Theresa May must not trigger article 50 before these vital questions are answered

Carole Cadwalldr in The Guardian

Is Brexit the will of the people? And if so, which people exactly? There are many disquieting questions to be asked about world events right now. But, in the week in which Theresa May received parliament’s approval to trigger article 50 and send us crashing out of the European Union, there are none more compelling and urgent than about the integrity of our entire democratic system.

The questions that remain unanswered are not about party infighting, and not even about Brexit. The issue is this: did foreign individuals or powers, acting covertly, subvert our democracy?

There are mounting and deeply disquieting questions about the role “dark money” may have played during last year’s EU referendum; and about whether the use of offshore jurisdictions, loopholes in European and North American data laws, undeclared foreign donors, a closed, all-powerful technological system (Facebook) and an antiquated and hopelessly out-of-touch oversight body has undermined the very foundations of our electoral system. 

This is what we know: the Electoral Commission is still assessing claims that potentially illegal donations were made; the information commissioner is investigating “possible illegal” use of data; the heads of MI6 and GCHQ have both voiced unprecedented warnings about foreign interference in our democratic systems; the government has refused to elaborate on what these are; one of the leave campaigns has admitted the undeclared support and help of the American hedge fund billionaire who backed Trump; the Crown Prosecution Service is being asked to mount a criminal investigation; and questions have been raised about possible unlawful collaboration between different elements of the leave campaign.

And this all leads to the next question: are we really going to allow article 50 to be triggered when we don’t even know if the referendum was freely, fairly and legally conducted?

Even if you back Brexit, even if you can’t wait for Theresa May to pull the article 50 trigger, this should be the cause of serious concern. Yes, maybe this vote went the way you wanted. But what about the next?


MI6 and GCHQ have both voiced warnings about foreign interference in our democratic systems

This weekend brought two startling warnings from two entirely different quarters. The first from the man who invented the world wide web, Tim Berners-Lee, who said he was “extremely worried” about the future of democracy; that data harvesting was being used to “chilling” effect; that political targeting on the basis of it was “unethical”; and that the internet had been weaponised and was being used against us.

The second came from GCHQ, whose National Cyber Security Centre head has written to the main political parties warning of hostile interference. This was months after the head of the MI6, Alex Younger, made an unprecedented speech warning of “cyber attacks, propaganda or subversion of the democratic process”. And he added: “The risks at stake are profound and represent a fundamental threat to our sovereignty. They should be a concern to all those who share democratic values.”

Three months on, May’s government has refused to tell us what those risks are. What does Younger know? Why has parliament not been told? Who is investigating, and when will we know the results? Where is Dominic Grieve, the head of the intelligence select committee, in all this? And how can any of us have any trust in the democratic process when vital information is being kept from us?

Watchdog to launch inquiry into misuse of data in politics



We do know that Russian interests interfered in the US election. That has been catalogued by the National Security Agency, the CIA and the FBI. And that the beneficiary of that interference was Donald Trump. We know that Trump, his campaign strategist Steve Bannon, and the billionaire who funded his campaign, Robert Mercer, all have long-standing, close ties to Nigel Farage, Arron Banks and last year’s Leave.eu campaign. We know that the data company Cambridge Analytica, owned by Mercer and with Steve Bannon on the board, undertook work for Leave.eu.

We know that Cambridge Analytica’s parent company, SCL, employed a Canadian individual – Zackary Massingham – to undertake work for it. We know Massingham is a director of a company called AggregateIQ, and that Vote Leave – the official leave campaign – paid AggregateIQ £3.5m to do its profiling and Facebook advertising. We know it paid AggregateIQ a further £725,000 on behalf of two other organisations – one of which was a 23-year-old student who worked in Vote Leave’s office. And we know Northern Ireland’s Democraticlse we know: that the law demands that coordinated campaigns declare their expenditure and are subject to a strict combined limit. Yet here we see four different campaigns using the same tiny Canadian company based thousands of miles and seven time zones away. Coincidence? And this same company, AggregateIQ, has direct links (through Massingham) to the company used by the separate campaign Leave.eu.

However, we don’t know what contact, if any, there was between these five campaigns, or if employing a North American company (in a jurisdiction known for its far less stringent laws on both data protection and financial disclosure) had other benefits. But we do know that data is power: Facebook admitted last week that it can use data to swing elections – for the right price.

All the individuals and organisations deny any wrongdoing. But there are too many questions. There may be straightforward explanations but they have to be asked, addressed and answered.

If May triggers article 50 before we have those answers, we won’t know if Brexit is the will of the people or if it’s the result of a determined foreign actor, or actors, undermining our entire democratic system.

Theresa May is dragging the UK under. This time Scotland must cut the rope

George Monbiot in The Guardian

Here is the question the people of Scotland will face in the next independence referendum: when England falls out of the boat like a block of concrete, do you want your foot tied to it?

It would be foolish to deny that there are risks in leaving the United Kingdom. Scotland’s economy is weak, not least because it has failed to wean itself off North Sea oil. There are major questions, not yet resolved, about the currency it would use; its trading relationship with the rump of the UK; and its association with the European Union, which it’s likely to try to rejoin.

But the risks of staying are as great or greater. Ministers are already trying to reconcile us to the possibility of falling out of the EU without a deal. If this happens, Britain would be the only one of the G20 nations without special access to EU trade – “a very destructive outcome leading to mutually assured damage for the EU and the UK”, according to the Commons foreign affairs committee. As the government has a weak hand, an obsession with past glories and an apparent yearning for a heroic gesture of self-destruction, this is not an unlikely result.

On the eve of the first independence referendum, in September 2014, David Cameron exhorted the people of Scotland to ask themselves: “Will my family and I truly be better off by going it alone? Will we really be more safe and secure?” Thanks to his machinations, the probable answer is now: yes.

In admonishing Scotland for seeking to protect itself from this chaos, the government applies a simple rule: whatever you say about Britain’s relationship with Europe, say the opposite about Scotland’s relationship with Britain.

In her speech to the Scottish Conservatives’ spring conference, Theresa May observed that “one of the driving forces behind the union’s creation was the remorseless logic that greater economic strength and security come from being united”. She was talking about the UK, but the same remorseless logic applies to the EU. In this case, however, she believes that our strength and security will be enhanced by leaving. “Politics is not a game, and government is not a platform from which to pursue constitutional obsessions,” she stormed – to which you can only assent.

A Conservative member of the Scottish parliament, Jamie Greene, complains that a new referendum “would force people to vote blind on the biggest political decision a country could face. That is utterly irresponsible.” This reminds me of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Before the last Scottish referendum, when the polls suggested that Scotland might choose independence, Boris Johnson, then London mayor, warned that “we are on the verge of an utter catastrophe for this country … No one has thought any of this through.” Now, as foreign secretary, he assures us that “we would be perfectly OK” if Britain leaves the EU without a deal.

  Independence supporters gather in Glasgow’s George Square after Nicola Sturgeon’s call for a second referendum.

The frantic attempts by government and press to delegitimise the decision by the Scottish first minister, Nicola Sturgeon, to call for a second independence vote fall flat. Her party’s manifesto for the last Scottish election gives her an evident mandate: it would hold another referendum “if there is a significant and material change in the circumstances that prevailed in 2014, such as Scotland being taken out of the EU against our will”.

Contrast this with May’s position. She has no mandate, from either the general election or the referendum, for leaving the single market and the European customs union. Her intransigence over these issues bends the Conservative manifesto’s pledge to “strengthen and improve devolution for each part of our United Kingdom”.

Her failure to consult the governments of Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland before unilaterally deciding that the UK would leave the single market, and her refusal to respond to the paper the Scottish government produced exploring possible options for a continued engagement with the EU after Brexit testify to a relationship characterised by paternalism and contempt.

You can see the same attitude in the London-based newspapers. As the last referendum approached, they treated Scotland like an ungrateful servant. “What spoilt, selfish, childlike fools those Scots are … They simply don’t have a clue how lucky they are,” Melanie Reid sniffed in the Times. Now the charge is scheming opportunism. “We hope the Scottish people call Sturgeon out for her cynical, self-interested game-playing,” rages the Sun’s English edition. If you want to know what cynical, self-interested game-playing looks like, read the Sun’s Scottish edition. It says the opposite, contrasting the risks of independence with “the stick-on certainty of decades of Tory rule with nothing to soften it”, if Scotland remains within the UK.

Whenever I visit Scotland, I’m reminded that Britain is politically dead from the neck down. South of the border, we tolerate repeated assaults on the commonweal. As the self-hating state destroys its own power to distribute wealth, support public services and protect the NHS from ruin; as it rips up the rules protecting workers, the living world, our food, water and the very air we breathe; as disabled people are pushed off a cliff and poor people are evicted from their homes, we stand and stare. As the trade minister colludes with the dark money network on both sides of the Atlantic, threatening much that remains, we shake our heads then turn away.

Sure, there are some protests. There is plenty of dissent on social media; but our response is pathetic in comparison with the scale of what we face. The Labour opposition is divided, directionless and currently completely useless. But north of the border politics is everywhere, charged with hope, anger and a fierce desire for change. Again and again, this change is thwarted by the dead weight of Westminster. Who would remain tethered to this block, especially as the boat begins to list?

Scotland could wait to find out what happens after Brexit, though it is hard to see any likely outcome other than more of this and worse. Or it could cut the rope, pull itself back into the boat, and sail towards a hopeful if uncertain future. I know which option I would take.

Protest and persist: why giving up hope is not an option

Rebecca Solnit in The Guardian


Last month, Daniel Ellsberg and Edward Snowden had a public conversation about democracy, transparency, whistleblowing and more. In the course of it, Snowden – who was of course Skyping in from Moscow – said that without Ellsberg’s example he would not have done what he did to expose the extent to which the NSA was spying on millions of ordinary people. It was an extraordinary declaration. It meant that the consequences of Ellsberg’s release of the top-secret Pentagon Papers in 1971 were not limited to the impact on a presidency and a war in the 1970s. The consequences were not limited to people alive at that moment. His act was to have an impact on people decades later – Snowden was born 12 years after Ellsberg risked his future for the sake of his principles. Actions often ripple far beyond their immediate objective, and remembering this is reason to live by principle and act in hope that what you do matters, even when results are unlikely to be immediate or obvious.

The most important effects are often the most indirect. I sometimes wonder when I’m at a mass march like the Women’s March a month ago whether the reason it matters is because some unknown young person is going to find her purpose in life that will only be evident to the rest of us when she changes the world in 20 years, when she becomes a great liberator.

I began talking about hope in 2003, in the bleak days after the war in Iraq was launched. Fourteen years later, I use the term hope because it navigates a way forward between the false certainties of optimism and of pessimism, and the complacency or passivity that goes with both. Optimism assumes that all will go well without our effort; pessimism assumes it’s all irredeemable; both let us stay home and do nothing. Hope for me has meant a sense that the future is unpredictable, and that we don’t actually know what will happen, but know we may be able write it ourselves.

Hope is a belief that what we do might matter, an understanding that the future is not yet written. It’s informed, astute open-mindedness about what can happen and what role we may play in it. Hope looks forward, but it draws its energies from the past, from knowing histories, including our victories, and their complexities and imperfections. It means not being the perfect that is the enemy of the good, not snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, not assuming you know what will happen when the future is unwritten, and part of what happens is up to us.

We are complex creatures. Hope and anguish can coexist within us and in our movements and analyses. There’s a scene in the new movie about James Baldwin, I Am Not Your Negro, in which Robert Kennedy predicts, in 1968, that in 40 years there will be a black president. It’s an astonishing prophecy since four decades later Barack Obama wins the presidential election, but Baldwin jeers at it because the way Kennedy has presented it does not acknowledge that even the most magnificent pie in the sky might comfort white people who don’t like racism but doesn’t wash away the pain and indignation of black people suffering that racism in the here and now. Patrisse Cullors, one of the founders of Black Lives Matter, early on described the movement’s mission as “rooted in grief and rage but pointed towards vision and dreams”. The vision of a better future doesn’t have to deny the crimes and sufferings of the present; it matters because of that horror.


Optimism assumes all will go well without our effort; pessimism assumes it’s all irredeemable; both let us do nothing

I have been moved and thrilled and amazed by the strength, breadth, depth and generosity of the resistance to the Trump administration and its agenda. I did not anticipate anything so bold, so pervasive, something that would include state governments, many government employees from governors and mayors to workers in many federal departments, small towns in red states, new organizations like the 6,000 chapters of Indivisible reportedly formed since the election, new and fortified immigrant-rights groups, religious groups, one of the biggest demonstrations in American history with the Women’s March on 21 January, and so much more.

I’ve also been worried about whether it will endure. Newcomers often think that results are either immediate or they’re nonexistent. That if you don’t succeed straight away, you failed. Such a framework makes many give up and go back home when the momentum is building and victories are within reach. This is a dangerous mistake I’ve seen over and over. What follows is the defense of a complex calculus of change, instead of the simple arithmetic of short-term cause and effect.

There’s a bookstore I love in Manhattan, the Housing Works bookshop, which I’ve gone to for years for a bite to eat and a superb selection of used books. Last October my friend Gavin Browning, who works at Columbia University but volunteers with Housing Works, reminded me what the name means. Housing Works is a spinoff of Act Up, the Aids Coalition to Unleash Power, founded at the height of the Aids crisis, to push for access to experimental drugs, bring awareness to the direness of the epidemic, and not go gentle into that bad night of premature death.

What did Act Up do? The group of furious, fierce activists, many of them dangerously ill and dying, changed how we think about Aids. They pushed to speed up drug trials, deal with the many symptoms and complications of Aids together, pushed on policy, education, outreach, funding. They taught people with Aids and their allies in other countries how to fight the drug companies for affordable access to what they needed. And win.

Members of Act Up, the Aids Coalition to Unleash Power, at the Gay and Lesbian Pride March in New York City on 26 June 1988.

Browning recently wrote: “At the start of the 1990s, New York City had less than 350 units of housing set aside for an estimated 13,000 homeless individuals living with HIV/Aids. In response, four members of the Act Up housing committee founded Housing Works in 1990.” They still quietly provide a broad array of services, including housing, to HIV-positive people 27 years later. All I saw was a bookstore; I missed a lot. Act Up’s work is not over, in any sense.

For many groups, movements and uprisings, there are spinoffs, daughters, domino effects, chain reactions, new models and examples and templates and toolboxes that emerge from the experiments, and every round of activism is an experiment whose results can be applied to other situations. To be hopeful, we need not only to embrace uncertainty but to be willing to know that the consequences may be immeasurable, may still be unfolding, may be as indirect as poor people on other continents getting access to medicine because activists in the USA stood up and refused to accept things as they were. Think of hope as a banner woven from those gossamer threads, from a sense of the interconnectedness of all things, of the lasting effect of the best actions, not only the worst. Of an indivisible world in which everything matters.

An old woman said at the outset of Occupy Wall Street “we’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important”, the most beautifully concise summary of what a compassionately radical, deeply democratic movement might aim to do. Occupy Wall Street was mocked and described as chaotic and ineffectual in its first weeks, and then when it spread nationwide and beyond, as failing or failed, by pundits who had simple metrics of what success should look like. The original occupation in lower Manhattan was broken up in November 2011, but many of the encampments inspired by it lasted far longer. 

Occupy launched a movement against student debt and opportunistic for-profit colleges; it shed light on the pain and brutality of the financial collapse and the American debt-peonage system. It called out economic inequality in a new way. California passed a homeowner’s bill of rights to push back at predatory lenders; a housing defense movement arose in the wake of Occupy that, house by house, protected many vulnerable homeowners. Each Occupy had its own engagement with local government and its own projects; a year ago people involved with local Occupies told me the thriving offshoots still make a difference. Occupy persists, but you have to learn to recognize the myriad forms in which it does so, none of which look much like Occupy Wall Street as a crowd in a square in lower Manhattan.

Similarly, I think it’s a mistake to regard the gathering of tribes and activists at Standing Rock, North Dakota, as something we can measure by whether or not it defeats a pipeline. You could go past that to note that merely delaying completion beyond 1 January cost the investors a fortune, and that the tremendous movement that has generated widespread divestment and a lot of scrutiny of hitherto invisible corporations and environmental destruction makes building pipelines look like a riskier, potentially less profitable business.

Standing Rock was vaster than these practical things. At its height it was almost certainly the biggest political gathering of Native North Americans ever seen, said to be the first time all seven bands of the Lakota had come together since they defeated Custer at Little Bighorn in 1876, one that made an often-invisible tribe visible around the world. What unfolded there seemed as though it might not undo one pipeline but write a radical new chapter to a history of more than 500 years of colonial brutality, centuries of loss, dehumanization and dispossession. Thousands of veterans came to defend the encampment and help prevent the pipeline. In one momentous ceremony, many of the former soldiers knelt down to apologize and ask forgiveness for the US army’s long role in oppressing Native Americans. Like the Native American occupation of Alcatraz Island at the end of the 1960s, Standing Rock has been a catalyst for a sense of power, pride, destiny. It is an affirmation of solidarity and interconnection, an education for people who didn’t know much about native rights and wrongs, an affirmation for Native people who often remember history in passionate detail. It is a confirmation of the deep ties between the climate movement and indigenous rights that has played a huge role in stopping pipelines in and from Canada. It has inspired and informed young people who may have half a century or more of good work yet to do. It has been a beacon whose meaning stretches beyond that time and place.

To know history is to be able to see beyond the present, to remember the past gives you capacity to look forward as well, it’s to see that everything changes and the most dramatic changes are often the most unforeseen. I want to go into one part of our history at greater length to explore these questions about consequences that go beyond simple cause and effect.

 

A ‘water protector’ at Standing Rock, where thousands gathered to protest the Dakota Access pipeline and its threat to the Missouri river. Photograph: Pacific Press/Rex/Shutterstock

The 1970s anti-nuclear movement was a potent force in its time, now seldom remembered, though its influence is still with us. In her important new book Direct Action: Protest and the Reinvention of American Radicalism, LA Kauffman reports that the first significant action against nuclear power, in 1976, was inspired by an extraordinary protest the previous year in West Germany, which had forced the government to abandon plans to build a nuclear reactor. A group that called itself the Clamshell Alliance arose to oppose building a nuclear power plant in New Hampshire. Despite creative tactics, great movement building, and extensive media coverage against the Seabrook nuclear power plant in New Hampshire, the activists did not stop the plant.

They did inspire a sister organization, the Abalone Alliance in central California, which used similar strategies to try to stop the Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant. The groups protested against two particular nuclear power plants; those two plants opened anyway.

You can call that a failure, but Kauffman notes that it inspired people around the country to organize their own anti-nuclear groups, a movement that brought about the cancellation of more than 100 planned nuclear projects over several years and raised public awareness and changed public opinion about nuclear power. Then she gets into the really exciting part, writing that the Clamshell Alliance’s “most striking legacy was in consolidating and promoting what became the dominant model for large-scale direct-action organizing for the next 40 years. It was picked up by … the Pledge of Resistance, a nationwide network of groups organized against US policy in Central America” in the 1980s.

“Hundreds more employed it that fall in a civil disobedience action to protest the supreme court’s anti-gay Bowers vs Hardwick sodomy decision,” Kauffman continues. “The Aids activist group Act Up used a version of this model when it organized bold takeovers of the headquarters of the Food and Drug Administration in 1988 and the National Institutes of Health in 1990, to pressure both institution to take swifter action toward approving experimental Aids medication.” And on into the current millennium. But what were the strategies and organizing principles they catalyzed?

The short answer is non-violent direct action, externally, and consensus decision-making process, internally. The former has a history that reaches around the world, the latter that stretches back to the early history of European dissidents in North America. That is, non-violence is a strategy articulated by Mohandas Gandhi, first used by residents of Indian descent to protest against discrimination in South Africa on 11 September 1906. The young lawyer’s sense of possibility and power was expanded immediately afterward when he traveled to London to pursue his cause. Three days after he arrived, British women battling for the right to vote occupied the British parliament, and 11 were arrested, refused to pay their fines, and were sent to prison. They made a deep impression on Gandhi.

He wrote about them in a piece titled “Deeds Better than Words” quoting Jane Cobden, the sister of one of the arrestees, who said, “I shall never obey any law in the making of which I have had no hand; I will not accept the authority of the court executing those laws …” Gandhi declared: “Today the whole country is laughing at them, and they have only a few people on their side. But undaunted, these women work on steadfast in their cause. They are bound to succeed and gain the franchise …” And he saw that if they could win, so could the Indian citizens in British Africa fighting for their rights. In the same article (in 1906!) he prophesied: “When the time comes, India’s bonds will snap of themselves.” Ideas are contagious, emotions are contagious, hope is contagious, courage is contagious. When we embody those qualities, or their opposites, we convey them to others.


You do what you can. What you’ve done may do more than you can imagine for generations to come


That is to say, British suffragists, who won limited access to the vote for women in 1918, full access in 1928, played a part in inspiring an Indian man who 20 years later led the liberation of the Asian subcontinent from British rule. He, in turn, inspired a black man in the American south to study his ideas and their application. After a 1959 pilgrimage to India to meet with Gandhi’s heirs, Martin Luther King wrote: “While the Montgomery boycott was going on, India’s Gandhi was the guiding light of our technique of non-violent social change. We spoke of him often.” Those techniques, further developed by the civil rights movement, were taken up around the world, including in the struggle against apartheid at one end of the African continent and to the Arab spring at the other.

Participation in the civil rights movement of the early 1960s shaped many lives. One of them is John Lewis, one of the first Freedom Riders, a young leader of the lunch counter sit-ins, a victim of a brutal beating that broke his skull on the Selma march. Lewis was one of the boldest in questioning Trump’s legitimacy and he led dozens of other Democratic members of Congress in boycotting the inauguration. When the attack on Muslim refugees and immigrants began a week after Trump’s inauguration, he showed up at the Atlanta airport.

That’s a lot to take in. But let me put it this way. When those women were arrested in parliament, they were fighting for the right of British women to vote. They succeeded in liberating themselves. But they also passed along tactics, spirit and defiance. You can trace a lineage backward to the anti-slavery movement that inspired the American women’s suffrage movement, forward right up to John Lewis standing up for refugees and Muslims in the Atlanta airport this year. We are carried along by the heroines and heroes who came before and opened the doors of possibility and imagination.

My partner likes to quote a line of Michel Foucault: “People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don’t know is what what they do does.” You do what you can. What you’ve done may do more than you can imagine for generations to come. You plant a seed and a tree grows from it; will there be fruit, shade, habitat for birds, more seeds, a forest, wood to build a cradle or a house? You don’t know. A tree can live much longer than you. So will an idea, and sometimes the changes that result from accepting that new idea about what is true, right, just remake the world. You do what you can do; you do your best; what what you do does is not up to you.

Schoolchildren dress as Gandhi during celebrations to mark the 143rd anniversary of his birth. Photograph: Babu/Reuters

That’s a way to remember the legacy of the external practice of non-violent civil disobedience used by the anti-nuclear movement of the 1970s, as with the civil rights movement of the 1960s, which did so much to expand and refine the techniques.

As for the internal process: in Direct Action, Kauffman addresses the Clamshell Alliance’s influences, quoting a participant named Ynestra King who said: “Certain forms that had been learned from feminism were just naturally introduced into the situation and a certain ethos of respect, which was reinforced by the Quaker tradition.” Suki Rice and Elizabeth Boardman, early participants in the Clamshell Alliance, as Kauffman relates, were influenced by the Quakers, and they brought the Quaker practice of consensus decision-making to the new group: “The idea was to ensure that no one’s voice was silenced, that there was no division between leaders and followers.” The Quakers have been since the 17th century radical dissidents who opposed war, hierarchical structures and much else. An organizer named Joanne Sheehan said, “while non-violence training, doing actions in small groups, and agreeing to a set of non-violence guidelines were not new, it was new to blend them in combination with a commitment to consensus decision-making and a non-hierarchical structure.” They were making a way of operating and organizing that spread throughout the progressive activist world.

There are terrible stories about how diseases like Aids jump species and mutate. There are also ideas and tactics that jump communities and mutate, to our benefit. There is an evil term, collateral damage, for the people who die unintentionally: the civilians, non-participants, etc. Maybe what I am proposing here is an idea of collateral benefit.


Ideas are contagious, hope is contagious, courage is contagious. When we embody those qualities we convey them to others

What we call democracy is often a majority rule that leaves the minority, even 49.9% of the people – or more if it’s a three-way vote – out in the cold. Consensus leaves no one out. After Clamshell, it jumped into radical politics and reshaped them, making them more generously inclusive and egalitarian. And it’s been honed and refined and used by nearly every movement I’ve been a part of or witnessed, from the anti-nuclear actions at the Nevada test site in the 1980s and 1990s to the organization of the shutdown of the World Trade Organization in late 1999, a victory against neoliberalism that changed the fate of the world, to Occupy Wall Street in 2011 and after.

So what did the Clamshell Alliance achieve? Everything but its putative goal. Tools to change the world, over and over. There are crimes against humanity, crimes against nature, and other forms of destruction that we need to stop as rapidly as possible, and the endeavors to do so are under way. They are informed by these earlier activists, equipped with the tools they developed. But the efforts against these things can have a longer legacy, if we learn to recognize collateral benefits and indirect effects.

If you are a member of civil society, if you demonstrate and call your representatives and donate to human rights campaigns, you will see politicians and judges and the powerful take or be given credit for the changes you effected, sometimes after resisting and opposing them. You will have to believe in your own power and impact anyway. You will have to keep in mind that many of our greatest victories are what doesn’t happen: what isn’t built or destroyed, deregulated or legitimized, passed into law or tolerated in the culture. Things disappear because of our efforts and we forget they were there, which is a way to forget we tried and won.

Even losing can be part of the process: as the bills to abolish slavery in the British empire failed over and over again, the ideas behind them spread, until 27 years after the first bill was introduced, a version finally passed. You will have to remember that the media usually likes to tell simple, direct stories in which if a court rules or an elective body passes a law, that action reflects the actors’ own beneficence or insight or evolution. They will seldom go further to explore how that perspective was shaped by the nameless and unsung, by the people whose actions built up a new world or worldview the way that innumerable corals build a reef.

The only power adequate to stop the Trump administration is civil society, which is the great majority of us when we remember our power and come together. And even if we remember, even if we exert all the pressure we’re capable of, even if the administration collapses immediately, or the president resigns or is impeached or melts into a puddle of corruption, our work will only have begun.

International Women’s Day 2017. ‘Actions often ripple far beyond their immediate objective, even when results are unlikely to be immediate or obvious.’ Photograph: Brendan Smialowski/AFP/Getty Images

That job begins with opposing the Trump administration but will not end until we have made deep systemic changes and recommitted ourselves, not just as a revolution, because revolutions don’t last, but as a civil society with values of equality, democracy, inclusion, full participation, a radical e pluribus unum plus compassion. As has often been noted, the Republican revolution that allowed them to take over so many state houses and take power far beyond their numbers came partly from corporate cash, but partly from the willingness to do the slow, plodding, patient work of building and maintaining power from the ground up and being in it for the long run. And partly from telling stories that, though often deeply distorting the facts and forces at play, were compelling. This work is always, first and last, storytelling work, or what some of my friends call “the battle of the story”. Building, remembering, retelling, celebrating our own stories is part of our work.

I want to see this glorious resistance have a long game, one that includes re-enfranchising the many millions, perhaps tens of millions of people of color, poor people, and students disenfranchised by many means: the Crosscheck program, voter ID laws that proceed from the falsehood that voter fraud is a serious problem that affects election outcomes, the laws taking voting rights in most states from those convicted of felonies. I am encouraged to see many idealistic activists bent on reforming the Democratic party, and a new level of participation inside and outside electoral politics. Reports say that the offices of elected officials are swamped with calls and emails as never before.

This will only matter if it’s sustained. To sustain it, people have to believe that the myriad small, incremental actions matter. That they matter even when the consequences aren’t immediate or obvious. They must remember that often when you fail at your immediate objective – to block a nominee or a pipeline or to pass a bill – that even then you may have changed the whole framework in ways that make broader change inevitable. You may change the story or the rules, give tools, templates or encouragement to future activists, and make it possible for those around you to persist in their efforts.

To believe it matters – well, we can’t see the future. We have the past. Which gives us patterns, models, parallels, principles and resources, and stories of heroism, brilliance, persistence, and the deep joy to be found in doing the work that matters. With those in our pockets, we can seize the possibilities and begin to make hopes into actualities.

The Humbug of Finance

Prabhat Patnaik in The Economic and Political Weekly


The renowned economist Joan Robinson (1962) had referred to the view that the government’s budget should always be balanced, as the “humbug of finance,” namely, as a false proposition with no theoretical merit which was nonetheless promoted by finance capital. These days, of course, the insistence is not exactly on balancing the budget as was the case during the pre-second world war years. A certain amount of fiscal deficit relative to gross domestic product (GDP), usually 3%, is considered “permissible,” though it is not clear what is so sacrosanct about the figure 3 and why 3 is better than zero. But this shift from zero to 3% does not signify any change in theoretical position: it still invokes the same logic that underlay the insistence on balancing the budget. In Robinson’s words, it still constitutes “the humbug of finance,” though with a slightly, and inexplicably, different number for the percentage of fiscal deficit to the GDP.

The argument which the insistence on balancing the budget advances is that a fiscal deficit “crowds out” private investment. Now, for this to happen there must be a fixity of supply of some economic variable, so that the government taking more of it (via a fiscal deficit) leaves less for the private sector. What exactly is this variable? Pre-Keynesian theory believed that this given variable (assuming for simplicity, a closed economy) was the magnitude of “savings”: a fiscal deficit, by drawing more “savings” towards the government would leave less “savings” for the private sector, and hence reduce private investment via a rise in the interest rate. (Even if the rise in the interest rate itself contributed towards an increase in “savings” so that their magnitude was not exactly fixed, this would still mean a partial crowding out of private investment because of the rise in the interest rate.)

This argument, however, was obviously false, since “savings” depended not just on the interest rate but also upon the level of income (and on the distribution of income too, though we shall not go into the question of distribution of income here). Since a fiscal deficit in an economy that was demand-constrained—namely, had unemployed labour and unutilised capacity—raised the level of income, it also increased “savings.” In fact at any given interest rate (as Richard Kahn’s famous proposition on the multiplier showed), a fiscal deficit (in a closed economy) generated an amount of private “savings” in excess of private investment that was exactly equal to itself. Hence private investment did not get “crowded out;” additional private savings got generated. And to believe otherwise was to subscribe to Say’s Law—that there could never be a deficiency of aggregate demand—which was absurd.

The other economic variable whose fixity is invoked these days to argue the “crowding out” proposition (since none can seriously profess a belief in Say’s Law today) is money supply. A rise in the fiscal deficit raises income; but, if money supply is fixed, then the interest rate rises which “crowds out” private investment. But, even leaving aside the fact of the endogeneity of money supply—namely, the fact that in a modern economy money supply simply adjusts to the demand for it at a given interest rate—and accepting this assertion for argument’s sake, such a situation can only arise if a government that is pursuing an expansionary fiscal policy is simultaneously pursuing a tight monetary policy. This is a mistake in policy and not any inherent flaw of the fiscal deficit itself.
There is therefore no logical reason why in a situation of deficiency of aggregate demand the government should not resort to a fiscal deficit to boost demand and hence output and employment.1 To be sure, a fiscal deficit is not the best way to finance larger government expenditure for stimulating demand in such a situation. Larger government expenditure financed by a tax on profits even within a balanced budget is better than a fiscal deficit for overcoming a deficiency of aggregate demand, for one obvious reason, namely, that it keeps down wealth inequality. Since a fiscal deficit generates an amount of private savings in excess of private investment exactly equal to itself, taxing away this excess rather than leaving it in the hands of capitalists, who are primarily the savers, keeps down wealth inequality (as savings constitute addition to wealth). But increasing government expenditure financed by a fiscal deficit is better than keeping down government expenditure and balancing the budget, as the “humbug of finance” would advocate.

A new consideration however intrudes here. Even though there may be nothing wrong with a fiscal deficit, and the view that the budget must be balanced (or nearly balanced with at most a 3% fiscal deficit) is no more than the “humbug of finance,” since finance capital does not like fiscal deficits, whatever the reason, in an economy open to cross-border financial flows, running such a deficit would lead to an outflow of finance that is obviously harmful to the economy. Hence the fiscal deficit has to be controlled, even though the arguments advanced for doing so are wrong, simply in deference to the caprices of globalised finance. Let us explore the implications of this argument a little further.

Opposition to State Intervention

The basic proposition established by the Keynesian Revolution was that in a capitalist economy, where all economic agents acted “rationally” in the sense of maximising some objective function subject to certain constraints that are given, the overall outcome could be socially “irrational” in an obvious sense, namely, that it could be characterised by both unemployment and unutilised capacity. In such a case, the outcome, quite apart from the fact that it did not satisfy Pareto-optimality, would not even satisfy private “rationality.”

What Keynes suggested, therefore, was that the state should intervene in the economy in order to realise social rationality, in the sense of an avoidance of what he called a state of “involuntary unemployment.” Implicit in this suggestion was the assumption that the state itself was free to act according to its own wisdom, unconstrained by the demands or pressures from any agency acting in accordance with its private rationality. The state, in other words, could fulfil its role of being an agency for realising social rationality only if it was external to the world of private rationality and was unconstrained by, and non-imitative of, the agents belonging to this world. (The Marxist critique of Keynesianism argued that this was not possible, but let us leave this aside for the present.)

The state’s being non-imitative of private agents, which is an obvious condition for its intervening successfully to achieve social rationality (for otherwise it will simply replicate the same result that is achieved through the mere agglomeration of private decisions), implies a fundamental break from a certain analogy that is often drawn. This analogy states that just as an individual cannot go on accumulating debt, likewise, the state too cannot simply go on piling up debt; that the state too has to tighten its belt in order to ensure that it does not fall irredeemably into debt. This analogy is doubly wrong: it is wrong in the sense that the state, because it has sovereign powers of taxation, is on a different footing from individuals; and it is also wrong in the sense that if the state acted like any individual does, then it would be incapable of achieving social rationality by overcoming the deficiency of aggregate demand.

Forcing the state to bow to the caprices of globalised finance, by making it “fiscally responsible” (namely, by keeping it within a fiscal deficit ceiling), makes it constrained by private rationality, and hence prevents it from being an instrument for the achievement of social rationality. Fiscal responsibility legislation enacted by the state, to which the state adheres, amounts therefore, to robbing capitalism of any means of achieving social rationality, particularly in the sense of overcoming “involuntary unemployment.”

The question immediately arises: since overcoming “involuntary unemployment” represents a Pareto-improvement in the sense that everybody stands to gain from it—the capitalists through obtaining higher profits and the workers through obtaining higher employment (and hence incomes)—why should finance capital be opposed to state intervention by fiscal means which serves this end? This opposition incidentally is not something that arises only in the age of globalised finance, it existed even before finance capital became globalised. The globalisation of finance only means that the demands of finance necessarily get accepted by the nation state, for fear that otherwise there would be a capital flight; but the demand for “sound finance” itself is characteristic of finance capital per se. This is the reason why Keynes’ proposal in 1929, put forward by Lloyd George, the leader of the Liberal Party to which Keynes belonged, for a scheme of public works financed by a fiscal deficit to alleviate unemployment in Britain, was turned down by the British Treasury under pressure from the City of London, the seat of British finance capital. The question therefore is, why is finance capital so opposed to fiscal deficits even when there are no palpable ill-effects of such deficits, other than those that might be caused by its own opposition to them?

The answer, I believe, lies in the fact that accepting the need for intervention by an agency entrusted with upholding “social rationality” undermines the social legitimacy of the economic system presided over by finance capital. Any demonstration that the universal pursuit of private rationality, which is what capitalism entails, leads to a socially irrational outcome, subverts the power of financial interests, which is why they vehemently deny the need for such direct state intervention. They would rather have the state intervening by creating a better situation for the play of private rationality. In short, indirect instead of direct intervention, or jogging private rationality instead of acting independently of it, is what they prefer.

Monetary policy is the pre-eminent means for such indirect intervention, apart of course from other means like guaranteed rates of return, tax concessions to the capitalists (which also enlarge the fiscal deficit but which are not frowned upon by them). Monetary policy acts through inducing the capitalists to invest more (or generally through making the affluent who constitute the “creditworthy” segment of the population to spend more). Changes in monetary policy as the means of overcoming “involuntary unemployment” do not give the impression of there being something intrinsically wrong with the system; they rather give the impression of creating the right atmosphere for its smooth functioning.

Indeed a focus on monetary policy goes much further; it even suggests that if there is “involuntary unemployment” then the reason for it lies not with the system itself but with the central bank whose monetary policy happens to be out of sync with the needs of the situation. The culpability for involuntary unemployment is thus neatly shifted from the system itself whose functioning is flawed, to the shoulders of the central bank.

The absurdity of such inverted thinking becomes particularly clear in times like the present, when in the United States (US), for instance, the long-term rate of interest has been pushed down close to zero, and yet there is no sign of a recovery from a state of substantial involuntary unemployment. In Europe, the central bank is even charging negative interest rates on loans to banks, provided these are given out as credit for certain purposes by the banks; and yet there is no sign of a recovery from the crisis that afflicts Europe. So inadequate has monetary policy become for stimulating the economy that some authors are now saying that pervasive negative interest rates even on deposits (and not just on central bank lending to banks) are the need of the hour, and, for achieving this, there must be an abolition of cash altogether, since the possibility of holding cash in lieu of bank deposits puts a floor to the interest rate at zero (Rogoff 2016).

This amounts to carrying the inversion of thought to an extreme degree: the flaws of the system are according to this argument blamed on the very existence of cash; and rather than having direct state intervention through fiscal means, including a fiscal deficit, as a way of achieving “social rationality,” what is advocated is “sound finance” combined with the very abolition of cash. The lengths to which reified thinking can be carried can be imagined from this.

What globalisation of finance has achieved, in short, is that the opposition of finance to fiscal deficits, or more generally to direct state intervention for increasing the level of activity, has become effective once again. This had been overcome, albeit temporarily, in the context of the changed correlation of class forces in the post-war period with the emergence of a militant (pre-Blairite) social democracy. The fact that finance is globalised while the state remains a nation state, ensures that the writ of finance runs; and this strips contemporary capitalism of any potential instrument for achieving even a semblance of social rationality.

There are only two possible ways that, even potentially, a semblance of social rationality can be achieved in contemporary capitalism. One is through a global state, or through a set of nation states globally coordinating their actions, providing a fiscal stimulus to the world economy by overcoming the opposition of globalised finance. The other is through individual states providing such a fiscal stimulus within their own particular economies by delinking themselves from the vortex of financial flows and thus withdrawing from the entanglements that contemporary globalisation entails. In either case, however, the opposition of globalised finance has to be overcome, and this requires a broad class alliance of working people which has to be organised in a manner appropriate to each case.

Whether such a class alliance can achieve a semblance of social rationality within the confines of capitalism itself, that is, whether capitalism will adapt itself to the new situation by making appropriate concessions, as it had done over large stretches of the capitalist world in the post-war years, or whether it will transcend capitalism in the process of introducing a semblance of social rationality, is a matter for the future. But the point is that until such an effort is made, world aggregate demand will remain constricted, and the world economic crisis will persist, apart from possible occasional “bubbles” that may cause temporary revivals, to be followed by collapses into crisis once more.

Legitimacy Crisis

Donald Trump’s economic strategy has to be understood in this context where he remains as tied to fiscal conservatism as other governments in advanced capitalist countries. Committed to increasing employment in the US, but unwilling to do so by expanding government expenditure, he is taking recourse to protectionism, which, in a situation where world aggregate demand is not increasing, amounts to a “beggar-my-neighbour” policy, that is, a policy of exporting unemployment to other countries.

True, Trump has said that he is not averse to increasing the fiscal deficit; but he is willing to do so only as a means of effecting a tax cut on the corporate sector (from 35% to 15%). This amounts to increasing the fiscal deficit for the sake of putting more purchasing power in the hands of capitalists. But putting more purchasing power in the hands of capitalists hardly increases aggregate demand: their marginal propensity to consume out of income is small, and they do not invest more, even if they have larger post-tax profits, as long as the market is not expanding. Hence, the Trump strategy really amounts not to an increase in aggregate demand in the US, but to a beggar-my-neighbour strategy imposed upon the rest of the world.

This strategy presupposes that the rest of the world would simply sit tight and tolerate an import of unemployment from the US: its success, in other words, depends upon the US action not facing any retaliation, that is, upon the US being able to impose “one-way free trade” upon the rest of the world, as Britain had done in the colonial period. But if other countries do retaliate, then competitive “beggar-my-neighbour” policies would ensue, which would increase uncertainties associated with investment, and hence aggravate the crisis.

But if the US individually or several (or all) countries on their own increased the fiscal deficit to expand government expenditure, and imposed protection only to the extent of preventing a leakage outwards of the additional demand so generated within their economies, without actually curtailing their imports in absolute terms, namely, without exporting any unemployment to other countries, then all countries would be Pareto-wise better off. No one country’s employment increase in such a case would be at the expense of some other country.

What comes in the way of such a move which would improve the employment situations in all countries without their adversely affecting one another, is the opposition of finance to fiscal deficits and to taxes on capitalists (taxes on workers would not raise aggregate demand as they already have a high propensity to consume). Unless finance capital’s hostility to fiscal deficits is overcome, which in turn requires that unless the hegemony of finance capital on the world economy is overcome, the world would remain mired in crisis.

Either way, therefore, world capitalism will be facing a legitimacy crisis in the coming days: on the one hand, if it remains committed to the “humbug of finance” then its legitimacy is threatened because of the persistence of the economic crisis, and with it of high unemployment; on the other hand, if it “permits” direct state intervention through fiscal means for overcoming the crisis, then its legitimacy is threatened because the flawed nature of the system gets exposed, thereby, opening the prospects of growing state intervention.

Brexit is about to get real. Yet we are nowhere near ready for it

Jonathan Freedland in The Guardian


In the coming days, perhaps as soon as Wednesday, Brexit will turn from abstract to concrete. A near-theological argument that raged in one form or another for nearly three decades will become hard and material, with a fixed deadline. Theresa May is about to trigger article 50, starting the clock on a two-year journey towards the exit from the European Union. And yet those in charge of this fateful, epochal process – and especially those who most loudly demanded it happen – seem utterly unprepared for it.


In four words, the European strategy for the Brexit talks has to be: pour décourager les autres (Discouraging the others)

Philip Hammond’s budget on Wednesday illustrated the point neatly. The country is about to leave its largest export market, a decision with enormous economic implications. The chancellor had the floor for nearly an hour, his obligation to provide an assessment of the present and future prospects of the British economy. Did he so much as mention the imminent exit from the single market? No. Incredibly, he made just two fleeting references to the EU in the entire address.

Instead the stand-out measure, the one that has dominated political discussion since, was Hammond’s decision to take more tax from a core Tory constituency: the self-employed. Important for those individuals, most certainly; a political unforced error, no doubt. But for this to be the focus following a major economic statement on the eve of Brexit is displacement activity of the most heroic kind.

It’s as if the crew of the Titanic eyed the iceberg ahead and promptly decided to have a big squabble over whether to serve white or red.

This failure to wrestle with what’s coming goes wider. The public conversation since 23 June 2016 has barely differed from the debate before that date, each side – leave and remain – still refighting the EU referendum campaign, uncertain how to get out of the old groove.

That failing is most obvious among the Brexiteers, characterised by a refusal to own their victory and take responsibility for it. So when a voice of experience or authority dares point out the possible dangers ahead, they are either sacked, as was the fate of Michael Heseltine, attacked personally, like John Major, or else branded an “enemy of the people” who refuses to bow to the “popular will”.

Those with concerns are accused of “talking down the country” or lacking sufficient faith – as if, should Brexit make us poorer, the fault will belong to those who didn’t screw their eyes tight enough and believe. Credit to Jonn Elledge for calling this what it is: the Tinkerbell delusion.

This surely has to end with the triggering of article 50. From this moment on, the focus must be intensely practical. No more baggy rhetoric about sovereignty and “taking back control”. From now on, those who got us into this situation have to show they can get us out intact by March 2019.

That will require a major shift among the Brexiteer ministers and in Downing Street. Those close to the pre-negotiations between Britain and the remaining 27 EU states report an unwarranted hubris on the UK side that augurs ill. Too many Brexiteers cling to the campaign’s wishful thinking that we go into these talks as the stronger party, that “they need us more than we need them”, and that so long as we hang tough, the Europeans will buckle and hand us a dream deal.

Such arrogance is likely to be exposed soon. For one thing, it ignores the key structural fact that makes Britain’s negotiating prospects bleak from the start: namely, it is imperative for the EU’s own survival that the UK be left in a visibly, materially worse situation after leaving the EU than it enjoyed before. The logic is not vindictive. If the EU is to hold together it must prevent a Brexit contagion. Any divorce settlement must be ugly enough to ensure the remaining 27 stay with their spouse, no matter how loveless that marriage might feel. In four words, the European strategy for the Brexit talks has to be: pour décourager les autres.

But if British politicians are insufficiently mindful of that built-in obstacle, they are far too blithe about the sheer complexity of the undertaking that is about to begin. They are aiming to unpick 40 years of arrangements, seeking to annul them in a pact that will require the blessing of 27 other sovereign states.

To call it 27-dimensional chess understates the geometry: the final divorce settlement will have to be ratified by 38 different national and regional parliaments. To say nothing of the European parliament, commission and council. Each of these bodies has its own interests, pressures and red lines.

May will have to craft a document that satisfies every one of those competing forces, as well as both chambers of the UK parliament. She will have to do it without pushing Scotland towards a second, more winnable independence referendum or recreating a hard border between Northern Ireland and the Irish republic. And she has to get it done in roughly 18 months. Not for nothing did Dominic Cummings, the mastermind of the Vote Leave campaign, tweet with a candour rare among Brexiteers that leaving the EU was the “hardest job since beating Nazis”.

Or reflect on the supposed aces Britain is confidently looking forward to playing in the upcoming game of Brexit poker. Charles Grant, the sage director of the Centre for European Reform who predicted the leave vote, patiently explains how each one of these assets – which Brexiteers believe will make the Europeans putty in our hands – could create as much angst as advantage.

It’s true, says Grant, that the City of London is valued for the financial services it provides to the EU. But it’s also true that Paris, Madrid, Milan, Frankfurt, Dublin and others are circling, ready to feast on the City’s carcass: they want some of that business for themselves.

No 10 refuses to budge on Brexit bill, despite heavy defeat in Lords



The Brexiteers reckon the Europeans won’t want to give up London’s special relationship with Washington. But, says Grant, British “fawning” over Donald Trump alienates many Europeans, making them doubt we share their basic values. As for Britain’s contribution to European security – via its UN seat, Nato and its fabled military – that’s much admired. But not if it’s used as a threat: give us a free trade deal or we’ll pull out the 1,000 British troops recently deployed in the Polish-Baltic area. Talk like that will backfire.

Leavers should be approaching this gargantuan task with a special humility, because it was they who needlessly inflicted it upon us.

Remainers need to adjust to the new reality too. Many may be hoping that, as the price and consequences of exit become ever clearer through these talks, some among the 52% will gradually switch sides. But remainers should contemplate the less cheery prospect that the most ardent Brexiteers, and especially the anti-EU newspapers, will double down in their loathing of Brussels. When the EU 27 demand, say, serious cash for single market access, the Mail and Sun will dip their pen into an even deeper well of venom.

So remainers will need to handle these next two years carefully, readying themselves for the day when the deal is done, and ensuring they have already placed two key questions in the front of the public mind: is this deal better than the set-up we had on 22 June 2016? And if it isn’t, why are we doing it?

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.