Digressions&Impressions

When the Top Just War Ethicist Calls for Proxy War

[A]irstrikes against targets within the cities that the Islamic State controls will almost inevitably cause disproportionate harm to innocents. The West must not adopt the tactics of Assad. Ground forces capable of discriminating between Islamic State militants and civilians will almost certainly be necessary to dislodge the militants from the cities they control. And expelling them is essential, as the caliphate cannot exist in the eyes of its devotees in the absence of territorial control.
Yet to send Western soldiers into combat against the militants would be perceived by Islamic State members and potential recruits as confirmation of prophesies in which they believe — fantasies involving the reappearance of Crusaders in their Holy Land. For this reason and others, it is important that the forces that purge the cities and towns should consist predominantly of soldiers indigenous to the region: Shiites, Kurds and, one hopes, Sunnis who detest the barbarism of their co-religionists in the Islamic State.--Jeff McMahan "Syria is a Modern Holocaust," The Washington Post.

Professor McMahan is writing in the "In Theory" section of the Post, apparently invited to write on just war theory (a topic on which he is an acknowledged expert); the Post reminds its readers that he is the White’s Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Oxford." Oddly, what follows has little to do with just war theory. Rather, McMahan, who repeatedly talks about what "we" and "the West" must do (and should have done during the Holocaust), actively calls for the continuation of air-bombing of "Islamic State’s sources of revenue are appropriate and should continue, provided they can be carried out without significant harm to innocent bystanders;" in addition he advocates a proxy-war in order to "purge" the soldiers from the territory they hold.*

I turn to the internal tensions with and problems of McMahan's position below, but the reason why I am interested in commenting on his editorial is -- not because I am mistrustful of the deployment of the no more Auschwitz analogy (which I am), but -- because it is a salutary reminder of the ways in which analytical ethics is especially unsuited for commentary on political, newsy events of the day (recall this post).  Too much such ethics when used in the public is either merely in the service of politics or exemplary of the dangers of doing ethics without political history and little knowledge of the world (or both). I am mistrustful of such analytic ethics because it does not serve to make -- invisible or vilified! -- others more humane to any of the combatants and outsiders.

First. the interesting bit: I am unfamiliar with an earlier instance of a call for Humanitarian intervention by proxy (without UN seal of approval). For, the core of McMahan's position is that intervention is required not so much from "self-defense" to prevent future "massacres" in the "West," (that "threat" is called relatively "minor,") but rather to end "monstrous crimes" that the Islamic State directs against its own subjects and that "have been occurring for more than a year while we have stood by and allowed them to continue. It is shameful that the aim of defeating the Islamic State has become an urgent priority in the West only after we ourselves have come to feel threatened."+ In addition to our shame, McMahan invokes his "visceral repugnance" at the "daily atrocities perpetrated by members of the Islamic State." That's the humanitarian part. But rather than calling for boots on the grounds supplied by the hegemonic powers (USA, UK, NATO, etc.) in the context of, say, a UN Resolution (international institutions and international law as such are notably absent in McMahan's piece),** McMahan invites us to let proxies do the 'purging.' McMahan is short on specifics, but presumably he advocates sending arms and money (as well as provide training) to states and non-state actors allied against Islamic State. So, by 'proxy' he does not mean sending mercenaries. 

Leaving aside to what degree it is cowardly to ask others to die for your principles, it is notable that while McMahan's rhetoric is about some (undefined) we and 'the West' that is contrasted with barbarism -- not reflecting on the fact that Auschwitz/Birkenau is part of the history of 'the West' -- the actual killing and dying is farmed out to some indigenous others ("Shiites, Kurds and, one hopes, Sunnis"). The opposite of barbarism is probably either civilization or humanity. The problem is, it's hard to make the case that we are humane -- as McMahan recognizes with admirable clarity -- given that we have policies that 'turn away the principal victims" of Islamic State.

I discern in McMahan's piece two reasons for urging fighting by proxy: (i) indigenous soldiers will do better at not killing innocents; (ii) indigenous soldiers are less likely to generate further radicalizations of innocents. This (i-ii) may be true sometimes. But (i-ii) are not obvious in the circumstances at hand (in which he advocates ongoing bombing by 'the West!'). On (i) McMahan is essentially advocating taking sides in (multi-fronted) civil war. But it is a trope going back to, I think, Aristotle that civil wars are the most ferocious wars. While the trope may be false -- WWI and WWII were not primarily civil wars, yet plenty ferocious --, it is pretty clear that civil wars tend to be very savage/dirty, and the wars within Syria and Iraq can be understood, in part, as being part of ongoing Shiite/Sunni civil wars (and Kurdish wars of independence). On (ii) within Islam Apostasy is a very serious crime that in many Islamic countries generates criminal punishment. If indigenous soldiers are understood as apostates (and/or belonging to apostate sects) it is by no means obvious why having them do the fighting this should prevent further radicalization. If 'we in the West' could have learned anything from our own history, it is that intra-religious civil war tends to be barbaric (cf. Thirty year war; much of the 16th and 17th century, etc.)

Moreover, after three or four decades of fighting by Islamic proxy (going back to the Jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan), we should by now be aware of the downside to this strategy.  By arming groups that are enemies of one's enemies and that one does not control, one opens the door(s) to having those very same groups aim their fire at us. This is by now such a familiar fact, one can only express surprise it does not figure in McMahan's analysis at all. I am not claiming this will happen (the long-term, strategic interests of the Kurds may well be pro-Western), but it has happened and is also part of the back-story behind the rise of Islamic State (which is, in part, composed of Iraqi officers we armed to fight Iran, and other folk we encouraged to fight Assad).

As an aside, here I am not devoting much attention to the morality and practicality of humanitarian intervention; humanitarian interventions are not always unmitigated goods (latest example: Libyia 2011). Either way, if one advocates for humanitarian intervention by one's fellow citizens then it strikes me as more legitimate to talk of us/we.

So, to sum up. It is possible that McMahan's position is, in fact, the wisest political one to take (to put it crudely: it minimizes our losses in the short run). For all I know the alternatives may really be worse. But it is not obvious that it is the most ethical course. If anything, if we reflect on the nature of responsible public speech, McMahan's essay falls short of the demand to avoid advocating policies when all the knowable downside risks fall all on others (that are neither represented in our political processes nor imaginatively treated as being part of 'us'). Perhaps  this demand is sometimes excessive, but when it comes to matters of life and death (war) it is a minimal obligation.++

 

On Lack of Progress

It is not all books that are as dull as their readers. There are probably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really hear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us. How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book! The book exists for us, perchance, which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. The at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered. These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life.-- Thoreau, "On Reading," Walden.

If we can get past Thoreau's immodesty -- he comes close to grouping himself among "the wise" --, we can understand him as saying that there is no progress in the underlying circumstances of human life. There is, however, variation in the answers  given to the enduring "questions that disturb and puzzle and confound." Some of that variation can offer a "new aspect," but he resists the idea that the new is also an improvement. Rather, the best books (past and present) make available in speech what we may call, purportedly impossible thoughts ("the at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered"). The denial of progress does not entail pessimism. For, as Thoreau insists time and again, once articulated or exhibited, impossible realities can be made to exist: "If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

Thoreau insists that the wise exhibit a kind of integrity between words and deeds. That is, philosophy and philosophical lives disclose and revive options that are were locally unavailable in word and deed. These disclosed options can be improvements over the present baseline--they are "salutary" because they are life-affirming (recall), but it is clear that Thoreau thinks these do not secure permanent improvements. Why this is the case is not explained entirely. (To be clear: Thoreau thinks industrial and material advancements are not an improvement because they generate wants that make us psychological slaves.)* Evoking Montesquieu, he claims that ages have spirits apt to them; but Thoreau warns his confident nineteenth century readers, eras come and go. 

While, in context, Thoreau is primarily concerned with spiritual and cultural flourishing, there is also a political tenor to his remarks. That's clear from the fact that the section ends with the observation  that "to act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions." Here "our" refers to American or, more likely, New England's (or even just Concord's) institutions. In fact, while there is (echoing Emerson's Self-Reliance) a non-conformist, individualist strain in Thoreau, he also recognizes that at least in some ages, collectives are the proper locus of action for some purposes: "Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men."

Thoreau's general denial of progress keeps him relevant. (This is compatible with the thought that some changes involve some moral progress.) Every generation thinks itself ahead of those that came before; that our belated, temporal starting-point somehow secures us special privileges in solving life's questions. (I often note with fascination how students can be amazed to discover the characteristics of their modernity in texts written one or two millennia ago.) By this I do not merely mean that we have not beaten death nor that we have not implemented an equitable tax-regime yet. Rather, every age has eluded finding a formula to generalize living wisely or, what amounts to the same thing, peacefully.** Yet, as always, there is no paucity of seers that point the path toward the annihilation of our enemies.

Hume and the State of Exception

The protector, the two secretaries, the council of state, with any five or more that the senate appoints, are possessed, on extraordinary emergencies, of dictatorial power for six months.--Hume, Idea Of a Perfect Commonwealth

In Hume's plan for a perfect commonwealth (recall this post), foreign policy is insulated from democratic control. He lodges it in the "council of state" which includes only three members: "The protector and two secretaries have session." These three members are chosen by the senate, which has some kind of function in deliberating about foreign policy. (Hume is not entirely clear on this point.) It turns out that the the three members of the council of state are the core membership (of eight) of a dictatorial junta in "extraordinary emergencies." That the council of state is always part of the dictatorial junta suggests that for Hume the emergencies arise, if they do, in foreign affairs, especially the context of war and conquest. 

As an aside, Hume's willingness to plan for exceptional circumstances with the abrogation of the rule of law in "what is the most perfect of all" possible political orders, is noteworthy because (a) Hume tends to be associated with a firm commitment to the rule of law and (b) with a kind of conservative commitment to the value of tradition. While Hume does not go so far as Walter Benjamin [recall] in treating the state of exception as the rule, he recognizes that it must be planned for.

In one sense, Hume's proposal is a nod to Livy's famous account of the dictatorship of Cincinnatus in Republican Rome. But Hume is explicit that his commonwealth is an improvement of ancient republics because he thinks these as "oppressive." Moreover, he has little fondness for Ancient Republicanism (which requires slavery). So, it would be a bit odd if he is really trying to make space for a modern Cincinnatus.

A better sense to understand Hume's treatment is to take him at his word, and note, first the "resemblance that [the blueprint of a perfect commonwealth] bears to the commonwealth of the United Provinces,a wise and renowned government." One of his improvements over the constitution of the Dutch Republic is by his own light the removal of the veto power "which every province and town has upon the whole body of the DUTCH republic, with regard to alliances, peace and war, and the imposition of taxes, is here removed." So, Hume's perfect commonwealth is not a confederation, but a federation that can act as a true unity in foreign affairs and even in an emergency.

In fact, Hume has also modeled the dictatorial power on a particular episode in the history of the Dutch Republic that he recounts in the History:

But the greatest difficulty still remained. By the constitution of the [Dutch] republic, all the towns in all the provinces must give their consent to every alliance; and besides that this formality could not be dispatched in less than two months, it was justly to be dreaded, that the influence of France would obstruct the passing of the treaty in some of the smaller cities....To obviate this difficulty, de Wit had the courage, for the public good, to break through the laws in so fundamental an article; and by his authority, he prevailed with the States General at once to sign and ratify the league: Though they acknowledged that, if that measure should displease their constituents, they risqued their heads by this irregularity. After sealing, all parties embraced with great cordiality.--Hume's History of England

I have already noted that Hume has, despite his fundamental criticism, very high praise for De Witt. In the quoted passage, Hume praises De Witt's courage and public spirit in risking the charge of treason by breaking the law (that gives all the provinces a veto power over treaties) in the case of an emergency (in foreign policy). So, Hume designs his own ideal state to make space for future leaders that can make public spirited decisions without too much constraint. But rather than trusting a single person with emergency powers, he assigns such authority to a small group; in addition, he requires the senate's judgment that there is, indeed, a state of emergency. It is an open question if Hume's approach does not lead to the oppression he dreads.

 

Thomas More's Pacifism (and its limitations)

[S]hould propose to them the resolutions of the Achorians...who long ago engaged in war in order to add to the dominions of their prince another kingdom, to which he had some pretensions by an ancient alliance: this they conquered, but found that the trouble of keeping it was equal to that by which it was gained; that the conquered people were always either in rebellion or exposed to foreign invasions, while they were obliged to be incessantly at war, either for or against them, and consequently could never disband their army; that in the meantime they were oppressed with taxes, their money went out of the kingdom, their blood was spilt for the glory of their king without procuring the least advantage to the people, who received not the smallest benefit from it even in time of peace; and that, their manners being corrupted by a long war, robbery and murders everywhere abounded, and their laws fell into contempt; while their king, distracted with the care of two kingdoms, was the less able to apply his mind to the interest of either.  When they saw this, and that there would be no end to these evils, they by joint counsels made an humble address to their king, desiring him to choose which of the two kingdoms he had the greatest mind to keep, since he could not hold both; for they were too great a people to be governed by a divided king, since no man would willingly have a groom that should be in common between him and another.  Upon which the good prince was forced to quit his new kingdom to one of his friends (who was not long after dethroned), and to be contented with his old one...therefore it seemed much more eligible that the king should improve his ancient kingdom all he could, and make it flourish as much as possible; that he should love his people, and be beloved of them; that he should live among them, govern them gently and let other kingdoms alone, since that which had fallen to his share was big enough, if not too big, for him.

To these things I would add that law among the Macarians...by which their king, on the day on which he began to reign, is tied by an oath, confirmed by solemn sacrifices, never to have at once above a thousand pounds of gold in his treasures, or so much silver as is equal to that in value.  This law, they tell us, was made by an excellent king who had more regard to the riches of his country than to his own wealth, and therefore provided against the heaping up of so much treasure as might impoverish the people.  He thought that moderate sum might be sufficient for any accident, if either the king had occasion for it against the rebels, or the kingdom against the invasion of an enemy; but that it was not enough to encourage a prince to invade other men’s rights—a circumstance that was the chief cause of his making that law.  He also thought that it was a good provision for that free circulation of money so necessary for the course of commerce and exchange.  And when a king must distribute all those extraordinary accessions that increase treasure beyond the due pitch, it makes him less disposed to oppress his subjects.  Such a king as this will be the terror of ill men, and will be beloved by all the good.--Thomas More, Utopia.

In addition to Utopia, three other states are discussed in positive terms by Raphael Hythloday in the narrative of Thomas More's Utopia. In addition to Achoria and Macaria (see above), which are both said to be near to Utopia, Hythloday also treats the penal laws of the otherwise unknown Polylerits (who live near Persia) in favorable fashion. The praise is a bit surprising because in all three states there is property; yet Hythloday also says that I must freely own that as long as there is any property, and while money is the standard of all other things, I cannot think that a nation can be governed either justly or happily: not justly, because the best things will fall to the share of the worst men; nor happily, because all things will be divided among a few (and even these are not in all respects happy), the rest being left to be absolutely miserable. In all three states there is property. Even so the Polylyrits are said to be "well-governed people" and "contented;" the post-revolt constitution of the Achorians, makes it "possible" that Achoria can "flourish;" and the public spirited ancient Macarian king has created laws that allow kings to be "beloved."

So, while from the vantage point of Utopian blueprint, Achoria, Macaria, and Polylerita (?) are not perfect, they are decidely better than the great European kingdoms (France, England, etc.) treated rather critically in Utopia. So, let's assume they are second-best in the Platonic sense. Achoria and Macaria are kingdoms while Polylerita is a republic (although Achoria has become a parliamentary monarchy of some sorts). What they do have in common is that they are all three not war-like. They are pacific in the sense that they do not aim to conquer or dominate others--at least two of the three states are (like Plato's city of pigs) organized for defensive war. They achieve their (relative) pacifism in three different ways: Polylerita is a protectorate (or vassal state) of Persia (to whom is pays tribute); Macaria has an institutional mechanism by which the state is simply too poor to fight wars abroad; and in Achoria the people seem to control the purse strings such that they can discourage the King from fighting abroad. This pacifism anticipates the Utopians's stance although in many respects these three states are less imperial and dominating than Utopia (which has non-trivial power over its neighbors). If avoiding war is More's most fundamental concern in Utopia -- and there is some evidence that this could be true --, then these three states are, in fact, better exemplars than Utopia. Of course, there are good reasons to see the institutions of property and war as linked, especially in a (late Feudal) state-building context of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries

It is implied that in Macaria and Achoria the proposed war-avoiding mechanisms are stable (the laws have been around for quite some time). But this is not obvious; in Macaria it's not just the origin of the institution, which relies on great self-command and public spiritedness of the king that changed the constitution; its persistence also relies on self-limitation by existing kings. The Achorian settlement relies on ongoing vigilance of the people; whatever the ongoing merits of their argument(s) against imperial conquest, it's not obvious that future kings will always only act on their interest. Moreover, as historical example suggests, the people may also approve of conquest abroad (classical Athens's expedition against Sicily comes to mind as well as a few more recent ones). Finally, the fate of Polylerita is -- like all protectorates -- tied to the fate of its overlord, the Persian kingdom; if the Persian kings are conquered or if its internal politics change, Polylerita may be forced to be embroiled in future wars of conquest. That Raphael Hythloday does not note these fairly obvious limitations (nor his own inconsistency) suggests that for all the Socratic echoes in his words he may be less wise than he assumes.

It does not follow that no society can be pacific without abolishing property (and not being a vasal), but about that some other time more.

 

 

On Civilization

"Do you know who . . . I am?'' Tyson asked in disbelief when Ayer urged him to desist: ''I'm the heavyweight champion of the world.'' ''And I am the former Wykeham professor of logic,'' Ayer answered politely. ''We are both pre-eminent in our field. I suggest that we talk about this..."--Quoted in The New York Times.

We, however “we" are constituted, must draw on ourselves through an inward look, of picturing something that we cannot see, of making a composite and being satisfied with a rough outline that allows us to cope and carry on.--M.A. Khan.

Civilization is no more than the art of keeping conversation going. If this much is right, then it should not necessarily be identified with prowess in technology or the sciences or particular social organizations emanating from Europe. Rather it is a skill that promotes mutual accommodation and modest forms of receptivity. It may also involve a species of courage, as when Freddy Ayer confronted Mike Tyson, but in well-ordered societies this courage would be rarely required.

One might think that in the previous paragraph I have just projected my preference for useless talk and transformed it into a fundamental good. If you have a sense of humor, and are familiar with my fondness for quoting Hume, you may quote Hume against me:

The Bramins [sic] assert, that the world arose from an infinite spider, who spun this whole complicated mass from his bowels, and annihilates afterwards the whole or any part of it, by absorbing it again, and resolving it into his own essence. Here is a species of cosmogony, which appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a little contemptible animal, whose operations we are never likely to take for a model of the whole universe...And were there a planet, wholly inhabited by spiders, (which is very possible) this inference would there appear as natural and irrefragable.--David Hume.*

There is some truth to the charge that like a spider's fondness for spiders, I am merely equating civilization with philosophical activity. Even so, my ilk, professional philosophers, are not really committed to civilization; here I don't have merely those, who seem to care mostly about winning debates, in mind. Rather, I am primarily thinking about the more kindly ones that are committed to the idea that conversation can be halted by truth, knowledge, agreement, or consensus, and, further, that, in fact, our inquiries and activities aim at these. So, while civilization can be philosophical (I return to this below) not all philosophy is, despite the presence of other virtues, civilized.

To be civilized has a bad reputation: first, it stands accused of hypocrisy by those familiar with the conjunction of 'European' (or 'American,' 'Judeo-Christian,' etc.) and 'Civilization,' while noting that the track-record of such societies includes genocide, slavery, colonialism, pillage, and an infinite variety of other forms of oppression, etc. Second, from another side it is presented as accommodationist and naive for its refusal to draw steadfast lines in the sand between them and us. By contrast, even if when forced to recognize the existence of enemies, the civilized insist -- to paraphrase Dayan**--  that if one wants to make peace, one doesn't talk to one's friends. One talks to enemies even if they hold a gun in their hand. That is to say, by understanding civilization as a political and social skill, we recognize that it aims at ending and preventing the state of war; from the vantage point developed here, 'the clash of civilizations' is a contradiction in terms. 

The first charge is based on equivocation. From the vantage point of true civilization, there is no excuse for domination. So, while civilization does not require equality or mutual respect, it requires mutual accommodation. One might worry that this just entrenches unfairness or, worse, status quo biases and so civilization is just an expression of self-interest of the powerful. There is an element of truth to this (third) charge, but it is generally even more in the interest of the weak to be part of the conversation. Either way, a defense of civilization should not be confused with a theory of justice (which may also be in the interest of the powerful).

The previous paragraph reminds us that civility is not an intrinsic part of civilization. To be civil is to conform to norms that govern a community of equals (originally citizens). It is intrinsic to civility that there are insiders and outcasts. This is why even though civility may be a means toward keeping a conversation going, the demand for civility can be so easily abused as a tool of oppression.+

Above I suggested that philosophy and civilization are not necessarily mutually antagonistic. I can now state philosophy's role in civilization: it is to teach the skills and develop the concepts that allow conversations to be continued++ or, alternatively, the state of war to be held at bay.

On a Reading List When (Academic) Good Fortune Runs Out

Yesterday, at an informal fund-raiser, I bumped into a former student who had taken a seminar on Coetzee that I had co-taught with the Dutch novelist, Arnon Grunberg, half a decade ago. (Grunberg was the star attraction of the fund-raiser, so I wouldn't suggest a role for chance here.) I am bad with names, but decent with faces, so even though I couldn't recall his name, I recognized him -- a tall man now -- at once (despite the beard he has fashionably allowed to be grown); we re-introduced and I was reminded his name is 'Bram Esser.' We talked a bit about the poor sales of the book, Snelwegverhalen, (that is, 'highway stories,' but it can also mean: 'quickly-gone-stories') about Dutch highways that Bram has published since I saw him last. I was surprised by this lack of good fortune because the book had gotten considerable local media attention.

At one point I wasn't sure what to say, so I mentioned that a few years after the Coetzee class he had attended, I gave a public lecture about Coetzee's "What is a Classic?" and related it to magnanimity in Middlemarch, Grunberg's Huid en Haar (which has not been translated yet), and some of Ruskin's musings. I had put a lot of effort into the lecture, which I delivered as a keynote at an interdisciplinary conference (in Dutch). It fell flat. And when I offered it for publication a few years later, one of my departmental colleagues rejected it (with very kind words) for a collection he was editing. Bram reminded me that we had not, in fact, read "What is a Classic?" in the Coetzee seminar.  I mumbled something that I may have read it in preparation of or during the seminar. After an awkward silence (well, I thought it was awkward), I added that I had used a paragraph or two of that ill-fated lecture in a forthcoming preface to a volume on Neglected Philosophical Classics I edited. 

I was about to launch into explaining how I used Coetzee's essay to help characterize in some sense, the nature of a philosophical classic, when Bram asked me, if since our class, I had read Paul West's The Very Rich Hours of Count Von Stauffenberg--a book that plays a considerable role in Coetzee's Elizabeth Costello and also in our seminar discussion (even though it had not been assigned) [I have mentioned it a few times, see especially here and here].

'Have you?'

'No, except for some of the strangulation-with-a-wire scenes.'

'Me neither..I am afraid to do so.'

I paused. I wondered if I should ask him more about his, rather partial interest in West's novel.

Instead, I added that 'afraid' was the wrong word. I said that I would read West's novel when I have less good fortune.

I surprised myself, why would I say that?

It's not that I am afraid to be contaminated by the malice of West's novel. The malice is visible all around us if you allow yourself to think about it: every day I bike along the beautiful Prinsengracht and see the long line of visitors to Anne Frank's house--kitty-corner from where I live. (These days the city is covered with posters advertising the musical based on her diaries.) She was betrayed by somebody who may still be alive among our neighbors. One of my favorite places to write philosophy, Vinnies, is itself kitty-corner with the West-Indisch Huis (West Indian House), the former head-quarters of the Dutch West India company--built with money earned on the slave-trade and sugar plantations. It's a charming place for weddings as well as meetings by Dutch academic bureaucracies with money to burn. My son and I played voetbal in the playground alongside it yesterday in the sun that could not make much of a dent in the very late-fall-frost.

 I have long stored up a list of works for that broadening-my-mind-sabbatical I keep promising myself (careful re-reading or first reading of all of George Eliot's novels, Montaigne's Essays, D'Alembert's Encyclopedia, all of Plato, etc). Evidently, I am also storing up some works for when my fortune has run out: upon reflection, listed on my 'nadir-reading list' is not just that West novel, but also Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus, The Triple Mirror Of The Self (which I have already read once, but am terrified to read again), and a few others.

Bram helpfully suggested West's work would be a final shot in the neck. On the contrary, I said, I expect West's novel to cheer me up then.

On Milton Friedman's Criticism of Libertarian intolerance

I regard the basic human value that underlies my own beliefs as tolerance, based on humility. I have no right to coerce someone else, because I cannot be sure that I am right and he is wrong….no simple (practical) principle is really adequate. We do not have all the answers, and there is no simple formula that will give us all the answers. That's why humility, tolerance, is so basic, so fundamental. Milton Friedman (1990) "Say "NO" to intolerance"" Liberty, July 1991,Volume 4(6): 17.) [HT: David M. Levy]

That philosophy [Von Mises's praxeology—ES] converts an asserted body of substantive conclusions into a religion. They do not constitute a set of scientific propositions that you can argue about in terms of empirical evidence. Suppose two people who share von Mises's praxeological view come to contradictory conclusions about anything. How can they reconcile their difference? The only way they can do so is by a purely logical argument. One has to say to the other, "You made a mistake in reasoning." And the other has to say, "No you made a mistake in reasoning." Suppose neither believes he has made a mistake in reasoning. There's only one thing left to do: fight. Karl Popper…takes a different approach. If we disagree, we can say to one another, "You tell me what fact, if any, they [sic] were observed, you would regard as sufficient to contradict your view." And vice versa. Then we can go out and see which, if either, conclusion, the evidence contradicts. The virtue of this modern scientific approach, as proposed by Popper, is that it provides a way in which, at least in principle, we can resolve disagreements without a conflict." (Friedman, 18)

Let me take a real example. How many times have you heard someone say that the answer to a problem is that you simply have to make it private property. But is private property such an obvious notion? Does it come out of the soul?...So simply saying "private property" is a mantra, not an answer. Simply saying "use the market" is not an answer." (18-9)

The passages quoted from Milton Friedman are from a short speech delivered to a Libertarian audience in which he criticizes Von Mises and Ayn Rand on a number of issues calling them "both extremely intolerant." (18) While he mentions their personal intolerance, he is especially keen to emphasize their methodological intolerance. (Unsurprisingly, his analysis has been met with considerable irritation; see here and here for more online responses.) Here I focus on what these passages reveal about Friedman's commitments. I focus on four issues.

First, when faced with the transition problem, that is, how to move from – let's stipulate -- a misguided status quo to a just outcome, Friedman does not embrace what has become known as 'shock-therapy' in a general sense. He rejects it for moral and economic (or technocratic) reasons. Rather, he prefers (a) non-violent, (b) technocratic solutions (he mentions two of his signature examples: school vouchers and negative income tax) or mechanisms that (i) leave most background institutions intact, and (ii) produce – again let's stipulate – imperfect albeit more just and efficient outcomes and (iii) that are defeasible policy-interventions in light of further "experience." I would argue that (i) and (iii) are deviations from shock therapy. But the deviation is not total because his stance is compatible with gradualist and non-gradualist approaches. Sometimes Friedman is willing to advocate non-gradualist approaches; the most famous case is Chile, of course. But (in addition to military rule and other political turmoil), Chile was suffering from hyperinflation, and so Friedman's monetary shock therapy was a response to a clear economic challenge not a template for all policy.

I noted that his argument for his approach to the transition problem is, in part, moral because of Friedman's emphasis on "the responsibilities that we have." This ('we') is a theorist's responsibility for it covers those that advocate/theorize about a just social outcome (or "utopia"). He writes:

You can simply describe the utopian solution, and leave it to somebody else how we get from here to there. That's not only a practical problem. It's a problem of the responsibilities that we have….You have to have some mechanism of going from here to there….We may very well agree on the direction we want to go in, but just how we're going to go there and how far we're going to go, that's a much more difficult problem. (19)

So, it is misleading to think that Friedman always advocated shock therapy and argued to let the market simply take care of itself.

Hume's blemishes and silences

Yesterday I noted that in his treatment in the Agricola of the Roman conquest of Britain, Tacitus gives pride of place to the speech by Galgacus ahead of the decisive battle. It's an eloquent statement of the argument against empire. It is especially noteworthy that the speech goes well beyond the desire of propertied freedom, and is also an argument in favor of national (or terriotorial) self-determination. Galgacus is reported as fighting for British liberty.

By contrast, Hume, treats the episode very differently:

This great commander [Agricola--ES] formed a regular plan for subduing Britain, and rendering the acquisition useful to the conquerors. He carried his victorious arms northwards, defeated the Britons in every encounter, pierced into the inaccessible forests and mountains of Caledonia, reduced every state to subjection in the southern parts of the island, and chaced before him all the men of fiercer and more intractable spirits, who deemed war and death itself less intolerable than servitude under the victors. He even defeated them in a decisive action, which they sought under Galgacus, their leader; and having fixed a chain of garrisons, between the friths of Clyde and Forth, he thereby cut off the ruder and more barren parts of the island, and secured the Roman province from the incursions of the barbarous inhabitants.

During these military enterprizes, he neglected not the arts of peace. He introduced laws and civility among the Britons, taught them to desire and raise all the conveniencies of life, reconciled them to the Roman language and manners, instructed them in letters and science, and employed every expedient to render those chains, which he had forged, both easy and agreeable to them. The inhabitants, having experienced how unequal their own force was to resist that of the Romans, acquiesced in the dominion of their masters, and were gradually incorporated as a part of that mighty empire--David Hume, History of England.

Before we simply assume that Tacitus's treatment was simply irrelevant to Hume's account in the History of England, it is worth reminding ourselves that Hume quotes Tacitus in the epigraph on the title-page of the Treatise. (Paul Russell has done creative work with this.) And, elsewhere, as Jacky Taylor first pointed out to me, Hume insists that Tacitus is the favorite author of those (at age 50) that prefer "wise, philosophical reflections concerning the conduct of life and moderation of the passions."

In looking at the quoted passage of Hume's History, one might wonder if Hume is even familiar with the Agricola. After all, elsewhere Hume explicitly notes Tacitus's treatment (in the Germania) of the Germans's "fierce and bold liberty" (drawn by the masterly pencil of Tacitus"--explicit and tacit references to this feature of the Germania are sprinkled through Hume's oeuvre). So, Hume does not always overlook this feature of Tacitus's analysis. However, Hume is familiar with the Agricola; he refers to it explicitly in the History of England (here), including in the notes to the passage just quoted where it is his main (only?) source of evidence. 

That Hume omits Galgacus's speech, which evidently does not fit the political narrative he wishes to tell, is less remarkable than the fact that he calls attention to the existence of Galgacus, who plays no further role in the overall argument, at all. So, what to make of this?

First, it is quite clear that Hume is a friend of empire (recall) when it extends (i) 'laws and civility' (even by the force of arms) as well as (ii) generates demand for commercial activity ('desire... the conveniencies of life'), and (iii) promotes 'arts and sciences.' Agricola is not just a successful military leader, but is in Hume's hands transformed primarily into (iv) a wise political legislator that is worth emulating. Strikingly -- especially if one recalls Rousseau --, Agricola's political wisdom consist in making a population feel at ease in its chains. Agricola follows his own "regular plan" (which is contrasted with Galgacus's rash decision to seek decisive battle), and shows that some order needs to be imposed (with the sword) before the fruits of civilization can be enjoyed. It would be unfair to Hume to claim that he only promotes this vision of political leadership (recall), but one should not overlook this strain in his thought either. While (i-iv) are not altogether absent in Tacitus's account, Agricola's subordinate position to the emperor leaves little room for treating him as a political legislator in the way that Hume does.

Second, in Hume's hands the opposition between civilization and barbarism is not understood in terms of empire and freedom. The benefits of empire are emphasized, and it's hard not to discern in this Hume's advocacy of British commercial empire and the Union (of Scotland with England). Rather it becomes a distinction between enjoyable chains and fierce (animal-like) un-tamedness. To put the point starker than Hume does, The 'uncivilized' or barbarous are interpreted as willingly choosing death and thereby marking themselves as worth killing. As we know, this is an enduring, dangerous trope that gets recycled even by my Zionist friends when faced, say, with Hamas's propaganda and suicide-killers.

On heroes and courage

A hero–as we use the term in typical English discourse–is someone who voluntarily engages in rightful service to others, even though that service puts him at risk of harm, and who does so out of benevolence rather than a desire for personal gain. So, to assess whether soldiers are heroes, we’d need to know 1) what their motives are, 2) the degree to which they were at risk of harm, 3) whether they were rightfully serving others. The qualifier “rightfully” is important. After all, Nazi soldiers and Gulag guards served others, but they don’t serve the right ends, and they didn’t conduct their service in a morally permissible way...

Whether you think the typical American soldier is a hero or not will depend a great deal on your view of American foreign policy. Some American wars are beyond the pale; no reasonable person could believe them to be justified: e.g., the various wars fought to exterminate and uproot Native Americans, the Mexican-American War, and the Spanish-American war. What about other wars and military incursions? I’ll lay my cards on the table and say that I think hardly any US military actions have been justified according to the correct theory of just war. I didn’t think the invasion of Iraq was justified, and so far, it’s been a disaster. While the Taliban was of course an illegitimate regime, invading Afghanistan seemed like a terrible idea, and so far, it has been. It’s far from clear that US military actions over the past 15 years have done anything to promote or protect Americans’ freedom, though it is clear that these actions have wrought death, suffering, and destruction upon many innocent foreigners.--Jason Brennan, Bleedingheartlibertarians. [See also his follow-up.]

I have been a fierce critic of Jason Brennan in the past. But I have to recognize that given that Brennan is, in addition to being a professional philosopher, also, in part a public philosopher, it takes considerable courage to express the sentiments he does. Brennan risks hurting a promising career as a media pundit and other careers in public service by reminding Americans of some of the worst features of their history.

Unlike Brennan, I would argue that one can be courageous, even a hero, serving non-rightful ends. To oversimplify, the criteria for heroicism are spectator-relative. This is why the exemplary deeds recounted in Greek poetry remain heroic despite changing views on the laws of war and morality more generally. For, as the dictionary definitions remind us, a hero is admired. In fact, as Hume and Adam Smith both emphasized, even distant admiration of the dazzling hero is possible and co-existing with (subdued) moral disapproval.+ (Brennan's approving treatment of the quiet, everyday, dazzle-free heroicism the "local auto mechanic or your neighborhood tailor" is remniscent of Hutcheson's approach [recall]).

So, it's very hard for us to recognize our enemies as heroes, even if we, in our better moments, recognize their courage. That is, there are objective facts of the matter (ability as well as willingness to confront danger, fear, etc.) that make somebody's actions courageous and these are independent of morality. We are repeatedly told that suicide-bombers are cowardly, but this is just propaganda. If they attack, say, armed soldiers, we may abhor their tactics, but we would be foolish to fail to recognize their courage.*

Why I Support the Legitimacy of Zionism

I would absolutely believe that some day, given the opportunity, they would set up their state again, and that God would choose them anew, so changeable are human affairs.—Spinoza, Theological Political Treatise, Chapter 3 (translated by E. Curley).

I understand Zionism as a legitimate response to the reality that we do not live in a just world. In particular, for present purposes there are two pressing features of this injustice: first, there is no free movement of people (immigration and emigration). Our closed (or at best partially open) borders generate many global injustices. But here I only focus on the fact that this lack of freedom of movement makes minority groups especially vulnerable to local injustices because they can become, in effect, trapped behind borders. (I am not denying that there are some decent liberal and democratic arguments in favor of limiting immigration, but that need not concern us here.) Second, there are ongoing pressures in liberal democracies that generate enduring threats to the survival and dignity of minority groups; some of these pressures are a consequence of democracy and the intolerance or prejudices of electoral majorities (say, against Roma, the dark skinned, etc.), some of these pressures are the consequence of enforced state neutrality and hostility to various religious/cultural practices deemed barbaric, unethical, etc. (e.g., circumcision, ritual slaughter, dress codes, etc.). The pressures consequent democracy can be greatly mitigated by the rule of law, constitutional rights, and education (etc.); while the local details differ greatly, even the most robust constitutional states have ongoing difficulties in ensuring that all citizens are genuinely treated equally and with dignity. The pressures consequent the embrace of liberal values and a secular, even moralized conception of the public sphere generate ongoing tragic conflicts within liberalism pitting, say, impartiality and pluralism against each other. The first feature is a contingent fact about our world and represents the partial failure of liberal democracy. The second feature is, in part, a consequence of contingent local injustices, but may also represent, as long as there are liberal states, a permanent feature of social reality in which group identities and liberal values clash.* These two pressing features generate the structure to which Zionism is a legitimate response, but they are not sufficient for it.

The two pressing features mentioned in the previous paragraph point to the shortcomings and internal tensions of liberal democracy today. But Zionism is rooted, in part, in historical injustice. Jews are a historically persecuted minority. The previous sentence is not a uniqueness claim. The list of historically persecuted minorities is depressingly long (and may well get depressingly longer): in 'Europe' alone we also find, amongst other historically persecuted minorities, Gypsies, Roma, Armenians, Kurds, Basques. Non-European Liberal democracies in North and South America and Australia (etc.) offer their own examples of historically indigenous peoples and descendants of slaves that are historically persecuted minorities. To be a historically persecuted minority is a contingent affair dependent on balances of local power, demographics, economics, religious/natural rivalries, and state institutions. Not all minorities are persecuted, even if they have genuine political disadvantages (this describes the status of Catholics in my native country, the Netherlands, through the nineteenth century). Sometimes historically persecuted minorities stop being persecuted (or a minority). We may be witnessing, for example, the relatively rapid emancipation of gays and lesbians in many liberal democracies. It's because Jews are a historically persecuted minority and because the global political order has the particular character of injustice (recall the two features of the first paragraph above) that Zionism is legitimate.+

By 'Zionism' I mean to refer to a state that has a law of return for Jews. In this sense the State of Israel is Zionist. The point of the argument of the previous two paragraphs is to defend the legitimacy of a Zionist Israel against its critics. So, my argument is neither rooted in or about principles of international law (which is rather permissive of states and too harsh on non-state actors) nor rooted in ideal, moral theory (which is rightly deeply suspicious of any existing state short of a just world government), nor relying on Nietzschean will-to-power. It is a defeasible argument for a non-perfect world. I do not think my approach is original, but I am unfamiliar with a contemporary articulation of it.

While my approach has a moral tenor, it defends Zionism as a pragmatic, political solution to political problems. It is also an argument that bumps up against other legitimate, political aspirations (of Jews and non-Jews alike). It's not a Jewish argument in so far as that I recognize that one can be Jewish – and even accept my diagnosis and argument -- without being Zionist, and that one can also be a Jewish anti-Zionist (for religious and/or secular, moral reasons). The argument is, however, sensitive to Jewish experience, which explains why many Jews qua Jews understand themselves, in part, as a historically persecuted minority.**

Now, my approach is not rooted in democracy (and its purported legitimacy). While I am often impressed by the character of Israeli democracy and sometimes dismayed, there are inevitable tensions between the idea of Zionism and (liberal) democracy. To note this is to reiterate, in effect, the second pressing feature (with its tension between group identity and the demands of impartial morality) I noted in the first paragraph above. So, there is a sense that the very fact of Zionism is both a reminder of the internal tensions within liberalism as well as a limitation from the point of view of the highest ideals of modern liberalism. But I do not want to exaggerate Zionism's inherent flaws; in our imperfect world, the demands of group identity and democracy are constantly being renegotiated. (For example, the country I work in, Belgium, continuously ties itself into constitutional knots over competing claims of community and democracy.) All (liberal) democracies are experimental works in progress. I should also admit that while I am a staunch defender of democracy, its very form generates problems for minorities everywhere. For, in many ways, cosmopolitan, law-governed multi-ethnic empires may be better environments for minorities than liberal democracy developed from nation-states or colonial enterprises.