A level Economics: Starting Fair and Dealing with Luck: Comparing Monopoly and Real Economies

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Think about Monopoly, the game where you buy properties and compete to win. Now, let's compare it with how the real world works when it comes to money, businesses, and luck.

In Monopoly, every player starts with the same amount of money. This makes sure that nobody gets an advantage right away. It's like starting a race with everyone on the same line. This makes the game about skills and strategy.

But in real life, things can be different. Some people start with more money or better chances. It's like some players in Monopoly starting ahead with better properties. This isn't fair, and it's how it is in the real world sometimes.

In Monopoly, luck comes into play with the roll of dice and the cards you draw. Sometimes you land on good spots, and sometimes not. Luck can make a big difference in the game. Similarly, real life has surprises too. New inventions, what people want to buy, and unexpected events can change how well businesses and people do.

But here's where they're not the same. In Monopoly, luck only matters during the game. In real life, luck is just one piece of the puzzle. Real life is more complicated. It's not just about luck – it's about how things are made, what people like, and rules set by governments. All of these things make the real world much harder to predict than a game.

So, in Monopoly, luck follows the game's rules. In real life, luck mixes with many other things, making it more complex. The comparison between Monopoly and real life reminds us that the real world is unfair and trickier.

Is it possible to have Freedom and Equality?

 

How the West fell out of love with economic growth

From The Economist

This year has been a good one for the West. The alliance has surprised observers with its united front against Russian aggression. As authoritarian China suffers one of its weakest periods of growth since Chairman Mao, the American economy roars along. A wave of populism across rich countries, which began in 2016 with Brexit and the election of Donald Trump, looks like it may have crested.

Yet away from the world’s attention, rich democracies face a profound, slow-burning problem: weak economic growth. In the year before covid-19 advanced economies’ gdp grew by less than 2%. High-frequency measures suggest that rich-world productivity, the ultimate source of improved living standards, is at best stagnant and may be declining. Official forecasts suggest that by 2027 per-person gdp growth in the median rich country will be less than 1.5% a year. Some places, such as Canada and Switzerland, will see numbers closer to zero.

Perhaps rich countries are destined for weak growth. Many have fast-ageing populations. Once labour markets are open to women, and university education democratised, an important source of growth is exhausted. Much low-hanging technological fruit, such as the flush toilet, cars and the internet, has been plucked. This growth problem is surmountable, however. Policymakers could make it easier to trade across borders, giving globalisation a boost. They could reform planning to make it possible to build, reducing outrageous housing costs. They could welcome migrants to replace retiring workers. All of these reforms would raise the growth rate.

Growing pains

Unfortunately, economic growth has fallen out of fashion. According to our analysis of data from the Manifesto Project, which collects information on the manifestos of political parties over decades, those in the oecd, a group of mostly rich countries, are about half as focused on growth as they were in the 1980s (see chart 1). Modern politicians are less likely to extol the benefits of free markets than their predecessors, for instance. They are more likely to express anti-growth sentiments, such as positive mentions of government control over the economy.

When they do talk about growth, politicians do so in an unsophisticated manner. In 1994 a reference by Gordon Brown, Britain’s shadow chancellor, to “post neo-classical endogenous growth theory” was mocked, but it at least indicated serious engagement with the issue. Politicians such as Lyndon Johnson, Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan offered policies based on a coherent theory of the relationship between individual and state. gdp’s small coterie of modern champions, such as Mr Trump and Liz Truss, offer little more than reheated Reaganism.

Apathy towards growth is not merely rhetorical. Britain hints at a wider loss of zeal. In the 1970s the average budget contained tax reforms worth 2% of gdp. By the late 2010s policies made half as much impact. A paper published in 2020 by Alberto Alesina, a late economist at Harvard University, and colleagues at the imf and Georgetown University measured the significance of structural reforms (such as changes to regulations) over time. In the 1980s and 1990s politicians in advanced economies implemented a large number, making their economies sleeker. By the 2010s, however, they had lost their oomph: reforms practically ground to a halt.

Our analysis of data from the World Bank suggests that progress has slowed still further in recent years, and may even have reversed (see chart 2). The American government introduced 12,000 new regulations in 2021, a rise on recent years. From 2010 to 2020 rich countries’ tariff restrictions imposed on imports doubled. Britain voted for and implemented Brexit. Other countries have turned against immigration. In 2007 almost 6m people, on net, migrated to rich countries. In 2019 the number was down to just 4m.

Governments have also become less friendly to new construction, whether of housing or infrastructure. A paper by Knut Are Aastveit, Bruno Albuquerque and André Anundsen, three economists, finds that American housing “supply elasticities”—ie, the extent to which construction responds to higher demand—have fallen since the housing boom of the 2000s. This is likely to reflect tougher land-use policies and more powerful nimbys. Housing construction across the rich world is about two-thirds its level in that decade.

Politicians prefer splurging the proceeds of what growth exists. Governments are spending a lot more on welfare, such as pensions and, in particular, health care. In 1979 the bottom fifth of American earners received means-tested transfers worth less than a third of their pre-tax income, according to the Congressional Budget Office. By 2018 the figure was more than two-thirds. According to a report in 2019, health spending per person in the oecd will grow at an average annual rate of 3% and reach 10% of gdp by 2030, up from 9% in 2018.

Politics is increasingly an arms race with promises of more money for health care and social protection. “Thirty or 40 years ago it was taken for granted that the elderly were not good candidates for organ transplantation, dialysis or advanced surgical procedures,” Daniel Callahan, an ethicist, has written. “That has changed.” Greater wealth has enabled this. Yet politicians rarely ask whether an extra dollar on health care is the best use of cash. Britons in their 90s receive health and social care that costs the country about £15,000 ($17,000) a year, about half Britain’s gdp per person. Must budgets rise year after year to meet growing demand, even as the price of providing that care is also likely to increase? If yes, where is the limit?

People may see spending on health care and pensions as self-evidently good. But it comes with downsides. More people work in an area where productivity gains, and therefore improvements in overall living standards, are hard to induce. Perfectly fit older people drop out of work to receive a pension. Funding this requires higher taxes or cuts elsewhere. Since the early 1980s government spending across the oecd on research and development, as a share of gdp, has fallen by about a third.

Much of the extra spending comes at times of crisis. Politicians are increasingly concerned with preventing bad things from happening to people or compensating them when they do. The enormous system of credit guarantees, eviction moratoriums and debt forgiveness introduced during the pandemic brought bankruptcies and defaults to a halt. This was radical, but also the thin end of the wedge.

In America, for instance, the federal government has assumed huge contingent liabilities. It guarantees an ever-larger quantity of people’s bank deposits; it forgives student loans; it offers a wide variety of implicit and explicit backstops to everything from airports to highways. We have previously estimated that Uncle Sam is on the hook for liabilities worth more than six times America’s gdp. This year European governments have fallen over themselves to offer financial support to households and firms during the continent’s energy crisis. Even Germany, normally Europe’s most disciplined spender, has allocated funding worth 7% of gdp for this purpose.

No one cheers when a firm goes bust or someone falls into poverty. But the bail-out state makes economies less adaptable, ultimately constraining growth by preventing resources shifting from unproductive to productive uses. Already there is evidence that fiscal help doled out during the pandemic has created more “zombie” firms—those which are going concerns, but which create little economic value. Governments’ huge implicit liabilities also mean higher spending in times of trouble, which reinforces the trend towards higher taxation.

Grey power

Why has the West turned away from growth? One possible answer relates to ageing populations. People who are not working, or are near the end of their working lives, tend to be less interested in getting richer. They will support things which directly benefit them, such as health care, but oppose those that only produce benefits after they are gone, such as immigration or homebuilding. Their turnout at elections tends to be high, so their views carry weight.

Yet Western populations have been ageing for decades, including during the reformist 1980s and 1990s. Thus the change in the environment in which policy is made may play a role. Before social media and 24-hour rolling news it was easier to implement tough reforms. The losers from a policy—a business exposed to greater competition from abroad, say—often had little choice but to suffer in silence. In 1936 Franklin Roosevelt, speaking about opponents to his New Deal, felt able to “welcome” his opponents’ hatred. Now the aggrieved have more ways to complain. As a result, policymakers have more incentive to limit the number of people who lose out, resulting in what Ben Ansell of Oxford University calls “countrywide decision by committee”.

High levels of debt have also constrained policymakers’ room for manoeuvre. Across the g7 group of rich, powerful countries, private debt has risen by the equivalent of 30 percentage points of gdp since 2000. Even small declines in cash flows could make servicing the debt harder. This means politicians quickly intervene when anything goes wrong. Their focus is keeping the show on the road—avoiding a repeat of the financial crisis of 2007-09—rather than accepting pain today as the price of a brighter future.

Quite what would push the West in a new direction is unclear. There is no sign of a shift just yet, beyond the misguided attempts of Mr Trump and Ms Truss. Would another financial crisis do the job? Will a change have to wait until the baby boomers are no longer around? Whatever the answer, until growth speeds up Western policymakers must hope their enemies continue to blunder. 

India Supreme Court on Reservations in Promotions

 

Welcome to the era of the bossy state

The relationship between governments and businesses is always changing. After 1945, many countries sought to rebuild society using firms that were state-owned and -managed. By the 1980s, faced with sclerosis in the West, the state retreated to become an umpire overseeing the rules for private firms to compete in a global market—a lesson learned, in a fashion, by the communist bloc. Now a new and turbulent phase is under way, as citizens demand action on problems, from social justice to the climate. In response, governments are directing firms to make society safer and fairer, but without controlling their shares or their boards. Instead of being the owner or umpire, the state has become the backseat driver. This bossy business interventionism is well-intentioned. But, ultimately, it is a mistake.
 
Signs of this approach are everywhere, as our special report explains. President Joe Biden is pursuing an agenda of soft protectionism, industrial subsidies and righteous regulation, aimed at making the home of free markets safe for the middle classes. In China Xi Jinping’s “Common Prosperity” crackdown is designed to curb the excesses of its freewheeling boom, and create a business scene that is more self-sufficient, tame and obedient. The European Union is drifting away from free markets to embrace industrial policy and “strategic autonomy”. As the biggest economies pivot, so do medium-sized ones such as Britain, India and Mexico. Crucially, in most democracies, the lure of intervention is bipartisan. Few politicians fancy fighting an election on a platform of open borders and free markets.

That is because many citizens fear that markets and their umpires are not up to the job. The financial crisis and slow recovery amplified anger about inequality. Other concerns are more recent. The world’s ten biggest tech companies are over twice as big as they were five years ago and sometimes seem to behave as if they are above the law. The geopolitical backdrop is a far cry from the 1990s, when the expansion of trade and democracy promised to go hand in hand, and from the cold war when the West and the Soviet Union had few business links. Now the West and totalitarian China are rivals but economically intertwined. Gummed-up supply chains are causing inflation, reinforcing the perception that globalisation is overextended. And climate change is an ever more pressing threat.

Governments are redesigning global capitalism to deal with these fears. But few politicians or voters want to go back to full-scale nationalisation. Not even Mr Xi is keen to reconstruct an empire of iron and steel plants run by chain-smoking commissars, while Mr Biden, despite his nostalgia for the 1960s, need only walk through America’s clogged West Coast ports to recall that public ownership can be shambolic. At the same time the pandemic has seen governments experiment with new policies that were unimaginable in December 2019, from perhaps $5trn or more of handouts and guarantees for firms to indicative guidance on optimal spacing of customers in shopping aisles.

This opening of the interventionist mind is coalescing around policies that fall short of ownership. One set of measures claims to enhance security, broadly defined. The class of industries in which government direction is legitimate on security grounds has expanded beyond defence to include energy and technology. In these areas governments are acting as de facto central planners, with research and development (r&d) spending to foster indigenous innovation and subsidies to redirect capital spending. In semiconductors America has proposed a $52bn subsidy scheme, one reason why Intel’s investment is forecast to double compared with five years ago. China is seeking self-sufficiency in semiconductors and Europe in batteries.

The definition of what is seen as strategic may well expand further to include vaccines, medical ingredients and minerals, for example. In the name of security, most big countries have tightened rules that screen incoming foreign investment. America’s mesh of punitive sanctions and technology export controls encompasses thousands of foreign individuals and firms.

The other set of measures aims to enhance stakeholderism. Shareholders and consumers no longer have uncontested primacy in the hierarchy of groups that firms serve. Managers must weigh the welfare of other constituents more heavily, including staff, suppliers and even competitors. The most visible part of this is voluntary, in the form of “esg” investing codes that score firms for, say, protecting biodiversity, local people or their own workers. But these wider obligations may become harder for firms to avoid. In China Alibaba has pledged a $15bn “donation” to the Common Prosperity cause. In the West stakeholderism may be enforced through the bureaucracy. Central banks and public pension funds may shun the securities of firms judged to be anti-social. America’s antitrust agency, which once safeguarded consumers alone, is mulling other aims such as helping small firms.

The ambition to confront economic and social problems is admirable. And so far, outside China at least, bossier government has not hurt business confidence. America’s main stockmarket index is over 40% higher than it was before the pandemic, while capital spending by the world’s largest 500-odd listed firms is up by 11%. Yet, in the longer term, three dangers loom.
High stakes

The first is that the state and business, faced by conflicting aims, will fail to find the best trade-offs. A fossil-fuel firm obliged to preserve good labour relations and jobs may be reluctant to shrink, hurting the climate. An antitrust policy that helps hundreds of thousands of small suppliers will hurt tens of millions of consumers who will end up paying higher prices. Boycotting China for its human-rights abuses might deprive the West of cheap supplies of solar technologies. Businesses and regulators focused on a single sector are often ill-equipped to cope with these dilemmas, and lack the democratic legitimacy to do so.

Diminished efficiency and innovation is the second danger. Duplicating global supply chains is extraordinarily expensive: multinational firms have $41trn of cross-border investments. More pernicious in the long run is a weakening of competition. Firms that gorge on subsidies become flabby, whereas those that are protected from foreign competition are more likely to treat customers shabbily. If you want to rein in Facebook, the most credible challenger is TikTok, from China. An economy in which politicians and big business manage the flow of subsidies according to orthodox thinking is not one in which entrepreneurs flourish.

The last problem is cronyism, which ends up contaminating business and politics alike. Firms seek advantage by attempting to manipulate government: already in America the boundary is blurred, with more corporate meddling in the electoral process. Meanwhile politicians and officials end up favouring particular firms, having sunk money and their hopes into them. The urge to intervene to soften every shock is habit-forming. In the past six weeks Britain, Germany and India have spent $7bn propping up two energy firms and a telecoms operator whose problems have nothing to do with the pandemic.

This newspaper believes that the state should intervene to make markets work better, through, for example, carbon taxes to shift capital towards climate-friendly technologies; r&d to fund science that firms will not; and a benefits system that protects workers and the poor. But the new style of bossy government goes far beyond this. Its adherents hope for prosperity, fairness and security. They are more likely to end up with inefficiency, vested interests and insularity.

A tax haven blacklist without the UK is a whitewash

Prem Sikka in The Guardian







At the heart of the intensifying debate about fairness and inequality is tax. Who can think without shuddering of the opportunity costs incurred by needy economies robbed of the tax to which they are entitled? In that context, and against the backdrop of exposure exercises such as the Paradise Papers, there was understandable enthusiasm for the European Union’s latest list of uncooperative tax havens. It arrived this week, amid much ballyhoo and talk of toughness. What a disappointment.

The EU put 17 extra-EU jurisdictions on a blacklist: American Samoa, Bahrain, Barbados, Grenada, Guam, South Korea, Macau, Marshall Islands, Mongolia, Namibia, Palau, Panama, St Lucia, Samoa, Trinidad and Tobago, Tunisia and the United Arab Emirates. They could lose access to EU funds and incur sanctions soon to be announced. But contrast the list with what we know was revealed about international tax avoidance by both the Paradise and Panama Papers.

The EU seems to have targeted countries with little economic, military or diplomatic weight. The list includes Panama, which was central to the Panama Papers, but not Bermuda, which was central to the Paradise Papers. In imperialist mode, the EU paints a picture that broadly says that “those over there” in low-income countries, at the periphery of the global economy, are a source of the world’s economic problems and should face sanctions. The blacklist does not include any western country, even though accountants, lawyers, banks and much of the infrastructure that lubricates global tax avoidance are located in the west. Also excluded are UK crown dependencies and overseas territories, which have undermined the tax base of other countries for decades.

Another 47 jurisdictions are included in a “greylist”: these are not compliant with the standards demanded by the EU, but have given commitments to change their rules. This list includes Andorra, Belize, Bermuda, the Cayman Islands, Guernsey, the Isle of Man, Jersey, Liechtenstein, San Marino and Switzerland. But even that is deficient. And Luxembourg is missing altogether.

Where is the UK on either list? It offers special tax arrangements to non-domiciled billionaires that are not available to British citizens. We are deeply complicit. The UK has long enabled large companies and accountancy firms to write favourable tax laws, and has entered into sweetheart deals with major corporations.


The UK has long enabled accountancy firms to write favourable tax laws, and entered into sweetheart deals

The issue of tax avoidance is not going away. Corporations and wealthy elites are addicted to it. And many of the tax havens, as comparatively small countries, are not readily going to dilute their practices, as a decent standard of living cannot easily be provided by seasonal tourism, agriculture and fishing.

But the EU blacklist is a wasted opportunity because there are things the international community can do. Tax havens should, for example, be offered favourable financial grants by the EU and other countries to rebuild their economies and become hubs for new industries, and research and development. Grants should be conditional on step-by-step progress towards meeting specified benchmarks on transparency, accountability and cooperation, including a publicly available register of beneficial ownership of all companies and trusts, and a list of the assets held by wealthy individuals. Havens would need to commit to automatic exchange of information with other countries on any matter relating to tax or illicit financial flows.

The accounts of corporations and limited liability partnerships holed up in tax havens should also be made public. At the very least, the EU and the UK should insist that the public accountability mechanisms in tax havens match those on mainland Europe.

As for jurisdictions that reject reform, they should face sanctions. The imposition of a withholding tax, of say 20%, on all interest and dividend payments to individuals and companies would reduce their attractiveness. Labour’s 2017 manifesto contained that idea.

The EU, the UK and other countries could also ensure that no individual or company under their jurisdiction would be able to import or export any goods or services from designated tax havens. The UK is being asked to pay a fee to secure access to EU markets after Brexit; by the same logic, a fee should be demanded from tax havens in the shape of better transparency and accountability. Persistently aggressive jurisdictions might suffer travel and visa restrictions, or be denied the use of international satellites that tax havens rely on for communications and financial transactions.

These ideas, and there are others, may not curb the predatory practices of tax havens overnight, but any or all would give the sponsors and users of these territories considerable food for thought. Action is often promised, but how many weak governments have sought refuge behind the claim that global tax avoidance requires international solutions, while at the same time undermining possibilities of international solutions? Too many.

We cannot afford to go on like this. Be brave and follow the money.

Why do private schools still attract the most memorable teachers?

It's not surprising that Alan Bennett's The History Boys is Britain's most popular play. The unfairness within our education system endures

• 
• • Martin Kettle
  • The Guardian, Wednesday 11 December 2013 20.30 GMT

Dominic Cooper and Richard Griffiths as Hector in The History Boys, a film of the play by Alan Bennett. Photograph: Allstar/BBC/Sportsphoto Ltd

There are obvious pitfalls in reading too much into the news that Alan Bennett's The History Boys has just been voted the nation's favourite play. After all, Bennett's 2004 play had a long run in London, toured extensively over many years and has been made into a successful movie. So the simple fact is that a lot of people have seen and enjoyed it. This familiarity means The History Boys was therefore in an ace position to win the contest organised by the English Touring Theatre.

Conversely, the limits of access surely also explain why Bennett's play did not top the poll in London and the south-east of England, where the palm for favourite play went instead to Jez Butterworth's Jerusalem. There's no way that Jerusalem, with its life-enhancing celebration of anti-authoritarianism and the spirit of William Blake, would bomb outside London. On the contrary. It's just that theatre-goers in the rest of Britain have had much less chance so far to see Butterworth's wonderful 2009 play than Londoners have.

Other geographical differences also counsel against over-interpretation. It may be tempting to suppose that Ulster's recent history has something to do with Hamlet, not the Bennett play, topping the poll in Northern Ireland. All those ghosts of the past, those dead bodies, those unavenged murders, that instability at the heart of the state; maybe it all adds up. But Hamlet is also the favourite in south-west England, where ancestral internecine conflict and grievance is generally – though I may be wrong – less pronounced. So the easy explanation seems to fall short.

So what does explain the slightly curious fact that a play about a group of northern state school sixth-form boys preparing for Oxbridge in the 1980s touches such a modern national chord? Availability of and access to performances is obviously important. The sociology of theatregoers probably matters too. The play's wit, character and pace give it further advantages – there's no denying that we British like a laugh in our plays. Bennett's much-loved status, as he approaches his 80th birthday next year, undoubtedly helps as well.

But the deeper answer to the status of The History Boys also lies somewhere in the synergy between two other things. The first is hinted at by the fact that Bennett's play topped the poll in north-west England, north-east England, eastern England and the Midlands. Bennett writes about – and also for – the neglected half of Britain that is neither bathed in the glow of London's excitement and prosperity, nor culturally distinct enough to be governed by devolved institutions. In his quirky way Bennett is the playwright, rather as JB Priestley once was, of the post-industrial England of which so many in the south are both ignorant and disdainful.

The second factor, which overlaps the first in some ways, is that The History Boys is not in the end just a comedy about school and growing up – though of course it is both these things too. It is also an angry lament for the passing of a state school education system of which Bennett himself is such a flowering.

In spite of what you may read in Private Eye, there are one or two of us Guardian columnists who are wholly state educated and proud to have sent our own children to state schools too. As someone who not only went to a state grammar school in the north of England – like the one in The History Boys – but also to the very school in Leeds that Bennett (whose father was our local butcher when I was a boy) attended himself, there is nothing quaint or exotic to me about the world of his play. My school was like that.

Moreover, like Bennett, I am a history boy. My generation falls halfway between Bennett's own and the one he depicts in his play. Nevertheless, the school he describes in his introduction to The History Boys is in every way one that I recognise, with its excitements, its insecurities, its snobberies and its occasional very real cruelties. I can never forget the long-haired boy who was called into the headmaster's study and physically restrained while another teacher attempted to cut off his hair. The boy broke free, ran screaming from the school, and rightly never came back.

But I also recognise the pride and the civic benevolence. As Bennett says in that introduction, if you got into Oxbridge, as he did and I did, you got your photo in the local paper and your education was paid for. Bennett's wholly correct assertion that there was genuine civic pride in such achievements was brought home to me when, as an undergraduate, I applied for an extra year of grant from Leeds education department. Back came a letter, handwritten by the chief education officer, Mr Taylor, agreeing to the application on the grounds that he was confident I would continue to bring distinction upon Leeds in the years ahead. A letter like that seals a deal with a place for life, I can tell you.

We live in a different country today, of course. Good secondary and higher education and training for all – and not just for some, as in the 1960s – are expensive. Good teachers don't grow on trees and are not cheap to train or retain. As Ofsted said only this week, access to the best teaching is often down to good luck as much as to socioeconomic status.

But this unfairness is not equally shared. Nearly 60 years ago, the undergraduate Bennett was struck by the unfairness that memorable teachers – like the unforgettable Hector he placed in a state school in The History Boys – seemed to be concentrated in the private schools. That unfairness is still with us today. The price Britain pays for the privileges bought by the few for their children is still far too high – and we all know it.

The History Boys is "about" lots of things. A large part of it, though, is about the fact that the chance to thrill to, and benefit from, great teaching is neither a high enough public priority nor shared out fairly.

The crucial line in the play is the last one. Hector says simply: "Pass it on." What is to be passed on is partly the love of knowledge, of ideas, thinking and talking, of education. But there is also a more indignant political message about passing on the unfinished business of educational unfairness. You can't look at Britain today and not see how unfinished that work is. That is surely part of the explanation of why Bennett's play connects so powerfully with so many.

Cricket: Quotas: less black and white than ever

Affirmative action is among the most bitterly divisive issues of the age. Particularly in sport, which depends on fairness, which in turn begins with equality of opportunity

Rob Steen

October 23, 2013

 

	Whether quotas were right for Zimbabwe or not, their current side is one far more reflective of the nation's demographics © AFP  Enlarge

"The heroes of our nation, dedicated to building the foundation of cricket for generations to come." Thus does the Cricket South Africa website hail its most important employees. Scroll down and you'll find an even more important assertion: "We can't undo the past, but we can shape the future."

Quotas cannot undo the past: their function is to shape the future by undoing the legacy of the past. Hence the recent decision to oblige South Africa's six franchises to field at least one black African in every match (for amateur teams the requirement doubles). On the face of it, this doesn't sound terribly onerous. It's certainly a far cry from the system Kevin Pietersen insists, disingenuously, drove him to England. One fact justifies this latest condition: 22 years after readmission, Makhaya Ntini remains the sole black African to have won 30 Test caps.

Affirmative action - or, as we Brits prefer, positive discrimination - is one of the most bitterly contested issues of the age. To some it oozes pros; to others, copious cons. To some it redresses prejudice, ancient and present; to others it either ignores other socio-economic factors or simply incites another form of prejudice, usually against those unfortunate enough to be paying for the sins of their fathers. In sport, purportedly the ultimate meritocracy, affirmative action is especially divisive. It will plainly take decades, even centuries, to atone for the sins of apartheid. South African sport has sought to balance those lopsided books via selection quotas, known officially as the "target transformation" policy, a step taken to equally justified and perhaps even more turbulent effect in Zimbabwe.

The complexity of all this is captured by Fisher v University of Texas, a legal case in the USA that is threatening to reverse the 2003 landmark decision in Grutter v Bollinger. Mindful of the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment, the US Supreme Court was tasked with deciding whether race can be a factor in deciding university admissions. In June, the case was thrown back to a lower court, a move welcomed by proponents of affirmative action: the principle, after all, had not been reversed. Recently, however, the "race-neutral" approach has even been advocated by the Project 21 leadership network, a group of African-American conservatives.

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By contrast, Kevin Brown, a law professor at Indiana University and author of a forthcoming book on affirmative action, believes it would be a "massive mistake" to substitute consideration of an applicant's socio-economic background for his or her race. "We seem to be forgetting why affirmative action was created in the first place. Yes, of course it's true that individuals from poor backgrounds, regardless of skin colour, face obstacles in obtaining the kind of academic success valued by higher education institutions. But blacks and Latinos are disadvantaged in American society, even when adjusting for socio-economic factors."

Education, of course, is much more important than sport. Besides, why should sport be expected to discriminate, however positively, when other branches of the cultural tree are not? It may be his greatest weakness, but try telling Woody Allen to hire more black actors. He would argue, not unreasonably, that he makes movies about the world he knows, a world of white masters and black servants / prostitutes / entertainers. Sport differs because its legitimacy depends on fairness, and fairness begins with equality of opportunity. Without such foundations, its social value vanishes.

Cricket first tiptoed down this rocky road four decades ago, when the International Wanderers, a private party comprising several eminent English and Australian players, took on multi-racial XIs in South Africa. Such ventures ended in 1976, after hundreds of schoolchildren were killed in Soweto while protesting the government's education policies.

How illuminating, then, to dip into Luke Alfred's The Art of Losing, published last year, and learn that just three members of the South African team at the 1992 World Cup had voted in the whites-only referendum that approved the continuation of President FW De Klerk's reforms (had the decision gone the other way, warrants Alfred, they would have had to return home mid-tournament). Ahead lay those trials by quota.

In 1998, encouraged by the ANC, the United Cricket Board of South Africa laid down the law: the starting XI for each international match should include at least four players of "colour". Quotas were also introduced at provincial level. Adherence was never strict.

The first major row erupted in 2002 when the national selectors chose Jacques Rudolph ahead of Justin Ontong against Australia, only to be overruled by Percy Sonn, the board president. As a consequence, Ontong, who counted Rudolph as a friend, endured one of the most fiery and unenviable of baptisms. Double-edged swords don't come much more jagged than this. Knowing you've been picked not on your merits but because what was once an unfortunate accident of birth was now an advantage must play merry hell with one's self-esteem.

A relentlessly controversial figure whose administrative career would bring him to the heights of the ICC presidency and the depths of fraud allegations and alcohol-fuelled public disgrace, Sonn was roundly criticised by the cricketing fraternity; yet even those who believed he should have been focusing his efforts on improving coaching facilities for black schoolchildren understood his motives. "No doubt Sonn," noted theGuardian, "has seen too many examples of lip-service being paid to a quota system while, behind the scenes, not much is being done to attack the roots of an historic injustice."

Reflecting the elitism of a sport showing few signs of gaining traction in a black community conspicuously more enamoured of football, South Africa's 2007 Rugby World Cup-winning XV numbered only a couple of non-white faces. In cricket, another sport dominated by the elite white schools, politicians and administrators believed reformation should be a top-down process, billed as "targeted transformation". "As long as we have an abnormal society," Norman Arendse, the CSA president at the time, emphasised in 2007, "quotas and targets are not only desirable but also a constitutional imperative."

	Why should sport be expected to discriminate, however positively, when other branches of the cultural tree are not?

This prompted some problematic arguments. When Graeme Smith wanted to omit Ntini from a critical World Cup match, he was obliged to justify himself in a lengthy one-on-one with the CSA chief executive,Gerald Majola. Many argued that dressing-room morale was being undermined. By 2010, according to Tony Irish, the South Africa Cricket Association CEO, matters had become intolerable: "The players feel that as soon as a racial number is set for selection of the team (whether or not one calls this a quota or a target) it leads to a divisive dynamic within the team, and it is also degrading to the players of colour who should be there on merit, yet are labelled a quota/target player."

Cue a letter sent to Arendse and his fellow board members in 2007 by a group of senior players led by Ashwell Prince, soon to become the national team's first coloured captain. In it, they demanded an end to "artificial" selection at the highest level. Later that year, Makhenkesi Stofile, the sports minister, scoffed at the quotas as "window dressing", signifying a shift towards the notion that victory on the field would be a more effective form of inspiration.

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In this sphere, Zimbabwe is well ahead of its big brother. It was the quota system that spurred 15 white players to mount a rebellion in 2004, led by Heath Streak. Today Streak is adamant that most of the nation's professionals, regardless of skin colour, were opposed to quotas and that his black colleagues, whose job options were far narrower, declined to revolt only because they feared the repercussions. The recent Test victory over Pakistan by a team far more reflective of the nation's demographics suggests that the angst has been worthwhile.

"Some sort of compensation or attempt at rectification is due to those non-white sportspeople who were directly or indirectly disadvantaged by apartheid." So acknowledged Dr Carl Thomen of the University of Johannesburg, in his 2008 book Is it Cricket? An Ethical Evaluation of Race Quotas in Sport. These "compensatory efforts", he nonetheless concluded, "must not come via the same principles which got us into the mess of apartheid in the first place". In writing his book, he sought "to show that the negative consequences of such policies far outweigh any good they may realistically claim to do".

Upon reading those sentiments a few weeks ago, I emailed the author. Surely, given the opportunities afforded the likes of Ntini and Hashim Amla, the quota system had been justified? He was not for turning. "I'm not sure that that policy was responsible [his italics] for their selection. Perhaps they were thrown in a bit earlier than otherwise, but I'm not sure you can credit the quota policies of the time with their success. The problem with quotas is that they are ethically indefensible, and they actively do damage. 'Necessity' doesn't come into it; they are evil, plain and simple."

Evil, really? How, then, do we describe apartheid? The counter-argument was summed up by my guest last weekend, John Young, a sportswriter, author and retired schoolteacher from the Western Cape and Thami Tsolekile's erstwhile agent. "Quotas were necessary precisely so that merit could be acknowledged," he reasons. "Good black players would never have been picked without them."

There's one mathematical equation we all know: wrong + wrong never = right. But sometimes being wrong for the right reasons can be preferable to being right for the wrong ones.

The Need for Roots brought home the modern era's disconnection with the past and the loss of community

Having recently moved to a Himalayan village, I felt Simone Weil's focus on uprootedness spoke directly to me

• 
• • Pankaj Mishra
  • The Guardian, Sunday 18 August 2013 15.02 BST

An idol of the Hindu god Ganesh. ‘A rare European thinker who was as curious about Hindu and Buddhist traditions as about the Cathars, Weil despised colonialism as well as nationalism.’ Photograph: Sanjeev Gupta/EPA

There has rarely been a day since I first read The Need for Roots, nearly two decades ago, that I haven't thought of Simone Weil – one of my earliest heroines along with Hannah Arendt and Rosa Luxemburg. It was the title that initially attracted me more than the contents. Having recently moved to a Himalayan village after a peripatetic life in the plains, I had begun to feel rooted for the first time, connected to a stable community which, living off the land, neither poor nor rich, and low rather than upper caste, was marked above all by dignity – remarkable in a country where villages had become synonymous with destitution. And when Weil asserted that the central event of the modern era was uprootedness – the disconnection from the past and the loss of community – she seemed to speak directly to my experience.

The range of her admirers – from TS Eliot to Albert Camus – attest to the difficulty of describing Weil. She was a bourgeois Jewish intellectual from France who, in a viciously antisemitic climate, rejected both Judaism and Zionism. A youthful Marxist who fought on the Republican side in the Spanish civil war she, after an immersion in the "icy pandemonium of industrial life", came to believe that "it is not religion but revolution which is the opium of the people". A devoted Hellenist, she despised the Roman empire, implicating it with an oppressive tradition of the authoritarian state in Europe that culminated in Nazi Germany.

A rare European thinker who was as curious about Hindu and Buddhist traditions as about the Cathars, Weil despised colonialism as well as nationalism. "When one takes upon oneself, as France did in 1789, the function of thinking on behalf of the world, of defining justice for the world, one may not become an owner of human flesh and blood." She possessed an ironic view of historians – how they buttress the ideological claims of the hyper-power of the day: "If Germany, thanks to Hitler and his successors, were to enslave the European nations and destroy most of the treasures of their past, future historians would certainly pronounce that she had civilised Europe."

Freed of the popular intellectual's obligation to boost national or imperial egos, she could point out something that was obvious to many Asian sufferers of European colonialism: the shocking nature of Nazi racism lay, she wrote, "in the application by Germany to the European continent, and the white race, generally, of colonial methods of conquest and domination".

In The Need for Roots she distilled everything she had learned from her intellectual struggles with the ideologies of socialism and liberalism, her experience of working-class conditions and the plight of the Vietnamese in France.

In different ways, Marx, Nietzsche and Max Weber had described how human relationships had shifted dramatically in societies built around commerce, industrial capitalism and the colonisation of vast tracts of the world. Life had lost its old moorings in a world where technology greatly enhanced the power of large abstract entities, such as the state and nationalism. Weil brought a different intensity to this sober diagnosis of the human condition.

Uprootedness was a sickness of the soul, a spiritual malaise, but with far-reaching political consequences that left no one unaffected. As Weil wrote: "Hitler would be inconceivable without modern technique and the existence of millions of uprooted men."

Material affluence and political stability in recent decades has rendered less toxic the extensive deracination that began in Europe in the 19th century. Today, it is people from countries such as India, Iran and Egypt who will immediately recognise Weil's insight that the modern promise of individual development, which was realised through the destruction of old bonds, can leave people dangerously adrift and vulnerable to demagogues.

As the years passed in my village, I witnessed poorly educated young men leaving to seek the greater comforts and liberations of big cities. I would see them on my visits to Delhi. Working in sweatshops and living in equally degrading conditions, the promise of the modern world had turned sour for them. These were the men whose disaffection had traditionally seeded militant ideologies or random violence against those weaker than them.

Recent history shows that the social turmoil provoked by large-scale uprootings helps authoritarians more than progressives. In any case, revolution was both undesirable and unrealisable, since technology and industry were unstoppable. What, then, could be done?

Weil aimed at the rehumanisation of the workplace and, by extension, the larger society. As she put it somewhat melodramatically, a civilisation that did not recognise the spiritual nature of work was doomed.

This was not all abstract speculation. Policymakers can draw much from The Need for Roots: such clear prescriptions as that employers ought to provide an adequate vocational training for their employees, education should be compulsory and publicly funded, and include technical as well as elementary education.

But her most original move was to abandon the language of rights – the claims of possessive individuals against others that had provided political philosophy with its syntax since Hobbes and Locke. Instead, she talked of needs, duties and obligations as the basis of a good society – something that would be immediately familiar to Buddhist philosophers but remains marginal in the western tradition of political theory.

As she wrote, "If you say to someone who has ears to hear: 'What you are doing to me is not just', you may touch and awaken at its source the spirit of attention and love. But it is not the same with words like 'I have the right' … or 'you have no right to … ' They evoke a latent war and awaken the spirit of contention. To place the notion of rights at the centre of social conflicts is to inhibit any possible impulse of charity on both sides."

As she saw it, the original advocacy of rights had served the expansion of commerce and a contract-based society in western Europe. But a free and rooted society ought to consist of a web of moral obligations. We have the right to ignore them, but we ought to be actually obliged not to let other people starve, or to let them lapse into destitution.

It should be noted that Weil was not a liberal. For her, there can be no such thing as absolute freedom of expression at a time when "journalism becomes indistinguishable from organised lying", and its consumers don't have the time or leisure to sift truth from falsehood. "There ought to be," she wrote, looking ahead to the age of Leveson, special courts to monitor communications network that are "guilty of too frequent a distortion of the truth".

Indeed, what makes The Need for Roots particularly pertinent today is its critique of the ethic of liberalism that had originally emerged to serve the needs of a commercial society – individuals with highly self-regarding conceptions of their rights. As Weil saw, and we recognise very well in 2013, the extension of the marketplace into the realm of values has severely constrained our moral imagination.

It is easy to criticise some Weil's ideas for being too impractical and occasionally draconian. There is something too sanguine about her view of human nature. As a friend scolded her, shortly before she died of self-induced starvation in Kent in 1943 at the age of only 34: "Man is not pure but a 'sinner'. And the sinner must stink a bit, at the least." Perhaps. But you can only marvel, as Orwell did about Gandhi, at how clean a smell she managed to leave behind.