Hong Kong’s Chief Executive C.Y. Leung rang in the Lunar New Year earlier this week with a noteworthy speech urging the citizens of Hong Kong to change their ways. Renowned for his calculated frankness, and his cracking faux pas, Leung said during the height of last year’s umbrella uprising that the whole problem with democracy (mín zhǔ) is that it takes from the rich and gives a dominant voice to the poor. On Wednesday evening, C.Y. Leung bolstered his reputation, this time by recommending a fresh way of thinking about power and authority.
Following months of brave actions by citizens determined to bring universal suffrage and social justice to their city state, Leung acknowledged, though did not say in so few words, that whatever is being said in Beijing and elsewhere, life in Hong Kong is by no means back to normal. ‘Last year was no easy ride for Hong Kong’, he said. ‘Our society was rife with differences and conflicts.’ So how should the strife best be overcome? In a surprise move, Leung called upon the heavens for help. ‘In the coming year,’ said the chief, ‘I hope that all people in Hong Kong will take inspiration from the sheep’s character and pull together in an accommodating manner to work for Hong Kong’s future.’ He went on to describe sheep [yáng] as ‘widely seen to be mild and gentle animals living peacefully in groups’.
Intending to calm his flock, C.Y. Leung showed why arbitrary rulers cocooned in power are prone to the same foolishness they project on to their subjects. He said in effect that hereon Hong Kong should be turned into a sheepfold whose flock bleat in perfect time: ‘The Lord C.Y. Leung is my shepherd.’ The man in charge didn’t explain why (both in Cantonese and English) one sheep is called a sheep and many sheep are also called sheep. He also seemed quite unaware of the insult buried in the implied comparison of Hong Kong citizens with docile creatures with woolly heads. Given all the happenings in Hong Kong during the past year, more than a few citizens must have concluded he was likening them to lost sheep, or perhaps even to sacrifical lambs [gāo yáng].
The Lord Shepherd certainly didn’t ask (as Graham Greene did in Monsignor Quixote) why in heaven’s name sheep should ever trust their shepherd. ‘But you must’, C.Y. Leung might have replied. ‘My job is to guard you from the wolves of disorder.’ And, presumably, from the rough click of the shears and the clip around the ears, and from the merchants itching to get their bleating victims to market, to sell them on to the butchers.
During the past three years, several anguished and rather melancholy ‘Democracy Field Notes’ tried to analyse the causes of the Greek crisis and the terrible pain and misery unfairly inflicted on many millions of Greek citizens by European austerity politics.
Overnight, as if the local deities had suddenly decided to offer lavish comforting gifts to poor, picked-upon Greece, things have changed. Votes are still being counted throughout the country, yet it now looks certain that the Syriza coalition, with its refusal of rule by austerity and commitment to revive the spirit and substance of democratic politics, is headed for a near-absolute majority of seats in the Greek parliament.
To capture something of the mood of the moment, I reproduce below a short exchange of text messages with a dear friend and trusted colleague, who was among many tens of thousands of Greek citizens who returned to Athens, especially to cast their ballots.
‘My dear John!’, began the exchange, just over a day ago. ‘I’m already in Athens catching up on sleep, social life, politics.’ She added: ‘Exciting times also full of apprehension.’ Then came a playful afterthought: ‘Is it ethical to bet on the electoral results?:-)’
I wrote back: ‘Kalimera! never mind the gambling. Plz just make sure that Samaras & Venizelos & Papandreou are thrown out into the streets. Michaloliakos & his [Golden Dawn] friends should of course stay put [in prison]’. I added: ‘the deities know the rest :-) & wise citizens know something else: not to invest great hopes in elections. I shall be thinking of you good luck!’
My friend replied instantly: ‘I know! and older people suggest it feels like 1981 all over again [when PASOK, led by Andreas Papandreou, won a landslide victory and formed the first socialist government in the history of Greece] but with more depressed spirits. Let’s see.’
A few seconds later, an image of Alexis Tsipras, about to cast his vote, looking jubilant, came through from Athens.
Then up jumped the moment of elation, this morning’s early breaking news. My friend bubbled with joy. ‘U know i’m kind of blasé and don’t hold much hope for Greece’s future’, she wrote, ‘but today’s voting experience was really a religious one. The hope and the trepidation. A special feeling. And the moment I was thinking exactly that the Sunday morning church bells next to my parents’ flat started to chime.'
My fumbling reply tried to capture the moment when millions of Greeks trapped in squalour suddenly acted in solidarity, to reclaim their stolen democratic rights: ‘Kalimera! It’s dawn here - and dawn in Athens :-) just watching every channel I can get my eyes on, with great excitement (& I confess some tears of joy) a thumping victory! perhaps even an outright majority! Tsipras is surely right’, I wrote. ‘Whatever happens hereon, this is an important moment of dignity (and 'democracy, solidarity and cooperation’, he said) when the people who were the first to suffer and suffered the most are now the vanguard of a real european alternative to the widespread prevailing misery'.
As for the strangely mystical feelings that sometimes grip democracies at the moment of sweet victory in a hard-fought free and fair election, I could think of just these few parting words. ‘Transcendence yes & little wonder the bell ringers struck @ your heart it is an unforgettable democratic moment congratulations, dear citizen!’
On the day I left for home after an extended research stay in Europe and the Persian Gulf, news broke of the terrible attack on the staff of Charlie Hebdo in Paris. I suddenly felt sickened and shaken, but I was not surprised. A violent media event of this kind - calculated, cold-blooded, daringly simple and staged in the heartlands of the secular West, for a global audience - has been on the cards for some time.
The Paris violence is part of a wider pattern, the latest phase in a longer string of attacks that were misinterpreted by French politicians and journalists as the work of ‘lone wolf’ and ‘disturbed’ individuals. It’s worth remembering that in late December, in Dijon and Nantes, more than 20 citizens were injured when men drove vehicles into crowds of pedestrians. In Joué-lès-Tours, a 20-year-old Muslim man armed with a knife and shouting praise to God entered a police station and wounded three officers before another shot and killed him. Then the violence hit Charlie Hebdo and the Hypercacher supermarket near Porte de Vincennes. More attacks are surely on the way.
Making sense of the violence is imperative for citizens who care about our world. At a minimum, this requires a measure of detachment from the language of outrage and disapprobation that has swept through France and the rest of Europe during the past week. What the world has witnessed is without doubt savage acts of criminal violence. Barbaric they are. But, contrary to the prevailing media narratives, the acts of violence are neither simply ‘inhuman’ (as if ‘humanity’ has a perfect track record in the field of non-violence) nor best understood as an ‘attack against France’, as François Hollande and many politicians have chanted in recent days. Contrary to the dominant media narratives, the violent incidents are also not ‘lone wolf’ events. Nor is the violence to be understood in the terms of clinical medicine, as ‘jihadist cancer’, as Rupert Murdoch says, or as the work of mentally ‘unstable’ people, as the French Interior Minister Bernard Cazeneuve has repeatedly claimed.
The barbarism of our times is different. It is political, and it must be understood as such, beginning with the chilling fact that what we are witnessing are acts of revenge by Muslim radicals angered by the rise of a new global bigotry: the fear and dread and despise of Islam. In many parts of the European Union, where more than 20 million Muslim people now dwell, Muslim baiting has become a popular sport. The cold truth is that organised suspicion and denigration of Islam is the new anti-Semitism.
Most of my European Muslim friends and colleagues are disturbed and upset by the trend. They point out that rapturous praise of the sacred principle of freedom of expression – fiercely defended by French intellectuals in recent days – is regarded by most peace-loving Muslims as an alibi for insult. They accuse the champions of free speech of muddling the difference between speech that unsettles the powerful and speech that vilifies the powerless.
A careful genealogy of the principle shows that these Muslims are on to something. Think of John Milton’s insistence, in Areopagitica (1644) and other writings, that ‘the Turk upholds his Alcoran, by the prohibition of printing’, and therefore has no taste for liberty of the press. Then consider the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten, which discovered, to its cost, that liberty of the press is not just liberty of the press. There is no such thing as free speech without social consequences and political effects. And cartoons are not just cartoons. Parading as ‘free speech’, they can easily function as weapons of prejudice and denigration of the powerless.
Little wonder then that in 2012 much upset was triggered among European Muslims when Charlie Hebdo published a series of cartoons of the Prophet Mohammad, including one showing him lying naked on a bed, being filmed from behind, saying ‘My ass? And you love it, my ass?’ Pornography and brickbats of that kind cast doubt on the claim made by Philippe Val, former director of Charlie Hebdo, who told the BBC last week that the magazine was run by people ‘devoid of hate, of prejudice and was respectful of others’. That may be so - but many thinking European Muslims, for good reasons, don’t see things that way. For them, the doctrine of secularism, with its roots in the French Revolution, is an ideology of state power, just as it was throughout the period of European colonialism. For these same Muslims, the secularist insistence that ‘reasonable’ men and women must leave God not for other gods, but for no god, is a species of bigotry. It is a power move, an excuse to round on people of faith who refuse to let religiosity wither or be pushed away, into the obscurity of private life.
The Muslim rejection of secularism explains why French school officials who refuse to provide dinner alternatives to pork meat for Muslim pupils, or ‘kebabphobes’ who insist that ‘foreign’ grilled fast food is disappearing the baguette, are perceived by many Muslims as bigots: as hypocrites who pride themselves on ‘choice’ but dish out insult. Muslims in France and elsewhere in Europe similarly feel insulted by the whipped-up controversies centred on the burqa and niqab and hijab and chador. They are dishonoured when people (who usually don’t know the difference among them) say these garments are incompatible with the modern way of life because they oppress women, whose weakness (oddly) makes them potentially dangerous accomplices of ‘terrorism’.
For most Muslims in Europe, even the most free-thinking among them, such talk is more than absurd, or weirdly contradictory. To them it smacks of political prejudice, which itself is the carrier of discourtesy. The resulting denigration produces a sense of felt humiliation. From here, they point out, revenge is just a few steps away. They are surely right, for when pushed to the limits, intimidation and humiliation can turn murderous. That’s a standard axiom of psychoanalysis, championed by respected practitioners such as James Gilligan and Adam Jukes, who have shown convincingly that vilification and disgrace are always the fuel of murderous acts. Murder is a crime, but it is rarely straightforwardly the un-political doing of ‘madmen’ or ‘crazy loners’.
Last week’s murderous violence is political in yet another sense. It’s a reminder that civil society and its rules of peaceful civility and the public embrace of difference are highly fragile constructions that have no historical guarantees. The Je suis Charlie solidarity rallies that have sprung up in France and elsewhere show that these precious civil society values are alive and kicking. But they also show just how gossamer-thin they are, especially when confronted by the darker sides of European civil societies, which are less than civil, not only in their maltreatment and humiliation of Muslims, but also in the way, through unregulated black markets and freedom of movement of people, they facilitate access to Kalashnikov rifles and rocket launchers, for just a few hundred euros.
War and Terror
Armed men dressed in black balaclavas are the new symbols of a shameful fact: the global light arms trade is potentially the killer of civil societies everywhere, in Ottawa, Sydney, Mumbai and Peshawar, and now in Paris. There’s another political fact that shouldn’t be overlooked. It may be unpopular to put things this way, but the bitter truth is that barbarism of the Paris kind is the poisonous fruit of the so-called war on terror. Just a few hours after the attack on Charlie Hebdo, Bernard Cazeneuve, again quick off the blocks, said that the attacks confirmed the need for a widened ‘global war on terror’. A few days ago, at an ‘international meeting against terrorism’, he repeated the point: the ‘fight against terrorism’, he emphasised, requires a ‘global approach’. This way of thinking contains an inner flaw that is literally fatal. It stirs up feelings among many hundreds of millions of Muslims world-wide, for whom the war on terror includes American-led military violence of a frightening kind: drone attacks and B1-B strikes that kill innocent civilians, torture and humiliation at Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib, dragnet surveillance, support for brutal dictatorships in Egypt and Saudi Arabia.
Put bluntly, the terrorism we witness is the twin of the war on terrorism. That’s why talk of a global war against terror should be refused, countered by the brave remark scripted by Sasha Baron Cohen in Borat (2006), a comedy film that says it well in just a few biting words: this permanent war on terror is more like a war of terror, drone-led hostilities that are experienced by many Muslims as an all-out war targeted at all Muslims, regardless of whether they live in Gaza or Cairo or Kabul, or Copenhagen, Hamburg or Paris.
There’s a final and much more depressing reason why the Paris attacks matter politically. The violence we witness represents a black swan moment when democratic values and institutions are being challenged frontally by the spread of militia thinking and militarised politics, into the heartlands of what was once known as the secular West.
The Cold War through which I lived my early years always felt strangely distant. Its gravest moment, the feverish Cuban nuclear missile crisis of October 1962, threatened planetary destruction, our way of life, but it did so from afar. Due to changes of weaponry and military tactics, and the advent of multi-media abundance, this new global war of terror is potentially everywhere. It feels as if it could swoop down onto any public space, any bus or train, or any business or public building, at any unexpected moment. The Paris events, we could say, confirm that wars of terror in faraway ‘foreign’ places are now coming home.
In responding to this trend, many French commentators have noted in recent days how the Paris murders are an assault on ‘democracy’. They are indeed, especially because the new barbarism robs innocent citizens of their lives and spreads fear and self-censorship throughout civil society. But the state antidote to violence is arguably just as threatening. Dawn police raids, red alerts and security checks are bad for democracy. So are helicopters hovering over our heads, troops on the streets, gun battles and, worst of all, the military siege mentality that is settling not just on Muslim minorities, but on the democratic rights of each and every citizen.
The way things are going, democracies in Europe and elsewhere will soon resemble garrison states. It must be noted that the trend sickens the stomachs of many European Muslims. From their point of view, the star of democracy no longer shines. Democracy means lying politicians like Tony Blair and double-standard hypocrisy (‘be kind to America’, reads one of my fridge magnets, a gift from a Muslim friend, ‘or else it will bring democracy to your country’). It stands for unemployment, job market discrimination, second-class citizenship, or no citizenship at all. Democracy is disappointment, a dismal affair, a codeword for Gaza, Libya, Syria and Iraq. At home, in Europe, it means hostile media coverage, street snubs, silence and suspicion, and growing state repression.
It is exactly this trend the hooded gunmen want to strengthen. Contrary to what has frequently been said during the past week, jihadi actions do not prove that ‘Islam’ is humourless or that Muslims have a genetic dislike of satire and frank speech. Equally misleading are the claims that the Paris attacks are symptoms of a ‘clash of civilisations’ or a regression to the ‘Middle Ages’ (Xavi Puig, co-founder of El Mundo Today). The substance and style of the new violence are thoroughly twenty-first century. Its key aim is strategic: it is designed to trigger tougher anti-terrorism laws, tighter surveillance, the militarisation of daily life, more Muslim baiting.
The point of the Muslim radicals is to accelerate the decline of democracy by demonstrating to their uncommitted sisters and brothers that democracy is a dying sham. We could say that the ultimate aim of the Muslim gunmen is to finish off European democracies that are already in a parlous state. In this aim, they are strangely succeeding, thanks to the perverse fact that they find themselves twinned with populist movements that opportunistically take advantage of Europe’s civil and political freedoms, so as to press home their bigoted claim that Europe is being swamped by Muslims.
We don’t yet know, but perhaps the most disturbing consequence of the Paris murders will be the way they fuel the growth of populist backlashes against Muslims throughout Europe. High on the opium of general discontent with the status quo, the new populism finds its multi-media voice in settings as dynamic and different as local newspapers and radio stations, Facebook and Twitter (where #KillAllMuslims is trending) through to quality television and high-brow literature.
Michel Houellebecq’s novel Soumission is a prime example of the new literary populism. Published just last week, it is the most talked about novel in Europe. Understandably so, since in literary form it captures the growing political disaffection with mainstream party democracy that is spreading throughout the continent. Soumission is a genre-bending dystopia, a middle class howl against Muslims, a literary anticipation of the year 2022, when a thumping majority of voters reject the French left and right. In a surprise move, in a second round of voting in the presidential elections, the good citizens of France throw their support behind Mohammed Ben Abbes, who becomes the first elected Muslim president of France. Ben Abbes legalizes polygamy, agrees trade deals with Turkey, and brings the veil and shariah law to secular France. The change of government triggers obeisance, toady submission like that of the principal character, a dreary academic who happily wins promotion at the rebranded Islamic University of Paris-Sorbonne and enjoys the pleasures of owning several wives.
Houellebecq has denied that he’s helping bellow the fires of anti-Muslim feeling yet, in the next breath, he confirms that the scenario sketched in the novel ‘is a real possibility’. At the street level, in neighbouring Germany, it is exactly this anti-Muslim sentiment that fuels the rise of the Pegida movement. Led by Lutz Bachmann, a convicted criminal and son of a Dresden butcher, Pegida (Patriotic Europeans against the Islamisation of the West) is much more than a Dresden or a German phenomenon. Pegida is many different things to many different people. Pegida is a rejection of the complacent post-politics symbolised by Angela Merkel. It speaks to the unsolved European political crisis and serves as a barometer of the growing public disaffection with mainstream parliamentary democracy.
Yet Pegida is much more than a protest against the dying party systems of Europe. It is also a Pied Piper of the new anti-Muslim bigotry, the feeling that Muslims are taking over Europe. Remarkable is the movement’s knack of plumbing the depths of civil society. The typical Islamophobe who attends Pegida rallies (‘evening strolls’ they’re called) each Monday evening is an ‘angry citizen’ (Wutbürger) drawn from many different walks of life. In the ranks of the movement are football fans, educated middle class people and opponents of factory farming. There are neo-Nazis, Christians, Putin sympathisers, street hooligans and the rich upper middle class.
Pegida supporters and sympathisers may seem a motley crew but they share important things in common. They are annoyed with politicians and the political establishment. They curse the ‘lying media’. They’re sure the prevailing party system doesn’t represent either their material interests or their gut feeling that their own nation is drowning in the rising tides of Islam. Pegida people see no need for a New Deal with Muslims, which is what the whole European region now so urgently needs. They don’t much like people of the Muslim faith. They say they’ve had enough of Muslim asylum seekers, including those who come from the war zones of Syria and Iraq. Pegida people like people like themselves: good, white, upright and hard-working citizens who now want their homeland back.
Surely the strangest political fact of all is that Pegida supporters consider themselves democrats. They think of themselves as people of The People, as champions of the shortest of short textbook definitions of democracy as self-government of the people, by the people, for the people. Pegida people seem wilfully ignorant of the historical fact that since 1945 the norms of democracy have been democratised. Democracy has come to mean much more than winning elections. It now stands for the refusal of grand ideologies (including the whole idea of the coming-to-be of the Sovereign People defended by Martin Heidegger in his Freiburg lectures of 1933/34) and opposition to arbitrary power, wherever it is exercised. Democracy nowadays ideally means the public accountability of power, political humility, respect for diversity and complexity, and the refusal of all forms of bossing, bullying and violence against flesh and blood people, wherever they live.
These democratic norms uniquely belong to our age of monitory democracy, but strange and striking is the way Pegida supporters and fellow travellers want to turn their backs on them, and to do so in the name of the old and discredited Sovereign People Principle. Never mind that their definition of democracy is exclusionary and potentially murderous, and that it has no room for Muslims. When these authoritarian populists speak of democracy, what they really mean is ‘you don’t belong here because you are not one of us’.
Pegida populists are in this sense recidivists. They want Europe to turn back the clock, to move forward by stepping back in time, into a world where The People supposedly once ruled. ‘Wir sind das Volk’ (We are the People), they shout at their Monday evening rallies. Just as bigoted people shouted on the streets in the years before 1933.