belong to civilized societies – and they have to be governed differently.

references
Barry, Andrew, Thomas Osborne, et al., eds. (1996). Foucault and Political Reason: liberalism, neo-liberalism and rationalities of government. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

Bell, D. S., Ed. (2007). Victorian Visions of Global Order: Empire and International Relations in Nineteenth Century British Political Thought Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Burchell, Graham, Colin Gordon, et al., eds. (1991). The Foucault Effect. Studies in governmentality. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

Césaire, A. (1972). Discours sur la Colonialisme. Paris, Présence Africain.

Collingwood, Robin G. (1927). Preface. in Guido de Ruggiero. The History of European Liberalism. Oxford, Oxford University Press: vii-viii.

Foucault, Michel (2008). The Birth of Biopolitics. Lectures at the College de France 1978-79. Basingstoke & New York, Palgrave-Macmillan.

Garrett, Aaron (2000) Hume’s Revised Racism Revisited, Hume Studies, XXVI, 1, 171-7

Garrett, Aaron (2004), Hume’s ‘Original Difference’: Race, National Character and the Human Sciences, Eighteenth-century Thought, 127-52
Geuss, Raymond (2002). “Liberalism and its discontents.” Political Theory 30: 320-339.

Hindess, B. (2009). “A tale of origins and disparity.” Journal of Cultural Economy 2(1-2): 215-219.

Hobson, John M. (2012). The Eurocentric Conception of World Politics: western International Theory, 1760-2010. . Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Hume, David (1987[1777]). Of National Characters. David Hume. Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary. E. F. Miller (ed). Indianapolis, Liberty Fund: 197-215.
Immerwahr, John, 1993, ‘Hume’s Revised Racism’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 53,3, 481-6

Jaffa., Harry V., Thomas L. Pangle, et al. (2013). CRISIS OF THE STRAUSS DIVIDED
Essays on Leo Strauss and Straussianism, East and West. Lanham, MD, Rowman & Littlefield.

Mehta, Uday S. (1999). Liberalism and Empire. A study in nineteenth-century British liberal thought. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

Mill, John Stuart (1977[1859]). Autobiography. Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. J. M. Robson. Toronto, University of Toronto Press. l: 1-290.

Mill, John Stuart (1977[1859]). On Liberty. Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. J. M. Robson. Toronto, University of Toronto Press. XVlll: 213-310.

Mill, John Stuart (1977[1861]). Considerations on Representative Government. Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. J. M. Robson. Toronto, University of Toronto Press. XIX: 371-577. Mills, Charles W. 1997, The Racial Contract, Ithaca, NY. Cornell University Press

Muthu, Sankar (2003). Enlightenment Against Empire. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

Palter Robert (1995) Hume and Prejudice, Hume Studies XXI,1, 3-24
Said, Edward W. (1985). Orientalism. London, Penguin.
Said, Edward W. (1992). Nationalism, Human Rights, and Interpretation. Freedom and Interpretation. The Oxford Amnesty Lectures, 1992. (ed.) B. Johnson. New York, Basic Books: 175-205.

Treitschke, Heinrich. von (1916). Politics (with a Preface by A. J. Balfour) London, Constable.

Zastoupil, Llyn (1994). John Stuart Mill and India. Stanford, Stanford University Press.

never walk away

Ursula le Guin’s powerful short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” first appeared in 1973, more than 40 years ago. Yet, it offers us an opportunity to reflect on Australia’s treatment of asylum-seekers. The story depicts a happy, prosperous city, marred by one barbaric practice: it always keeps one young child locked away alone in “a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings.” The people of Omelas all know the child is there. “Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, …. depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.” Many are disgusted at what Omelas is doing to this child – Often, when they have seen the child, “the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, …” – yet most of them appear to accept it as an disagreeable necessity. Omelas has made a Faustian bargain in which happiness must be balanced by misery: the “terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.” Others who don’t accept the bargain simply walk away. They appear to have despaired of their fellow citizens: “Each one walks alone [as they] leave Omelas … and they do not come back…. it is possible that [the place they go towards] does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.” End of story!

Science fiction writers – le Guin prefers to be called a novelist – rarely aim at prediction. Sometimes they propose a possible future or, as in Margaret Attwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a plausible alternative present, with an alternative history leading up to it, but in both cases the imagined world serves as metaphor. It raises questions about the present. Ursula le Guin’s regards her imagined futures as safe, sterile laboratories for trying out ideas: in The Left Hand of Darkness (1969) she invites readers to imagine a society without gender as we currently understand it while in The Word for World is Forest she reflects on the impacts of European colonialism and less directly on what America was doing in its destructive war on Vietnam and its SE Asian neighbours. The Omelas story depicts neither an imaginary future nor an alternative present but a fragment of another reality that could plausibly belong to either. Its partial portrayal of a different society performs a similar function to le Guin’s imagined futures.

There is no exact parallel between le Guin’s imaginary Omelas and today’s Australia. Omelas like le Guin’s America has no hereditary ruler and no slavery and while Australia also has no slavery or none that is legal, it does have an hereditary monarch, at least for the moment, but she is widely thought to play no active part in government. The Omelans, like today’s Americans and Australians appear to govern themselves but, unlike us, they have no stock market, advertising or secret police. Le Guin insists that the people of Omelas are different, but not less complex than us. We would not contemplate keeping just one solitary child locked away in a basement just to benefit the rest of us, although we do lock far too many non-Australians away in immigration detention, a practice that outrages many of us – not to mention the many indigenous people we incarcerate.

Australia’s disaffected citizens, unlike those of Omelas, do not have the option of walking away: whether we walk, drive or take public transport, we still find ourselves somewhere in Australia. Instead of walking away, all we can manage is to retreat into our heads: we can tell ourselves and anyone who will listen that our Government is not acting in our name.

Nor, it seems, does Omelas have any politics. Le Guin tells us there is no King. Otherwise she tells us nothing about how Omelas is governed. Perhaps it is ruled by a few powerful families or by what we now think of as democratic means. Those who despair and finally walk away are not described as engaging in protests, signing petitions, attending demonstrations or joining political parties in the hope of change. They despair, not only of their leaders but also of their fellow citizens.

Omelas’ leaders, like Australia’s, appear to believe that there is no alternative to their barbaric policies. They believe also that most of their citizens do not understand why these policies are necessary. Omelas sticks to its Faustian bargain and we hold fast to the view that penalising several hundred strangers will protect us from the world’s rising tide of refugees. No matter, most citizens are content to leave such issues to their leaders.

While le Guin’s Omelans can walk away, albeit to an uncertain destination and, with some effort, disaffected Americans could walk or drive to another country (Mexico or Canada) without being entirely sure of how they would be received, disaffected Australians can walk away only in their minds. If disaffected Omelans take the risk of not knowing where they will end up – it could be somewhere worse – something similar holds for disaffected Australians who mentally walk away but physically remain – our heads might end up in a worse political space.

The risk of a worse political space is particularly acute for anyone tempted to use the ‘dog-whistle’ metaphor to explainr why many Australians support our asylum-seeker policies. What is going on when we accuse John Howard or some younger Coalition politician of dog-whistling? Obviously, we accuse the dog-whistler of appealing deliberately and indirectly to racist sentiments. But the metaphor also points to those who respond, comparing them to trained sheep-dogs who hear the whistle and follow the command it contains. To use this metaphor is to compare many of our fellow Australians to trained animals – smart enough to follow commands but not to think for themselves. The risk here is the temptation to see those who follow the whistle as lesser beings – not a good headspace for anyone on the left to occupy.

Finally, if disaffected Omelans despair of their fellow citizens – why else would they walk away alone, not in groups large enough to make others notice? – there is no good reason for disaffected Australians to despair of our fellow citizens, although there are reasons to despair of our political leaders. Sure, there have been polls purporting to show majority support for our brutal treatment of asylum-seekers, with a significant minority appearing to follow the dog-whistle script, but we all know that poll results turn on the wording of the question and the context in which it is asked – and there have also been polls showing just the opposite.

If we cannot walk or drive away from Australia except into the sea and we should not retreat into the attractive seclusion of our heads, there is no alternative to the hard slog of engaging our fellow Australians politically.

The White Queen & the Black Prince

Whatever we might think of the Quarterly Essay as a publishing/political enterprise (Not very much in my case ) we should welcome the appearance of David Marr’s The White Queen: One Nation and the Politics of Race (QE 65), a powerful examination of the racism underlying mainstream Australian politics. Yet, there are real problems with Marr’s analysis, with his treatment of Howard’s role in the recent politics of race and with some of the language he uses.

Before I get to these issues, let me comment briefly on the QE enterprise. QE claims to present, in the words of the back cover, ‘significant contributions to the general debate’ in the form of single essays of about 25,000 words. ‘it aims to present the widest range of political, intellectual and cultural opinion’. (QE’s website is hardly more informative.) ‘Widest range’ in just four essays a year is a huge, not to say pretentious ambition, leaving us to wonder who gets to choose which issues just have to be covered this year and which can be left to another day – and, of course, who gets to write at length about them?
There are two major villains in Marr’s story. One is Ms (a title she would likely reject) Hanson, the White Queen of his Essay’s title. Marr quotes her definition of a racist as “A person who believes their race to be superior to another’s”. In this sense, she’s not a racist, although it should not be difficult to persuade a detached observer that much of her conduct rests on an implicit racism – except for the fact that the careful textual analysis required to do so has no place in Australian political discourse. Marr treats Hanson’s anti-Muslim tirades and the more general Australian targeting of Muslims as clearly racist. Many of us would agree and many others would not. Since she makes no reference to Muslim and non-Muslim races, her conduct is not racist in her own terms. I would take Marr’s point a little further here and say that the political enterprise of preventing or containing radicalisation is racist through and through. It simply ramps a conventional anti-muslim prejudice up to another level. When ‘radicalised’ and related terms are used without qualification today, they invariably target Muslims, although, to be fair, the language of radicalisation was also used in America to target the radical Black Panthers and the left-wing student movement, the weather underground in the late 1960s and ’70s. Still, ‘radicalisation’ is talked about in Australia today as something that happens exclusively to Muslims, not to once-moderate reactionaries like Malcolm Turnbull or to neo-Nazis and other white supremacists. It is telling that Australia has a bipartisan consensus on radicalisation and the need to combat it. This, too, is an important aspect of the Australian politics of race. Towards the end of his essay, Marr cites Anne Aly – herself a Muslim and a rare voice of moderation in the counter-radicalisation business – as an authority but, as he complains often enough about Howard, without calling this deplorable business out on its racism.

The other, more substantial, villain, call him the Black Prince, is John Howard. Marr accuses Howard of several things. One is simply refusing to call out Hanson’s racism when she first appeared on the national stage in the 1990s. Howard’s own reflections on this refusal in his 2010 book Lazarus Rising are worth quoting:

“Could the impact of Hanson have been less if I had attacked her… immediately after her maiden speech….[It] would have…gratuitously alienated [her supporters] from me – and for what purpose, other than the political benefit of the Labor party” (quoted by Marr, pp.38-9)

Worse, Howard chose to defend Hanson’s supporters from the charge of racism. Rather, he said, they were “a group of Australians who did not have a racist bone in their bodies, who believed that in different ways they had been passed over.” Howard, in effect, aimed to appease Hanson’s supporters in the hope of winning their votes or, at least, their preferences. “Something grubby”, Marr observes (p.39), “entered national life at this point.” Howard, we are told, ”shattered the twenty year truce [between the Coalition and Labor] on multiracial immigration.” (p.25) In practice, Labor also chose to appease or, at least, not to offend Hanson’s supporters. Marr maintains that the bipartisan appeasement of a racist minority “tainted Australian politics” (p2)

“Tainted”, “grubby”. These are terms of moral condemnation, not dispassionate analysis. Its not difficult to see what Marr is passionate about here and many, perhaps most, of his readers would agree with him. Even so, it is worth pausing to consider what this condemnation adds to our understanding of the Australian politics of race. Let me begin with the twenty year truce that Howard is alleged to have repudiated. Experienced diplomats know that, even when an agreed text is written and duly signed, the parties to an agreement are likely to take away different understandings of what has been agreed between them. In the case of unwritten agreements, the parties are even less likely to take the same view of what they have agreed. Marr understands the ‘truce’ as an agreement between Labor and the Coalition not to pursue racist votes, This understanding clearly points to Howard as the villain. Yet, a slightly different understanding yields another view. Suppose we understand the truce as an agreement to keep race out of politics. On this view, the truce was decisively broken in 1995 by Labor’s Racial Hatred Act, which amends another Labor (Whitlam) Government’s Racial Discrimination Act by adding the controversial Section 18C and by Keating’s Redfern Speech a few years earlier. Labor, on this view, repudiated the truce by not leaving racist dogs in peace.

This minor variation on Marr’s story hardly lets Howard off the hook but it does knock him off the Black Prince’s perch, leaving him simply as one of the more successful Dark Knights of Australian politics. As for Marr’s ‘tainted’ and ‘something grubby’, the particular contamination he addresses came in once the dogs had been aroused. Yet we should recognise that, far from being squeaky-clean, Australian politics was already tainted by an underlying racism and grubby enough before Howard arrived on the Dark Side. Nor does the ALP come out of this revised story very well. True, it remained largely on the decent non-racist side – but Labor never found the courage to do much about it.

One final observation: if ‘tainted’ and ‘something grubby’ are terms of moral condemnation, the same is true of ‘dog-whistle’. All suggest that the writer is morally superior to the people under discussion, in the dog-whistle case, Hanson’s & Howard’s white working class supporters. Marr notes that Australian right-wing talk of elites and their attitudes towards bulk of the population has been imported directly from the discourse of the American Right, along with the curious idea that Islam is not a religion. I agree, but, once we examine the conduct of the Australian Left, it becomes clear that the Right’s complaints about left-wing elites are not entirely without foundation. We might also note that the application of the pejorative term ‘dog-whistle’ to political analysis may also have been imported from America – at least, according to some commentators.

Marr describes John Howard (p.5) as “the great dog-whistler, the politician who could send a signal to the bush that went almost unheard in town.” The term draws on the image of the dog-whistle, once commonly used in sheep herding and also known as the ‘silent’ whistle. It was designed, to sound at a frequency, 20,000Hz or more, that would be inaudible to human ears but would be noticed by most dogs whose hearing is generally more sensitive to high frequency sounds than that of humans. Where humans would be unaffected by the whistle, except for the odd headache, suitably trained or habituated dogs would receive both a sound and the instruction that came with it – telling them, for example, to stop where they were or to round up sheep that had broken away from the main flock – and could be trusted to respond accordingly. Skilled dog-whistlers like Howard knew what they were doing while the dogs – Hanson/Howard’s working class supporters – could be expected to react without thinking.

In fact, the difference between bush and town does not fit the Australian Left’s usage of the term, which is more concerned with distinguishing between the political conduct of Hanson’s, and Howard’s, racist supporters who, Marr tells us, were as likely to be found in the cities as in the bush, and one’s own, more sophisticated conduct. While it appears to be an analytic concept, I have argued elsewhere that ‘dog-whistle’ functions as little more than a means of asserting the speaker’s ethical superiority over the ‘dogs’ who hear the whistle and act accordingly. [“whistling the dog” in John Uhr & Ryan Walter (eds) 2014 Studies in Australian Political Rhetoric, Canberra: ANU Press, free download at the ANU Press website] To his credit, Marr makes little use of this concept in the body of his discussion.

Debating Australia’s Racial Discrimination Act

“You black bastard” Is this offensive, friendly banter, somewhere in between or both?

The Australian Racial Discrimination Act was introduced by the Whitlam Government in 1975 to embody the spirit of the UN’s International Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Racial Discrimination, which the Act ratified, and particularly its insistence that “there is no justification for racial discrimination, in theory or in practice, anywhere.” Along with SBS, the RDA is one of the few Whitlam legacies to have survived more or less unscathed into the 21st century, although it was, in fact, strengthened by the 1995 Racial Hatred Act which laid down procedures for dealing with allegations of racial discrimination and added sections 18C & D, the latter specifying a number of exemptions to the provisions of the former. Both as a Whitlam Act, albeit slightly modified, and one with links to the UN – not to mention its threat to disrupt the minor everyday pleasures of many white Australians – it has been disputed by the Australian Right, who have focused overwhelmingly on the wording of section 18C which they see as impeding free speech – their main complaint against 18C from the beginning (McNamara & Solomon 1996). There has also been some dispute over the procedures to be followed in dealing with allegations of racial discrimination.

The disputed passage of 18C refers to acts that are “reasonably likely, in all the circumstances, to offend, insult, humiliate or intimidate another person or a group of people” specifically when “the act is done because of the race, colour or national or ethnic origin of the other person or of some or all of the people in the group.” Critics of the Act on the Right of the Liberal Party, who seem to have never recovered from the shock of the Whitlam years, object to the terms ‘offend, insult, humiliate or intimidate’ on the grounds that they are subjective (offense, for example, is said to be in the mind of the offended, an observation that is taken to mean that there can be no reliable legal test); insufficiently precise (although we should note that Australian Courts have found no difficulty in convicting many indigenous people of using offensive language against police officers (who can be trusted to recognise offensive language, particularly when they hear it directed against them); and that, notwithstanding the exemptions listed in section 18D, they serve to limit free speech thereby inviting the critics’ opponents to ask what they wanted people to be able to say that they cannot say now.

In a nicely symbolic act of discrimination – no complaint was lodged with the AHRC – the Chair of the Senate Committee considering options for reform denied a request by the ACT/NSW Aboriginal Legal Service that its representative be allowed to speak to the Committee. The Government finally opted to replace ‘offend insult, humiliate’ with ‘harass’ and to introduce procedural changes, while insisting that the original 18C had been discredited and, further, that this change in wording made the Act stronger by making it clearer – only to have its revisions rejected by the Senate.

Several features of the 18C debate are worth noting. First, for all this interest in terminology, in the meanings of words and what people do with them, critical discussion of section 18C barely touched on two absolutely central terms, discrimination and race – nor, of course, did it touch on the derivative terms, ‘racial’, ‘racism’ and ‘racist’.

Starting with discrimination, we can note that its meanings range from the simple act of recognising difference – between, say, moths and butterflies, indigenous and other Australians or wasps and bees – through the capacity to recognise such differences to action towards others that is unjust or prejudicial. The RDA targets only discrimination in this last sense, which is also the most recent: the earliest English-language use of the term in this sense noted by the OED was in 1819, while discrimination in the first sense appeared as early as 1621.

Discrimination against others in the prejudicial sense clearly depends on the act of discrimination in the sense of recognition of difference. Yet, we should not imagine that prejudicial discrimination is entirely negative in its effects. We often find references to positive discrimination, discrimination that favours disadvantaged groups, for example, through quotas in schools or universities, many introduced as gestures towards rectifying earlier discrimination against them. There is also a second important sense in which discrimination can be positive, essentially because it always cuts both ways. Just as some are victims of unjust and prejudicial actions, many others, who are not victims, experience a no less unjust and prejudicial discrimination in their favour. Discrimination against indigenous Australians is also discrimination in favour of non-indigenous Australians.

Notice finally that, like the RDA itself, the debate treats racial discrimination, as basically a matter of some people or organisations doing something unpleasant to one or more others because of ‘their race, etc…’. This raises three points, two of which I return to later: first, both the RDA and the recent 18C debate take it for granted that races exist; second, treating racism as resulting from prejudice suggests that the problem rests primarily in the minds of individuals. Thirdly, widespread inequities result not only from the prejudicial conduct of one or more individuals but also from the conduct of state agencies and the collective behaviour of banks and other other organisations.

Perhaps the clearest example of the latter is redlining, which led to the de facto segregation of many US cities outside the South. The term itself comes from American investigative journalism in the 1960’s: it refers to the practice of restricting services – whether by not providing clinics, hospitals, schools and supermarkets, pr locating them in places that some find hard to access or by selectively adjusting prices for insurance and mortgages – to residents of certain areas according to the racial or ethnic composition of those areas. Redlining is a clear case of discrimination that is difficult to blame on the bias of any single individual or group.

As to the inequities enacted by state agencies, we need only think of the ongoing scandal of Aboriginal deaths in custody and disproportionate rates of indigenous incarceration, Australian Governments’ cavalier treatment of native title or of the quality of the services provided to Australia’s indigenous peoples by agencies operating at various levels of Australian government. The net result of their actions amounts to massive discrimination against indigenous people and in favour of the non-indigenous population. In December 2007 the Council of Australian Governments recognised the seriousness of the issue, agreeing that steps must be taken at all levels of government to address gross inequalities between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians in the areas of health, education and employment. To this end, reports on progress are presented every year to the Australian parliament and they have so far been uniformly and predictably disappointing, a fact that is no less predictably deplored by politicians and media outlets before the rest of Australia gets on with other business

We might also think of the Australian practice of immigration detention. The 1901 Immigration Restriction Act, generally regarded as the basis of the White Australia Policy, aimed to prevent or severely limit the immigration of non-Europeans. It prohibited the immigration of various classes of people, with the result that they could not migrate legally to Australia, and provided for illegal immigrants, other than those of European descent, to be held in detention before they were deported. While the Immigration Restriction Act was finally replaced by the 1958 Migration Act, immigration detention has continued in various forms. Under the current regime of offshore detention, which operates in spite of Australia’s obligation as a signatory to the UN Refugee Convention not to penalise migrants seeking asylum, hundreds of refugees are incarcerated on Manus Island in PNG, which PNG courts have declared illegal, and Nauru. While White Australia openly discriminated in favour of Europeans, today’s offshore detention regime does so covertly by incarcerating non-Europeans. So few refugees of European descent arrive in Australia by boat that the question of making special provision for them simply does not arise. We can only imagine what might happen if boatloads of English-speaking whites, displaced, say, from South Africa, Kenya or Zimbabwe, were to arrive on Australian shores

Compared to unjust or prejudicial treatment, discrimination in the earlier sense of recognition of difference might seem to be relatively innocuous. Unfortunately, consideration of discrimination on the basis of race will show that this harmless appearance may be deceptive. Some authors (eg, Fields & Fields, 2014) have argued that the making or perception of racial distinctions should be seen as racist.

As for race itself, 18C renders discrimination illegal whenever “the act is done because of the race, colour or national or ethnic origin of the other person.” Here the RDA clearly assumes that racial differences exist, along with differences in colour and national or ethnic origin. There have been too many accounts of race for me to even attempt to examine them here. (but see Bethencourt 2013, Fields & Fields, 2014, Hund & Lentin 2016, Wolfe 2016) So cutting a long and complex story short, we can note, first, that races have generally been understood as populations distinguished from other races by their common inheritance, this last being variously understood in terms of blood, descent from one or a few common ancestors or genes. In nineteenth century Europe and America racial differences were often treated as natters of scientific inquiry. Alongside the resulting ‘scientific’ discussions of race there were others drawing in part on versions of ‘scientific’ race theory, with some also drawing on tendentious readings of the Biblical Old Testament. Second, while races were perceived as objects of study, racial discrimination, was widely experienced as an intractable social reality – a social fact in the Durkheimian sense of a societal feature that exercises an external constraint on individuals – something that could not be wished away and that simply had to be negotiated.

If racial discrimination is a social fact, so too are the races it distinguishes. The coexistence of the social fact of race and talk about different races raises many issues requiring further clarification, only a few of which can be touched on here. First, is there a causal relationship between talk about races and the social fact of racial discrimination? This would suggest the comforting view, at least for many intellectuals, that the rigorous examination of various accounts of races (which I have not attempted here) which would certainly result in discrediting most of them, would be a practical way of undermining racial discrimination as a social fact. Appealing to some as this view might be, it is hardly plausible. In medieval Europe, populations were distinguished ostensibly on the basis of descent but without reference to any concept of race, with Jews, Moors, Roma (Gypsies) all being identified as outsiders. Yet, if racial difference can appear as social fact in the absence of talk about races, it hardly makes sense to treat it as caused by such talk. If anything, the relationship works in the contrary direction ‘Scientific’ racism and other accounts of racial difference can be seen as serially unsuccessful attempts to make sense of the social fact.

Following this last point, we should not expect too much from critical discussion of influential accounts of racial differences. This is not to say that critiquing these accounts is a waste of time, only that it will not bring about the short-term results that some might hope for. We should not expect even the most powerful critiques to bring the whole edifice of racial discrimination crashing down. In fact, as with many complex social phenomena, there is little point in trying to identify a singular cause of racial discrimination. The more important question for us today is how does racial discrimination continue, or how is it reproduced, and here, I suggest, ‘scientific’ and other accounts of racial difference do play an important part.

Consider, for example, the vexed issue of race and intelligence. Around the end of the nineteenth century anthropologists and psychologists began to seek scientific evidence for and explanations of the superior mental capacities of Europeans – a truth which, for the most part, they simply took for granted. To this end, they compared brain sizes, skull shapes and sizes and adapted the recently developed techniques of intelligence testing. (I leave aside the contentious issue of whether the intelligence of individuals is amenable to testing in a culturally-neutral fashion.) By the mid-1930s psychologists had settled on the view that environmental and cultural factors were more significant determinants of intelligence than inheritance and this has since remained the majority view.

In a striking precursor to recent debates around global warming, a minority of specialists continued to hold out against this consensus – For the consensus view see the 1996 report prepared for the American Psychological Association by Ulrich Neisser and for stand-outs see, for example, Arthur Jensen (1969) and Hans Eysenck (1971)). Eysenck also held out against the medical consensus that there was a link between smoking and lung cancer – thereby providing excuses for an influential kind of denialism that still informs American education policies and political debates about positive discrimination in colleges and universities. (For example in Hernstein & Murray’s disturbingly popular The Bell Curve (1994) (cf Stephen Jay Gould’s 1996 powerful response) and the academic Journals Mankind Quarterly & Intelligence)

What happens in this denialism is that the perception of Black and White as different – which might seem to be no more than a matter of discrimination in the first sense noted above and thus innocuous (But cf Fields & Fields, 2014) – comes together with a problematic psychological measure to justify racial discrimination, in the prejudicial sense, thereby reinforcing & reproducing existing prejudicial regimes.

Finally, what of the individualism of the RDA and the debate around 18C? I noted earlier that both the Act and the 18C debate understood discrimination as a matter of one or more persons or organisations doing something unpleasant to one or more others. There is no doubt that this happens, but I also noted that this focus on individual misconduct tends to discount discrimination by government agencies and other organisations. While the Act does not deny that there may be discrimination by government agencies, section 6 insists that “nothing in this Act renders the Crown liable to be prosecuted for an offence.” Thus, if Australian State or Commonwealth Governments were tempted to indulge in racial discrimination, as I have insisted they are, the RDA offers no protection.

Yet, ignoring government agencies is not the only significant limitation of the Act’s individualistic focus. This focus suggests that the main problem of discrimination is a matter of prejudiced individuals. Suppose that we come up with a reliable explanation of individual prejudice, where would that leave us? In February 2017, the Australian broadcasting network, SBS broadcast a series under the heading “Is Australia Racist?” In practice, the programs in this series interpreted this question as meaning “Are Australians Racist?” and it turned out, to nobody’s great surprise, that many were and way too many others experienced racial prejudice in their daily lives.

SBS drew on the work of psychologists and sociologists, the latter investigating the extent of racist behaviour by or towards Australians and the former providing an account of this racism as a kind of prejudice based on fear of “people who don’t look like we do”, and suggesting that this fear was hard-wired into our brains but that we could change it, if we so desired, with a bit of effort

Unfortunately, even if we were to accept the idea of hard-wiring in the soft tissues of our nervous systems, this account of racism would be seriously incomplete. We all grow up with people who don’t look like ourselves and members of our immediate family and, over time, we learn not to be afraid of many of them. So, we fear, or are prejudiced against, some people who don’t look like we do and we don’t fear as much, or are less prejudiced against, others who also don’t look like we do. What distinguishes the two groups is not that people in one look like we do and those in the other do not, since neither of them look like we do. So, there must be something else going on, something that is not captured by consideration of whether they look like we do.

I have picked on the SBS series here, not to damn the network but rather to bring out the limits of treating racism as a kind of individual prejudice: no account of prejudice as a psychic process can tell us which people are targeted, why these are and those not. Nor is my observation that SBS sought the assistance of psychologists and sociologists intended to undermine the value of these disciplines. My point is simply that, in this case, their assistance did not get us far. Perhaps SBS was just unlucky or asked its hired psychologists the wrong questions.

Yet, if accounts of discrimination as a matter of individual prejudice cannot explain who the discrimination targets, perhaps we should, once again, turn the issue around and consider the possibility that prejudice is turned against populations because they have been and often still are targeted by states, powerful groups or organisations.

To conclude, if racial discrimination is a social fact, then so, too, will be the races it distinguishes. However, these races should be understood as populations identified by the fact of being targeted by racial discrimination, not as the entities specified by accounts of races that focus on heritable features that are allegedly shared by their members. This last point deserves more consideration than I can offer here for if only because, first, colonial territories and their successor states often contain distinct and differentially targeted populations (Wolfe 2017) and, second, racial discrimination and the races it identifies cut across national boundaries. Races as targeted populations are all too real, but races as populations unified by shared genetic traits are no more than dangerous fictions: they are not the products of distinct creations, whether by God, geography or evolution, nor populations descended from Ham, Japhet & Seth, the sons of Noah, as a literal reading of the Book of Genesis might suggest. Again, if races are targeted populations, and therefore social constructs, there are no rational grounds for supposing that any one of the races currently identified is superior to any of the others. Thus, returning to the Preamble of the 1965 International Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Racial Discrimination (which Australia ratified by passing the Whitlam Government’s RDA): “there is no justification for racial discrimination, in theory or in practice, anywhere” and certainly not in Australia.

References

Francisco Bethencourt (2013) Racisms: From the Crusades to the Twentieth Century Princeton: Princeton University Press
Eysenck, H. J. (1971). Race, intelligence and education. London: Temple Smith. [US title: The IQ argument].
Karen E. Fields & Barbara J. Fields (2014) Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life, London: Verso

Stephen Jay Gould (1996) The Mismeasure of Man . New York: Norton

Richard J. Hernstein & CharlesMurray (1994), The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life. Glencoe, NJ: The Free Press

Wulf Hund & Alana Lentin (eds.) 2016 Racism and Sociology. Berlin: Lit
Jensen, Arthur R (1969). “How Much Can We Boost IQ and Scholastic Achievement?”. Harvard Educational Review. 39: 1–123.
Ulric Neisser et al (1996) “Intelligence: Knowns and Unknowns”. American Psychologist. 51:77–101.
Patrick Wolfe (2016) Traces of History: Elementary Structures of Race. London: Verso

the attack on McManus

When Leigh Sales interviewed Sally McManus, the recently elected Secretary of the ACTU, on ABC’s 7.30 (Wednesday March 15), she laid out an obvious trap, first asking McManus whether she believed in the rule of law and, on receiving a positive answer, inviting her to condemn the CFMEU, which she refused to do. McManus said simply that she believed in the rule of law “where the law’s fair, where the law’s right, but when it’s unjust, I don’t think there’s a problem with breaking it”.

Right-wing politicians and media commentators had a field day. The PrimeMinister said Ms McManus’s comments were from ” a union leader who said the unions are above the law”.
“She believes that you only have to have to obey the law, or unions only have to obey the law, if they agree with it,”

“What she has done is defied the whole rule of law and this is the culture of thuggery and lawlessness that the CFMEU, of course is the great example of, and this is the culture of the union movement, it is the culture of the Labor party in 2017. … These are the people, these are the values or lack of values that is driving Bill Shorten – so he doesn’t care about the truth and he doesn’t believe in the law.”

Fairfax’s Sydney Morning Herald reported (March 17) “Unions, Labor Split over ACTU Sally McManus” and next day, The Australian followed with “Union leader Sally McManus blunders with her law-breaking stance.” Barrie Cassidy, host of the ABC Insiders show on Sunday mornings tweeted on March 15 “ There’s a difference between agitating to change laws and disobeying them. So individuals decide for themselves? There’s a word for that.” only to be reminded of Gandhi, Martin Luther King and other deliberate law-breakers who are now widely regarded as heroes, and of journalists’ professional refusal to reveal their sources to the authorities. And again, a political philosopher at the University of Sydney, apparently without registering the nuanced quality of McManus’ response to Sales, published “Why Should We Obey the Law?” in The Conversation (March 19), a piece that recycled Plato’s romantic tale of Socrates choosing to accept the death penalty rather than reject his obligations to Athenian Law by fleeing the city.

Meanwhile, Opposition leader Bill Shorten, courageously distanced himself from McManus’ response, saying that in a democracy those who felt a law was unfair should seek to have it changed.
“If you don’t like a law, if you think a law is unjust, use the democratic process to get it changed…. That’s the great thing about living in a country like Australia. That’s what democracy is about.”

What can one say: that McManus’ critics displayed world class hypocrisy, proving that Australia is still up there with the best in the fabrication of feigned outrage, not far behind North Korea, while also displaying an industrial-scale ignorance, both of the rule of law – cf. Ingrid Matthews admirable “On the dangerous dishonesty of ‘rule of law’”, IA, March 17 – and of the history of Australia and other contemporary democracies; and that Shorten & Cassidy share a starry-eyed view of the quality of Australian democracy (of which more in a moment)?

Yes, all this and more: but what I find particularly revealing about the character of political debate inAustralia is that this critical commentary displays no interest in what McManus actually said or the context in which she said it.

The context is clear: an interview on 7.30 in which Leigh Sales clearly set a trap for her guest. Rather than say nothing, McManus gave the carefully worded response quoted above. To say “when a law’s unjust, I don’t think there’s a problem with breaking it” is not to directly advocate law-breaking, but it is to suggest that McManus would be think twice before condemning Gandhi, MLK or, more to the point, union members who take industrial action when confronted with unsafe working conditions. Nor is it, as Turnbulll stated, to deny the rule of law or promote a “ culture of thuggery and lawlessness.” However, the willingness of her critics ignore McManus’ own words in favour of tendentiously putting words in her mouth is further evidence that the European/American ‘post-truth’ syndrome has taken firm root in Australian public life. The Coalition’s ferocious attack, in parliament (Monday, March 20) on Shorten’s and Labor’s record of defending worker’s rights is another example.

Finally, what of Bill Shorten’s starry-eyed view of democracy? The term democracy, derived from ancient Greek demos (the people, mob) and kratos (rule, strength), is often understood as meaning government by the people. On this understanding, everyone in a democracy shares responsibility for its laws and other decisions. This view of shared democratic responsibility underlies Bill Shorten’s view, supported by Barrie Cassidy’s tweet quoted earlier, that if you don’t like a law in a democracy, you should not break it, but work to change it.

In practice, this simple view of popular government does not accord with everyday experience of Australia and other contemporary democracies. To understand this discrepancy, we should first recognise that Western political thought has not generally favoured democratic government, usually becauset the majority are likely to be poorly educated and ill-informed, The Western tradition of rejecting democracy ha been carefully documented in the insufficiently-appreciated Athens on Trial: the Anti-Democratic tradition in Western thought (1994 ) by the classical scholar Jennifer Tolbert Roberts. Naturally, the wealthy minority have generally had an interest, as they clearly have today, in limiting the influence of popular concerns. Educated supporters of the American revolution – for example, the American authors of the Federalist Papers and the English radical Tom Paine – argued in favour of keeping the people in their collective form out of the work of government by placing this work in the hands of representatives elected by the people. Tom Paine preferred ‘representation ingrafted upon democracy’ to democracy itself.

The second thing we should recognise is that by the beginning of the twentieth century, democracy had also come to designate ‘representative government’, a complex system of government by networks of elected representatives and unelected public servants, operating through combinations of representative, vaguely consultative and hierarchical institutions. The long-standing Western fear of the people is central to this second sense of democracy, which involves institutional arrangements designed to both promote popular participation and limit its impact. When the World Bank , international development agencies, and Western political leaders favour democracy promotion, it is usually this second understanding of democracy that they have in mind.

In short, talk of democracy today reflects both the original meaning of the term and the long-standing Western fear of the people, a fear that surfaces today when professional politicians and serious commentators deplore both populism and popular public protests or demonstrations. Bill Shorten’s lame attempt to avoid the fall-out from McManus’s interview draws on the first while rabidly self-righteous Tory attacks on McManus and the Labour movement draw heavily on the second.

Is Australia racist? revised edition

Yes, of course, and its worse than you probably imagine

On Sunday February 26 Australia’s SBS TV network broadcast Ray Martin’s “Is Australia Racist?” the first program of its “Face Up to Racism (FU2racism) week”. Its a good question but it deserves a tougher answer than SBS managed to provide. Fortuitously, perhaps, this week also included the release of an inconclusive Parliamentary Report on what, if anything to do about the wording of Section 18C of the Racial Discrimination Act. In spite of my criticisms, below, of this SBS initiative, it performs a valuable service in the face of strenuous efforts by right-wing politicians and commentators – who cannot imagine that anything they say or do might be construed as racist – to confuse free speech and racist abuse by showing that many Australians suffer significant racist abuse, Aborigines and African migrants more than others, and that while almost two out of three Australians admit to being prejudiced, four out of five feel that there is racism in Australia and that something needs to be done to counter it. My discussion focuses on SBS’s #FU2racism week, not so much to run a critique of SBS, and only incidentally to dispute its treatment of racism, but rather to raise issues about public discussion of race and racism in contemporary Australia.

The first point to notice about Ray Martin’s opening program in the series, and about SBS’s advance publicity, is that it fails to specify precisely what #FU2racism understands by racism. This is unfortunate, not least because, like many contentious terms in public discussion, ‘racism’ has several meanings, each with different implications for how we might recognise and respond to it. More seriously, #FU2racism presents its own account of racism as if it were uncontentious. Racism, in its view, is an attitude, a prejudice or its verbal or physical expression, directed “towards people who don’t look like we do” – although w are also told that race prejudice is sometimes directed towards Muslims, whatever they look like – who we tend, not always consciously, to view “as a potential threat.” The appearance of the phrase “people … like we do” early in an on-line information page on #FU2racism suggests that it is a provisional stand-in for race , that the “people who don’t look like we do” belong to a different race or races than oneself. If racism is a prejudice or the expression of a prejudice, then, to ask ‘how racist is Australia?’ is to ask how widespread is such prejudice or its expression within the Australian population. This, it seems, is what the #FU2racism week has been designed to explore. My point in questioning this approach is not to suggest that the verbal or physical expression of prejudice is not damaging, whether it happens in schools, universities and other workplaces, in the street and shopping centres, at bus stops or on public transport. “Is Australia Racist?” showed several confronting examples, suggesting that we would be better off without it. Yet, this prejudice is not the only racism that should concern Australia today.

Fortunately, the #FU2racism information page informs us, while most of us are infected by an implicit (ie. not conscious) racist bias, neuroscience has shown that this bias is not “hard-wired” into our brains. The information page even offers an online test that innocent white Australians can take to assess whether, despite their own best intentions, they harbour any racist prejudices.

This approach assumes that the most significant damage caused by racism consists in the prejudicial behaviour of individuals, moving the study of racism out of the broad domain of the social sciences – anthropology, history, political science and sociology – and into that of psychology, especially neuroscience and psychology’s speculative sub-discipline, evolutionary psychology, which purports to offer an evolutionary explanation of race prejudice.

The same information page, headed ‘Like it or not, you’re probably racist,’ tells us that our brains have evolved to look “for patterns, things are lumped together into categories….. the question boils down to: in-group or out-group? Or – “Do they look how I look?” This is the contribution of evolutionary psychology: treating our implicit fear of outsiders as an atavistic survival, first consolidated millions of years ago in the reptilian brain and now cowering in our mammalian “amygdala [which] keeps track of all the negative stereotypes perpetuated within our environment – and it programmes itself to react to them, too.” (While this evolutionary speculation is clearly set out in the ‘Like it or not, you’re probably racist’ page, I did not notice it in any of #FU2racism week’s TV broadcasts.) Fortunately, we “are able to modify our unconscious bias, we just have to get into the habit of using a different attitude” – assuming, of course, that we are aware of our implicit bias and truly wish to be rid of it. Reference to implicit bias suggests that any of us might be racist without being aware of it – which makes sense of right-wing contortions over free speech and section 18C of the RDA and of the protestation we hear often enough from public figures: “ I’m not racist, but…”

Many of us learned in our earlier years that its not good to be racist, an injunction that is too easily understood as meaning no more than don’t be seen to be racist, and that the overt expression of racism is best avoided, which suggests a different view of the “I’m not racist, but….” protestation.

The treatment of racism as prejudice “towards people who don’t look like we do” raises several questions. First, the expression “people who don’t look like we do” is more complex than it might seem. It assumes that most individuals view themselves as members of a collective, the “we” in ‘like we do’, even if many members of the collective do not, in fact, look like they do – they are of another gender, taller, shorter, leaner or bulkier, have different shaped faces, different complexions, hair texture and colour, wear different clothing, etc. Each of us grows up surrounded by people who don’t look like oneself and we get used to it. At some point, we might encounter others who also don’t look like oneself, who we consign to the outer darkness. The formula ‘Don’t look like we do’ does not distinguish one group from the other. Neither look like we do, but only in the latter case is the observable difference treated as significant. We discriminate against an out-group, not because “they don’t look like we do” but because we target them for some reason and we say tha” they don’t look like we do” because we target them. ”People who don’t look like we do” offers no explanation of race prejudice. It does not explain why we target some of those who “don’t look like we do” but not others. Yet the formulation itself is agnostic on the question of whether “people who don’t look like we do” belong to races other than one’s own.

Second, then, are “people who don’t look like we do” members of one or more different races and is it racist to view them as a potential threat? A positive answer would suggest that racism is a matter of prejudice against members of other races. Yet natural and social scientists who study race have generally concluded that there are no biologically distinct human races (see, for example, Stephen Jay Gould’s admirable discussion in his The Mismeasure of Man). This would leave racism as a matter of treating people as if they belonged to biologically distinct races. The authors of Racecraft: The soul of inequality in American life argued that the division of populations into races, as the final #FU2racism TV program did and as still sometimes happens in national censuses and landing cards issued on international flights, is itself racist. In this last case, it is the practice of classifying people into races that is racist, even if no prejudicial treatment follows directly. This classificatory ‘racism’ might seen relatively harmless except for the fact that it identifies readily available targets for prejudicial bias. It is perhaps best seen as a relic of times in which governments regarded race and race difference as matters of serious public concern.

Since the time of W.E.B du Bois’ pioneering ‘The Conservation of Races’ (1887, now readily available online) many sociologists have argued that race and racial difference are social constructions and this view is now rarely disputed within the discipline. To say that race is socially constructed is to say that, even though there are no grounds for regarding race as a biological phenomenon, race is nevertheless a significant social phenomenon. Alana Lentin of Western Sydney University has published important work on this issue, see, for example, her ‘Race’ in the 2017 Sage Handbook of Political Sociology

So, how might we address the question ‘how racist is Australia’ in either the classificatory or prejudicial senses just noted? It might seem that a really sophisticated survey with carefully designed questions would be the way to go. #FU2racism goes part way there with a large-scale survey examining individual experiences of race prejudice and views about the extent and impact of racism in Australia. While, as noted earlier, two out of three admitted to their own prejudice, we should bear in mind that the remaining one in three is likely to include some who are unaware of their own prejudices.

Yet, what do these findings tell us about how racist is Australia? The question is about Australia, not just the Australian people who make up an important part, but not the totality of what we think of as Australia. If, according to our imaginary survey, the average Australian turned out to be somewhat less racist than the norm for national populations of largely European descent, this would answer only part of the question about Australia. To address this, we would have to consider the extent of structural racism by looking also at Australian institutions, state and commonwealth laws and agencies, schools, colleges and Universities, churches, clubs, the RSL, political parties, movements, crowds at sporting venues and sporting codes – including cricket, which is not normally treated as just another sporting code, but it is hard not to notice that few non-whites ever make it into Australia’s international cricket teams. Recent American experience and Wednesday’s “The Truth about Racism” program suggest that,if we do not face up to structural racism, attempts to address its effects will be portrayed as privileging its victims.

If it turned out that most Australians were not particularly racist, this would tell us little about the official face of Australian racism, which is on display for all the world to see in the conduct of Customs and Border Protection and Australia’s various police forces, not to mention Australia’s treatment of its indigenous peoples, whose effects are ritually lamented every time a predictably disappointing ‘Closing the Gap’ Annual Report appears, and of the many asylum seekers, few, if any, of them white, languishing on Manus and Nauru. To repeat an earlier point, the issue in these cases concerns more than the prejudices of individual public servants and ministers working in these areas – although some of these can be problematic enough – but also government policies and the institutional protocols, departmental ethos and constraints within which they work.

If there is a need for us to face up to the racism of many Australians, the same is true of Australia’s institutions. Reforming the first will have little direct impact on the second. In asking Australians to face up to racism, it appears to be their individual prejudices that concern SBS rather than the structural racism that is built into Australian institutions. The extent of racist prejudice in Australia is certainly worth exploring but SBS’s reluctance to tackle structural racism represents a serious failure of nerve.

White Working Class Racism

“We tend to associate racist and sexist attitudes with uneducated, low-income working class people”
I was shocked to find this statement in the printed version of an LSE seminar paper by a London University Academic. I should not have been. The view it expresses has preoccupied Left commentary on the outcome of the Brexit referendum and the election of Donald Trump as US President.
In the British case, the working class – here the “uneducated low-income working class people” – whose conduct is to be explained is normally implicitly white while, in the American case, commentators refer explicitly to the white working class. After a flurry of efforts to explain Britain’s Brexit vote and Trumps election in terms of working class disaffection from mainstream politics, and particularly from what many commentators still view as “progressive” political parties, more-informed commentators pointed out that the LEAVE victory was not simply down to the working class while others (eg Hsia-Hung-Pai openDemocracy 11 July 2016) insisted that the British working class was not entirely white.
The same paper gives a clear example of the assumption Hsia-Hung-Pai disputes, continuing that many “find it difficult to fathom … that [racist & sexist] attitudes are not only those of uneducated low-income classes, but that they are prevalent amongst the educated middle classes” before contrasting both the uneducated low-income classes and educated middle classes to ”people of colour”, thereby implying that members of the classes in question are without colour, ie.“white”.
Following my initial surprise, my first reaction, as always when I encounter the rhetorically inclusive “we”, was to wonder who they might be; was I now part of this “we” and, if not, would I want to be? No. I do not belong nor do I wish to belong to this rhetorically invoked collective, for several reasons. Before I get to these reasons, let me just ask: How is it that “we”, whoever that might be, have come to look down on the white working class?
Salt of the earth
When I first encountered socialism, in the early 1950s version of Britain’s Labour Party Young Socialists, it seemed that the working class could do no wrong. Its members were, as one visiting speaker explained in a phrase that stuck in my mind, “the salt of the earth and our hope for the future.” (Did this mean that they were not racist? At the time, I didn’t think to ask) My impression is that many on the Left have since abandoned this positive view of the working class. How, when and why has this happened? And does the “whiteness” of the working class have something to do with it?
Much of my academic work over the last 15-20 years has tried to understand the ways in which educated Europeans have contrived to imagine themselves as superior both to non-Europeans and to uneducated Europeans. The maintenance of this illusion over several centuries must surely rank among the greatest intellectual achievements of western civilisation. Where this author’s “we” view the working class as racist, I have learned to think of educated Europeans, in the past and all too often in the present, in precisely those terms. Here, just to take one example from the past, are the opening lines of a notorious footnote from David Hume’s essay “Of National Characters”, first published in 1748 and enthusiastically picked up by Immanuel Kant:

I am apt to suspect the Negroes, and in general all the other species of men (for there are four or five different kinds) to be naturally inferior to the whites. There never was a civilized nation of any other complexion than white, nor even any individual eminent in either action or speculation….

It is not hard to find overtly racist sentiments in the work of other great names in the history of liberal political thought – John Locke, Immanuel Kant, and John Stuart Mill, for example.
Take Stevenage…
Growing up in 1940s and ’50s England, I lived in Stevenage, about 30 miles north of London – a small town of a few thousand people and a couple of industrial employers that subsequently became one of the many New Towns, built by the postwar Labour Government to house Londoners displaced by urban planning, slum clearance and German bombs.
While the Old Town Stevenage working class was not large it was certainly racist but so too was almost everyone else – the animus being directed, most obviously, against visiting Roma and the “jew-boys” who ran the local wartime and post-war black markets. In this respect, at least, Stevenage was a microcosm of post-war Britain.
Stevenage was not much affected by migrants from South Asia or the West Indies. The immigrants who threatened to, and did in fact overwhelm our limited educational and health services were as English as we were, working class Londoners, with strange accents, curious tastes in clothing and hair-styles and a refreshingly open contempt for school uniforms – and also, so the local press informed us, a dangerous propensity for destroying cinema seats whenever Bill Haley, Elvis Presley and sometimes even Cliff Richards were performing on screen, but not, oddly enough, during ‘family’ movies like South Pacific and The Sound of Music.
These English migrants posed no threat to our housing or jobs, but only because the Stevenage Development Corporation provided them with housing and had thoughtfully encouraged several large industrial employers to move into the area. What the Corporation did not provide for the newcomers were sufficient cinemas, pubs and shops and this insufficiency became an ongoing source of tension between the original inhabitants and the newcomers.
My overall impression of Britain during this period, as it is of the USA today, is that racism could be found all over the place, overtly amongst the white working class and more discreetly elsewhere, if you knew what to look for or found yourself on the receiving end. I recall younger teachers in my secondary school trying, against the disapproval of both their seniors and our parents, to persuade us to abandon racism, but with only limited success.
The most important lesson we took away from their efforts was that the overt expression of racism was best avoided. Some years later, at a time I find difficult to pin down, racism came to be widely regarded as a bad thing, at least among English people with more than the minimum education – or perhaps it was only necessary to avoid racism’s overt expression, a condition easily confused with not being racist. I strongly suspect the latter.
The sense that one should not be racist, and certainly not do so out loud, was one of the many norms that sustained what English people understood by class, enabling those who had absorbed this lesson to feel superior to the many who had not. This gives us a provisional answer, at least in the English case, to my earlier question: “we” started to deplore working class racism around the time “we” learned that the overt expression of racism was not such a good idea. I suspect that something similar might hold in America, but without the complication of English class sensibilities and with a wider range of targets.
This last point suggests one of the two most familiar explanations for working class racism – poor education. I’ll turn to another familiar explanation in a moment. There are numerous American studies purporting to show that white males without a two-year college degree are more likely to endorse racist views, suggesting that education has a countervailing effect. The standard case for the importance of education in this regard takes a romantic view of the impact of the humanities – especially the study of literature and other languages, all of which are often thought to promote empathy, the ability to imagine oneself in the place of another.
Yet, few US two-year college degrees are humanities-based. Most college students take ostensibly vocational courses – advanced secretarial, advertising, aged-care, business communication, commerce, early childhood education, hospitality, human resource management, office administration, nursing, etc. Most such courses are less likely to increase their graduates’ empathy than to marginally improve their employment prospects. Those with two-year degrees may be less vulnerable than those without to competition for jobs from unskilled migrants.
A second explanation

This, in effect, is the second explanation: the white working class is simply responding to the perceived threat to their jobs, housing, schools and welfare provision more generally posed by Blacks, Hispanics and migrants.
Unfortunately, this view rests on the image of an ethnically and nationally homogeneous working class that, while it may appeal to the few remaining English nationalists on the Left, has never been entirely realistic. The English working class has taken in many outsiders over the years – Irish, Jews, Scots and Welsh, most obviously, but also migrants from all over Europe, freed or escaped slaves and sailors from the Middle East, Africa, the Americas, South and East Asia and the Malay archipelago who, after landing in Britain, either failed to return to their ships in time or were cynically abandoned by their employers.
Satnam Virdee’s recent Racism, Class and the Racialized Outsider makes the important point that the English working class has always been a multi-ethnic formation. It has often harboured racist sentiments and sometimes a working class anti-racism. The ‘white’ working class of America, like those of other parts of Europe, has a different but no less complex formation, complicated, in particular, by America’s heritage of virulent racisms directed against Blacks, Mexicans/Hispanics and Native Americans.
To conclude, if the working class is not entirely white, the whiteness of its ‘white’ component is somewhat exaggerated and so too, I suspect, is its racism. Certainly, the English and American ‘white’ working classes harbour racist tendencies, along with anti-racist ones, but they hardly stand out in this respect from the remainder of the ‘white’ population.