Pushed and pulled in different directions by government policies and market forces, modern universities try hard to be public institutions for the public good. Fond of proclamations, their efforts are impressive - sources of hope in times when many people feel things are not going well.
The University of Sydney, the publicly-funded institution where I am based and which hosts the Sydney Democracy Network, is no exception.
In a period of mounting threats to our biosphere, the University’s Environmental Policy proclaims its commitment to environmental best practice across all of its activities, and to set the standard where none exists.
The University of Sydney’s Investment Policy governs the University’s $1 billion endowment. It commits the University to invest according to Environmental, Social and Governance principles, and explicitly excludes investments in tobacco, cluster bombs and land mines.
The bronze plaques which greet visitors who approach the main Quadrangle building meanwhile acknowledge the University’s respect for the Gadigal people of the Eora nation, on whose land the University is located – a proclamation echoed in the University’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Integrated Strategy.
The credibility of such sentiments is nurtured only in practice. A recent investigation by Greenpeace suggests that the University of Sydney, at least for the moment, falls short of its own principles. The carefully-researched report reveals that the University of Sydney has around $1 million of its endowment invested in Whitehaven Coal. The actions of this company place it in direct conflict with the University’s public commitments to the environment, indigenous Australia, and the public welfare of our society more broadly.
Whitehaven Coal is developing the largest coal mine currently under construction in Australia, at Maules Creek in northern New South Wales, in the face of staunch opposition from a diverse network of committed Australian citizens. Local farmers fear for the impact on their livelihoods of the mine’s colossal water use, with the water table in nearby areas set to drop by several metres. The mine has damaged or destroyed dozens of cultural heritage sites of the indigenous Gomeroi traditional owners, who have been denied access to sacred sites to perform ceremony.
Its impact on the environment is massive. Over 1,200 hectares of critically endangered Box Gum woodland in the Leard State Forest are set to be bulldozed, to make way for coal mining, threatening the habitats of several dozen animal species. When fully operational, the mine will contribute over 30 million tonnes of CO2 emissions per year – more than the annual total of the whole of NSW’s transport sector.
When the Maules Creek investment was exposed by Greenpeace, the University announced a review of its investment policies and a suspension of trading in fossil fuel stocks on the Australian Stock Exchange, including Whitehaven Coal. There has since been no reported progress. Given that there is little ambiguity in the published environmental and social impact of the Maules Creek coal mine, the dawdling is questionable. A review of the University’s holdings in this company can only confirm what is already abundantly clear - that they fall well short of the University’s proclamations on its environmental and social obligations.
Matters have been complicated by the coal industry’s swift condemnation of the University’s announced review. The NSW Minerals Council’s Head, Stephen Galilee, criticised the University for having ‘caved in to the bullying of environmental activists’. He even suggested that divestment campaigning was illegal. In similar tones, the CEO of Whitehaven Coal, Paul Flynn, condemned the call to divest as ‘green imperialism.’
This tetchiness of the powerful, their sensitivity to public criticism is rather surprising. Both organisations enjoy immense influence in Australian politics. Before taking up his current role, Stephen Galilee was the chief of staff of the current NSW Premier, Mike Baird. Whitehaven Coal’s current Executive Director, Mark Vaile, was a long-serving federal Liberal MP and minister in the Howard government. The Minerals Council of Australia was instrumental in lobbying against the mining and carbon taxes implemented by the Rudd/Gillard government – a tightly-targeted and well-financed investment that recently paid a handsome dividend, in the form of the repeal of both schemes. The recent appearances before the Independent Commission Against Corruption by Mark Vaile and Whitehaven’s founder, Nathan Tinkler, suggests further evidence of the corrupting effects of coal and fossil fuels on parliamentary democratic processes.
That the coal industry is so quick to claim the status of victim reveals insecurity about the steady erosion of its public license to mine, export and burn fossil fuels. Its worries are not unfounded. The power of the global fossil fuel divestment movement is growing. Almost 30 city councils around the world have committed to divest, including the US cities of San Francisco, Oakland, Seattle and Portland. 13 universities and colleges have also taken action, including the recent move by Stanford University to sell all shares held in coal companies. Closer to home, in July 2014 the Uniting Church in Australia voted to divest from fossil fuels.
The fossil fuel industry’s attempts to rubbish and silence and even criminalise their critics is anathema to a healthy, vibrant democracy. Democracy is much more than periodic elections. It comprises sets of institutions and a whole way of life committed to the peaceful refusal and restraint of arbitrary power, wherever it is exercised. Reining back the excesses of industries with considerable political power is vital in any democracy. Australia is no exception. The coal industry is a threat to the health of our democracy. By feeding the uncontrolled emission of greenhouse gases, the acidification of our oceans and the sixth extinction of species, this predatory industry is also a threat to the planet itself.
The University of Sydney’s role in all this is clear. It must decide whether it is an institution which abides by its important commitments to the environment and to indigenous Australians, or an organisation which chooses to side with entrenched political power at the expense of a planet already in poor health. The decision requires more than an investment review, or another proclamation. It needs determined action - for the sake of the good reputation of the University, and for the public good.
John Keane is Professor of Politics at the University of Sydney, a co-founder of the Sydney Democracy Network and author of The Life and Death of Democracy, which was short-listed for the 2010 Non-Fiction Prime Minister’s Literary Award. He is helping to organise the four-day 2014 Festival of Democracy, which includes a public event exploring the links between fossil fuels and democracy.
The booming business of China watching and China assessment has produced an assortment of glib orthodoxies, none more potent than the conclusion that the political system of China is ‘authoritarian’. The grip of phrases such as ‘authoritarianism’, ‘authoritarian rule’ and ‘authoritarian capitalism’ arguably stems from their imprecision, hence from their malleability in the hands of a wide range of scholars, journalists, politicians and pundits, all of whom like to portray China as an ‘authoritarian regime’, often to suit their own scholarly and political standpoints.
Consider some well-known examples. The American businessman James McGregor speaks of China as a ‘one-of-a-kind system of authoritarian capitalism that is in danger of terminating itself – and taking the world down with it.’ The Chinese political experiment, he says, resembles a hybrid combination of the so-called Gilded Age and the Robber Baron eras. Surprisingly similar language is used, for quite different purposes, by the darling of the hard Left, the Bolshevik clown Slavoj Žižek, who insists that the virus of ‘authoritarian capitalism is slowly but surely spreading around the globe, nowhere more so than China’. Žižek questions the claim that ‘political democracy’ is ‘the “natural” political accompaniment of capitalism’ by posing a provocative question: ‘What if China’s authoritarian capitalism is not a stop on the road to further democratization, but the end state toward which the rest of the world is headed?’
With less flourish, more than a few Atlantic-region political scientists sing the same refrain. They describe China either as a straightforward case of an ‘authoritarian regime’, or as a strange new form of ‘fragmented authoritarianism’, a polity whose rulers ‘show signs of responsiveness’ to the ‘increasingly diverse demands of Chinese society’, but nonetheless a political system that remains ‘authoritarian’ to its one-party state foundations.
What these contrasting interpretations of China have in common is their deep attachment both to the nebulous notion of authoritarianism and the belief that an ‘authoritarian regime’ is the opposite of ‘democracy’. Some observers tap this presumption for the purpose of welcoming the historic trend towards ‘post-democracy’. Others mobilise the same conviction to warn of the ‘rise of China’, or of the ‘China menace’. Great power theorists are especially concerned with the way rising powers provoke war with established hegemons, such as the United States. They say that the ascent of ‘authoritarian’ China is the defining story of our age; or that its system of ‘market authoritarianism’ confronts the global order with the great new challenge of rekindling ‘the drive among others to acquire and preserve democratic freedoms’.
The claim that ‘authoritarian’ China is fundamentally at odds with American-style ‘democracy’ has a notable pedigree (traceable to a classic essay on the subject by Samuel Huntington), but it’s an unpersuasive platitude. Or so contends the distinguished China specialist and public intellectual Kerry Brown, whose wonderful study of contemporary China is no ordinary book. It is remarkable, in several ways.
Most obviously, it is a ground-breaking interpretation of Chinese politics that openly admits its own biases, along the way strongly encouraging readers to nurture their own sense of wonder about the myriad dramatic and contradictory things that are going on in contemporary China. Brown shows that a common mistake among China analysts is their misplaced narcissism, their misjudged efforts to ‘find bones in an egg’ (jī dàn li tiāo gŭ tou), as the Chinese expression has it, as if China is best judged by their own political standards of American-style ‘liberal democracy’. In matters of China scholarship, he cautions against closed minds, along the way inviting readers to admit uncertainties, to explore their own ignorance, above all to see that contemporary China is no simple or straightforward actuality, but instead a cauldron of contradictions, a kaleidoscope of confusing and conflicting trends. China is a ‘reality’ which ought to make observers feel, in matters of observation, the truth of the common Chinese saying (xiā zi mō xiàng) that in these times all of us rather resemble the blind person sizing up different parts of an elephant that cannot be summarised in simple terms.
Fascinating and pleasurable to read in equal measure, this is a book that was never intended to be a book. Treated as a genre of writing, it’s a fine set of field notes, let’s call them, a political anthropology of contemporary China that represents much more than an alluring chest of treasured observations of the bamboozling ins and outs of social and political trends in contemporary China. Brown shows that China is a state of mind, a way of using words. For him, words really count when analysing Chinese society and politics, just as they do elsewhere. He probes the prevailing language through which Chinese politics is analysed, and shows it to be wanting, badly. Not only does he cast doubt on the prejudice of those commentators and critics who suppose that ‘authoritarian’ China is a standard post-communist polity tottering through a transition towards American-style ‘liberal democracy’, itself the normative standard by which Chinese politics should be adjudged. Brown pushes much further. He shows that China cannot be described, loosely, lazily, unthinkingly, using the term ‘authoritarianism’, to mean a type of regime in which established power supposes it has ‘authority’, an absolute right to assert itself against its actual or potential opponents. Brown’s objection is not that this way of describing things destroys the precious meaning and rich political significance of the root word ‘authority’ (which it does). He instead demonstrates that when used as a synonym for haughty power whose agents suppose their own unquestionable superiority, the term ‘authoritarianism’ wildly underestimates the carnivalesque lives of both the rulers and struggling citizens of China.
Chinese realities are bewildering. Contradictions are found in all leading institutions, at every street corner, in every nook and cranny of its vibrant multi-media scene. China is almost a fictional place, a country where tragedy and comedy come together on the same stage. China is a land where desperately poor and unhappy petitioners risk everything, even disappearance into terrifying black jails, for the sake of their dignity. It is a country where the strong prey on the weak; where a burgeoning middle class opposed to free multi-party elections is willing to stand up and be counted for more accountable and open government; a place where money-making is called socialism, where there are more billionaires, skyscrapers and card-carrying communists than in the rest of the world.
On Brown’s reckoning, China is most definitely not a ‘people’s democracy’, as its officials at all levels like to claim. It is certainly describable as a one-party-dominated political system marked by such well-recorded dysfunctions as vast undisclosed business fiefdoms, violence, censorship, corruption and hypocrisy. Parts of the system function in the totalitarian ways of old, using new methods, in the brutal repression of the Turkic-speaking citizens of Xinjiang, for instance. There are thuggish police tactics; excessive taxes designed to force land grabs; official brutality in crushing rebellions in the countryside. In the cities, there are the dreaded household registrations, enterprise layoffs, the confiscation of retirement pensions, arrests of those who want publicly to remind others that urban skies were once blue, or remember the Party’s past crimes.
China is also a land which sings the praises of the winner of a Nobel Prize for Literature (Mo Yan) and cracks down hard on thousands of free-minded and honest writers; a country that silences rights lawyers and passes an Open Governance Law (in 2008). It is a polity run by governing officials who pride themselves by day on their commitments to the principles of open government, promotion by merit and ‘smart power’ geared to serving ‘the people’, all the while fostering forms of government by moonlight lubricated by binge drinking, delirious sex, conspicuous consumption and rivers of cash.
It is said that money makes the Chinese world go round, yet Brown points out that this is a labyrinthine political system, if system it can be called, in which political patronage and politics broadly defined is very much in command. Party officials know that money grows on the trees of political power. They know equally well the need to parade their political power. They dress and eat differently; as Brown notes, even their body smell is distinctive. They are naturally mindful of their vulnerability, which is why (for instance) vast sums of money are spent on domestic policing and surveillance, much more than on outside military forces. It’s also why, in order to rebuild damaged Party authority, since 1988, across more than 600,000 villages, there have been over a million elections, with some three million Party officials chosen by voters. Brown reminds his readers that Party officials, like snakes after a long winter, have shed their belief in ‘socialism’; and we learn that a permanent tug-of-war between the authorities and those they try to rule is now a chronic feature of a political system that is sometimes so ramshackle, and so experimental, that it cannot accurately be described using any standard category drawn from political theory, or political science.
All things considered, what can be learned from reading this thoughtful, imaginative, illuminating book? Brown’s fine study teaches us that China is not what it seems. He’s sure that speaking of China as an ‘authoritarian regime’ is nonsense, simply because it ignores the ‘immensely complex and disunited’ qualities of a quasi-imperial state that is both riddled with dysfunctions and yet ‘sort of unified, sort of in control of the main levers of the economy’, and of the wider society.
Brown’s observations are especially astute on the subject of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Unlike the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, which collapsed like a house of cards in the winds of popular revolution during the period 1989-1991, the CCP has actively recruited members, many of them prominent and powerful figures in the fields of government, business, university and artistic life. The Party seeks to rule through wealth creation and ‘the appearance of consent’. Its leadership treads carefully. It is acutely aware of the dangers of hubris and the need for government based on merit, performance and popular consent. Party leaders know well the Chinese proverb that powerful people fear fame just as pigs fear getting fat. They are well aware (says Brown) that the country grows ‘wealthier but scrappier, less harmonious and less content by the day’. So he points out that China’s dominant political class suffers from chronic anxiety. Its leadership, and plenty of its members, who make up only 7% of the whole population, often seem neurotic, or perhaps proto-democratic, in their constant self-examination, self-justification and relentless attention-seeking. There are times (purchasing overseas property, for instance) when Party members act as if their time is fast running out.
It comes as no surprise that they fear violent unrest, or that they are aware of the fine line that separates cowardice from civic courage. Hence their path-breaking laboratory experiments: their political interest in practices of open and publicly accountable government, such as live-streamed public forums, their calculated toleration of on-line public controversies and their hands-off attitudes to independently-minded ‘public opinion leaders’ (yú lùn ling xiù), figures such as the bad boy blogger Han Han, the young model Gan Lulu and Yao Chen, the award-winning actress with a bold tongue and a huge sina weibo following.
Brown does not probe these latter trends in much detail, or ask whether there is any truth in the claim that China is ‘the advocate and builder of democracy’ with local characteristics, or whether perhaps the Chinese polity, slowly but surely, is becoming a strange simulacrum of the type of locally-defined democratic vision sketched in such documents as the Charter ’08 manifesto. Critics may say as well that Brown’s account of the unfinished carnival of Chinese society and politics suffers from its excessive concentration on the ‘domestic’; that what’s lost is the overriding fact that China, the fabled ‘workshop of the world’, is now vigorously extending its planetary reach, from ‘soft power’ diplomacy and mineral holdings in Africa, to currency markets in the West, to oilfields in the Middle East, to agribusiness in Latin America and Australia, to the factories of East Asia. The objection would be unfair, and not just because he has written about the subject elsewhere, or that in these pages Brown argues forcefully against unthinking alarmism. His smart and discerning study of the carnival called China spotlights the many ways China’s global ambitions are held back by confusions and contradictions at home. Brown shows why China’s rich and powerful rulers are finding it hard to win the world’s love, why China’s global presence is more broad than deep, and why, in other words, China is a ‘partial power’ (David Shambaugh) that still lacks the domestic preconditions befitting a major world power.
More than anything else, Brown wisely teaches us to hold our breath. He knows that China will not escape the cast-iron rule that futures are never predictable. Using finely crafted words, he shows that the shape of things to come is always subject to the quantum principle of uncertainty, to the many not-yet-known causes and causers that shape people’s lives, and their environments. This quantum principle trumps money, power and influence, and that’s why Brown is right to say that when it comes to the future of China everybody - its rich and greedy tai zi dang, its Party officials at all levels, its 1.3 billion citizens and the whole world - are in for some rude surprises.
Politics is a language game: in any given context, who gets what, when and how invariably depends on how things with no ‘essential’ or ‘naturally given’ meaning come to be defined, categorised and named. Briefly in Botswana for talks, and to learn more about its uniquely African-style democracy, my senses quickly tune in to the local political vernaculars. Fascinated, scribbling field notes, I share good conversations, watch television and paw through the lively local newspapers, where shortly after my arrival in Gaborone I come across reports of a remarkable speech by a government minister, on the subject of terrorism.
Among the few successful and sophisticated democracies on the African continent, Botswana is in the early throes of an exceptionally feverish general election campaign. The great day of choosing is less than two months away, and some observers are predicting heaps of disaffected protest voting, and even a hung parliament. If that happens, it would signal the end of an unbroken half-century of rule by the dominant Botswana Democratic Party (BDP) first led by Sir Seretse Khama, and now by his son, Ian Seretse Khama. Like the ANC and other African counterparts, the BDP is a well-oiled political machine. Well-entrenched patronage and an antiquated first-past-the-post voting system (inherited from the British) work firmly in its favour. Yet the current leadership of the BDP shows signs of being rattled. Unsurprisingly, organised attempts to trope their way to yet another victory are being rolled out.
Which brings me to Gaborone’s Daily News (26th August). The government-funded newspaper leads with Ms Botlogile Tshireletso, Assistant Minister of Local Government and Rural Development, who trumpets the way her Botswana government is ‘working around the clock to prevent acts of terrorism’. Every citizen of Botswana, she says, should ‘guard themselves so that they do not become victims’. Addressing a local public meeting (known here as a kgotla council) in the central town of Mahalapye, her own turf, the good government minister goes on to define ‘acts of terrorism’ as ‘human trafficking, illicit fire arms and drug trafficking’. For good measure, she throws in ‘brothel services’ as well.
By global standards, her definition is generous, to put it mildly. But wait. Much more is to come, not least because Ms Tshireletso shies away from defining with precision her pet term ‘terrorism’. If the minister had done so, she would’ve been forced to admit that the word terrorism, strictly defined, once referred to any attempted exercise of power by a few over the many using terror: threats of violence designed to frighten victims out of their wits, into submission.
Ms Tshireletso declines such semantic niceties, for her way of playing high-level politics with language is typical of our times. Especially since September 2001, pushed along by successive American presidents and their coalitions of willing allies, the nine-letter signifier has become a weasel word. Terrorism has come to mean whatever governments and their spokespeople choose it to mean. Several years ago, for a brief period, their public usage of the word seemed to wane. But for various reasons, including the will to win elections, Muslim baiting and the disastrous uncivil war now raging in the Middle East, the word is making a global comeback, with a vengeance, even here in peaceful and democratic Botswana.
Democrats everywhere should be worried, simply because the spreading talk of terrorism nurtures strangely paradoxical effects. For more than a decade, a word that rightly describes a profoundly anti-democratic phenomenon has itself become an anti-democratic word. A rough equivalent of the word ‘communism’ a generation ago, the term terrorism has weasel qualities, a signifier with predatory intentions.
Just like the weasel that sucks dry the eggs of other creatures, the weasel word terrorism robs life from meaningful political discourse. When wielded indiscriminately, it puts an end to conversations. It suspends doubt and smacks of self-righteous certainty. Accused of terrorism, individuals and whole groups of people should shudder. They’re in trouble. Finger pointing and ostracism will certainly come their way. Arbitrary arrest, imprisonment and death by drone violence may be their fate.
Most remarkable in this context is the way the weasel word terrorism colonises areas of life in which it doesn’t belong. Its obscene beauty, we could say, lies in its combined precision and vagueness: the word masters the art of equivocation. It’s a living contradiction that refuses to be contradicted; anyone who disagrees with its use incurs the suspicion of being unreasonable, merely because they dissent. The word is a friend of tergiversation. It has an unlimited capacity to charm its doubters, magnetise its supporters, to justify what might otherwise not be justifiable, to do exceptional things (impose states of emergency, raise airport security levels to ‘severe’, torture, imprison with trial) simply by calling things by their improper name.
In her Mahalapye speech, Ms Tshireletso shows how it’s done, in such a stylishly perverse way that even clever weasels would be impressed. Her aim is to win an election by redefining Botswana as a target of terrorism. This she does by testing the elasticity of an already-stretched word, pushing its hollowed-out meaning to the limits of intelligibility. Never mind that Botswana is a remarkably civil country, with very low crime rates by global standards. Disregard the fact that it has no history of military meddling in civil affairs or cooked-up tribal violence. Forget comparisons with the criminal butchery, enforced re-settlements and thuggish gangs (chipangano) of neighbouring Zimbabwe. The citizens of Botswana, the good minister insists, must remember not to delude themselves. They need to be vigilant. Caution is a duty, in every situation, especially when ‘looking for employment opportunities’.
Did Ms Tshireletso mean that citizens should be on the lookout for terrorists lurking within government departments, or church-based NGOs, or municipal schools, or cricket, football and other sporting leagues? She didn’t explain. But what she did say is that the republic of Botswana sits on soil riddled with tunnels of terrorism. When citizens take steps to ‘further their education’, they should stay fully alert. Their terrorism detectors, she added, must at all times be switched on, even when ‘looking for marriage partners through the use of social media’.
Ms Tshireletso didn’t exactly pronounce a prohibition on digital dating but that, absurdly, is what her speech implied. That’s the way weasel words work: they destroy common sense by weaseling their way into situations where most definitely they don’t belong. Since the Internet is thick with terrorist thieves, the minister hinted, new questions should be tabled, and taken seriously: do citizens who meet and communicate online unwittingly hold hands with terrorists? Is a comment on Facebook potentially an act of terrorism? Dancing and petting its blind accomplice? Kissing and making love its consummation?
Predictably, the Daily News report cuts out at this point, leaving readers in the arms of a weasel word that tempts their political imaginations to run wild, into the land of nonsense. Can BDP talk of terrorism help win an election, as it did for George W. Bush in the United States in 2004? We’re going to see. Nothing is certain, which is how a fair and free election should be. During the next few weeks, much will depend on whether discerning Botswana citizens see that the slippery language of terrorism can fall into the wrong hands, who then misuse it to weasel their way into citizens’ lives, to pull wool over their eyes, in effect terrorising them softly into submission, so confirming the maxim that in politics words are just as powerful as votes, or money, or guns.