The Tinkerbell theory: I wish politicians would stop blaming their failures on my lack of belief

Who knew Peter Pan would become one of the key political texts of the twenty-first century?

Jonn Elledge in The New Statesman

The moment you doubt whether you can fly,” J M Barrie once wrote, "You cease for ever to be able to do it.” Elsewhere in the same book he was blunter, still: “Whenever a child says, ‘I don’t believe in fairies’, there’s a little fairy somewhere that falls right down dead.”
I would never have expected that Peter Pan would become one of the key political texts of the twenty-first century, if I’m honest. But predictions are not my strongpoint, and over the last few years, what one might term the Tinkerbell Theory of Politics has played an increasingly prominent role in national debate. The doubters’ lack of faith, we are told, is one of the biggest barriers to flight for everything from Jeremy Corbyn’s poll ratings to Brexit. Because we don’t believe, they can’t achieve.

It was in run up to the Scottish referendum that I first spotted Tinkerbell in the wild. Reports suggesting that RBS would consider relocating from Edinburgh, should independence lead to a significant rise in business costs – a statement of the bloody obvious, I’d have thought – were dismissed by then-First Minister Alex Salmond as merely “talking down Scotland”. Over the next few months, the same phrase was deployed by the SNP and its outriders whenever anyone questioned the Yes campaign’s optimistic estimates of future North Sea oil revenues.

The implications of all this were pretty clear: any practical problems apparently arising from independence were mere phantasms. The real threat to Scotland was the erosion of animal spirits caused by the faithlessness of unpatriotic unionists, who’d happily slaughter every fairy in the land before they risked an independent Scotland.

All this seemed pretty obnoxious to me, but at the time of the referendum it also all seemed to be a reassuringly long way away. Little did I realise that Salmond and co were just ahead of their time, because today, Tinkerbell-ism is bloody inescapable.

On Monday, Sir John Major made a wonkish speech laying out his concerns about Brexit. He talked about the threat to the Northern Ireland peace process, the way it would isolate Britain diplomatically, the difficulty of negotiating highly complicated trade deals on the timetable imposed by Article 50. He wanted, he said, to “warn against an over-optimism that – if unachieved – will sow further distrust between politics and the public, at a time when trust needs to be re-built”.

And how did Britain’s foreign secretary respond? “I think it’s very important that as we set out in this journey we are positive about the outcome for the very good reason the outcome will be fantastic for this country,” Boris said, probably imagining himself to be a bit like Cicero.

The problem, in other words, is not the government’s lack of a plan; the problem is its critics’ lack of faith. In a familiar phrase, the Telegraph headlined its report: “Boris Johnson criticises John Major for talking down UK’s post-Brexit prospects”.

The left is no better. In any discussion of the failings of Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour party, it won’t be long before someone blames the polls, or the by-election results, on either the lack of support from the parliamentary Labour party, or the hostility of a media that never liked him in the first place. “Of course he’s struggling,” the implication runs. “Your lack of belief is a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Dead fairies, everywhere you turn.

It’s easy to see why the Tinkerbell strategy would be such an attractive line of argument for those who deploy it - one that places responsibility for their own f*ck-ups squarely on their critics, thus rendering them impervious to attack. Corbyn’s failure becomes the fault of the Blairites. A bad Brexit becomes the fault of Remoaners, and not those who were dim enough to believe it would easy to begin with. Best of all, the more right your critics turn out to be, the more you have to blame them for.

But being impervious to criticism is not the same as being right, and to think this strategy is a recipe for good government is to mistake a closed loop of true believers for objective reality. Jeremy Corbyn is unlikely to start winning elections, no matter how hard the faithful believe. However much you talk up Scotland, that oil is still going to run out

And whatever the right-wing press do to convince themselves that Boris Johnson is right, and John Major is wrong, it is unlikely to affect the negotiating position of the 27 other states in the slightest. At the end of the day, our faith matters a lot less than the facts on the ground. There is no such things as fairies.

Lessons from Amma

Shubhankar Dam in The Friday Times

From 1991 to 1996, four residents of 36 Poes Garden, Chennai—J Jayalalithaa, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu and her foster family—amassed a 3,200% increase in wealth. This staggering surge, a rate of superhuman returns, beggars belief. What begot this? Prodigious business acumen? Or a colossal abuse of public office?

In June 1996, one Subramanian Swamy filed a complaint against Jayalalithaa alleging assets in titanic disproportion to her accredited sources of income. Investigations laid bare an incestuous web of businesses and vicariously held properties. The three other residents of Poes Garden, VK Sasikala, J Elavarasi, and VN Sudhakaran, appeared deep in cahoots with the matriarch. In Jan. 1997, they, too, were arraigned alongside the alleged mastermind.

The matter gingerly inched through India’s legal complex, wobbling from one court to another. Calendars turned, as parties wrangled over legal process. Two decades went by.

On February 14, 2017, at last, the final word. The Indian Supreme Court delivered a decisive verdict. What it enounced should put public officials, politicians and corporates, too, on alert.

Presented with fawning tributes on birthdays or other times, politicians holding public offices must turn them down: that is the only legal option now. No longer can they summon the alibi of customary practice-insistent adulation of their devotees-to fatten their bank balances

The conspiracy, the crime, the charge

Jayalalithaa was charged with criminal misconduct under the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1988: possessing, directly or through a person, while in public office, resources or property disproportionate to one’s known sources of income—something the public servant cannot satisfactorily account for. Her familial acolytes were indicted for criminal conspiracy and abetment.

Persons conspire, the Indian Penal Code, 1860, says, if two or more agree to do an unlawful act or a lawful act by unlawful means. Persons abet an offence, the code adds, if they intentionally aid others in an unlawful act.

The trial court, and later, the high court, distilled the facts, weighed the evidence, and applied the law. The first court convicted; the latter acquitted. Why? They disagreed on all counts: facts, evidence and the law. The Supreme Court stepped in, and broke new ground. Measuring disproportionate assets will never be the same again.

Tamil Nadu CM Jayalalithaa was charged with criminal misconduct under the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1988: possessing, directly or through a person, while in public office, resources or property disproportionate to one’s known sources of income-something the public servant cannot satisfactorily account for

Accounting for criminal income

Jayalalithaa and her aides asserted large incomes from assorted sources: business, agriculture, loans, interests, gifts, rentals, and sale of party literature. They produced income tax returns as proof. Income tax officials had accepted these documents. So, they sufficed as proof, all four optimistically pleaded. The Supreme Court rubbished this approach. Tax laws are distinct from anti-corruption rules. Income tax officers only assess incomes; they don’t bother with sources, the court insisted.

In Sept 1958, Indian police detained one Piara Singh as he ventured to cross into Pakistan. Searches revealed a sum of Rs65,500 on his person; interrogations revealed a gold-smuggling racket. Officials quickly seized his cash. Of the impounded sum, Rs60,500 was Singh’s income from undisclosed sources, income tax officers assessed. It was liable to tax.

Singh protested. Smuggling was his “business,” he told the Supreme Court. The impounded cash amounted to a “business loss”. It should be tax-exempt. The court agreed. Tax laws are catholic—they apply to all profits and losses, licit and illicit. The sources don’t matter. So, Singh’s business loss was indeed tax-exempt.

Anti-corruption law is different: It obsesses over sources. The 1988 Act says: If charged, a public servant must satisfactorily explain the disproportionate assets through his or her known sources of income, that is, “income received from any lawful source”.

Jayalalithaa had massive incomes but no evidence of their legality—no credible records, witnesses, explanations or inferences. The court affirmed the charge against her. A clean bill of financial health from the tax department, in other words, won’t ease matters in an anti-corruption court. Independent verification is the key.

But that’s not all. The court went further—much further. It proscribed a commonly asserted source of income, and that should alarm politicians in India even more.

Tax laws are catholic-they apply to all profits and losses, licit and illicit. The sources don’t matter. Anti-corruption law is different: It obsesses over sources

New law of public affection

Jayalalithaa’s birthdays were an annual orgy of love and presents. Cash, foreign remittances, jewelry, sarees, and silver items—her democratic devotees inundated her with them, she claimed.

Are such gifts lawful sources of income in an anti-corruption context? No, the court emphatically said. They are “visibly illegal and forbidden by law”. Gifts are bribes by another name. Legalising them would erase the bar on bribes, it reasoned.

Presents to public servants come in many forms. Some are designed to induce or reward abuse of office. Others come with no manifest motive. They are “simply” gifts. But these, too, are unlawful, the court pronounced. Why?

Gifts are “likely to influence [a] public servant to show official favour to [the] person” offering them, if opportunities arise. Opportunities, though, may arise in umpteen, unpredictable ways. Many citizens are likely to have business to transact with, say, a minister (get a policy altered), bureaucrat (get a permit issued) or police officer (get a matter investigated).

Are gifts from all citizens unlawful? Relatives, friends, acquaintances, too? The court didn’t say. But if so, a generous embargo on presents is a revolutionary piece of reasoning.

Presented with fawning tributes on birthdays or other times, politicians holding public offices must turn them down: that is the only legal option now. No longer can they summon the alibi of customary practice—insistent adulation of their devotees—to fatten their bank balances.

The bar applies to all public servants and corporates, not just politicians. Under scrutiny for purportedly spinning a web around public officials to promote business interests, the Essar Group defended its practices in an affidavit to the Supreme Court in Nov. 2015. Small gifts and favors to government servants are “common courtesies”, it claimed. They aren’t improper, much less illegal. They are illegal: The verdict makes it emphatically clear.

Declaring illegality is the easy part; proving criminal collusion is much harder. But corrupt politicians, corporates and their handlers, be warned. A new judicial zeal is doing the rounds. 

Poes Garden: house of crimes

Jayalalithaa invited her friend Sasikala to the residency at Poes Garden in 1987. Together, they ran two business partnerships. Later, Elavarasi and Sudhakaran, Sasikala’s relatives, were inducted into the home in 1991 and 1992, respectively.

The new residents had no business experience or sources of income. Yet, they acquired six companies, and held directorships. (More firms were incorporated later.) Accounts linked to Jayalalithaa and Sasikala funded the acquisitions.

The companies, originally, had nothing of worth: funds, assets, loans or anything else. Not even bank accounts in some cases. But, suddenly, they stirred into brisk action. They surveyed and negotiated deals, bought land, and executed sale deeds. They also operated some 50 bank accounts. Cash promiscuously flowed in and out. No walls separated them. Intriguingly, that is all the companies did: hoard properties and move cash around.

These were shells, not companies. It strained credulity to believe that they transacted ordinary business. The Supreme Court did not believe, either. Business registrations, deals, transfers, appointments, resignations had remarkable synchronies. These weren’t coincidences, the court inferred. The collaborators were part of an elaborate commercial incest. The firms, their holdings, and deals were shams, contrived to lend an ounce of entrepreneurial legitimacy.

Poes Garden was a conspiratorial den, and Jayalalithaa masterminded it, the court found. She funded the partnerships. These, in turn, funded the companies. Those, then, bought properties. The 50 bank accounts were effectively one: Jayalalithaa’s. Guilty, all of them, the court decided.

The verdict will resonate far beyond the immediate facts. It has an air of urgency. There’s a readiness to peel away legal facades, probe nooks and crannies, unite the dots and draw aggressive inferences. Gone are the days when judges willingly suspended disbelief, demanded impossible standards from prosecutors, and granted careless benefit of doubt to the accused.

It augurs well for corruption trials now underway. The decision puts undertrials on notice, and those plotting their next rendezvous with public corruption, too.

Altogether, it feels rosy it shouldn’t. Ominous clouds still lurk on the legal horizon.

This ain’t a happy ending

The verdict, again, betrays the rot at the heart of India’s criminal justice complex. For one, it ground ahead slowly, far too slowly. Two decades to litigate a criminal charge is inordinately long. This point isn’t worth belabouring—it is well known.

But another point is the systemic lack of investigative and prosecutorial independence, and the inability to hold serving public officials, particularly, political offices, to account. Lest we forget, anti-corruption sleuths didn’t pursue Jayalalithaa. A private complainant did: Subramanian Swamy. The director of Vigilance and Anti-Corruption, Chennai, joined in after a court directive. That Jayalalithaa’s political rival in Tamil Nadu, the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK), held power in the state during the investigations only helped matters along.

A credible investigation against a sitting chief minister in India, even now, is an absurd idea. Investigations are only the beginning. Prosecutions must follow in deserving cases. It followed in this case, and quite well. But only till the DMK was in power. By August 2000, nearly 250 witnesses had been examined; just over 10 remained. The marathon trial was in its last mile.

Suddenly, it fumbled

In May 2001, Jayalalithaa and her party returned to power. Witnesses turned hostile. Prosecutors lost their zeal. The trial went awry. In Nov. 2003, the Supreme Court, in response to a petition by a DMK leader, K. Anbazhagan, transferred the trial to Bangalore. A fair trial against a sitting chief minister was impossible within the state, the court implied. Such is the rancid reality of prosecutorial affairs in India.

The trail began anew. Even there in Bangalore, prosecutors struggled. Interference lurked at every turn. The Supreme Court routinely intervened to keep matters on track—often at the dogged insistence of Swamy and Anbazhagan. Only they seemed keen to try Jayalalithaa, not the state.

Successful anti-corruption drives marry tough rules, investigative and prosecutorial independence with judicial reasonableness. India has two of these—or at least a semblance of them. The middle one is missing; it has always been so.

Without it, the Jayalalithaa-Sasikala matter will remain a celebrated exception. Without it, prosecuting high corruption in India will remain a private pastime, always directed at opposition politicians against an obstinate state apparatus, and overly reliant on courts. Without it, only lesser mortals will endure the fury of anti-corruption rules: Those more equal than others will forever remain immune.

Muslims Want Tarek Fatah Dead

Has Big Data already captured the world?

George Monbiot in The Guardian


Has a digital coup begun? Is big data being used, in the US and the UK, to create personalised political advertising, to bypass our rational minds and alter the way we vote? The short answer is probably not. Or not yet.

A series of terrifying articles suggests that a company called Cambridge Analytica helped to swing both the US election and the EU referendum by mining data from Facebook and using it to predict people’s personalities, then tailoring advertising to their psychological profiles. These reports, originating with the Swiss publication Das Magazin (published in translation by Vice), were clearly written in good faith, but apparently with insufficient diligence. They relied heavily on claims made by Cambridge Analytica that now appear to have been exaggerated. I found the story convincing, until I read the deconstructions by Martin Robbins on Little Atoms, Kendall Taggart on Buzzfeed and Leonid Bershidsky on Bloomberg.

None of this is to suggest we should not be vigilant. The Cambridge Analytica story gives us a glimpse of a possible dystopian future, especially in the US, where data protection is weak. Online information already lends itself to manipulation and political abuse, and the age of big data has scarcely begun. In combination with advances in cognitive linguistics and neuroscience, this data could become a powerful tool for changing the electoral decisions we make.

Our capacity to resist manipulation is limited. Even the crudest forms of subliminal advertising swerve past our capacity for reason and make critical thinking impossible. The simplest language shifts can trip us up. For example, when Americans were asked whether the federal government was spending too little on “assistance to the poor”, 65% agreed. When they were asked whether it was spending too little on “welfare”, 25% agreed. What hope do we have of resisting carefully targeted digital messaging that uses trigger words to influence our judgment? Those who are charged with protecting the integrity of elections should be urgently developing a new generation of safeguards.

Already big money exercises illegitimate power over political systems, making a mockery of democracy: the battering ram of campaign finance, which gives billionaires and corporations a huge political advantage over ordinary citizens; the dark money network (a web of lobby groups, funded by billionaires, that disguise themselves as thinktanks); astroturf campaigning (employing people to masquerade as grassroots movements); and botswarming (creating fake online accounts to give the impression that large numbers of people support a political position). All these are current threats to political freedom. Election authorities such as the Electoral Commission in the UK have signally failed to control these abuses, or even, in most cases, to acknowledge them.

China shows how much worse this could become. There, according to a recent article in Scientific American, deep-learning algorithms enable the state to develop its “citizen score”. This uses people’s online activities to determine how loyal and compliant they are, and whether they should qualify for jobs, loans or entitlement to travel to other countries. Combine this level of monitoring with nudging technologies – tools designed subtly to change people’s opinions and responses – and you develop a system that tends towards complete control.


Already big money exercises illegitimate power over political systems, making a mockery of democracy

That’s the bad news. But digital technologies could also be a powerful force for positive change. Political systems, particularly in the Anglophone nations, have scarcely changed since the fastest means of delivering information was the horse. They remain remote, centralised and paternalist. The great potential for participation and deeper democratic engagement is almost untapped. Because the rest of us have not been invited to occupy them, it is easy for billionaires to seize and enclose the political cyber-commons.

A recent report by the innovation foundation Nesta argues that there are no quick or cheap digital fixes. But, when they receive sufficient support from governments or political parties, new technologies can improve the quality of democratic decisions. They can use the wisdom of crowds to make politics more transparent, to propose ideas that don’t occur to professional politicians, and to spot flaws and loopholes in government bills.

Among the best uses of online technologies it documents are the LabHacker and eDemocracia programmes in Brazil, which allow people to make proposals to their representatives and work with them to improve bills and policies; Parlement et Citoyens in France, which plays a similar role; vTaiwan, which crowdsources new parliamentary bills; the Better Reykjavík programme, which allows people to suggest and rank ideas for improving the city, and has now been used by more than half the population; and the Pirate party, also in Iceland, whose policies are chosen by its members, in both digital and offline forums. In all these cases, digital technologies are used to improve representative democracy rather than to replace it.  

Participation tends to be deep but narrow. Tech-savvy young men are often over-represented, while most of those who are alienated by offline politics remain, so far, alienated by online politics. But these results could be greatly improved, especially by using blockchain technology (a method of recording data), text-mining with the help of natural language processing (that enables very large numbers of comments and ideas to be synthesised and analysed), and other innovations that could make electronic democracy more meaningful, more feasible and more secure.

Of course, there are hazards here. No political system, offline or online, is immune to hacking; all systems require safeguards that evolve to protect them from being captured by money and undemocratic power. The regulation of politics lags decades behind the tricks, scams and new technologies deployed by people seeking illegitimate power. This is part of the reason for the mass disillusionment with politics: the belief that outcomes are rigged, and the emergence of a virulent anti-politics that finds expression in extremism and demagoguery.

Either we own political technologies, or they will own us. The great potential of big data, big analysis and online forums will be used by us or against us. We must move fast to beat the billionaires.