Showing posts with label robber. Show all posts
Showing posts with label robber. Show all posts
Wednesday 13 February 2019
Sunday 6 December 2015
The art of profitable giving - PhilanthroCapitalism
G Sampath in The Hindu
Not too long ago, public opinion was against philanthropy. A new book explains how attitudes have changed, and why we must scrutinise them.
Once upon a time there was charity. The haves gave some to the have-nots, and that was that. Sometimes the giving impulse was religious, sometimes guilt-induced. But charity was more about the soul of the giver than the welfare or rights or dignity of the receiver. This is why there can be no charity between equals. Or between friends. For all these reasons, charity had for long remained an activity rooted in the personal-private, quasi-religious sphere.
Then came philanthropy. Jeremy Beer, in his The Philanthropic Revolution: An Alternative History of American Charity, argues that the displacement of charity by philanthropy was “the result of a reconceptualisation of voluntary giving as primarily a tool for social change.” It also marks, according to Beer, a shift from a theological to a secular framework for giving, bringing with it all the baggage that secularisation entails – blind faith in the technological mastery of the social world, centralisation, and the bureaucratization of personal relations.”
And today we have ‘philanthrocapitalism’. The term gained currency after The Economist carried a report in 2006 on ‘The birth of philanthrocapitalism’. Noting that “the need for philanthropy to become more like the for-profit capital markets is a common theme among the new philanthropists,” the article explains why philanthropists “need to behave more like investors.”
Two years later came the book that today’s biggest philanthropists swear by: Philanthrocapitalism: How the Rich can Save the World by Matthew Bishop (a senior business editor from The Economist) and Michael Green. The title is not intended to be ironic. It is an earnest argument: in a world of rich men and poor states, who better to save the poor than the rich themselves?
The advent of philanthrocapitalism may have finally brought to the fore what is tacitly understood but rarely made explicit -- the symbiotic relationship between capitalist excess and philanthropic redress.
When philanthropy was shunned
It is no accident that the first great philanthropists were also the greatest capitalists of their age. Nor is it a coincidence that many of these men, remembered today by their philanthropic legacies – John D Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, Andrew Mellon, Leland Stanford, James Buchanan Duke – also figure in Wikipedia’s list of “businessmen who were labelled robber barons”.
If one is to make sense of the recent surge in the quantum of philanthropic funds sloshing around looking for worthy causes – the Bain & Co. Indian Philanthropy Report 2015 notes that foreign philanthropic funding in India more than doubled from 2004 to 2009, jumping from $0.8 billion in FY‘04 to $1.9 billion in FY’09 – then one needs to go beyond the numbers and look at the economic underpinnings of corporate philanthropic initiatives. This is precisely what sociologist Linsey McGoey sets out to do in No Such Thing as a Free Gift: The Gates Foundation and the Price of Philanthropy, which released last month.
No Such Thing… kicks off with a quick reminder of the shady origins of philanthropy. How many of us know, for instance, that not too long ago public opinion (and government opinion) was against philanthropy in general, and corporate philanthropy in particular?
In the early 20th century, philanthropic foundations were “viewed as mere outposts of profit-seeking empires, only cosmetically different from the corporations that had spawned them, a convenient way for business magnates to extend their reach over domestic and foreign populaces.” McGoey quotes US Attorney General George Wickersham, who had observed that they were “a scheme for perpetuating vast wealth” and “entirely inconsistent with the public interest.”
Yet what was common sense in 1910 would sound blasphemous in 2015. While no self-respecting economist today can deny the obscene economic inequality that characterises our age, not many would willingly acknowledge the connection between concentration of wealth and philanthropy. That is to say, an equitable society would suffer neither a club of the super-rich that seeks self-expression through philanthropy, nor a class of the super-poor that is dependant on philanthropic charity for survival. McGoey makes this point simply with a quote from the economic historian RH Tawney: “What thoughtful rich people call the problem of poverty, thoughtful poor people call with equal justice the problem of riches.”
If philanthropy is thriving in this age of extreme inequality, it is because it serves a dual purpose: one, to make inequality more acceptable ideologically and morally; and two, to define poverty as a problem of scarcity rather than of inequality. Hence the ultimate argument in favour of philanthropy, deployed when all else fails, is the one based on scarcity: ‘something (from a foundation) is better than nothing (from the government)’.
Philanthropy is the palliative that makes the pain of capitalism bearable for those fated to endure it. Philanthrocapitalism, on the other hand, is about transcending this palliative function to represent capitalism itself as a philanthropic enterprise.
In Bishop and Green’s formulation, such a philanthropic capitalism – also known as ‘venture philanthropy’, ‘social entrepreneurship’, ‘impact investing’ – would drive innovation in a way that “tends to benefit everyone, sooner or later, through new products, higher quality and lower prices.”
As McGoey reveals in her book (and Bishop and Green attest in theirs), no one does philanthrocapitalism better, or bigger, than Bill Gates, who helms the world’s largest philanthropic foundation, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation (henceforth Gates Foundation), with an endowment of $42.3 billion. For this very reason, the Gates Foundation is an ideal case study for understanding the social impact of philanthropic foundations.
Problems with philanthrocapitalism
McGoey enumerates three obvious problems with philanthrocapitalism, illustrating each with reference to the Gates Foundation.
First is the lack of accountability and transparency. McGoey points out that the Gates Foundation is the single largest donor to the World Health Organisation (WHO), donating more than even the US government. While the WHO is accountable to the member governments, the Gates Foundation is accountable only to its three trustees – Bill, Melinda, and Warren Buffet. It is not unreasonable to wonder if the WHO’s independence would not be compromised when 10% of its funding comes from a single private entity “with the power to stipulate exactly where and how the UN institution spends its money.”
Secondly, “philanthropy, by channelling private funds towards public services, erodes support for governmental spending on health and education.” With governments everywhere slashing their budgets for public goods such as education and healthcare, the resultant funding gap is sought to be filled by philanthropic money channelled through NGOs. But with one crucial difference: while the citizen has a rights-based claim on government-funded social security, she can do nothing if a philanthropic donor decides to stop funding a given welfare project – as has happened time and again in many parts of the world.
At the same time, even as it facilitates government withdrawal from provision of social goods, philanthropy paves the way for entry of private players into the same space. McGoey details how the Gates Foundation orchestrated this brilliantly in the American education sector, where it helped create a whole new market for private investment: secondary and primary schools run on a for-profit basis.
Third, the same businessmen who made their money through unhealthy practices that worsened economic inequalities are now, in their philanthropic avatar, purporting to remedy the very inequalities they helped create. In the case of the Gates Foundation, Microsoft’s illegal business practices are well documented in the US Department of Justice anti-trust case against the company. As McGoey puts it, the fortune now being administered through the Gates Foundation “was accumulated in some measure through ill-gotten means.”
Of course, none of this should detract from the undeniably good work that philanthropic bodies have done. The Gates Foundation has saved countless lives, especially in Africa, through its funding of immunisation programmes and outreach projects. Its several achievements, therefore, have been deservedly celebrated. Nonetheless, critical scrutiny lags far behind the lavish accolades.
Even the three issues discussed above barely scratch the surface. McGoey goes on to raise several more.
She asks, for instance, asks how the Gates Foundation’s interventions in global health tally with Bill Gates’ violent opposition to any dilution of the patent regime. The Gates Foundation was the largest private donor to the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria. At the same time, it “has continually lobbied against price reductions of HIV drugs and other medicines”, infuriating activists who “want a more equitable global patent regime” and “do not want charity handouts.”
She examines the Gates Foundation’s partnerships with Coca-Cola, not exactly popular among those who value public health. In the context of the Foundation’s work to help combat global hunger, she reveals how its financial ties with Monsanto and investments in Goldman Sachs “may be compounding food insecurity rather than mitigating it”.
She interrogates its skewed research portfolio. Of the 659 grants made by the Gates Foundation in the field of global health, 560 went to organisations in high-income countries, even though the problems being targeted were in low-income countries. How does excluding local scientists and programme managers who are best placed to understand the problems help the cause, asks McGoey.
While it is generally taken for granted that a philanthropic foundation would make grants only to non-profits, McGoey draws attention to the Gates Foundation’s non-repayable grant of $4.8 million to Vodacom, a subsidiary of Vodafone. In 2014, the Gates Foundation also announced a grant of $11 million to Mastercard for a “financial inclusion” project in Nairobi. Interesting how philanthropy has evolved to such an extent that in a world wracked by hunger, disease, war, and malnutrition, two entities found to be most in need include a multinational credit card network and a multinational mobile service provider.
Finally, not to be forgotten are the tax breaks that philanthropic foundations enjoy. Critics have pointed out that nearly half of the billions of dollars in funds that philanthropic foundations hold actually belong to the public, as it is money foregone by the state through tax exemptions. History has shown that progressive taxation is the most efficacious route to redistribution. But a strong case for philanthropy is another way of making a strong case for lower taxation of the rich – after all, it’ll leave them with more money to spend on uplifting the poor. Small wonder then that philanthropy’s biggest enthusiasts are political conservatives.
The Economist report on philanthrocapitalism cited above also quotes a young Indian philanthropist, Uday Khemka, who predicts that “philanthropy will increasingly come to resemble the capitalist economy.” That was in 2006. Nine years later, the publication of McGoey’s No Such Thing As a Free Gift marks the first systematic attempt to document this phenomenon.
sampath.g@thehindu.co.in
Not too long ago, public opinion was against philanthropy. A new book explains how attitudes have changed, and why we must scrutinise them.
Once upon a time there was charity. The haves gave some to the have-nots, and that was that. Sometimes the giving impulse was religious, sometimes guilt-induced. But charity was more about the soul of the giver than the welfare or rights or dignity of the receiver. This is why there can be no charity between equals. Or between friends. For all these reasons, charity had for long remained an activity rooted in the personal-private, quasi-religious sphere.
Then came philanthropy. Jeremy Beer, in his The Philanthropic Revolution: An Alternative History of American Charity, argues that the displacement of charity by philanthropy was “the result of a reconceptualisation of voluntary giving as primarily a tool for social change.” It also marks, according to Beer, a shift from a theological to a secular framework for giving, bringing with it all the baggage that secularisation entails – blind faith in the technological mastery of the social world, centralisation, and the bureaucratization of personal relations.”
And today we have ‘philanthrocapitalism’. The term gained currency after The Economist carried a report in 2006 on ‘The birth of philanthrocapitalism’. Noting that “the need for philanthropy to become more like the for-profit capital markets is a common theme among the new philanthropists,” the article explains why philanthropists “need to behave more like investors.”
Two years later came the book that today’s biggest philanthropists swear by: Philanthrocapitalism: How the Rich can Save the World by Matthew Bishop (a senior business editor from The Economist) and Michael Green. The title is not intended to be ironic. It is an earnest argument: in a world of rich men and poor states, who better to save the poor than the rich themselves?
The advent of philanthrocapitalism may have finally brought to the fore what is tacitly understood but rarely made explicit -- the symbiotic relationship between capitalist excess and philanthropic redress.
When philanthropy was shunned
It is no accident that the first great philanthropists were also the greatest capitalists of their age. Nor is it a coincidence that many of these men, remembered today by their philanthropic legacies – John D Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, Andrew Mellon, Leland Stanford, James Buchanan Duke – also figure in Wikipedia’s list of “businessmen who were labelled robber barons”.
If one is to make sense of the recent surge in the quantum of philanthropic funds sloshing around looking for worthy causes – the Bain & Co. Indian Philanthropy Report 2015 notes that foreign philanthropic funding in India more than doubled from 2004 to 2009, jumping from $0.8 billion in FY‘04 to $1.9 billion in FY’09 – then one needs to go beyond the numbers and look at the economic underpinnings of corporate philanthropic initiatives. This is precisely what sociologist Linsey McGoey sets out to do in No Such Thing as a Free Gift: The Gates Foundation and the Price of Philanthropy, which released last month.
No Such Thing… kicks off with a quick reminder of the shady origins of philanthropy. How many of us know, for instance, that not too long ago public opinion (and government opinion) was against philanthropy in general, and corporate philanthropy in particular?
In the early 20th century, philanthropic foundations were “viewed as mere outposts of profit-seeking empires, only cosmetically different from the corporations that had spawned them, a convenient way for business magnates to extend their reach over domestic and foreign populaces.” McGoey quotes US Attorney General George Wickersham, who had observed that they were “a scheme for perpetuating vast wealth” and “entirely inconsistent with the public interest.”
Yet what was common sense in 1910 would sound blasphemous in 2015. While no self-respecting economist today can deny the obscene economic inequality that characterises our age, not many would willingly acknowledge the connection between concentration of wealth and philanthropy. That is to say, an equitable society would suffer neither a club of the super-rich that seeks self-expression through philanthropy, nor a class of the super-poor that is dependant on philanthropic charity for survival. McGoey makes this point simply with a quote from the economic historian RH Tawney: “What thoughtful rich people call the problem of poverty, thoughtful poor people call with equal justice the problem of riches.”
If philanthropy is thriving in this age of extreme inequality, it is because it serves a dual purpose: one, to make inequality more acceptable ideologically and morally; and two, to define poverty as a problem of scarcity rather than of inequality. Hence the ultimate argument in favour of philanthropy, deployed when all else fails, is the one based on scarcity: ‘something (from a foundation) is better than nothing (from the government)’.
Philanthropy is the palliative that makes the pain of capitalism bearable for those fated to endure it. Philanthrocapitalism, on the other hand, is about transcending this palliative function to represent capitalism itself as a philanthropic enterprise.
In Bishop and Green’s formulation, such a philanthropic capitalism – also known as ‘venture philanthropy’, ‘social entrepreneurship’, ‘impact investing’ – would drive innovation in a way that “tends to benefit everyone, sooner or later, through new products, higher quality and lower prices.”
As McGoey reveals in her book (and Bishop and Green attest in theirs), no one does philanthrocapitalism better, or bigger, than Bill Gates, who helms the world’s largest philanthropic foundation, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation (henceforth Gates Foundation), with an endowment of $42.3 billion. For this very reason, the Gates Foundation is an ideal case study for understanding the social impact of philanthropic foundations.
Problems with philanthrocapitalism
McGoey enumerates three obvious problems with philanthrocapitalism, illustrating each with reference to the Gates Foundation.
First is the lack of accountability and transparency. McGoey points out that the Gates Foundation is the single largest donor to the World Health Organisation (WHO), donating more than even the US government. While the WHO is accountable to the member governments, the Gates Foundation is accountable only to its three trustees – Bill, Melinda, and Warren Buffet. It is not unreasonable to wonder if the WHO’s independence would not be compromised when 10% of its funding comes from a single private entity “with the power to stipulate exactly where and how the UN institution spends its money.”
Secondly, “philanthropy, by channelling private funds towards public services, erodes support for governmental spending on health and education.” With governments everywhere slashing their budgets for public goods such as education and healthcare, the resultant funding gap is sought to be filled by philanthropic money channelled through NGOs. But with one crucial difference: while the citizen has a rights-based claim on government-funded social security, she can do nothing if a philanthropic donor decides to stop funding a given welfare project – as has happened time and again in many parts of the world.
At the same time, even as it facilitates government withdrawal from provision of social goods, philanthropy paves the way for entry of private players into the same space. McGoey details how the Gates Foundation orchestrated this brilliantly in the American education sector, where it helped create a whole new market for private investment: secondary and primary schools run on a for-profit basis.
Third, the same businessmen who made their money through unhealthy practices that worsened economic inequalities are now, in their philanthropic avatar, purporting to remedy the very inequalities they helped create. In the case of the Gates Foundation, Microsoft’s illegal business practices are well documented in the US Department of Justice anti-trust case against the company. As McGoey puts it, the fortune now being administered through the Gates Foundation “was accumulated in some measure through ill-gotten means.”
Of course, none of this should detract from the undeniably good work that philanthropic bodies have done. The Gates Foundation has saved countless lives, especially in Africa, through its funding of immunisation programmes and outreach projects. Its several achievements, therefore, have been deservedly celebrated. Nonetheless, critical scrutiny lags far behind the lavish accolades.
Even the three issues discussed above barely scratch the surface. McGoey goes on to raise several more.
She asks, for instance, asks how the Gates Foundation’s interventions in global health tally with Bill Gates’ violent opposition to any dilution of the patent regime. The Gates Foundation was the largest private donor to the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria. At the same time, it “has continually lobbied against price reductions of HIV drugs and other medicines”, infuriating activists who “want a more equitable global patent regime” and “do not want charity handouts.”
She examines the Gates Foundation’s partnerships with Coca-Cola, not exactly popular among those who value public health. In the context of the Foundation’s work to help combat global hunger, she reveals how its financial ties with Monsanto and investments in Goldman Sachs “may be compounding food insecurity rather than mitigating it”.
She interrogates its skewed research portfolio. Of the 659 grants made by the Gates Foundation in the field of global health, 560 went to organisations in high-income countries, even though the problems being targeted were in low-income countries. How does excluding local scientists and programme managers who are best placed to understand the problems help the cause, asks McGoey.
While it is generally taken for granted that a philanthropic foundation would make grants only to non-profits, McGoey draws attention to the Gates Foundation’s non-repayable grant of $4.8 million to Vodacom, a subsidiary of Vodafone. In 2014, the Gates Foundation also announced a grant of $11 million to Mastercard for a “financial inclusion” project in Nairobi. Interesting how philanthropy has evolved to such an extent that in a world wracked by hunger, disease, war, and malnutrition, two entities found to be most in need include a multinational credit card network and a multinational mobile service provider.
Finally, not to be forgotten are the tax breaks that philanthropic foundations enjoy. Critics have pointed out that nearly half of the billions of dollars in funds that philanthropic foundations hold actually belong to the public, as it is money foregone by the state through tax exemptions. History has shown that progressive taxation is the most efficacious route to redistribution. But a strong case for philanthropy is another way of making a strong case for lower taxation of the rich – after all, it’ll leave them with more money to spend on uplifting the poor. Small wonder then that philanthropy’s biggest enthusiasts are political conservatives.
The Economist report on philanthrocapitalism cited above also quotes a young Indian philanthropist, Uday Khemka, who predicts that “philanthropy will increasingly come to resemble the capitalist economy.” That was in 2006. Nine years later, the publication of McGoey’s No Such Thing As a Free Gift marks the first systematic attempt to document this phenomenon.
sampath.g@thehindu.co.in
Monday 20 May 2013
Sreesanth - Another modern day Valmiki?
by Girish Menon
Sage Valmiki's life has been emulated by many robber barons
of the world and it provides a prototype for Sreesanth to emulate in order to rehabilitate
himself in the eyes of the Indian public.
Valmiki, the writer of the Indian epic on ideal behaviour
The Ramayana, was a low caste robber who preyed on victims in order to feed his
family. In latter life, probably after accumulating wealth, he turned into a
philosopher and his diktats on ideal behaviour for an individual are still
recognised as the right way for a Hindu.
Valmiki's transformation is a theme, recognised by David
Mandelbaum in his treatise 'Society in India ', that shows dynamism and
upward mobility in what was once considered a stratified and calcified Indian
caste system. Mandelbaum's thesis has been that contrary to prevalent mythology
the Indian caste system provides an opportunity for mobility in two major
steps. Firstly, the individual has to attain secular wealth and this should be
followed by copying the social mores of the prevalent elites.
Mandelbaum talks about the Kayastha caste, scribes by trade,
who were very low in the Hindu hierarchy before the period of Muslim rulers in
Indian history. The Kayastha's writing and translation skills came into demand
during the Muslim rule, and this helped them acquire secular wealth and power
in the courts. Thus over time and after learning the mores of their social
superiors they ascended to a status that is high even today in modern India .
The Ambani family's history has parallels to Valmiki too.
Dhirubhai Ambani fell foul of the law on many occasions during his wealth
accumulation period. Today, the Ambani empire resembles the Mughal empire in
its heydays. And all the celebrities and wannabes look to them for patronage.
One of the Ambani scions even owns a cricket team, the Mumbai Indians, which
has some of the greatest cricketers on its payroll.
Mohd. Azharuddin, former Indian cricket team captain, is
another Indian Valmiki. Today, he is a Member of Parliament from the ruling
Congress party. There may also be many other Valmikis who have not been
publicly found out, but who having amassed secular wealth find it imperative to
advise others on the ideal behaviour in life.
So all is not lost for Sreesanth. He could take a leaf from
Suresh Kalmadi's book and stay away from the public eye for some time in a
protected environment like Tihar jail. When released he could don some saffron
robes, get a BJP endorsement and end up as a Member of Parliament. Given that
the lotus is its election symbol, image consultants and spin doctors will find
it easy to draw a parallel between the flower's development and the
transformation of Sreesanth.
This writer plays for CamKerala CC in the Cambs league.
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This writer plays for CamKerala CC in the Cambs league.
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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING- Why the IPL’s critics are mean and wrong | |
| Mukul Kesavan | |
The uproar about the IPL following the ‘revelations’ about S. Sreesanth and his erring teammates threatens to become farcical. Sting-meister Aniruddha Bahal of Cobrapost suggested on a television show that franchises ought to be punished for the misdemeanours of contracted players. Bahal reached for and found a precedent for his prescription from a different game in a foreign country: the relegation of the Italian football club, Juventus, to a lower league because some of its players had transgressed. Are we seriously citing Silvio Berlusconi’s country as a model of corporate governance? Please. We can do without Serie A as a moral exemplar. Punishing companies for the criminality of their employees… what will these hacks dream up next?
The other storm in this teacup is the suggestion that an isolated instance of spot-fixing is symptomatic of a more general shadiness in the IPL. Instead of celebrating the league as the beating heart of cricketing livelihood and hailing the BCCI as the gruff but golden-hearted uncle who bankrolls the global game, you have jealous (foreign) cricket boards and their Test-loving lackeys in the (white-and-Western) press, trying to characterize Sreesanth’s misdemeanour as ‘systemic’. In this bilious narrative, the IPL is a sinful Oriental honeypot where corruption is inevitable. This isn’t reportage, this is racism.
These Anglo dead-enders and their self-hating henchmen in the Indian media have a favourite word: ‘opaque’. So the IPL is evil because its ownership structure is opaque. Throw in dark mutterings about ‘benami’ or anonymous shares in the principal franchises and you can dress up unsourced speculation as investigative journalism. Is there any sporting league in the world where it’s clearer who the owners are? Shilpa Shetty, Preity Zinta, Shahrukh Khan, Nita Ambani, and so on, are on television rooting for the players they own every night of the week. Instead of the corporate anonymity typical of business, with the IPL you can literally put a face to the franchise.
Unable to fault the cricket, the IPL’s critics have targeted the cheerleaders on the field and, especially, in the studio. The easy badinage that makes Extraaa Innings so deliciously different from the po-faced pre-shows that just talk cricket is condemned as male lasciviousness by killjoy critics. The best answer to this pious accusation is to ask, in what world would professionals like Navjyot Singh Sidhu and Ravi Shastri and Harsha Bhogle and Kapil Dev, role models all, with reputations to lose, use women’s bodies as cues for double entendre and innuendo? The answer is obvious: they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t even allow themselves to be complicit in someone else’s demeaning banter: they would just get up and leave. So if they aren’t doing that, it’s not happening.
N. Srinivasan, the BCCI president, is a special target for dead-ender venom. Everything he does is designated nefarious. The fact that he is in charge of the BCCI and the owner of an IPL franchise is deemed a wicked conflict of interest. When Srikkanth wore two hats, one as the chief selector of the national team and the other as brand ambassador for the Chennai Super Kings, the franchise owned by Srinivasan, journalists sang the conflict-of-interest ditty like a theme song. Srinivasan’s decision to make Dhoni a vice-president of India Cements Ltd, a company he happens to own, apparently compounds this conflict-of-interest problem. This carping has got to the stage where not even a man’s business is his own business, if you see what I mean.
If men are known by the company they keep, Mr Srinivasan is in very good company; Anil Kumble has had exactly the same problem with sanctimonious critics. India’s greatest bowler, its most pugnacious captain, a man who has a traffic landmark in Bangalore named after him, had his integrity called into question merely because he started up a player management company at the same time as he became president of the Karnataka State Cricket Association.
He couldn’t understand the objections to this double role and the reason he couldn’t is that ‘conflict of interest’ is an arcane Western notion born of an alien business culture where everything is premised on contract, unlike India where a man’s word is his bond. Cricket is Kumble’s dharma; it’s inevitable that he will seek to involve himself in every aspect of the game. He has to be judged by what he actually does, not by some theoretical constraint upon his judgment, glibly labelled a ‘conflict of interest’. And the same courtesy must be extended to N. Srinivasan, distinguished cricket administrator, successful businessman, paterfamilias and pillar of Chennai society.
‘Conflict of interest’ as an insinuation has been used to tar the reputations of Indian cricket’s greatest commentators. Men like Ravi Shastri and Sunil Gavaskar, who have been saying the same things in unchanged sentences with iron consistency for years, are now being criticized for tailoring their views to the BCCI’s prejudices, of being the BCCI’s paid publicists.
Why should pundits lucky enough to sign a contract to be the BCCI’s in-house commentators be stigmatized in this way? Why can’t we accept their explanation that the reason they agree with the BCCI on nearly everything is a coincidence rather than a sign of being compromised? Harsha Bhogle couldn’t even tweet the distinction between spot-fixing and match-fixing without following up immediately with another tweet anxiously clarifying that he saw both forms of fixing as equally culpable and bad, in case some swivel-eyed loon online thought he was carrying water for the IPL.
This intemperate talk of embedded journalists and gelded commentators destroys the sacred bond between fans and broadcasters so essential to the health of the game. Can’t the critics see that it is their reflexive, corrosive suspicion that is destroying Indian cricket, not the alleged excesses of the proprietors, players and publicists of the IPL?
The answer to this rhetorical question is, no, they can’t, because modern hacks hold nothing sacred, not even the cardinal principle in law that a man is innocent till proven guilty. Cowardly articles have made references to Ajay Jadeja without naming him. Jadeja has been a regular on the IPL pre-show and the self-appointed guardians of cricketing morality have insinuated that the BCCI’s willingness to accept, on its authorized telecasts, a former cricketer accused of match fixing in an earlier era is symbolic of the IPL’s fudging of past wrongdoing, its less-than-zero tolerance for corruption.
The problem with this argument is that Jadeja wasn’t found guilty of match-fixing by any court in India. Ergo, by the principles of natural justice and our republic’s laws, not having been charged and convicted, he is innocent. As Sunil Gavaskar sagely said on television after the Sreesanth story broke, there should be no rush to judgment. These are wise words: if the past and precedent (and the ability of the Indian police to secure a conviction) are a guide, it isn’t just possible, it is likely that Sunnybhai might find himself some years from now sharing a commentary box with a shiny, new, exonerated Sreesanth. The IPL is a golden Ganga in spate; it gilds everything that it touches.
|
Sunday 1 July 2012
New-tech moguls: the modern robber barons?
Are today's captains of industry – the wealthy and powerful figures who control the digital universe – any different from the ruthless corporate figures of the past?
From left: Co-founders of Google Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Chairman and CEO of Dell Michael Dell, Co-founder of Microsoft Bill Gates, and Chairman and CEO of Facebook Mark Zuckerberg Photographs: AP; Getty
Here's an interesting fact: 10 of the people on Forbes magazine's tally of the world's 100 richest billionaires made their money from computer and/or network technology. At the top (second on the list) is Bill Gates, co-founder of Microsoft, whose net worth is estimated by Forbes at $61bn, despite the fact that he continues to try to give it away. Gates is followed by Larry Ellison, boss of Oracle, with $36bn, and Michael Bloombergwith $22bn. Larry Page and Sergey Brin – co-founders of Google – occupy joint 24th place with $18.7bn each. Jeff Bezos of Amazon is No 26 with $18.4bn while the newly enriched Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook sits at No 35 with £17.5bn. Michael Dell, founder of the eponymous computer manufacturer, is at No 41 with $15.9bn while Steve Ballmer, Microsoft's CEO, is three places lower on $15.7bn and Paul Allen – co-founder of Microsoft – brings up the rear at No 48 with a mere $14.2bn. Steve Jobs, who was worth about $9bn when he died, doesn't even figure.
What's striking about this is not just the staggering wealth that these people have managed to squeeze out of what are, after all, just binary digits (ones and zeros), but how recent are the origins of their good fortunes. Mark Zuckerberg, for example, went from zero to $17.5bn in less than eight years. Microsoft – the company that has propelled Gates, Ballmer and Allen into the Forbes pantheon – dates only from 1975. Oracle was founded in 1977. Bloomberg turned a $10m redundancy cheque from Salomon Brothers into his personal money-pump in 1982. Dell started making computers in his university dorm in 1984. Bezos launched Amazon with his own savings in 1995. Brin and Page turned their PhD research into a company called Google in 1998. And Zuckerberg launched Facebook in 2004.
For some of these people, great wealth is correlated with significant power. Once Microsoft captured the market for PC operating systems and office software, Bill Gates and co ruthlessly leveraged their monopoly to eliminate rivals (remember Netscape?) and dictate pricing. So we got a world where you could have any kind of computer you wanted, provided it ran Microsoft Windows. In the era when the PC was the computer, Bill Gates was king because he controlled the PC.
But although Microsoft remains a significant force, its power waned as computing moved from the PC to the network – and therefore to the people and companies who dominate that. Step forward the Google boys, who have the power to render any website virtually invisible, because if their algorithms decide not to index a site then effectively it ceases to exist – at least in cyberspace. Their computers also read our mail and store our documents. Google dominates the online advertising business. The company's founders say grandly that their mission is "to organise the world's information" – and they mean it. They have already digitised a significant amount of the world's printed books – although they are not yet authorised to make many of them available online. And Google's cars have photographed every street in the industrialised world.
Meanwhile, in another part of the jungle, Amazon's Bezos is not just vaporising bricks-and-mortar bookstores; he's also on his way to becoming the world's biggest publisher. And he's already the world's largest online retailer – the Walmart of the web. In social networking Mark Zuckerberg has cunningly inserted himself (via his hardware and software) into every online communication that passes between his 900 million subscribers, to the point where Facebook probably knows that two people are about to have an affair before they do. And because of the nature of networks, if we're not careful we could wind up with a series of winners who took all: one global bookstore; one social network; one search engine; one online multimedia store and so on.
There was a time when the power exercised by computer and internet companies seemed a matter of relatively esoteric concern. But as digital technology began to pervade our daily lives, the boundary between the "real" world ("meatspace", as geeks used to call it) and cyberspace began to blur. What happened in the latter suddenly mattered in the former – and not just in Tunisia and Egypt either. Think of the way Steve Jobs's creation – Apple – exercises such dominance over online music, smartphones and tablet computers. Or ponder what Google and Facebook now know about our lives, loves and obsessions. Or what Amazon knows about our consumption patterns. The implication is that cyberpower has correlates in the real world, which means that it's time we had a really good look at those who wield it. What are these masters of the digital universe really like? What are their values and their politics? And are they any different from the corporate moguls of the past?
Given their prominence, we know surprisingly little about our modern moguls – for various reasons. One is that we are remarkably incurious about what makes them tick. We focus instead on the fact that one of them (Zuckerberg) wears a hoodie even when being interviewed by investment bankers; or that Larry Page, co-founder of Google, refused to stop using his laptop when a big media mogul came to talk to him; or that Bill Gates used to rock furiously backwards and forwards in a rocking chair when being interviewed for an anti-trust case; or that Steve Jobs drove a comparatively modest sports car and lived in a small, old-fashioned house rather than the postmodern minimalist palace that many people would have predicted.
But this is all superficial stuff, the journalistic fluff of celebrity profiles and gossip columns. What's much more significant about these moguls is that they share a mindset that renders them blind to the untidiness and contradictions of life, not to mention the fears and anxieties of lesser beings. They are technocrats who cleave to a worldview that holds that if something is technically possible then it should be done. How about digitising all the books in the world? No problem: you just throw resources and technology at the task. And if publishers protest about infringement of copyright andauthors moan about their moral rights, well, that just shows how antediluvian they are. Or how about photographing every street in Europe, or even the world? Again, no problem: it's technically feasible, after all. And if Germans object to the resulting intrusion on their privacy, well let them complain and we'll pixelate the sods. Oh – and when we discover that those same cars have been hoovering up the details of our home Wi-Fi networks, their bosses say "Oops! Sorry: it was a mistake." Same story with the high-resolution satellite imagery beloved of Google and – now – Apple. Same story with Mark Zuckerberg's fanatical, almost sociopathic, belief that the default setting for life should be "public" rather than "private". The prevailing technocratic motto is: if something can be done, then it ought to be done. It's all about progress, stoopid.
Actually, it's all about values. And money. The trouble is that technocrats don't do values. They just do rationality. They love good design, efficiency, elegance – and profits. That's why one of the poster children of the industry is Apple's creative genius, Jonathan Ive, who designs beautiful kit in California which is then assembled in Chinese factories. And when the execrable working conditions prevalent in such places are exposed, the company's senior executives profess themselves surprised and appalled and resolve to do everything they can to ameliorate things. And we believe them – and continue eagerly to purchase the gizmos manufactured in such oppressive plants.
Why are we so credulous, so forgiving? It's partly because wealth – like political power – is a powerful aphrodisiac. But it's mainly because we accept these people at their own valuation. We've bought into their narrative. They see themselves as progressives, as folks who want to make the world a better, more efficient, more rational place. We're charmed by their corporate mantras – for example "Don't be evil" (Google) or "Move fast and break things" (Facebook). In their black turtlenecks and faded jeans they don't seem to have anything in common with Rupert Murdoch or the grim-faced, silk-hatted capitalist bosses of old. Instead of grinding the faces of the poor, our modern technology magnates move effortlessly from tech forums to TED to All Things D to Davos, reclining on spotlit sofas discussing APIs and cloud computing with respectful or admiring moderators. And in recent times, they are even invited to lunch with President Obamaor as guests at political summits where they are fawned upon by presidents and prime ministers who hope that some of the magic dust will rub off on them.
What gets lost in the reality distortion field that surrounds these technology moguls is that, in the end, they are fanatically ambitious, competitive capitalists. They may look cool and have soothing bedside manners, but in the end these guys are in business not just to make money, but to establish sprawling, quasi-monopolistic commercial empires. And they will do whatever it takes to achieve those ambitions.
The strongest link that binds them is that they are all pioneers in the exploitation of virgin territory, and that rings some historical bells. When the internet first exploded into public consciousness in the 1990s as a result of the web, many observers were reminded of what happened in the United States after the end of the civil war in 1865. Then, there was an exciting sense of a continent to be explored, gold and mineral resources to be discovered and exploited, land for anyone who was prepared to work it, industries to be founded, opportunities galore. What then followed was an explosion of speculative investment, led by railway companies which – as Anthony Trollope shrewdly observed on a visit to the US – "were in fact companies combined for the purchase of land… looking to increase the value of it fivefold by the opening of the railroad."
Thus began the era satirised by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner in their novelThe Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, which was published in 1873. Twain and Warner were struck by the rampant greed and speculative frenzy of the times – not to mention its pervasive political corruption. But in that febrile milieu a smallish group of ingenious, ruthless and visionary entrepreneurs created a modern industrial state. Leland Stanford, EH Harriman, Jay Gould, Charles Crocker, Henry Plant, Henry Flagler, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Charles Yerkes built railways; John D Rockefeller created Standard Oil and brought his distinctive brand of oligopolistic order to the oil business, eventually controlling 90% of the industry; Andrew Carnegie, Henry Frick and Charles Schwab created a vast steel industry; and bankers such as JP Morgan, Joseph Seligman, Andrew Mellon and Jay Cooke organised the finance that funded these huge ventures.
In addition to building a modern industrial state, these gents amassed huge fortunes for themselves using a raft of dubious techniques, including fraud, stock-dilution, the bribing of corrupt politicians, the creation of secret cartels (ironically called "trusts") and the ruthless exploitation of poorly paid, non-unionised workers – which is why Matthew Josephson dubbed them "robber barons" in his book of the same title. In the end, their abuses and excesses led to a legislative backlash in the form of the 1890 Sherman Anti-Trust Act, the first federal statute to limit cartels and monopolies, and to a more general public revulsion ushered in by Theodore Roosevelt's presidency in 1901. In the twilight of their lives, some of the barons (for example Carnegie, Mellon and Frick) sought to acquire public respectability – or perhaps bargaining chips for negotiating with the Almighty – by endowing charitable foundations and eponymous museums, and engaging in other public-spirited enterprises.
In comparison with these monsters of the gilded age, our contemporary moguls – Gates, Page, Brin, Ellison, Bezos et al – may look rather tame. They appear, for example, to be much more law-abiding than their 19th-century counterparts; or at any rate they have had much less success in bending lawmakers to their will. In fact, compared with the skills of the entertainment industry in suborning members of the US Congress, the technology magnates are the merest amateurs – which is why the legislators were so astonished by the industry's vigorous reaction to Sopa, the Stop Online Piracy Act. The thought that the technology industry might actually have teeth had never previously occurred to the denizens of Capitol Hill.
We should also remember that the world in which Microsoft, Oracle, Google and Amazon operate is radically different in one important respect. The stage on which Rockefeller, Carnegie, Vanderbilt and their contemporaries strutted was predominately a national one: most of their enterprises and ambitions spanned only the continental United States, whereas the big technology companies of our day are transnational corporations that operate in a variety of different cultures and legal jurisdictions. John D Rockefeller just had to worry about fixing American officials and politicians; Larry Page, Google's CEO, has to deal not only with the US Department of Justice, but also with the European Commission, the Chinese government and Vladimir Putin's goons.
There are also radical differences in the kinds of industrial empires that the two classes of magnate have created. The 19th-century entrepreneurs built huge companies, conglomerates and cartels. They employed millions of people, operated huge plants and equipment (railways, shipping, iron and steel mills, oil refineries) and made an indelible imprint on the landscape. To use a contemporary cliche, they "shipped atoms" – physical objects. With the exception of Amazon and Apple, their modern counterparts, in contrast, are mainly in the business of shipping bits – in the form of software and online services. Despite the bleating of their PR departments, they are not huge primary employers. Google, for example, has only about 33,000 employees worldwide. And often the only tangible, physical sign of their presence and scale is the huge server farms that power their operations and which do have a significant impact on the environment – not to mention the landscape in the places where they are located.
But just because our contemporary moguls don't gouge minerals from the earth, run blast furnaces or operate oil refineries doesn't mean that their growing empires aren't real. To the physical economy created by Carnegie and co, digital technology has added a whole new economy based on information goods – nowadays embodied as ones and zeros – which may turn out to be at least as pervasive and valuable. We still make cars using steel, rubber and plastics, for example, but the value of the electronics in their engine management units and braking-control systems already exceeds the value of the vehicles' physical components. And this pattern will increasingly be replicated in other areas of economic life.
So the fact that one cannot see the information goods that Google and co gather, store, disseminate and control doesn't mean that those goods aren't real and valuable. To take just one example, Facebook now owns and controls a virtual space that will soon contain more people than the entire Indian subcontinent. Those merry throngs may delude themselves that they are cavorting in a public place. But in reality they are gathering in Master Zuckerberg's shopping mall – a fact that potentially gives him a reach and power that would make any robber baron green with envy.
Sceptics will point out that when one puts our masters of the digital universe in a historical context they aren't as rich or as important as we currently imagine. Last year, for example, Forbes commissioned an economist to come up with an inflation-adjusted list of the richest Americans of all time, and the website Business Insider published the results. The list is headed by those grizzled old robber barons, John D Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie and Cornelius Vanderbilt, with $336bn, $309bn and $185bn respectively. The only contemporary figure who makes it on to the list is Bill Gates, whose net worth at its peak was estimated at $136bn – which (says the sceptic) rather puts Larry Ellison, the Google boys and Jeff Bezos into perspective.
Bubble punctured, then? Not quite. It could be that the reason Bill Gates makes it on to the inflation-adjusted list is simply that he's been around the longest. Microsoft, remember, dates from 1975 – 37 years ago. Facebook has only been going since 2004. Who knows where Zuckerberg and the Google boys will be in 2041? The digital economy has a lot more growth left in it. As Churchill might have said, we haven't yet reached even the end of the beginning.
But perhaps the most intriguing question about these two different groups of industrial magnates concerns their legacies. The industries and enterprises founded by the robber barons of the 19th century still endure – though in some cases (steel, for example) the action has moved to Asia and parts of the developing world. What, one wonders, will endure of Google, Facebook, Oracle and Amazon? And what will be their founders' legacies? And here we get a clue from the robber barons of the 19th century. Many years after their deaths we still recognise the names of John D Rockefeller and Andrew Carnegie. Will Zuckerberg and Page enjoy the same level of name-recognition among our great-great-grandchildren?
The answer may well depend not on how much money they make, but how much they give away. After all, the way their 19th-century counterparts live on is in the charitable foundations they established – the Rockefeller Foundation, set up in 1913, and theCarnegie Corporation of New York, founded in 1911. And here at least we do have a contemporary mogul who is way ahead of the pack. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, with assets of $37.4bn, is the world's largest charitable trust.
Tuesday 24 January 2012
Only a maximum wage can end the great corporate pay robbery
Corporate wealth is being siphoned off by a kleptocratic class that has neither earned nor generated it
The business secretary, Vince Cable. Photograph: Martin Argles for the Guardian
The income of corporate executives, which the business secretary Vince Cable has just failed to address, is a form of institutionalised theft, arranged by a kleptocratic class for the benefit of its members. The wealth that was once spread more evenly among the staff of a company, or distributed as lower prices or higher taxes, is now siphoned off by people who have neither earned nor generated it.
Over the past 10 years, chief executives' pay has risen nine times faster than that of the median earner. Some bosses (British Gas, Xstrata and Barclays for example) are now being paid over 1,000 times the national median wage. The share of national income captured by the top 0.1% rose from 1.3% in 1979 to 6.5% by 2007.
These rewards bear no relationship to risk. The bosses of big companies, though they call themselves risk-takers, are 13 times less likely to be sacked than the lowest paid workers. Even if they lose their jobs and never work again, they will have invested so much and secured such generous pensions and severance packages that they'll live in luxury for the rest of their lives. The risks are carried by other people.
The problem of executive pay is characterised by Cable and many others as a gap between reward and performance. But it runs deeper than that, for three reasons. As the writer Dan Pink has shown, it's not just that there is currently no visible link between performance and pay; but high pay actually reduces performance. Material rewards incentivise simple mechanistic jobs: working on an assembly line, for example. But they lead to the poorer execution of tasks which require problem-solving and cognitive skills. As studies for the US Federal Reserve and other such bolsheviks show, cash incentives narrow people's focus and restrict the range of their thinking. By contrast, intrinsic motivators — such as a sense of autonomy, of enhancing your skills and pursuing a higher purpose — tend to improve performance.
Even the 0.1% concede that money is not what drives them. Bernie Ecclestone says: "I doubt if any successful business person works for money … money is a by-product of success. It's not the main aim." Jeroen van der Veer, formerly the chief executive of Shell, recalls, "if I had been paid 50% more, I would not have done it better. If I had been paid 50% less, then I would not have done it worse". High pay is both counterproductive and unnecessary.
The second reason is that, as the psychologist Daniel Kahneman has shown, performance in the financial sector is random, and the belief of traders and fund managers that they are using skill to beat the market is a cognitive illusion. A link between pay and results is a reward for blind luck.
Most importantly, the wider consequences of grotesque inequality bear no relationship to entitlement. Obscene rewards for success are as socially corrosive as obscene rewards for failure. They reduce social mobility, enhance plutocratic power and allow the elite to inflict astonishing levels of damage on the environment. They create resentment and reduce the motivation of other workers, who see the greedy bosses as the personification of the company.
Cable has announced four main policies: more transparency, a requirement that companies should "report" on boardroom diversity, a mechanism for clawing back pay settlements not justified by the company's performance, and granting shareholders binding powers to block excessive rewards. They are likely to be almost useless – or worse. Pay transparency, while of general interest, can create the perverse result that executives discover how much their rivals are getting, and use the information to demand more. The clawback mechanism will be inserted into the corporate governance code. This is voluntary, and its existing provisions are widely ignored.
Shareholder power is likely to be illusory. As Prem Sikka has shown, the proportion of stock owned by individuals fell from 47% in 1969 to 10% in 2008, while the percentage in foreign hands has risen from 7% to 42%. Why should oil sheikhs care about social justice in the UK? And most traders hold shares too briefly to take an interest in the inner workings of a company. As Rob Taylor, formerly the chief executive of Kleinwort Benson, points out, if shareholders don't like the way a company is run, they don't hang around to change it; they sell up and move on.
Labour's policies seem designed to sound tough but change little. Like Cable, its spokesman Chuka Umunna talks of transparency and simplicity (which are both worthy aims) but not of holding down pay. Labour has based its policy on the findings of the High Pay Commission, which have been widely hailed as revolutionary. I've read the commission's final report, and can find no justification for this description. Its recommendations are, to be frank, pathetic. With the possible exception of employee representation on pay committees, the 12 measures it proposes are likely to make only a marginal difference. Nowhere does it suggest anything resembling the obvious means of capping executive pay: namely, er, capping executive pay.
So what should be done? The UK government imposes a minimum wage, and even the neoliberal coalition appears to accept that this is a necessary intervention in the market. So why should it not impose a maximum wage?
I'm not talking about ratios or relative earnings. Various bodies have proposed that there should be a fixed ratio of the top earnings within a company to either the median or lowest salaries. But as a report on this issue by the New Economics Foundation shows, the first measurement quickly becomes complex and opaque, the second creates an incentive to contract out the lowest paid work. I'm talking about an absolute maximum, applied nationwide.
Let's say £500,000 a year, a figure that includes bonuses, share options, pensions and benefits. It will rise with inflation, but no faster than that. If you want to make more, you can invest in a risky venture of your own or someone else's. If you want to make more money as a salaried worker – in other words while other people carry the risks – you can go abroad, and good riddance to you. Another country, incautious enough to set no cap, can deal with the consequences of your destructive greed.
The feeble measures proposed by the government will do nothing to prevent the great pay robbery. If Vince Cable intended to limit executive pay, he would limit it. But he knows who his masters are, and the policies he has announced are intended to create only a semblance of action.
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