Tony Blair says he is leaving before the summer is out, and the race for the Labour party leadership, and the assessment of the likely contenders in the next general election is already generating column inches. There’s every expectation of a bit of (all in good fun) back stabbing in the race for the Labour party leadership, but nobody seriously expects Gordon Brown to lose. What is much more fun is considering  how he will stand up to the Tories now that their new leader, David Cameron, is infusing the Tories with a fresh faced kind of posh boy sexiness (he took cocaine! he wears converse trainers! he listens to the Killers!). What is even more fun is considering how the female swing voters will choose between them.

It doesn’t surprise anyone that David Cameron is exciting more interest at this stage than the normally, intensely serious, and generally dour Mr Brown. None of the previous leaders of the Tories –  Michael Howard, Iain Duncan Smith, William Hague – has excited this much hope of finally facing down New Labour. What is annoying, however, is the way the public, and specifically, women, are viewed as reacting to the new Tory leader. Recent polls show that David Cameron owes his lead in the polls mostly to women’s votes. But is this because we women like his policies? Because they are sick of the present administration’s conduct in Iraq? Because they would like a change after ten years of New Labour? Hell, no, it’s because we all have the hots for him!

The press in the Tory camp base their campaign on the premise that the female vote is always susceptible to a strong chin, and a full head of hair (read Bill Clinton). There are constant references to Mr Cameron’s looks, charm, and sexiness. We are told how he cooks, he cleans, and that even some of his best friends are women. All in all we are persuaded that David Cameron is new age, young, and passably handsome ergo we must fancy him. As long as he gives us a cheeky grin, and a bit of laddish humour, we’ll be gagging to stuff our votes into his ballot box. Enough of a twinkle in his politician’s eye, and a photo of him on the school run, and he can have us over a soapbox anyday.

It’s a bit worrying that female voting attitudes are still viewed as this simplistic. If it isn’t the “he’s so handsome” gag, it’s the old “he changes nappies!” routine. David Cameron is supposed to be winning hearts with his caring dad demeanour, and his tie less suit and white shirt combos. He woos us with his talk of the “family”, “work/life balance”, and “saving the planet for our kids”. We see photos of his youthful figure riding a bike to work, while in reality, his Lexus trails behind him carrying his shoes, papers, and a statelier change of clothes. He affixes solar panels to his roof, and talks of sharing childcare responsibilities. And with every pronouncement he affects a posh, but loveable Hugh Grant inspired charm calculated to win over the ladies. Does everyone really think we are that easily swayed?

Granted, men aren’t so likely to be patronised on this front due to the disproportionate number of successful female politicians on the scene. And perhaps the fact that – in the main – older women aren’t considered half as desirable as shiny young political interns. Nobody would have wanted to jump into bed with Maggie Thatcher unless they had fantasies of the whip and leather variety, and most men would have had to close their eyes and think of Mother India before Indira Gandhi would have got a look in. But although every Frenchman worth his salt maybe panting over pictures of Segolene Royal in that blue swimsuit, you are unlikely to hear of the male vote swinging Royal’s way because she is sexy. You’re much more likely to hear that she puts off less capable, more wrinkled, female voters due to sheer female jealousy. As a sex, we’re still considered capricious voters – but the spin doctors approach us on the basis that our emotions are predictable, and our interests defined by childcare, family life, and, at a push, the climate. All grassroots, smaller scale, and domestic (with a small “d”) interests.

I won’t pretend that politicians can’t be sexy. I’ll expose my deviant taste in men by admitting that I think Gordon Brown oddly sexy, with that dishevelled lock of hair hanging over his face. And I even quite like the way he quotes treasury statistics with a sort of smug post-coital smile. But, unlike Cameron, his behaviour is not premeditated to set female hearts aflutter, in fact it is hard to see anything approaching (at least talented) spin in his normally serious demeanour. If anything, women voters have labelled Gordon Brown as “trustworthy” – high praise from members of a normally distrustful electorate, and at least recognition of a proven track record.

But despite the fact that David Cameron’s policies are so far variable, and given his lack of experience, largely untested, the statistics appear to show that Cameron’s play for the female vote may be working. An unproven Tony Blair came into power in 1997 on a tide of women’s votes. That tide seems to be changing. A Guardian/ICM poll last summer reflected women’s discontent with Labour, and swing towards the Conservatives. The Tories were 1% behind men, but scored an 8% lead among women. In a November, a Times/Populus poll showed that while men would vote for Labour and the Conservatives in equal numbers, women gave Cameron 37% of their vote to 31% for Labour.

Viewed through the prism of gender politics, it is fairly clear that Labour comes out miles ahead. It has 95 women MPs, to the Tory’s 17. It has a female foreign secretary, and several female ministers. It has made unprecedented strides in anti discrimination laws, contributed record levels of spending on education, and health, provided all children of nursery school age with guaranteed and quality childcare, and raised the minimum wage – mainly affecting a badly paid part-time female workforce. There is little, apart from the spectre of Margaret Thatcher, the Tories can point to in terms of increasing women’s participation in the political process, or at least easing the burdens of a modern working woman’s life.

If anything surely this would force commentators to a different conclusion on the figures, rather than the effete observation that women must be attracted to Mr Cameron’s kindness to children and puppy dogs. Perhaps that women are not only concerned with “women’s issues”. That perhaps their concerns are much wider, and not just rooted in domestic homebound concerns. Also that, for example, women may have a greater aversion to war, a greater propensity to take risks, or the intelligence not to stick to lifelong party commitments, but to change with the times. Or maybe it’s just because they think David Cameron is a cutie. Go figure.

The progressive left has always been based on a coalition of the oppressed or marginalized; in the West, this is now taken to include the poor, women, racial minorities, and sometimes gays and lesbians. But the actual constituents of the coalition evidently change over time, as after all, originally the coalition only included the working poor and, specifically to the US, racial minorities. More importantly, the groups that are considered working poor or oppressed racial minorities change over time. A good case study for this is the experience of Jews, who the left considered a racial minority on a par with black Americans throughout the West until about the 1960s. Although at least in the US Jews still tend left, the association between them and movement progressivism is weaker for reasons that are indicative of how the left operates as a whole.

The reflexive reason is that Israeli actions became increasingly consistent with right-wing politics. In 1967, Israel turned from a perpetually threatened country to a country so strong that it could destroy its neighbors’ air forces while their planes were still on the ground. Later it also became an explicitly occupying force that funded settlements in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, which from a left-wing perspective changed Zionism from an anti-colonialist or anti-racist ideology to an imperialist one. That is certainly the underlying concern of modern left-wing opposition to Israel.

But in fact, something else had to be at stake. When two countries billed as post- or anti-colonialist fight, the left tends to blame historical imperialism. When the Second Congo War tore Congo-Kinshasa apart, the left-wing response was not to blame the Rwandan Tutsis, who invaded the Congo and plundered its natural resources, or the Hutus, who were responsible to the greatest atrocities. Rather, it was to blame Western colonialism for Africa’s problems and to cast the war as a scramble for resources demanded by the capitalist system. Although it was possible to narrate the Arab-Israeli conflict from a pro-Israel, anti-colonialist view, emphasizing Britain’s divide and rule tactics, the left chose not to. Such a narrative would later become impossible to make because of the settlements and the brutality of the occupation, but the Western left broke with Jewish groups in the 1960s and early 1970s, before the first settlements were built.

Therefore, a better explanation for the expulsion of Jewish groups from the coalition of the oppressed has to lie in domestic trends in the United States, which held a plurality of the world’s Jews. The most obvious explanation given that constraint—namely, that discrimination against Jews abated after World War Two to the point that in the US Jews were more like Italians and Poles and less like blacks and Hispanics—is helpful, but it still seems like only part of the reason.

A different part likely comes, ultimately, from different experiences with oppression. In the last six or seven hundred years, anti-Semitism has taken predominantly legal and cultural forms, reinforced by the occasional pogrom. Earlier than that it had an economic dimension—Jews were forbidden to own land—but once Europe recovered from the Dark Ages, the professions that Jews dominated, such as banking, turned them into a prosperous minority. This trend has existed since then almost continuously, with a brief break among Jewish immigrants to the United States around the turn of the 19^th century. But even then, many of the poverty-based experiences that shaped black civil rights activism just didn’t exist among Jews.

Equipped with an intellectual culture closer in its emphasis on book learning to this of China than to this of the West and a skin color that made it possible for Jews to pass as gentiles in certain cases, Jews came to dominate such skilled professions as the law, medicine, and the academia. Discrimination against Jews was therefore more about explicit restrictions than about the economic impoverishment that typified anti-black racism. For example, in the 1920s Harvard moved from a purely meritocratic admission system to its current system in order to reduce the percentage of Jewish students from 25 to 15; at the time, Jews consisted of 2% of the American population. In contrast, only recently have blacks stopped to be underrepresented in American universities in general, to say nothing of elite universities.

As such, Jewish civil rights activism was predominantly legal, consisting of fights against discriminatory laws. Since most Jews at the time also came from a socialist or sometimes liberal political tradition, they naturally lent their groups—the ACLU and the Anti-Defamation League—to supporting similar equal rights struggles, primarily those of black people but sometimes also those of labor. As long as that was how left-wing activism worked, the ACLU and the ADL were natural allies of the black civil rights movement. More importantly, once black civil rights activism changed its focus to economic issues, the natural link was severed.

Although in the 1920s and 30s there was a strong socialist element to Jewish thought, by the 1950s and 60s it was replaced with straight liberalism. The most committed socialists were Zionist enough to immigrate to Israel and merge into city or kibbutz life. Anti-communist witchhunts exercised pressure to repudiate socialism. Several decades of life in the United States exercised pressure to adopt one of the two acceptable ideologies in the country, liberalism and conservatism, abetted by the fact that upward mobility plunged most Jews into the middle class. Those trends most visibly affected the ACLU, separating it from the unions.

And perhaps most importantly, after the early 60s, the most pressing legal battles were no longer racial. There was a growing realization in parts of the left, especially but not only the liberal ones, that there were marginalized groups not defined by class or race. Second wave feminism drained many Jewish liberals away from racial civil rights struggles; while within anti-racist activist groups Jews could define themselves as another racial minority, once Jewish liberals diverted their energies to other civil rights struggles the blacks who dominated the civil rights movement could now define Jews as whites. The animosity between feminists and anti-racists over who was more oppressed and therefore had a greater priority certainly didn’t help.

Those blacks were certainly within reason. Jews could change their names and pass for white gentiles while blacks and the new minority in search of civil rights, Hispanics, couldn’t. The Holocaust made racism generally unfashionable, but especially affected anti-Semitism. Especially after Martin Luther King’s assassination, the black civil rights movement had shifted its focus to poverty-related issues, while the ACLU’s civil liberties battles were increasingly class-neutral. Lacking any domestic discrimination to focus on, Jews who wanted to focus on specifically Jewish issues gravitated to support for Israel, which would’ve separated them from the mainstream American left, whose only involvement in foreign policy was anti-war activism, even if it hadn’t entailed support for Republican hawks.

Thence by 1970s the relationship between Jews and blacks had strained to the point that the American left stopped considering Zionism an ally. American Jews have still leaned left since then, but Zionism, which historically was a left-wing movement, was tagged as right-wing.

It’s important to note that it was only after domestic trends within the United States had separated Jews from the anti-racist left that the left started to view Zionism as right-wing. The Six-Day War could provide a suitable pretext for viewing Israel as an oppressor state rather than as an oppressed state, but the right-wing characteristics of Zionism, namely a singular emphasis on military service and discrimination against Arabs, date back to Israel’s independence. Today’s anti-Israeli leftists even trace right-wing Zionism further back than that—for example, Noam Chomsky blames Zionists for the initial friction between Jews and Arabs in the 1920s—but those interpretations only arose after the fact. As long as Zionism was considered left-wing, the left would forgive its transgressions just like it did those of other socialist or post-colonial states.

The significance of this to the left in general is that the answer to the perennial question of which groups are considered oppressed and therefore get the associated fringe benefits is determined by many things that have little to do with oppression. A group that is no longer oppressed may still receive these benefits if politically it’s still aligned with other left-wing movements; conversely, a group that is still oppressed but fails to side politically with the mainstream left, or a group that is oppressed but cannot convince anyone that it is, will be perceived as not deserving any special recognition.

CSI, Law and Order, 24, Cold Case Files, Without a Trace, Criminal Minds, The Shield, Crossing Jordan, The Wire. I learn a lot about life. For instance, there is evil, sometimes petty, sometimes monstrous, but always deadly. There is good: the police, the prosecutors, and their beleaguered, but heroic witnesses. Of course, there are the squealers, the snitches, the sleazeballs, or simply the entrapped that help get some portion of evil greater than their own off the street. Defense attorneys have pride of place in the evil paragon. They are sort of the Beelzebubs of the evil operations, scheming, unscrupulous, tricksters that made it so difficult for the do-gooders to defeat evil.

Sebastian Shark of CBS’ Shark, for example, is the most dangerous trickster of all, for he now applies his incomparable skills with the tools of evil to serve the good. He now puts evildoers, sometimes even his ex-clients, in jail. Once evil, he has morphed into someone good. The moral of his story is that the good must learn, or stronger still, must be a little evil to get evil off the streets. Justice is a result, not a process, for Shark. His young and beautiful lawyer posse is often revolted by his tactics, but the lesson they are taught by Shark is that evil must be used to ensure that good will triumph.

I prefer Orson Wells in Touch of Evil. Now there was evil incarnate, three hundred ugly pounds of it. Chomping a wet cigar, unshaven, clearly getting the better of his opponent, the goody-goody cop Charlton Heston whom he transforms into someone evil. Only Marlene Dietrich, the borderlands madam, took pity on Welles’ Hank Quinlan. Dietrich as Tanya was not exactly the hooker with a heart of gold. Instead she was the weary, cynical stable keeper for men like Wells whose peccadillos were her bread and butter. As Wells framed hundreds of suspects throughout his career, he had also hooked up with a sneaky, violent, dark-faced, Spanglish-speaking criminal Mexican gang, that he uses to break the mestizo and obviously uppity Heston, the proud husband of the blond-haired Janet Leigh whom the Mexicans kidnap and torture for good measure. Except for Leigh’s Susie, the damsel in distress, everyone else gets more evil, and some of the worst of them kill, die, or in Heston’s case sober up to the need to do evil in order to do good.

Well, that is the big lie – to do evil in order to do good – that TV tells us is the moral of our version of Crime and Punishment. The good must do evil so that the bad are caught, murdered, jailed, and/or sometimes executed.

What do we learn about our civil rights, good or evil as we are? What does TV tell us about the practice of criminal justice in the United States? More accurately, what does TV portray as everyday practice in our daily battle against crime?

The first lesson is that everyone is a suspect and their rights an impediment to uncovering evil. Your are supposed guilty until you prove yourself innocent, and every attempt you make to clear yourself or help the police out will be turned against you. You can be “liked” for a crime, not a compliment on your character or good looks, and become a suspect without knowing it. If and until you are arrested, they do not need to tell you that their “liking” you makes you a suspect in their book, until they find someone better.

So the second lesson is that it is better to remain silent. Cooperation is a mistake. Request a lawyer. If you have no lawyer (woe betide you if you are poor or like most people in America consider lawyers potential road kill), then ask to go home. Whatever you do, seek to avoid staying at the station house because that is where the tricks often occur.

At home, answer the door cautiously, as guns may be drawn, and never, never invite police into your house. If you do, you have invited them to grab up whatever they need for their case against you.

Suppose you are transformed from witness, to person of interest, to suspect. You are arrested. Take the warning seriously and say nothing once more. Ask immediately for a lawyer. Don’t cop an attitude, or they will clock you. A whack on the head or anywhere else on your body, so long as it leaves no bruises, is practically the duty of a morally outraged cop. It seems that the good cop is never quick enough to restrain the bad cop. Ask for aspirin as soon as you can, as you will bruise more easily, and perhaps shorten the beat down.

The good cop, bad cop routine is still the order of the day, and amazing grace at least on TV, seems to work. The good cop is constantly asking you to help them out, or suggesting you help yourself by getting the evil off your chest. It will go easier if you confess now or if you give up your partner in crime. Beware the prisoner’s dilemma: it works too.

I personally can’t understand how cooperating and confessing makes things easier. The image of the prison with which they threaten the accused is an inferno. Sweet young things, male or female, are threatened with gang rape or being sold as sex slaves for a pack of cigarettes. HIV infection lurks in every sex act. The middle-aged are told they will die miserably in jail.

Most criminal indictments end in plea bargains – 85% of them. You may be surrendering your right to self-defense, but your odds don’t improve through jury trials, which for murder suspects ends 85% of the time in conviction.(If you are African-American, please note that you are three and a half times more likely to be convicted of murder through trial by jury than your white counterparts.) But Law and Order’s “Maximum Sam” Waterson’s .750 batting average does represent reality: crime usually leads to punishment. Much of the success, for better or worse, owes to being incriminated before you are arrested, and according to TV, way before you even know you’re “liked” for the crime.

But who knows about innocence? Northwestern University’s Center for Wrongful Convictions found in 2001 that of 86 persons wrongfully convicted and exonerated, 53% were convicted on the basis of mistaken or perjured eyewitness testimony; 20% were convicted regardless of police and prosecutorial misconduct; another 12% were convicted with jailhouse informant testimony; another 9% on the basis of coerced or false confessions; and finally (take that CSI!), another 11% were convicted with what the center calls false or misleading “junk” science. Illinois in 2003 found so many wrongful murder convictions in their midst that the 17 defendants on death row were exonerated, and then Governor Ryan commuted the death sentences of 160 others. The wrongful conviction movement has spread throughout the country and the convicted in many cases exonerated, but this is seldom seen on TV. Instead, alla Cold Case Files, the past offers up its old murderers for the convicting.

This brings us back to what we learn on TV. It is not the truth of the matter, but a rather well-set and coherent collection of ideas about crime and punishment in America. It is rather like the old westerns with good and evil starkly portrayed, and the Indians vested with few, if any rights. This is no Dirty Harry syndrome any more, as in cops hampered by court decisions, and the guilty escaping because of our fecklessness in the face of evil. No, the cops usually catch the culprit under circumstances of their choosing, rather than those once prescribed by the Constitution. If they get it wrong, there is little recourse. Old Gil Grissom, in the recollection of this CSI-addicted writer, has only once worked to exonerate someone whom his office has wrongly convicted.

Outside of the tube and bumping around the everyday world, people are wrongly convicted through abuse, sloppiness, or the rush to judgment. If you are a person of color, watch out especially. All of you whose income falls beneath that of the well-heeled won’t get a snide, slick, and successful defense lawyer. There is no Shark in your future. Instead, you may get an over-worked and under-paid public defender, or a lawyer whom you cannot pay enough to do a really thorough job, given the endless complications of justice in America. Public advocates can only save the few and the really endangered.

An occasional jury will jump the rails and find for a defendant believed to have been treated badly or wrongly, or who they believe to be innocent. In Boston last year, several juries in a row refused to believe police testimony and found defendants not guilty.

But if the TV is about our beliefs, then it seems that we believe that evil is back big time, and evil criminals are caught and punished, even if by hook or crook, and this is really okay. And most of us, me included when I leave my rational world and head into the realms of American authoritarian fantasies, really enjoy it.

… Did I forget your favorite crime show? I confess. Sometimes during a Thursday night seminar, my mind wanders to the question: Will I get home in time for CSI, the real one in Nevada with Gil Grissom and the rest of the gang? Sometimes, I have to content myself with a killing in Miami or New York.

Australian poet and author Peter Nicholson writes 3QD‘s Poetry and Culture column (see other columns here). There is an introduction to his work at peternicholson.com.au and at the NLA.

Poetry is a foreign country: they do things differently there. (Apologies to L. P. Hartley.) And for that very reason I sometimes want to get right away from words, the awful girders and trusses of words, to the freedom of an art form where I don’t have to do any oxyacetylene welding or other territorial revisionism. The world of dance and ballet is one place I can escape to where all of that mental sledging falls away, movement and rhythm in poetry being entirely different things. I’ve always been star-struck by dancers whose abilities I envy and whose ease of movement sometimes seems like the most real poetry.

Dancers would have a good laugh over this, knowing that the apparent ease of movement is down to countless hours of practise at the barre, slipped discs, wretched touring, aching feet, stroppy corps de ballet, partners who were once amenable and now aren’t, and so forth. Yes, I know that, but still—here is an art form where the invitation comes with the possibility of joyfulness that other art forms don’t offer so readily or abundantly.

I can’t think this preference of mine is anything special because I note that one of the most viewed videos on YouTube is Judson Laipply’s Evolution of Dance which has been seen over forty million times! We would all like to move like Fred Astaire or Beriosova, but we can’t, and so we settle for dance performances where music, light, decor and flesh transform themselves into intoxicating rhythms, visions of transport, gravity temporarily defeated. Film sometimes captures these rhythms—Black Orpheus, the end of Les Enfant du Paradis—but usually it happens after choreography, the slow accretion of movements that work from inspiration to the moment when the curtain goes up and there are no safety nets left to hold off error. How touching it can be at curtain call when dancers, thrilled with their own efforts, and knowing they have touched the stars that particular evening, have to come back down to earth. You feel their shared pleasure, and perhaps also a little of the sadness that must ensue after an attempt at the ideal has to be replaced with the usual ordinariness. The makeup is removed, day clothes are put back on and the street looks penny plain.

In my youth the Australian Ballet seemed—was—terribly glamorous, and there was always a special theatrical intensity in its performances. Australians have always had an interest in dance and we now have contemporary companies providing every kind of dance style imaginable. Robert Helpmann and Peggy van Praagh were in charge of the Australian Ballet in earlier times and regularly starred great dancers from yonder, Margot and Rudolf for starters. I remember Margot Fonteyn slaying everyone in the aisles in an act from Raymonda. There were unexpected delights too such as Lucette Aldous and Alan Alda dancing a spectacular Spring Waters or the pleasure of seeing an all-Australian The Lyrebird, music Malcolm Williamson, choreography Robert Helpmann, sets Sidney Nolan. The first director of the Australian National Gallery purchased a basketful of one hundred Ballets Russes costumes which, now cleaned and restored, still convey something of the excitement of the Diaghilev era. The same kind of excitement can be seen practically leaking from the screen in the balletomania of Michael Powell’s The Red Shoes. Anton Walbrook drives Marius Goring’s composer and Moira Shearer’s dancer to the point of self-destruction. Obviously there is a warning in the film, taken as it is from the Hans Christian Andersen story, of the dangers in dwelling too much in pure aesthetic realms, and of seeking perfection en pointe.

For some, it’s breakdancing, or ballroom dancing, the tango, salsa, Indian or African tribal dancing, that is the spellbinder. The body can be made to move in so many remarkable ways. How awkward and unsatisfactory one feels in the face of the choreographed visions of Cranko, MacMillan and Graham or loose-limbed winging it on the dance floor.

If going from the ballet world to the other one we must usually occupy is a little like going to bed as Margot Fonteyn and waking to find yourself Peggy Hookham, that doesn’t invalidate those ephemeral moments when the visionary gleam catches fire. Sluggish limbs recall great transformative dance experiences, whether Jiri Kylian’s Nederlands Dans Theater or a distantly-recalled Ballet Folklorico from Mexico, incense engulfing Her Majesty’s Theatre amongst the leaping and the noise.

I’m not qualified to comment on dance technique, but I know technique is needed to contain and convey emotion. I’ve read that some big names in the past didn’t have have the technique of today’s dancers. Perhaps, but how hard it must have been, for example, for Madam, Dame Ninette de Valois, to build a British company of dancers equal to de Bournonville and Fokine, almost from scratch. And dancers then had personality in spades. Our age seems rather anodyne in comparison. The ballet world can be split by factionalism, as any of the arts, and stories abound of carryings-on and put-downs of various leading lights. That is the negativity you always get when anyone aspires to something beyond the status quo.

Think about the sheer variety of dance styles—Sammy Davis, Jr., Yuri Soloviev, Merle Park, Chita Rivera, Maria Tallchief, Michael Jackson, Leonide Massine, Bob Fosse. These heterogeneous dance styles suggest some mysterious energy, a parallel universe, where movement attains a condition of transcendence, however impermanent. Balanchine especially seems to make his dancers move with a gracefulness and fluidity that can raise whole evenings to a level of exaltation. Stravinsky said Nijinsky didn’t understand music and thus made his choreography too complex for the dancers, but Nijinsky must have had some charisma and ability to have captured his historical moment so acutely. Nijinsky’s sister, Bronislava, was also a fascinating choreographer. However, Balanchine seems to have worked out the way forward from the classical style of Petipa to the contemporary with a wit and elegance that can encompass Sousa marches and Ravel, the sinew of Agon and the brilliance of Ballet Imperial.

Well, back to poetry country. Silence, exile and indolent strumming may be needed to get along in that place, but there’s always the flight to freedom available over the border in dance land, where words turn into rhythms unavailable to letters, and you can temporarily escape their manacles. 

                                                               *

               Top Hat

   Fred Astaire d. June 23, 1987

Gingering the boredom
Of awkward tribulation,
That near lean on a stick
Spins firecracker variations
With legs in a suave equation.

This is style
Mapping the screen,
Planetary movement
Reducing to top hat, white tie and tails
Stardust of the Milky Way.

It ends with the usual stillness,
Those toe-tapping terrors
Trapped, perfection cracked,
Yet up in the evening sky
A ghostly footprint whizzes figures of eight.

Written 1987 Published 1994 Such Sweet Thunder 69

Maria Bylova and Leonid Nikonov of the Bolshoi Ballet dance Spring Waters here. 2′ 27”

The great, big, fat, extravagant Indian wedding is back, straight from Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire to the Umaid Bhawan Palace and Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, Rajasthan, India. The royalty in nuptial question is none other than an obscure Indian by the name of Arun Nayar (no relative of mine!) and a has-been British actor by the name of Liz Hurley. The seven million pound week long extravaganza has kept the media in India and Britain hooked, even though none but Hello! ,the magazine which paid two million pounds for exclusive rights to cover the wedding, were allowed anywhere near the gates of the Mehrangarh Fort. In fact, in the hurly-burly of it all, some journalists even managed to get beaten up by security (who says that glamour journalists have it easy) as they tried to catch a glimpse of the tamasha, rather foolishly, through the lens of their cameras. Anyhow, it’s all over now as I write, and I have no intention of buying a copy of Hello! to see what it was all about. Suffice to say that it wouldn’t have quite matched up to that other (and earlier) great, big, fat, extravagant, Indian wedding in the Palace of Versailles where the world’s fifth richest man, India’s own Stalin (meant only literally, as in Russian) Laxmi Mittal, married his daughter by spending a mere fifty five million pounds of his vast fortune. After all India’s biggest film stars danced there. And Michelin starred chefs cooked the supper. The only thing in common to the two weddings was that they continued the old Indian tradition of the girl (and her family) funding the festivities. Liz Hurley apparently made up the difference between the actual costs and what Hello! paid. Arun Nayar’s claim to fame is not his riches (he isn’t even in the Forbes list of the richest Indians), but this marriage-Indian Ishtyle! (and my apologies for the Hinglish style, but we Indians are like that only!)    

But that’s just the glitzy side of Indian weddings. There is a side which is darker, but ironically as extravagant. Take the case of Mr. Ram X. (name changed for reasons of privacy). He is a clerk, earning a lowly wage. He married his daughter recently. He spent a lot of money, nowhere near what the Hurley’s and the Mittal’s spent, but in fact much more, disproportionate to his own income. He went to the extent of borrowing money, some from friends, some from exploitative moneylenders. He had to pay for his daughter’s dowry ( a scooter, fridge, microwave amongst other items). And then he spent on the festivities. He would have been happy with the debt had his daughter been happy after marriage. Sadly, her new family harass her, beat her sometimes for more dowry, and constantly demand more money from her father. He can’t afford it. He can’t bear to see his daughter suffer. He will bring her back. Ram X. is just one of millions of fathers-of-the-bride who are arguably more extravagant than the richie-riches (given that they go into debt, compared with the pocket change celebs spend) when it comes to their weddings, but unfortunately don’t get any pleasure out of it. This too is a facet (admittedly negative) of getting married-Indian ishtyle. Incidentally, some believe that dowry is actually an English custom. The British famously received the island of Bombay in dowry from the Portuguese, when an English prince married a Portuguese princess.

And before this gets too teary eyed, let us move to the scenario of Indian marriage where age old tradition marries the new age and all its technology and facility. Yes, I am referring to the ‘Arranged’ marriage now facilitated by the world wide web! It’s now easier than ever for parents (and often young people) to find brides and grooms of their choice on the internet. Shaadi, jeevansathi, bharat matrimony, go4marriage, anmolrishte etc DOT.COM are amongst the innumerable sites where one can find profiles of young people looking to get hitched. There’s big money in it for the web portal owners (as is evident by the number of advertisements they release on prime time television). Everyone who signs up pays a fee. Some of these sites claim up to 700,000 successful matches. Others, in competition, claim 710,000! Whichever way, and whomever you believe, this is a big time activity. These portals are actually quite sophisticated. You can search for a partner by sifting through various categories based on religion, community, caste, region, language etc. The downside of this, of course, is the realization about how parochial we Indians can still be, when it comes to choosing a partner. Marriage across different categories is rare. The other interesting observation is about what is valued as an occupation: H1B US visa, working for a MNC (multinational corporation) in India, and a good job in the elite government services probably top the list.  In a rather ironical twist, it is amazing to see the number of people who want their partner to be ‘fair’ skinned. I thought we were ALL outraged by the racism meted out to poor Shilpa Shetty on Big Brother! Oh, and lest I forget, it’s always better to be a homely girl! Like it or not, all a part of getting married-Indian Ishtyle. Did I hear someone say arranged marriage is outdated?!

So there you are, a very brief journey through the great Indian wedding: that almost impossible blend of tradition, modernity, extravagance, happiness and sometimes sadness. I have to say, that by observation, most Indian weddings these days tend to be great, big, fat and extravagant. This in part due to the influence of Hindi films which depict weddings in the lavish Punjabi style, with all the song, dance and fun. Other parts of India, often have weddings which my Bengali friend in Chicago says resemble funerals more than a celebration. He, and a lot of others, believe in adopting the Punjabi way. Weddings should be fun after all.

Long live the Indian wedding (free of dowry and other such outdated and abominable practices). Lets only hope (and here is where it gets a little mushy!), that like in the Hindi films, there is always a happily-ever-after sort of ending.

Now that nearly every American has access to VHS and DVD and Netflix and Blockbuster, a certain feature of the cinephilia of times past has disappeared: scarcity.  Almost every film one wants to see, one can see – albeit on television.  This has had a major negative effect on the cultural importance of retrospectives, revival houses, film series, etc.  But there is now a retrospective going on that includes truly rare films that are also, in my opinion, unmissable.  The Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami, who is having his first major U.S. retrospective right now at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, became famous worldwide for a series of meditative, often metafictional films–Through the Olive Trees, The Wind Will Carry Us, Close Up, Taste of Cherry (for which he won the Palme d’Or)–that are indisputably part of the canon of cinema.  But prior to that, Kiarostami made a series of films about children that went unscreened and unavailable in the U.S., until now.

In the seventies, Kiarostami was employed by Iran’s Institute of Cultural Development of Children to make explanatory shorts on subjects like the concept of different colors, why one should choose forgiveness over fighting with classmates, how to repaint household objects, etc.  From the first, these films are leavened with poetic insight into their subject matter, an enthusiasm for finding beauty in simplicity, and a playfulness and joyful energy that seeks to inspire the same in their young audiences.  Many of these short works are being screened by MoMA before the longer, sixty-to-ninety minute narrative films Kiarostami made in the same period, also concerning children.  These works are examples of perfect cinema. 

The enforced viewing of these films in MoMA’s excellent projection is a good thing, because with Kiarostami, as with all film artists, it’s imperative to see the movies at the movies.  He relies on big compositions and often gives the crucial details or resolution of a plot in distant long shots, the most famous example being the last shot of Through the Olive Trees.  These early films show that that capacity was an evident talent from the beginning of Kiarostami’s career.  They often detail the most subtle moments of joy, relief, triumph, and despair through beautiful compositions that leave one to infer the rush of internal emotions.  For instance, the climax of one of these films is simply a boy in long shot, watering plants, but with a relief so palpable that the normality of the action turns into an inner celebration.  (Girls, sadly, play a much smaller role in Kiarostami’s children’s films). 

A boy stands in line to buy tickets at Tehran’s soccer stadium.  Around him are grown men, pushing and jostling him and each other.  Still, he moves faster than most, pressing any opportunity to advance.  He is small and vulnerable against this crowd.  Determined, he finally reaches the counter, where the ticket-seller is counting bills.  “No more tickets.”  The boy droops, but, again showing great resolve, presses on, checking other entrances, braving the menace of the police that everywhere surround the stadium, overhearing scalpers.  Finally, he buys a ticket of a man for too much money.  Later he will have to find a way to get back to his village, an overnight bus ride away, with no money or acquaintances in Tehran.  Excitedly entering the stadium, he finds a place in the upper stands.  Nothing much appears to happening on the field of play; the match won’t begin for three hours.  The boy, who is tired, unpacks a small bundle.  It’s a cloth wrapped around some bread, all the food the boy has seen for twelve hours.  Still, with a simple impulse to manners, he taps the man to his right’s shoulder.  “Mister, please, have some!” 

The scene is from Abbas Kiarostami’s 1974 film The Traveler, one of his first feature-length projects.  It  evokes in an almost unbearably moving way the consciousness and travails of Qassem, an indefatigable schoolboy trying to see his first soccer match.  Skipping school, where he is an indifferent student, he tries various schemes to make the needed money, undeterred by beatings from his school principal, the carping of his mother and the utter disregard of his father.  Yet this is no mildly uplifting story of the triumph of childhood optimism and wonder over cynical and brutal adulthood.  It’s much more honest filmmaking than that – Kiarostami observes the boy’s world in a manner that belongs to the neorealist tradition, with sympathy but without overt judgments.  He has a magical ability to summon the emotional world of children, in both its poignance and its selfishness.  And this honesty, in turn, buys him our true emotional engagement with his stories. 

Describing the occurrences of Kiarostami’s plots does not, somehow, communicate the sense of surprise or freshness that pervades almost every frame of the children’s films.  Always, Kiarostami’s plots seem truly simple in a general sense (two boys want to borrow a wedding suit, a man is stranded, etc.) but turn out to be full of revelations, unexpected moments, reversals, setbacks, unforeseen victories and defeats.  They have the vivacity of life, or perhaps more.  The films are kinetic explorations of forward motion.  Never do the characters stop to consider actions for long – they take them, and then react as swiftly to the results.  Because of this, perhaps, the settings are often roads, lanes, alleys, atria.   These boys live in the interstices of home and work, school (if they can afford to go) and recreation.  Comfortable in none of them, they seek relief, fun–basically an escape from the harsh treatment of their bosses, teachers, parents, and older siblings.  Determination is their signature quality. 

Kiarostami’s interest lies very deliberately with working children, hustling to make their way and maybe getting a bit of schooling, which they typically ignore, on the side.  They scheme because they desire, but the desire to escape often traps them further.  The young bully in The Wedding Suit takes the money his older brother saves to send him to school and uses it on karate classes.  Qassem’s trip to the soccer match will no doubt only increase his immiseration when he gets home.  That determination is so often stymied, so often self-defeating, does not entail a retreat into complacency, though – if anything, the failure of a plan only makes the effort nobler.  No false salves or sentimental compensations are provided – only a picture of life that is stunningly convincing. 

It’s a measure of how pure the cinematic quality of Kiarostami’s work is that prose can’t seem to capture what makes his images and journeys so unboring, so endlessly stimulating.  In a short from 1978, we see a man standing by the side of the road.  The din of passing trucks drowns out any other noise.  The man tries, and fails, to hitch a ride.  Truck after truck doesn’t stop.  Rather than compress this sequence, however, Kiarostami keeps the pace even.  Each new truck, we imagine, must be the one to stop.  This is the one!  But they don’t.  The man has a tire with him, and he sits on it idly.  He is high in the mountains; his breath is visible.  A driver stops at the solitary tire shop we see across the road.  Our hero helps him load his new tire, but the driver is going the wrong direction.  Back to waiting.

The road is momentarily empty.  Birds animate the still mountains.  A moment is reached; the man decides he must go himself.  He begins to run, slapping and nudging the tire with him, which rolls along like a animal companion.  The tire and the man make their way – he has determined to get down himself.  The road turns this way and that, a small tunnel is reached, large switchbacks are traversed.  A car stops comically to wonder at the spectacle of a man and his pet tire.  At times the tire speeds up too much, at times it slows, sometimes it looks as if it will go over the edge.  They are descending.  The man is sweating now, he removes his jacket, recombs his hair.  Again the film’s pace does not speed up, we experience time with him, not knowing what will come.  And then, the tire rolls up to and hits a yellow car, missing a tire, on a jack.  The man stops.  He ran down a mountain with his fixed tire.  At best, a momentary victory.  But he made it.

The short’s name?  “Solution No. 1.”  I can’t recommend these films more highly.  The full schedule is here; The Traveler is playing Sunday, March 11th, at 4pm.  “Solution No. 1” and The Wedding Suit are Monday, March 12th at 6pm.  Here’s A.O. Scott’s take on the major films; here, is a properly Kiarostamian anecdote about introducing Close Up from Jeff Strabone. 

The rest of Dispatches.

A couple of months ago, as my debut on 3 Quarks Daily, I wrote about my frustrating experience of being the intended victim of an apartment rental scam on Craig’s List. You can read that piece, entitled Web of Lies, here. Of course, the crooks haven’t been stopped yet. Last I heard the other Beth Ann Bovino has moved to Arizona and cut the rent price, since the apartment had been sitting “empty on the market’” for some time. That’s not surprising. What is surprising, and amazing, is how the story spread so rapidly across the country, enough to catch the attention of regulators.

The morning after it was posted, the Daily News called and asked to interview me about my problem. I agreed and spoke with a journalist on the phone that day. She even sent a photographer by to take my picture. I happened to be dressed up that day, and got ready for my close-up with a big smile. I was asked to stop, given the seriousness of my situation. OK, I can do that, and I frowned. The next morning my frown appeared on the cover of the Daily News.

I thought I ran through my 15 minutes of fame and then some. But the story reached its boiling point. It cascaded into huge headlines nationwide. National Fox News asked to have me on their 8 AM show that day. Associated Press interviewed me over the phone. Another TV network came in for an interview. After over four interviews that morning, I declined local Fox News. They showed up at my office anyway, interrupted a meeting and pleaded that I comply. They said I have been on the news all day and that they had to have an interview. Choosing between sitting in an interoffice meeting or staring in the news, I did the interview. They sent TV crew to the apartment in question, which was my old home as I recently moved. Some asked that I leave work so that they could get a picture of me in front of my (old) home. My name even made it to the 1010 WINS (radio) news loop, in between traffic updates. I was told that my name and issue was raised during a Press Conference with Craig’s List, which was now under investigation because of the event. Inside Edition both called and wrote asking for an interview to use in their investigation into Craig’s List.

Ms. Jordan Lite, the Daily News reporter who first covered the story, said that it’s “a classic New York story (real estate, aggressive renters) with a modern-day (cyber) twist”, and that she wouldn’t be surprised if it got more attention. It did. It was linked to many other web sites, blogs and received countless local and national TV and radio attention, possibly some international press. People called my office or emailed my office to give advice. Sitting at a restaurant in the Miami airport, someone asked me if I caught the crooks. In upstate New York for the weekend I heard “Oh! You’re the girl that…”

How did it spread so quickly?

The surprising impact of Web of Lies was likely an example of a social epidemic proposed in Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point. The word “tipping point” comes from the study of epidemiology, and refers to that moment in an epidemic when a virus reaches critical mass. It’s the moment where the line on the graph starts to shoot straight upwards.

Web of Lies hit Gladwell’s tipping point and quickly spread. It received over 12,000 hits in the first hour posted, and soon after, received about several hundred hits per MINUTE. It received over 70,000 hits in 3 days. To give some perspective, a recent PEW/Internet report said that about one in five bloggers (22%) have fewer than ten hits a day in blog traffic, and 17% say they have 10 to 99 hits on a typical day. Just 13% have more than 100 hits a day. In contrast, Web of Lies spread so quickly, that within 36 hours it reached national headlines. In other words, the line on the graph shot through the roof, much like a virus turned epidemic.

Gladwell explains that ideas and behavior and messages sometimes behave just like outbreaks of infectious disease. He compares it to an epidemic of measles in a kindergarten class, saying how “one child brings in the virus. It spreads to every other child in the class in a matter of days. Within a week or so, it completely dies out and none of the children will ever get measles again.” In this sense, they are seen as social epidemics. The virtue of an epidemic, after all, is that just a little input is enough to get it started, and it can spread very, very quickly.

Even more fascinating was how Gladwell explains the three criteria that diseases must meet in order to become an epidemic. This lends itself, by analogy, to practically every change initiative, such as social ones. The three criteria are:
The Law of the Few: A few people doing something different start and incubate the epidemic. These people, who Gladwell calls “mavens” are the ones who rub two sticks together in such a way that they improbably catch fire. Incubation also requires “connectors”. These are people with contact to a lot of people, enough to get the idea out into other communities and networks. They are the ones who move in different circles, so that the epidemic reaches escape velocity and spreads, much like HIV or SARS.
The Stickiness Factor: This allows the epidemic to endure long enough to “catch”, or to become contagious or “memorable”. Ways to make something sticky include repetition, hooks and triggers and an understanding of the message, some kind of story, and suspense. In other words, ways of “packaging to make it irresistable”.
The Power of Context: This requires that the physical, social and group environment must be right to allow the epidemic to then suffuse through the population. A concentration camp environment, for example, will change human behavior at epidemic speed. In a less austere environment, harsh rules and codes will not be as effective.

The success Web of Lies had in reaching such a large audience was likely because it met these three criteria. To begin with, the story had an inherently sticky message that resonated with many. People who had received numerous emails from scammers with the SUBJECT: URGENT!!! in the header would undoubtedly identify with the story. Moreover, given the popularity of “whodunit” TV show; someone trying to crack his or her own case would certainly be very appealing to many. The audience would essentially be “hooked”. The story caught the eye of a few early enthusiastic readers, likely within the blogospere, who incubated the story. It spread by connectors, such as digg.com and other web sites, which spread the message to other communities. Each new group then adapted the message to the group’s own unique social environment and own social context. Postings from renters searching for a home in Canada, relay operators handling phone calls for the deaf, or those fighting consumer fraud online indicate that the story reached across social circles. Together they may explain why the story spread far enough that I could be recognized in a small town a few hours north of New York City. The original internet real estate scam likely meets the same criteria as well.

What is amazing, and what he makes clear, is how frequently this pattern can be seen. Gladwell notes a number of positive epidemics, such as Sesame Street that started a learning epidemic in preschoolers, turning them onto reading and “infected” them with literacy. To a much smaller degree, the impact from readers of the Web of Lies would be considered a “positive” social epidemic in that readers then pushed for change. Of course, there are also social epidemics that have destroyed, he mentions the spread of teen suicides in Micronesia, for example, or the rash of mass shootings at schools and elsewhere. The wave of internet crimes, costing hundreds of millions of dollars yearly, would lie here. In the end, his book attempts to show people how to start positive epidemics of their own, and, hopefully, help wipe out those that could destroy.

Justin E. H. Smith    

Among Aral-Ultaic linguists, it is widely presumed that no single English word, or any word of any other known language, can adequately translate the Yuktun word nâk.  It may denote, depending on context, reindeer lichen (Cladina rangiferina), an Arctic hare (Lepus arcticus), an adult Yuktun woman, a Russian, something resembling poetic justice, and, of most interest to many, the life force that runs through every tundra-dwelling creature, through the sky, through the great sea to the North, and, during the short Summer, through the top ten centimeters or so of the ground.

In contrast with Chinese, Yuktun is not a tonal language, and so differences of meaning cannot be extracted from differences in the semimusical ways in which the various forms of nâk are pronounced, for it’s always pronounced in exactly the same way.  Nor is Yuktun a highly inflected language like Russian.  There are no noun cases, no genders, not even any endings to distinguish singular from plural, nothing at all that might give one occurrence of nâk away as involving the sort of nâk it does.  Nothing except context.  So, for example, in the sentence

Ba nâk kuntân-te nûq pœrtyttun
With a nâk trade you always both-eyes-open
(When trading with a nâk, always keep both eyes open)

we can be sure that nâk refers to Russians, since no trade is conducted with lichen or with hares or poetic justice or life forces, let alone with women.  On the other hand, in the sentence

Nâkkantaq nar tôgyœn bir nâk grâgttyan
The reindeer in the valley on nâk graze
(The reindeer in the valley graze on nâk)

there can be no doubt but that the nâk in question is lichen, since no other sort of nâk may be grazed upon.

A semi-legendary position has been carved out in Yuktun society for Narda, an elder Yuktun, said by some (evidently conscious of their exaggeration), to have been alive even in mythological time.  She is, to be sure, old, 105 by the best estimates.  But nobody knows how old exactly, for nobody else was alive when she was born.  The Yuktun simply take her word for it when she says that she was seven when the Russian soldiers came through in 1905, en route, so they said, to fight the Japanese.  Must have been lost, she laughed, exposing the blackened stubs she still used as teeth when the BBC came through filming a documentary in the early glasnost years on “Russia’s Wild Frontier.”

The mid-1930s were difficult years, following the 1933 report to the Central Committee of the Communist Party on “Shamanistic Practices and Historical Progress among the Siberian Tribes.”  There, it is reported that “the shaman is usually picked from the most unproductive, most nearly criminal element within Yuktun society, from among those who, in a more advanced stage of history would find themselves members of the Lumpenproletariat.  They are positively hostile to labor, often grand mal epileptics, and prone to the sort of deceitfulness and evasiveness that in a socialist society can only be described as counterrevolutionary.  They practice their art by convincing other tribe members that they are in contact with spirits from the ‘underworld’.  They speak in tongues and beat on drums to invoke these spirits, and their fellow tribesmen watch, spellbound.  It is a magic show and a stunt, all craftily organized by the shaman to gain the maximum respect possible, and, we dare mention, the maximum remuneration in the form of gifts.”   

The report tells of a crafty woman, evidently in her thirties but already hunched over, wrinkled and grey like a tribal elder, who had perfected the black art of shamanistic fraud.  According to the report, she had conned the delegates from Moscow into participating in a ceremony where, by skillful use of smoke, intoxicating herbs, and disorienting glossolalia, she managed, as the report maintained by way of an uncharacteristic colloquialism, to make asses out of all of them. 

Narda had been told that she was to stop her shamanistic performances and to confess, before the delegation of party members, to her own charlatanism.  But she insisted to the members of her tribe that she was no charlatan, but a real shaman, and that she would demonstrate as much to the party delegates.  When they arrived, she invited them all into her yurt.  She began by dancing, beating on a drum and calling to her spirit helpers.  Gradually, she worked herself into a trance.  She called forth a flood, and at once her yurt was filled with water, up to the ankles of all of the spectators.  Next, she called forth a serpent from the underworld, and caught it in her hands, holding it close to the faces of the stunned delegates.  Finally she commanded the men in her yurt to drop their pants and to hold their penises with both hands.  She returned from her trance and commanded them to return as well.  And there they were, standing to their ankles in water, pants down, holding their members like onanistic fools.  They begged her forgiveness, rushed out of the yurt, back to Moscow, and made a concerted effort, in writing up the report, not to look each other in the eyes. 

Narda also appears in Butenko and Vainshtain’s groundbreaking 1938 study, Naknost’ i tavtologiia v predstavlenii prirody u iuktunskogo naroda [Nâk-hood and Tautology in the Conception of Nature among the Yuktun],  There, Narda relates the beginning of the Yuktun creation myth: “In the beginning there was only nâk, but one day the nâk got it into its head to take all the nâk for itself, which naturally made the nâk upset and brought down a harsh nâk to teach the nâk a lesson.”  She broke off, Butenko and Vainshtain report, upon seeing the displeasure the ethnologists exhibited as she told the tale.  The authors report that, when asked to specify which sort of nâk she had in mind in each instance, Narda protested combatively that there is only one sort of nâk .  “Nâk is nâk,” she is reported to have said. “Nâk is always just nâk.”

The authors proceed to observe: “However hard it may be for us to imagine a world-view [mirovozzrenie] in which this could be the case, it may be that in the primitive communism of the Yuktun all the sundry things denoted by the term nâk are seen as bearing certain strong affinities with one another, so strong indeed that, from their point of view, no terminological differentiation between them is needed.  Just as for us noga denotes both the actual foot of an animal, as well as anything that serves an analogous function for an inanimate entity such as a table (though, to be sure, by a much more complicated path of conceptual associations), so too in the case of nâk.” 

The authors conclude that, like the medieval philosophers who appealed to the formal virtues of things, explaining, to use Molière’s famous example, the power of opium to put people to sleep by the fact that it possesses a virtus dormitiva, the appeal to the naknost’ (‘nâk-hood’) of something in nature in the effort to make sense of it is equally vacuous, yet, for the Yuktun, equally satisfying.  In the case of the Yuktun, however, the explanatory power of naknost’, is all the more difficult to comprehend, in view of the fact that it is seen as a virtus of a wide range of entities, characters, and phenomena that would seem to have no obvious connection to one another, unlike the soporific quality that opium clearly shares with anything else said to posses the virtus dormitiva.”

In an unpublished footnote, Butenko and Vainshtain speculate: “It is worth reflecting on our own concept of partiinost’ [‘party-ness,’ i.e., suitability or appropriateness from the point of view of the Communist Party].  Imagine, if you will, a Yuktun struggling to determine what it is that a symphony, the wheat yield at a collective farm, and the knot in a Young Pioneer’s neckerchief have in common.  We tell him that what all these things share is partiinost’, and he looks back at us perplexed.  We are likewise perplexed when confronted with the idea of naknost’.  But we mustn’t assume it does not make sense to him, unless we are equally ready to abandon partiinost’ as meaningless.” 

Sergei Vasil’evich Butenko disappeared in 1938.  The last that was heard of him, he was sent to a camp not far from Noril’sk, in the Taimyr okrug, relatively close, but still a few time zones away from the Yuktun to whom he had devoted his life.  His longtime research partner, Lev’ Abramovich Vainshtain, a physician who practiced ethnology not as a vocation but as an avocation, made it all the way to 1951 before embarking on his first involuntary trip to Siberia. 

On a recent trip to Moscow, I found Vainshtain’s daughter, Tatyana L’vovna, now in her early sixties, a physician herself, a chain-smoker of cigarettes whose packages evoke the American West, and a self-described ‘true communist’, in a dreary grey concrete-block apartment somewhere at the far end of Prospekt Vernadskogo.  She is an avowedly obsessive documenter of her father’s life, and she graciously allowed me to peruse the notebooks pertaining to his work among the Yuktun.  It was there that I found the unpublished draft of the famous article, complete with the speculative footnote about partiinost’ and naknost’. I also found there a curious scrap of paper, on which Dr. Vainshtain had, evidently, sketched out a version of Narda’s abortive creation myth, but in full, and with the appropriate denotandum of nâk substituted in the appropriate place.  If it stands up to expert scrutiny, I believe this scrap may make an invaluable contribution in the field of Aral-Ultaic ethnography, and perhaps even to the study, if I may speak so grandly, of the human mind.  For it shows, as no other study has, that apparently arbitrary ways of carving up the world can, from an internal point of view, make perfect sense. 

Here is what I read on the scrap of paper (translated with the kind assistance of T. L. Vainshtain):

“In the beginning there was only Lichen, soft greyish-green Lichen, extending across the tundra in all directions.  A seven-day journey would not bring you to the end of the Lichen-covered tundra. 

“But the Hare became greedy and got it into his mind that he should steal the Lichen. He placed the Lichen in his ear and darted off.  And he ran for eight days, until he came to the edge of the world, where the land meets the frozen sea in the North.  On the long journey, the Lichen had penetrated into the very depths of his body, and wrapped itself around his leg-bones.  And at the shore of the Northern sea the mother of the Yuktun was born from the Hare’s right shoulder.  She became the Hare’s wife, and from them the generations of Yuktun were born, right down to our own day.      

“One day long ago, in the time before the time we know, a Yuktun Woman came upon a Hare in a trap.  The Hare pleaded with her, saying: ‘Do not kill me, for you are my daughter and my wife.’ But the Woman only laughed and replied: ‘I am the daughter of Nâgvak, and the wife of Sik.  Sik is hunting with the others, and Nâgvak is long dead.’  She slit the Hare’s throat, skinned it, and threw it in the pot.   

“Just then, a Man came along, toward the village.  He was pale as the snow, with a yellow beard as thick and rough as the hair on a Yuktun’s head.  ‘What’s that you’ve got in the pot there?’ the Man called out, but the Woman was afraid, and did not speak.  ‘I said, What’s that you’ve got in the pot there?’  ‘A Hare,’ the Woman muttered.  ‘I say,’ the Man bellowed.  ‘There’s nothing I like better than a stewed Hare.’ 

“‘Where is your husband?’ the Man asked as he devoured his big bowl of stew, but the Woman was afraid, and again did not answer.  ‘I said, Where is your husband?’  ‘My husband is Sik, the Woman replied softly, ‘and he will be back soon with many more hares, and many ermine, from which I will make him a warm and handsome sark.’  But the Man simply laughed, for he had ambushed the husband and his men as they slept by the frozen banks of the Yob, and sliced off their heads, and taken their tools and necklaces of the smoothest antler.  He took her as his own wife, and that is how the time we know began.

“But Justice makes all things right, and neither the Hare, nor the Woman, nor the pale Russian can escape it.   For the generations that issued from this union would suffer mightily, streaming in from the West and the South, weary and beaten down, some the prisoners of others.  They would build up their heavy grey homes on ground that in its depths never thaws, laying tracks from the great City in the West to the great Sea in the East, frozen limbs amputated unceremoniously by their comrades, up high enough to get rid of the dead mass, which can only mean high enough to cut away living flesh as well; half-starved boys lying down in the snow for a little rest and never rising again, broken men without number, fighting, always fighting against one another and against the permafrost, itself so great, so massive and indifferent, that it never even noticed it had an opponent. 

“But still there is the the Life Force, which sees to it that Justice does not go on unchecked, and for a few months every year softens up the very top level of the ground.  And at least a few varieties of flowers bloom, and it is always day, for these few months, and the tundra is covered, at least in patches, with soft, grey-green Lichen.” 

*

For an extensive archive of Justin Smith’s writing, please visit www.jehsmith.com

Edward B. Rackley

A gripping and maddening slow-motion spectacle, last week’s Senate Armed Services Committee Hearing on the Situation in Afghanistan (available on C-Span), drifted predictably to Iraq, Iran, and Pakistan as senators and experts grappled over why Afghans, like Iraqis, could not ‘get it together after all we’ve done for them’. Another exasperated senator demanded, uncomprehending of why the hunt for Osama Bin Laden was still inconclusive: ‘Why not raise the price on Osama’s head by a million USD a week?’ It is currently valued at $25 million. Surely more millions would do the trick.

Among an endless sampling of senatorial hubris and stunning provincialism, the most memorable moment was the testimony of Afghanistan specialist Barnett Rubin from the Center on International Cooperation at NYU. Asked by Senators why the Afghan state and people could not capitalize on what the US had ‘given them’ in the way of democratic elections and the ‘freedom’ in the wake of Taliban rule, Rubin patiently explained that ‘in some parts of the world, freedom and democracy are not perceived as essential’ to a country’s recovery, stability or even prosperity. ‘Security and order’ are the desired ingredients, which neither the US nor the ISAF forces are providing.

‘And whose policies are to blame for the current state of affairs, then?’ demanded another Senator. ‘The United States, sir,’ came the cautious reply. Water wears out a stone, I thought, when the Committee closed the Hearing by noting the excellence of Rubin’s testimony.

Alongside democratic processes, ‘good governance’ (i.e., anti-corruption measures, accountability, transparency, etc.) and the ever nebulous ‘freedom’, justice is another superpower ideal frequently exported to troubled countries hoping that foreign intervention and aid programs will remedy their ills. As with freedom and democracy, local perceptions of the value and utility of justice are not what its defenders in the West would wish or suspect.

The biggest experiment in the pursuit of justice in countries where probable war crimes abound is currently led by the International Criminal Court, in operation since 2002. Its ratification followed four years of heated diplomacy among the 148 states involved, and intense lobbying by humanitarian agencies and human rights activists. The founding treaty affirms that ‘the most serious crimes of concern to the international community must not go unpunished’ and promises ‘an end to impunity for the perpetrators of those crimes’.

Unsurprisingly, the ICC is being tested in central African countries with the least economic and political significance to the major powers. Nor are any ICC suspects combatants in wars supported by the world’s major powers: otherwise their indictment would surely be blocked. The Hague-based body has undertaken investigations in Uganda, the DR Congo, the Central African Republic and, most recently, the Sudan. But as the ICC lacks its own police force, its investigation can only proceed as far as the state concerned allows. Despite its potential as a global legal instrument, its local actions and impact are complex, evolving and far from conclusive. Its four initial investigations have thrown up a slew of surprises; some welcome, others not.

Its primary challenge is the pursuit of justice in war zones defined by their absence of political order. Enforcement of legal limits and rights in an ungoverned—or government-sponsored—context of ethnic cleansing, such as Darfur or the Ituri district of Eastern Congo, is one difficulty. The subordination of justice—the arrest and trial of known perpetrators—to the more immediate need for political settlement is another.

Where protection from prosecution is used as a carrot to pacify warlords and thus restore order—as occurred in UN-brokered negotiations in Eastern Congo where the ICC was investigating suspected war crimes—aid workers call the trade-off ‘peace on the cheap’. Arrest warrants have been issued in DR Congo, and one former warlord is now awaiting trial in the Hague (Thomas Lubanga) But the Court’s work is undone when lesser warlords, also war crimes suspects, are offered high positions in the national military in exchange for a ceasefire and troop surrender.

Such is the slow and uncertain course of the ‘giant without arms or legs’. Since 2002, two of the four ICC investigations (Northern Uganda and Darfur, Sudan) have triggered a powerful popular backlash of opposition. Three unintended consequences of its investigations can explain this popular resistance. In the case of Uganda’s ongoing conflict with the Lord’s Resistance Army, fear of ICC indictments has led war crimes perpetrators to abandon political negotiations with government forces in favor of their original position: a ‘no exit’ war of attrition.

Second, in Congo, the prospect of ICC indictments had the opposite effect: it stimulated sagging political negotiations when a ‘golden parachute’ of high administrative office coupled with amnesty was offered to certain intransigent rebel leaders. Yet the prospect of justice is undermined by ‘peace on the cheap’, when the cessation of conflict is bought with amnesty: protection from ICC prosecution. At what point is amnesty indistinguishable from impunity?

Third, in Sudan, where ICC jurisdiction is categorically refuted by Khartoum officials, many Sudanese associate the ICC with a supposed ‘colonization effort’ by the UN and its western backers. Concerns that ICC warrants recently issued for two Sudanese officials will result in increased attacks on aid workers and the objects of their efforts, Darfuri citizens, are well-grounded. Should justice be pursued if it entails the withdrawal of the aid agencies’ vital life-support system where more than 200,000 people have been killed and 2.5 million displaced?

No one at the ICC could have foreseen the causal chain of perceptions and reactions born from a fear of indictment among those leading civilian massacres in each of these four countries. The learning curve is steep, and the ICC remains unwelcome in two of Africa’s most gruesome conflicts.

But from my experience in all four of these wars, I believe that subtracting the ICC from the equation of variables at play in each context would not diminish the cruelty or shorten its duration. Symbolic though it may now be, the fact that warlords and implicated government officials are investigated and held accountable by outside observers is a moral and legal dimension of the geopolitical kaleidoscope that did not exist four years ago. Reparations for victims may not be immediately forthcoming, but that suspected perpetrators in these otherwise forgotten crises understand that their deeds are documented and monitored is an essential first step in limiting the seemingly boundless human cruelty of such places.

I was sitting for maybe half an hour in the main room of the plantation house watching an old green and white painted door swing lazy in the gusts of ocean breeze. The door was too heavy to slam. It was creeping open slowly of its own weight and then another gust of wind would blow it back. I knew the gust was coming because I could see it in the trees through the crack in the door. I was watching those trees and I could see the branches shake and the bits of green would start dancing around. And then, I knew that the door would begin to swing closed again. Every time, for half and hour, I braced myself for the inevitable slamming of the heavy painted door. But it never slammed. The door was too heavy, the rusted hinges offered too much resistance. The gust would catch the door in a moment of promise and then give up, indifferent to the door, indifferent to the stubbornness of the door, indifferent to the wobbly frame of the old plantation house and the scraggly grounds with intermittent explosions of bougainvillea and the softer pink of the orchids; orchid, I’m reminded by my wife, meaning testicle in Greek, no doubt referring to the root of the orchid, which dangles off the stem and terminates in a couple of wrinkly little sacs that are normally hidden under the earth, the secret source and sustenance for the vulvic spread of the furry flower above.

***

At around 10:00 AM every morning a small bird that we have named Shelly flies down to the veranda. He is a hopper. He also likes to perch on things, the rim of a cup of coffee, the edge of a book, the screen of a computer. He has a friend we call Fatty but Fatty keeps his distance. Shelly is the guy who engages the world. On the second day, we discovered that Shelly is particularly fond of small containers of jam and if you open one and leave it on the table he’ll eventually make his way over, stick his sharp little beak into the container, and dart his tongue out ten or fifteen times in rapid succession.

Heidegger once said that animals are poor in world. It is a step up, I suppose, from the viewpoint of someone like Descartes, for whom animals were at an infinite remove from human beings, the latter having souls. Still, Heidegger’s comment is more about finding the distinction between animals and men then seeing the lines of continuity. I say this only because I’ve gotten to know Shelly. It is not difficult to say that he has a personality and it differs from that of his dour pal, Fatty. Fatty, I have come to realize, fears rejection and it has made him bitter. Shelly is open to the world, intoxicated by experience, you can see it in the way he pokes his head into the coffee cup and cranes his bird neck back up to look at you and then takes off in the other direction to inspect new developments around the base of the aloe plant.

I suspect that, like many things, it all has its roots in Christianity and the problem of theodicy. We needed to explain how there could be evil in the world since God is good. We hit on the solution of man’s free will. To be good, man needed also to have the capacity to do evil. But this solution left the animal world in an odd and uncomfortable position. Not capable of free will, they none-the-less were fated to suffer in man’s world. They were condemned with no possibility of redemption. That strange problem has been carried over into contemporary discussions about consciousness and philosophy of mind. More often than not, the basic premise is that the problem of consciousness is a human one, and that there is an infinite gap between the way we experience the world and the way that other creatures do. We’re uncomfortable about the way that our own modes of experience overlap with those of creatures like Shelly, who is currently trying to figure out a way to force his entire body into a green bottle sitting along one of the garden walls.

***

May I reveal to you that there is a secret city hidden inside the city of Willemstad, Curaçao? There is only one picture of Willemstad, reproduced thousands and thousands of times. It is taken from Otrobanda looking across the inlet toward Punda. A row of Dutch colonial buildings make Willemstad look like it is just emerging from the seventeenth century. Otrobanda and Punda are at the Southernmost section of a road that is known simply as The Ring. But what does The Ring, ring? That is the secret of Willemstad. I will tell you that this inner city burns and belches. At night it throws strange flames into the air that can be seen for miles. Its color is the dull grey of tankers and silos. Its infrastructure is pipes, little pipes, massive pipes, intertwined pipes, networks of pipes, whole families of pipes, generations of pipes, a universe of pipes onto itself in which one could find, no doubt, pipes whose sole function is to pipe things from one kind of pipe to another kind of pipe. These pipes have forgotten of the world of man and nature and live in an ontology of pipeness where the only kind of being is to-be-an-enclosure and to-be-flowed-through day and night. Inside this planet of pipes and metal husks? Oil. The secret Willemstad is a city of oil. It is my favorite city.

***

The Dutch Caribbean would not be the Dutch Caribbean without the specific combinations of sounds that make it so. There is color, of course, a certain look, and there is feel, primarily the heaviness in the air of heat and the sea but always also there is sound. Typically it comes in the rushes of the wind that sweep across the islands of their own volition paying little heed to the insignificant patches of raised land that make up the landscape of the Dutch Caribbean. And then there is the twittering of the birds who jump around in the swaying branches of the trees and bushes that catch the wind and make of it a rich and fulsome rushing sound, almost like water and the pounding of the tide such that, at the sea, one constantly hears the rushing of the ebbing and flowing of the tide and further inland, one constantly hears the rushing and flowing of the wind. The point is, there is always some kind of rushing. Then there is the sound of one solitary car. You start to hear it from far away and then the sound grows, passes you and slowly fades away. There will always be that one car and no part of any of the islands is really far enough away from any road not to hear it. The car will come and the car will fade. And then the birds will twitter. Birds twitter everywhere, but in the Dutch Caribbean they twitter in mysterious syncopation with the rushing noises of the sea and the breeze that is itself constantly punctuated by the sound of the one car, approaching and passing. These three sounds weave together into one interrelated thing; the lengthy crescendo of the one passing car layered over by, the shorter burst of rushing sound from sea and breeze layered over by, the staccato punctuation of the twittering of the birds. You could graph it something like this:

Gggrgrgrgrgrggrggrgrrrrgrgggggrgrgrgrgrgrggrggrgrgrgrrgrgrggrgrgrggrgrgrg
Sssshhhhhh ssssshhhhhhh ssssshhhhhhhh ssssshhhh
Pip pip pipipip pip pip pip pipip pip

***

A thesis: The Caribbean is terrible and sad. That’s why it is so beautiful. If the people were happy here it would be unbearable. These happy islands would mock the nations of the earth. Nothing would make sense anymore; our daily toils and strife would be stripped of whatever faint meaning we are foolishly able to attach to them. We would all give up, find a lonely niche somewhere to go die in. Luckily, the people of the Caribbean are not happy. They are a wreck. There is something brutal here that will not go away. Plunder, murder, slavery, the basest things, the slow progress of evil that worked its way across every island. There is nothing abstract about this. To cast your eyes around the Caribbean is to see plunder still in progress, the legacy of slavery right there in the racial divides along axes of wealth and power. Let us be honest friends, the Caribbean is a nightmare and because of that we can enjoy it. Merely a thesis.

***

I haven’t told you of the secret within the secret, the ring inside the ring. In the fifteenth century the Catholic Church in Spain decided that it was a good time to get more serious about Christianity. The Jews, sensing that this new direction boded rather ill for them, cast their eyes about the globe once more, looking for safe haven. The Dutch were a good prospect. A basic premise of toleration seemed to govern their internal affairs. And as time went on the Dutch began to establish their colonies, the Dutch Caribbean being one example, Curaçao in particular. And so they came. The Jews sailed the high seas to Curaçao. They lived and died in Willemstad and in the smaller towns, on the beaches and in the craggy coves. They ended up with names like Chaim Aron Henriquez. Linguists say that the language of the Dutch Caribbean, Papamiento, has its roots in the Ladino of the Sephardim and thereby can be traced directly back to the Jews who fled the Inquisition. As they lived and died they built a cemetery. They put it in a place outside the city of Willemstad. And then the city grew. And it continued to grow until, in 1919, Shell came to town. There was oil beneath the waters of Curaçao, and a deep water port in the center of Willemstad where it could be processed. There was also a Jewish cemetery dating back to the seventeenth century.

Today, you can take a turn onto a little used road off the northern section of The Ring. A drive of a couple hundred yards brings you into the heart of the city of pipes. The smell of oil and burning gases is overwhelming. There is a sound that can only be described as a deep mechanical belching. Giant chimneys and exhaust pipes stretch high into the sky letting out a thick white smoke. Here is the final resting place of the Jews of Curacao. Thousands of wind swept graves on which the names and stories of the deceased can barely be discerned. They are being wiped away here a second time, in what seems almost like the concerted effort of man and nature to obliterate this place of memory.

As a postscript, the early modern philosopher Spinoza lived in Amsterdam and was from a family of Marrano Jews who fled Spain. He could easily have ended up in Curaçao. Indeed, his half sister did, and she is buried in the cemetery at the center of The Ring. We know almost nothing of Spinoza the man, and it seems that he wanted it that way. We have only his writings, some of the most powerful and lucid thoughts of their time, any time. In his Ethics, Spinoza wrote, “a free man thinks of nothing less than death.”

In most countries secularism is positively correlated with support for welfare, but does welfare make people more secular? Anthony Gill of the University of Washington says yes; in 2004, he and grad student Erik Lundsgaarde published a paper arguing that welfare provides a substitute for church attendance, making people less likely to attend church.

The full theory goes as follows: in the 19th century, the power of Christian churches came from their ability to provide social services such as charity, education, and health care. As the state started providing the same services without requiring or expecting church attendance, it became less economic for people to attend church, and less economic for church leaders to focus on welfare activities.

This theory has a lot of holes in it, but the study has some empirical backing. There’s a statistically significant relationship between a Christian country’s welfare spending as a percentage of GDP and the percentage of people in it who report attending church weekly, even when controlling for such variables as education and whether the country is Catholic or not. The weakness of the study comes not from its lack of data, but from flaws in how the variables are defined, failure to look for alternative explanations, and problems with individual case studies.

First, the study doesn’t explicitly say how welfare spending is measured. This is significant because it right off the bat fails to control for key factors. Most importantly, the most expensive part of the welfare state is social security, whose cost increases with the old age dependency ratio. But more religious states have higher population growth rates, leading to younger demographics and lower social security costs.

It’s possible to get around that by looking at states that buck the trend and are both relatively religious and relatively old. The best case study here is Poland, which is simultaneously the most religious nation in Europe and one of the oldest. Additional examples include Spain, Portugal, and to some extent Italy. The only one of the four that appears in the scattergram plotting church attendance and welfare spending is Spain, which is considerably more religious than the regression line predicts.

In addition, even when one controls for old age pensions, not all governments spend welfare the same way. The USA prefers targeted tax breaks, making its welfare system appear stingier than it actually is. In addition, some benefits can be distributed either as welfare or as spending on health care and education, which the study doesn’t account for. A good example in the US would be free lunches in schools, a welfare service that adds to the education budget.

Second, the omission of education spending is crucial. A church often thrives by having its own set of parochial schools. The standard British joke about catechism is that religious education only secularizes people, though the more common sensical effect is the opposite, namely that greater availability of parochial schools will make the population more religious. Education spending is correlated to welfare spending via the mediating variable of economic liberalism or socialism. As such, Gill and Lundsgaarde commit a grave sin of omission by overlooking it.

Likewise, a more direct political mediating variable could account for much of the correlation. In a followup paper, Gill notes that the correlation between welfare and religosity holds within US states, too. But within the US, both welfare and secularism fall under the rubric of liberal politics, contrasted with the welfare-busting and religiosity of conservative politics.

This in fact holds true in Europe and Latin America, which comprise all countries in the study but two, the US and Australia. Throughout Europe and Latin America, even more so than in the US, there is a strong tradition of anti-clerical liberalism. It’s likely that all Gill’s motivating example of Uruguay shows is that Uruguay has a long history of domination by the left-liberal Colorado Party.

Third, the main measure used for religiosity, reported church attendance, is deeply flawed. The USA’s real church attendance rate is half its reported rate. The church attendance variable tracks not how many people attend church, but how many would like pollsters to believe that they attend church. This variable has some value, but is overall less important than data based on actual church attendance.

The other figure used, the percentage of people who declare themselves nonreligious, is flawed as well. There are two dimensions to religious affiliation – one’s choice of religion, which tracks culture, and one’s position along the religious-secular spectrum. More plural areas, especially those with strong connections between religion and culture, will have a lower percentage of people calling themselves nonreligious than less plural areas.

Fourth, many of the assertions in the study admit too many inexplicable case study exceptions. Ireland and the Philippines’ unusually high levels of religiosity are attributable to the role the Catholic Church played in pro-independence and anti-Marcos politics respectively; I presume Poland could be similarly explained away, were it in the study. But other exceptions require seriously modifying the theory.

For example, the study would predict an increase in American church attendance rates after the welfare reforms of the 1990s. The American study only finds a slightly less significant correlation between welfare and religion in 1995; meanwhile, there was a measurable increase in church attendance in the two months following the 9/11 attacks.

For another example, the case study of Britain goes in almost the opposite direction as the one the study predicts. Britain hasn’t had a serious welfare system since Thatcher’s economic reforms. And yet, in the 1990s, religious belief crashed, and while children of secular parents always grew up to be secular, children of religious parents had only a 50% chance of growing up to be religious. Levels of belief crashed even among Muslims, who Britain forces a religious identity on in many respects.

And fifth, there are alternative explanations that the study should look at but doesn’t. First, it’s legitimate to ask why support for welfare correlates so nicely with secularism in Western politics. It could be an ideological accident that modern liberalism is secular and pro-welfare and modern conservatism is religious and anti-welfare; after all, in turn-of-the-18th-century Britain, it was the Tories who were more supportive of extensive Poor Laws and the Whigs who favored a libertarian economic policy.

Or, equally well, it could be the realpolitik version of what the study is trying to say: welfare is a substitute for religion. As such, religious organizations are likely to ally themselves with political groups that oppose welfare. It holds to some extent for modern conservatives, though by no means for all. In 1900, the US populists were both pro-religion and pro-welfare, and would only embrace prosperity theology in the 1960s and 70s.

A good way of gauging such political explanations is seeing if the same trends hold for non-Western countries. Muslim organizations provide the same welfare Christian ones do; in fact, one of the main power sources of Islamist movements is their strong performance in disaster relief. Of course, Islamism has an entirely different dynamic to it – its main promise isn’t charity but change – but it’s useful to examine this dynamic and see how it can apply to the West. How relevant is the promise to change the morally uncertain status quo to the rise of American Dominionism?

I should stress that except perhaps for the problematic definitions of the variables, this study is not shoddy. A data set comparing religiosity and welfare is always useful. The study’s downfall is in using the data to confirm a theory that has no other evidence to it. Although the study seems to satisfy the falsification criterion in that Gill intended for it to highlight the failure of the theory, in fact it does not falsify the statement “welfare does not cause a decline in religiosity.” All it does is superficially confirm the statement that welfare does in fact cause religiosity to fall.

Of the many different angles the study could take, the one about a direct effect of welfare on religiosity is one of the most obvious two, which is probably why Gill went with it. The other, that religious groups lobby against welfare, is more empirically plausible than the converse direction of causation, but does not fit well into Gill’s theory. But more indirect links, for example with education or political liberalism as a mediating variable, look far more fruitful. The study’s ultimate downfall is not so much that it is wrong as that it is woefully incomplete, concentrating on perhaps the least enlightening theory available.

On a winter’s night in Paris long ago, I ducked into the Grand Vefour – then a charmingly approachable temple of gastronomy, free of the rather strained merriment that signals too much money being spent – and, as one of seven guests of a rich man, sat down to a dinner that would leave me not as I was before. 

To my right was Diarmuid C.-J., an elderly esthete of some renown living among dusty art objects a stone’s throw from the restaurant.  He was well used to ordering without regard to the menu, and he did so this night.  While others were calling for appetizers, a fish course and an entrée, Diarmuid commanded a dish of eight lightly sautéed whole fresh truffles.  A little salt and pepper, a splash of cream whisked into the pan juices – that would suffice for his dinner. 

But, what were truffles?  Rare mushrooms, the man on my left quickly whispered to me. Rare, and black and growing underground.  They were the cost equivalent, I later determined, of ordering five or six personal lobsters while others in your party struggled with choices less pricey and less pure.  But cost was only part of the story.

Dinner began to arrive, the unexcitingly superb starter items of the era: delicate pike terrines, mussels steamed with shallots and Chablis.  Who isn’t happy with such?  But it all fell away when, in a footed, lidded Limoges dish, Diarmuid’s golf ball-sized truffles were borne to the table by a sly-looking servitor who uncovered them and swanned off.  The others, including our imperturbable host, smiled faintly but intently, like Etruscans at bull games.  They were in the know.  Silently, I sniffed the truffle aroma, nothing if not a decisive fragrance, but I lacked the right referent. The grassiness of the cream — cream had never smelled so grassy — called up woods and moon and dew.  The odor I might later describe as “earthy” and “musky” and many other things to do with cheese was then but deeply portentous.  An agreeable fright overtook me: it was Pan, I understood – it was Pan!  Beneath the cool weight of napery, my knees knocked slightly.  I shot Diarmuid a meaning glance, all but nudged him as he plied his knife and fork, and opened my mouth to receive a truffle. For was I not still a baby bird, the whole world’s pleasure to feed me? The saurian flicker of his cold pale eye should have warned me to desist, but it did not. 

And so, my first truffle. Tuber melanosporum, unearthed not a day earlier by a caveur who knew a secret place in the oak groves of Perigord, who had gone out after nightfall with his muzzled, truffle-ardent sow or his keenest bitch – for the female of the species is by far the better finder – and, kneeling where the unerring animal pressed its snout among the roots and panted and grunted and stamped, had angled his small trowel into the soil and sifted his way down to the prize.  My prize.  Oh, I could wish it had been fed me by an unbegrudging man, but that might only have crowded the sensation.

Not a sensation that I particularly had words for, either, looking back on the almost convent-bred purity of my food vocabulary that year.  Best just to liken it to the entrance into the room, naked, of that person whom you know will make all the difference.  Time passed — I’m not sure how much — and as I licked my lips and refocused on the table I saw that people — all but one — were smiling those faint, intent smiles not at the truffles but at me. 

Having been admitted, in any case, to the 4,000 year-old company of those who know the truffle firsthand, I was hardly astonished when, a few years later, a Parisian banker, discovering that his cook had served his only truffle to two of her friends, made television news by shooting her. The investigating magistrate refused to bring the banker to trial for what was “obviously a crime of passion, completely understandable and completely forgivable.”

Yes, I understood. And if, wedged among his dusty curios, Diarmuid caught the news and untenderly remembered me, then I spared a thought for him too.

It Started with Desert Truffles in the Axial Age

The Pharaoh Khufu, builder of the Great Pyramid, is the one of the first truffle eaters whom history names, although truffles were prized still earlier in the palaces of ancient Mesopotamia, where their remains have been found in special baskets.  The Egyptians inventoried their edibles, making papyrus records of who ate them, but the Sumerians left recipes.  The truffles beloved of Khufu and the Sumerians, well known both to the writers of the Mishna and the Hadiths, and greedily imported by the Greeks and Romans, are not the same as T. melanosporum, however, but desert truffles, of the Terfezia and Tirmania genera, comprising about 30 varieties.  And, although they are in flavor terms if not in pedigree far humbler cousins, any consideration of the truffle must begin with them.

Terfezia taste nutty and delicate, with flesh that is white or creamy or even rosy in color, and they need cooking – either simmering in milk and honey or roasting in the embers of a fire. While T. melanosporum imparts unmistakable flavor to other foods, the mild Terfezia will take on the flavor of whatever it is cooked with. It can also be ground into flour for poultices, its cooking juices saved as a treatment for eye infections. In the Tirmidhi Hadith, No. 1127, Mohammed recommends the latter use. There is even an intriguing etymological case that the self-replenishing manna from heaven sustaining the Israelites in the Book of Genesis was in fact Tirmania nivea, the aristocrat of desert truffles.

Among nomadic peoples, folklore about the truffle abounds — it is a highly nutritious “found food” for which relish, gratitude and even awe are well demonstrated.  Singing to the truffles, Bedouin girls forage at dawn, when the first rays of light create telltale shadows on the still damp sand, and the truffles swell not far below the surface. Bedouins claim that truffles will grow where lightning strikes, appearing without seed or root, loosened from their beds by thunder. These beliefs go back thousands of years, at least as far back as Theophrastus, the favored pupil of Aristotle and father of taxonomy, who described truffles in the 3rd Century B.C.E. as “a natural phenomenon of great complexity, one of the strangest plants, without root, stem, fibre, branch, bud, leaf or flower.” Three hundred years later Pliny the Elder wrote that “among the most wonderful of all things is that anything can spring up and live without a root. These are called truffles.” The Babylonian Talmud, compiled in Iraq in the 5th Century C.E., records the rabbis concluding after discussion that truffles “emerge as they are in one night, wide and round like rounded cakes.”

In the desert as elsewhere, outlandish explanations for tuber growth have stubbornly attached to the truffle. But the necessary reciprocal relationship between truffle and host obtains in the desert as in the forest. Shrubs of the Helianthemum genus – relatives of the North American rock rose – can be a tip-off to desert truffle presence, for Terfezia and Helianthemum are symbionts.  Filaments of the truffle penetrate the roots of the shrub, obtaining nourishment from it, in turn producing a substance that inhibits the growth of competing plants. In the absence of Helianthemum, the desert truffle can make do with other shrubs.  It’s all a bit mysterious, as desert truffles grow in locations that are closely guarded secrets, and they utterly resist cultivation.

Usually no more than a few centimeters across but occasionally the size of a fist, desert truffles are found in the spring and sold in the souk, from North Africa to the Negev to easternmost Iraq.  A good truffle year depends on adequate rainfall in the autumn – about 8 to 10 inches.  In a middling year, desert truffles can cost about $100 a kilo, the price fluctuating wildly with supply. 

In the past few years, European interest in whether desert truffles flourish has increased along with the size of Europe’s Middle Eastern population. Traditional European fanciers of T. melanosporum and its lordly white Italian counterpart, T. magnatum, are also looking to Africa and the Middle East for truffles, the supply of their most highly prized indigenous ones being egregiously threatened, down twentyfold from 100 years ago, rarer and pricier and more sought after with every passing season. A good time, in short, to take after the Romans and import Terfezia from Africa, thereby nabbing — it is surely hoped — some of that same old razzle-dazzle if not the peerless and shocking taste.

Food of the Devil, Fit Only for Saints and Popes

If one of the defining characteristics of Late Antiquity was its excessive devotion to banqueting, with the inclusion in banqueting protocol of emetics and special chambers – vomitoria – where diners would rid themselves of surfeit the better to take on still more surfeit, then with the Fall of Rome the elaborate truffle dishes of the era would go the way of the stewed cygnet’s tongues, leopard’s marrow cooked in goat’s milk, almond-fed geese, and conger eels fattened with live slave-meat fetishized by the later, briefer Roman emperors. The Middle Ages were dark indeed for the abused and maligned truffle, whether because, with the rise of Christian Europe the devil was presumed afoot in the kitchen as he never was in less sober times, or because food preparation to some end beyond sustenance – cuisine, that is — took centuries to regain sway after being made repulsive by decadence and impracticable by the breakdown of trade routes.

In these years, there occurred also a shift in the thinking about exactly what a truffle was, and where it came from.  It was the devil’s own food, and it was black.  Though occasionally it was white, tasting of honey and garlic, a Manichean reading of this difference would never obtain.  Any way you sliced it in the Dark Ages, a truffle was a degenerate thing, and it came not from Africa but from secret pockets of Europe.  T. melanosporum and T. magnatum had been found, and found to be potent aphrodisiacs, conferring unholy sexual prowess on their eaters.  And so they were banned from kitchens – most kitchens, that is.

Ambrose, the famously ascetic 4th Century Bishop of Milan who became after death a saint, received a gift of truffles from the Bishop of Trevi.  No one can say whether he ate them, but he certainly recorded his gratitude for them.  Pope Gregory IV, who reigned in the mid-9th Century, let it be known that he positively needed truffles “to strengthen him in the battle against the Saracens.” Around this time there was philosophical speculation as to whether the truffle was truly a plant.  Folk wisdom still held that it was a fusion of water, heat and lightning, but deeper thinkers asked whether it might not be some kind of animal.  One of the salient mysteries enshrouding all love foods began to pertain to the truffle — in particular, the question of how food that debauches the weak-willed and the sinful serves yet to fortify the strong-willed and the saintly, nourishing them towards victory in their fitting and strenuous tasks.

By the late 14th Century, however, the truffle had made a comeback from the demonic hypothesis.  Petrarch dedicated a sweet sonnet to it, and its ungodly reputation burned off like ground fog in the clear light of more rational times.

Back with Bells On, This Time for Women

During the Renaissance, the absence of truffles from the tables of the mighty would have been an inadmissible embarrassment, and their chefs were under relentless pressure to present them with ingenuity and élan. The custom of the truffle tribute arose.  In 1502, the nobles of the Marchigian region of Aquamagna made a gift of stupendous black truffles to Lucrezia Borgia, the daughter of Pope Alexander VI.  The redoubtable  Lucrezia, for whose golden tresses long curly pastas were named, was very well pleased indeed, and lost no time incorporating the truffles into her beauty routine – history does not say exactly how. 

But it was Catherine de Medici who outdid all other comers in securing the hold of the truffle on the European imagination.  The late-born daughter of Lorenzo the Magnificent, Catherine was the child bride of Henry II of France.  Forsaking Florence for grim cold Paris could not have delighted the 13-year old royal girl, and she brought with her cooks, and forks, and artichokes, and truffles and high heels, thinking to subdue the gaucheries of the French.  That would become the gayest achievement of Catherine, who for lack of love grew into a dour and grasping queen, not averse to poisoning her political rivals. By the time she died in 1589, however, the French court was used to the sight of ladies of high birth openly eating love foods such as artichokes and truffles. This was unexampled in the Florence of her distant youth, so full of gorgeous perks for men only.  It is worth remembering that until Catherine de Medici became Queen of France, aphrodisiacs were the prerogative of men, at least officially. The truffle tribute received by Lucrezia Borgia would not have been intended for her to eat – as perhaps she did not – but to serve to male guests to good effect.

A century and a half later, things had become ever so much more relaxed. Madame de Pompadour chatted freely with her maid about amatory matters.  Hoping to hold onto the affections of the king, Louis XV, she lived for days at a time on an aphrodisiac regime of vanilla and celery and truffles. “My dearest,” she confided to her maid, “the fact is I am very cold by nature.  I thought I might warm myself up, if I went on a diet to heat the blood, and now I’m taking this elixir which does seem to be doing me good.”

Sipping at truffle juice, Pompadour had no call to give the king heirs; when, one evening, she and Louis XV sat down to a dinner of truffled ram’s testicles, they were unbothered by thoughts of the succession.

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I had the perfect weekend planned. Although I rarely manage to visit my hometown, the occasional irresistible event does come along. This past weekend that event was a memorial service for Russell Thorn Blackwood, a philosopher, one of my father’s college professors, and one of my own mentors from about the age of four. As you might guess from this opening, the weekend didn’t quite go as planned, but was nevertheless perfect, in its own way.

When my early-morning flight from JFK was delayed and then cancelled (about five minutes prior to the rescheduled departure), I knew that the cushion of four hours I’d set between my arrival and the memorial service wouldn’t suffice. Resigning myself to spending the day at the airport between various lines, cancellations, and standby lists, I decided to get some work done. As often happens when I’m inclined toward such solid resolve, it rapidly dissolves as soon as I find the choicest reading material at hand. On this sunny Saturday it was the current issue of Bookforum, a magazine that typically lets me enjoy only one or two articles before hitting me with the next issue, equally full of great stuff I’ll never get the time to read. I could’ve easily responded to the delay with anger—so many people clearly did, shouting profanities at no one, verbally abusing the ticket-counter staff—but just didn’t feel it, and besides, it would’ve been inappropriate, don’t you think, to get angry while en route to a philosopher’s memorial service, not to mention at the results of a nice storm brought on by dear Mother Nature, who’s merely trying to keep Old Man Winter alive despite the impact of lifestyles aimed at creating an eternal summer here on earth.

The subtitle for today’s piece might be “Seeing Through Things, or Photographing and Writing Through Them,” so as to play with both the physical and temporal possibilities of that special adverb/preposition/adjective, but I’m a bit ambivalent today, and that’s a bit drawn out. So, sitting down in my funereal garb next to a glamorously-shoed woman reading Glamour in terminal three, I set about a near cover-to-cover reading of this issue, with some delightful reviews and some specious judgments, and soon came across this: Mark Twain, in an 1877 interview in the Boston Globe, when asked “what are you now politically, Mr. Twain?” replied “Politics have completely died out within me. They don’t take to me or I don’t take to them. Since I have come in possession of a conscience I begin to see through such things.” His use of this phrase “to see through such things,” took me back to the night before, when in a talk about his work from 1969 to 1973 for a book launch Vito Acconci mentioned wanting to take pictures that “photograph through things” and actions, just as words allow you to see through themselves to the idea behind them. Earlier this month I had come across Acconci’s more recent architectural work in an interesting book, No. 1: First Works by 362 Artists, where supposed artists write about what they consider their first work. I say supposed artists because many people in the book are rather insistent that they are not artists, or don’t identify as such, and Acconci was one of the most adamant. In this talk he reiterated his realization that he actually wanted nothing at all to do with art, but also did an excellent job of clarifying how his earlier performances (think of his poetry, writings and involvement with words—think perform, reform, transform) developed into the spatial work he’s now doing.

At Friday’s talk Acconci was introduced by Gregory Volk, who I mention here only because he (unintentionally?) said “ephemerable,” which is now my favorite new non-word (okay, okay, my favorite neologism, is that better? Maybe it is a word; Google honors “ephemerable” with approximately 61 strange hits, and it admittedly has a lot of potential…). Skipping over the talk itself—you really just have to be there when a poet-cum-artist-cum-architect credits an involvement with art to the coining of the term “Contemporary Art,” which, being about ideas rather than craft or end product, gave him the license to think, “well, maybe I can have vague ideas”—one of the audience members then predictably asked what he thought of Marina Abramovic’s reinterpretation of his 1972 Seedbed in late 2005. He had understandably little to say, and was fine with her riffing on his idea, which then led me to another tenuous connection, aside from the one by which everyone relates each artist’s work to the other’s.

The book No. 1 had also included a spread of Abramovic’s first work, and I’d seen her a couple weeks earlier at a tribute to Susan Sontag at the 92nd Street Y. She was the most striking of the six presenters that evening, who according to the press were to read passages of Sontag’s posthumously published book At the Same Time: Essays and Speeches. Luckily the author’s six friends did nothing of the sort, and instead talked about memories and things of their own choosing, with mixed results.

Judith Thurman read some of the quotes Sontag had jotted down in various journals, including: “Love is, to me, that you are the knife that I turn within myself” (Kafka); “Relax, there’s no shortcut to tragedy” (a friend, regarding the beginning of a love affair); “Liebe, Mut und Phantasie” (graffiti from the Austrian city of Graz); “Mary McCarthy can do anything with her smile—she can even smile with it” (a note by Sontag herself); and “my library is an archive of my longings” (also Sontag).

The most interesting contribution from Richard Howard was his mention of a three-hour televised interview with Kissinger that Sontag did for PBS, and his plea for it to become available again (hint, PBS or anyone who has access to the recording). Continuing Thurman’s point of her love for epigrams and aphorisms, he read her inscription in a book she once gave to him, “For Richard, whom I want to talk to all my life.” James Fenton focused on the importance of style, and her style, and curiously remarked that the preface is one of the few literary forms where writers still have a fair amount of freedom. Darryl Pinckney was concise, “Yes, it’s a drag not to have her.”

In the initial presentations and following discussion Marina Abramovic had some amusing—dare I say sweet?—recollections. The two had met at a 2002 birthday party, where Abramovic was one of four guests, and bonded by telling jokes about the war and the UN’s botched interventions in her homeland. Sontag then quietly attended one of her multi-day performance pieces and at the end replied by leaving a napkin that read, “this was good, let’s have lunch, Susan Sontag,” with the museum guard. Her lemon meringue pie anecdote particularly hit me, as it’s my favorite dessert as well; when splitting a pie with Sontag she remarked that she’d never liked eating the crust and had always wanted to just eat the filling, but there were rules and etiquette to contend with, and she’d always held back. Watching Sontag agree and proceed to eat all but the crust she learned the valuable lesson that, sometimes, you really can just do whatever you want. A remark the author made to the artist during her illness was particularly striking, “I am not alone, but I feel lonely.”

So, how does any of this relate to my being stuck at JFK all day Saturday and missing a friend’s memorial service? The delay, plus the fact that its location prevented me from otherwise filling my time with studio or other work, afforded me time to reflect on this recent overdose of stimulating things. While sitting in the terminal and taking breaks between articles I overheard a man on the phone who was much worse off than I; booked on four successive flights, each of which had been cancelled, he’d been there for over two days. After he’d hung up the phone we began discussing strategies in such situations, and on a tangent I learned he’d flown in from Jordan, where he’d been working independently to help regional development under the aegis of some US government-related organization. He’d been in Macedonia before that, and the government had always sent a group of interpreters to facilitate the collaborations, but this time they’d not sent any—either forgetting or just assuming that everyone in the Middle East does or should speak English…. When my name came up before his on the standby list I felt terrible, and hoped there would be more space and he would be next, but I also wasn’t ready to give up my spot. As I walked down the ramp and across the tarmac to the puddle jumper awaiting the last lucky standbys I was overcome with guilt, and my mind explored all possible implications this moral dilemma had for my conscience, humanity, and simple impatience. After a few minutes the guy boarded, much to my relief.

On the return flight I was faced with yet another dilemma when I was third in a taxi line that hadn’t moved for over ten minutes, with not a taxi in sight. When one pulled up and whisked away the first person in line, the ground transportation agent stopped the next one to pass, a taxi with the ”off duty” light on. The gentleman ahead of me in line let me take it, and I soon found out why—the cabbie was furious at being stopped like that, had been going home to study for his nursing exam the next day, and told dispatcher he was headed toward the Bronx, not southern Queens. I felt terrible and told him to just circle round and drop me off, I could wait for the next car. After venting for a few minutes and stopping for gas (kindly stopping the meter as well), he soon dropped me off after chatting all the way about his immigration from Africa, studies, love of James Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son, and his hope never to be forced out of this country.

It seemed quite a coincidence to hear the taxi driver mention Baldwin, because I’d just reread a phrase of his in an old book of mine rediscovered while home. The phrase appeared in my high school English teacher’s inscription in a biography of Marcel Duchamp she gave me: “The world is before you and you need not take it or leave it as it was when you came in.” It all came together here—Duchamp started a change that later let Acconci’s work become art, his work in turn let Abramovic go somewhere else entirely, her work brought me a new look at Sontag, who’d included Eleonora de Fonseca Pimentel in one of her novels (I’d walked under a commemorative plaque for Pimentel on via di Ripetta just days before), and so on. All of them, in their own way, have heeded Baldwin’s words.

Right below the Twain excerpt I mentioned earlier was one from Dorothy Parker: “INTERVIEWER: How do you name your characters? PARKER: The telephone book and from the obituary columns.” If she were still writing, perhaps a Professor Blackwood might make an appearance in one of her yarns.

I gave blood recently, and the barrage of questions asked of all donors reminded me that I’d been meaning to write this article since June of last year.  At that time, Art Caplan wrote that it’s time to let gay men donate blood, but he did not present much solid evidence for that position.  As it happens, we can be pretty sure he is in command of considerable evidence, having served as Chair of the HHS Advisory Committee on Blood Safety and Availability for four years, but the article was presumably written as an exercise in persuasion and contained just enough information to make me curious.

In trying to decide for myself whether Caplan is right, I found myself in something approaching the position in which I imagine legislators must regularly find themselves: I was trying to find answers to policy questions (“should gay men be accepted as blood donors?”), without being able to rely on a personal background in the relevant science.  Policy decisions have to be made, but science will rarely give you a hard-and-fast answer even to those questions on which it has something to offer — and it becomes important to identify which questions those are, and which are not scientific questions at all.

The FDA bans blood donation by any man who has had sex with another man, even once since 1977 (the probable date of the first clinical AIDS case in the US), and by anyone who has been paid for sex during the same time period; donors are also deferred who have had sex in the last 12 months with anyone who qualifies for the since-1977 ban.  This policy was most recently formally revised in 2000, at which time the decision was made to stick with the 1998 recommendation (the even-once-since-1977 ban), which in turn was based on policy implemented in the late 1980s at the height of the “AIDS scare”.

One way of looking at the question is this: what change in risk could we expect to see if we changed the policy from a lifetime ban for men who have sex with men (“MSM”) to the same 12-month deferral that applies to women who have had sex with such men, or men who have had sex with prostitutes (both high-risk behaviours)?  Here’s where it starts to get complicated, because the risks are already so low that there is essentially no direct way to measure them, and current estimates of risk are derived from sophisticated mathematical models.  It’s tempting to do something like this:

1. MSM = approximately 2-3% of the general population
2. Of persons living with HIV/AIDS, approx 40-50% are MSM
3. expected increase in donations from the policy change = approx 1%
4. relative risk increase = (45/2.5) x 1 = 18%

Unfortunately, though, (1)-(3) are fairly well accepted estimates taken from the references listed below, but (4) is something I just made up, and it’s nonsense.  Intuitively appealing, maybe, but nonsense.   Inter alia, what makes it nonsense is the relationship between transfusion risk and screening methods.  The primary issue here is what’s known as the “window period”, the time that can elapse between infection and detectable levels of virus. The FDA says:

Studies have shown that up to 2 months may elapse between the time of infection and the time the HIV antibody test is reactive. This period of time is often referred to as the “window period.” Accepting men who have had sex with other men since 1977 as blood donors increases the likelihood for the collection of HIV-positive window period blood, because epidemiologic studies have documented higher incidence and prevalence rates in these populations. On March 14, 1996, FDA recommended donor screening with a licensed test for HIV-1 antigen, which has succeeded in further reducing the window period.

In fact, blood collection agencies now test every donation for HIV and Hepatitic C virus (HCV) by nucleic acid testing (NAT). This is an exquisitely sensitive test for viral genomic material; it is more sensitive than the antibody-based test for viral antigen, and unlike the antibody test, does not rely on the host response and is not subject to the resulting delays. According to the Red Cross:

Since 1987, the [HIV] window period has been reduced from 42 days to approximately 12-16 days following the implementation of the HIV antigen test in March 1996.

A variety of expert presentations at a March, 2006 FDA workshop on behaviour based donor deferrals indicated that, with the advent of NAT, the window period for HIV infection is less than 12 days.  In the US, the residual risk of transmission of HIV or HCV by blood transfusion is estimated, by a variety of models, to be around 1 in 2,000,000 donations.  This is clearly a very conservative estimate, since there are around 15 million donations every year and I could only find mention of four authenticated transfusion-related transmissions of HIV since NAT was implemented in 1999 (none of which involved MSM). At the same FDA workshop, Celso Bianco re-ran an earlier prediction using risk and other estimates that were getting general agreement at the workshop and came up with a figure, which he called conservative, of one infected unit per 32 years.

So, while it seems intuitively likely that including a high-risk group (as judged by increased prevalence) in the donor pool would increase overall risk, calculating — or rather, estimating — that increase is far from straightforward.  The only numbers I could find were presented by Andrew Dayton to the same FDA workshop:

The 5-year [deferral, instead of a lifetime ban] would result in possibly a 25 percent increase in the current residual risk, and the 1-year would be 40 percent.

So, worst case scenario: 1.4 transmissions per 2 million donations, instead of 1.0 — or about three extra cases per year (and remember that, to date, the observed level of transmission is much lower than the estimate).  I’m not familiar with what sorts of risks are considered acceptable in public policy formation, but I can say outright that I would be prepared to accept that risk to my own person as the cost of allowing MSM to participate on a more equal footing in a profound act of community altruism. (To say nothing of a 1% increase in a critical health resource that is often in short supply.)

Furthermore, given that the window period is less than two weeks and you can only donate every eight weeks, there is an obvious method for reducing the risk even further.  According to the AABB, red blood cells can be stored cold for 42 days or frozen for ten years, and plasmaand cryoprecipitated antihemophilic factor can be frozen for at least a year; of the fractions into which whole blood is routinely divided, only platelets have a shorter effective storage life, about five days.  It is clearly possible to hold (at least most of the fractions of) any first-time donation until the donor returns and can be re-tested; two clear tests eight weeks apart are definitive proof of HIV-negative status.

This brings us, though, to the reason I said “more equal footing”, not “equal footing”, above.  While MSM (as defined by the current even-once-since-1977 FDA exclusion) includes a great many men who have not had sex with another man for more than eight weeks, it also includes gay men for whom a 12-month deferral, or even an eight-week deferral, represents a discriminatory barrier.  Somewhat ironically, when the Public Health Service issued its first formal recommendations in 1983, they offered a partial solution: sexually active homosexual and bisexual men with multiple partners should refrain from blood donation.  While this leaves room for improvement in behaviour based deferral, since sexually active heterosexuals with multiple partners are also at increased risk, it would at least allow gay men in stable monogamous relationships to enter the blood donor pool.

Did you notice that we are no longer debating the science?  Now we are talking about public policy, social justice and what sorts of risks we are willing to endure.

In that light, here’s another way to look at the question: according to the CDC, African Americans make up approximately 13% of the US population but accounted for 49% of new HIV/AIDS diagnoses in 2005 and 61% of people under the age of 25 whose diagnosis of HIV/AIDS was made during 2001–2004; over the same period, black women were more than twenty times as likely to be diagnosed with HIV/AIDS as white women.  I think it goes without saying that we are not going to ban African Americans from donating blood on the basis of their ethnicity.

The FDA “believes that there is scientific justification for screening out all potential donors who are men who have had sex, even once, with another man since 1977”.  After all that, I agree with Art Caplan: the FDA is wrong.

———-
Some references:
FDA Workshop on Behavior-Based Donor Deferrals in the NAT Era
Epidemiology of HIV/AIDS — United States, 1981–2005
Twenty-Five Years of HIV/AIDS — United States, 1981–2006
CDC Basic Statistics on HIV
CDC>HIV/AIDS>Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Reports from 2006
CDC>HIV/AIDS>Fact Sheets
AABB Blood FAQ
AABB: Whole Blood and Blood Components
ARC: 50 quick facts about blood
ARC: Blood information

P.S. World Blood Donor Day is June 14, and you can find your nearest blood donation center here or here.

….

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

A lot of the problems in the debates over the Israel-Palestinian conflict stem from a truncated political gamut. The real gamut ranges from more anti-Israeli than Islamic Jihad to more anti-Arab than the settlers in the West Bank. That allows people who favor one side strongly to present their views as moderate and the views of people who want peace on both sides as extreme.

A debate about strategy is inherently one-sided. Debates about Democratic party strategy are intra-Democratic, so the gamut in them runs from very liberal to centrist, rather than from liberal to conservative. Debates about war are the same: international forums like the UN don’t matter much, and intranational ones are similar to partisan ones. Debates about strategy in American foreign policy in the US are always about how to make the US more powerful; Americans aren’t any likelier to be anti-American than Chinese are likely to be anti-Chinese.

Although the debate about Israel and Palestine is ostensibly one of morality—the quintessential question is, “Which side is acting more morally?”—in fact it’s a very strategic one. Serious left-wing Israelis talk mostly about the good peace will do for Israel; the suffering of the Palestinians is only a side issue. Any Palestinian who will talk about the need for nonviolence because terrorism is inherently wrong will be laughed at.

Obviously, there could be a separate political debate divorced from strategy, just as there are political debates between liberals and conservatives. But there are several disanalogies here that in fact favor the intranational debate. First, as I already mentioned, international forums aren’t meaningful enough to be decisive. In the UN it could be possible to strike a balance, but the UN’s authority on any issue, especially the Arab-Israeli conflict, is murky at best.

Second, in those countries that do matter, either there is no public debate, or political prejudices go exclusively one way. In the US, the political elite is strongly pro-Israeli. It’s not because there are no pro-Palestinians in American politics—for example, almost every isolationist in the US harbors some sympathies for the Palestinians—but they are far less influential than the neo-liberals and neo-conservatives. European countries have a more balanced mix of pro-Israeli and pro-Palestinian views, but the people holding them tend to self-segregate into their own newspapers, academic circles, political parties, and so on, and the issue isn’t important enough to the public to force an open debate. In the Arab world, pro-Israeli views are typically censored, except when the country in question hates the Palestinians more than the Israelis and has nothing to gain from claiming to support the Palestinian cause.

Roughly, on the pro-Palestinian side, the gamut runs from Fatah, to the party-less Palestinian center, to Hamas, possibly with Islamic Jihad on the fringe. On the pro-Israeli side, it runs from Peace Now to Labor/Kadima to Likud/Israel Beitenu, with the settlers on the fringe. Israeli groups left of Peace Now, like the refuseniks, tend to be mostly in accord with Fatah, while Palestinian groups left of Fatah tend to be very much like Peace Now.

On that gamut, I suspect most people who don’t have a nationalist stake in either side will be somewhere between Fatah and Peace Now. That’s the view everyone pays lip service to, at least: negotiations between Israel and Palestine should resume, the Palestinians deserve self-determination, the occupation should end, Israel has the right to defend itself from terrorism, and Palestine should crack down on armed groups other than what will become the state. The exact details differ, but that’s what most people at least pretend to support.

On both sides, the situation has gotten to the same point the African-American civil rights movement did in the early 1960s. Nobody claims to be for terrorism or for continuing the occupation, except a few people in the minority on both sides. But nobody will do anything about either; the Palestinian center has no political party to turn to, leaving only Hamas and Fatah to clash with each other, and the Israeli center is both too spineless to try to end the occupation and too politically weak lately to succeed even if it tried.

Naturally, people on both sides will object to including each other in the entire gamut. To Israelis, including a party that calls for the destruction of Israel is repugnant. Likewise, to Palestinians it’s unacceptable to consider seriously people like Avigdor Lieberman, who has called for bombing civilian targets in Palestine and believes Arab-Israelis are traitors, or settlers who believe it’s their God-given right to stay in the West Bank and to oppress the Palestinian inhabitants of the area.

From a more idealistic centrist point of view, those views can be safely excluded, just as such extremes as fascism and communism are excluded from political considerations nowadays. However, from a realist point of view, democrats never excluded fascism and communism while they were politically alive. It so happens that large numbers of people are taking seriously ideologies that call for massacres or even wholesale exterminations. People rarely take other views seriously because they want to; usually they do because they have to without appearing irrelevant. In the current political climate of the debate over the Arab-Israeli conflict, anyone who doesn’t consider the reality of views ranging from those of Islamic Jihad to those of the most militant settlers is engaging in some form of preaching to the choir.

I wrote an essay a few years ago that contained, in the opening sentence, the phrase ‘fuck you, Roger Angell’. It wasn’t out of any deep animosity toward Roger Angell, simply a momentary rage brought on by his preface to E.B. White’s wonderful book, Here Is New York. Some of the things Mr. Angell says in that preface are perfectly fine, actually. But then he dips into a form of nostalgia that I find intolerable, especially when it is directed at New York City. New York has many problems and it isn’t hiding them, just walk down the street. But if nothing else, it is a city that has never succumbed to the nostalgists—just the opposite. It runs them down, runs through them, runs past them and keeps going and that’s always been the best way to refute nostalgia.

Maybe it has something to do with The New Yorker and the identity it thinks it is trying to foster and protect, but a thought came to mind while reading a recent ‘Talk of the Town’ and that thought was thus: ‘fuck you, Adam Gopnik’. Gopnik’s piece is sensible in many respects but, in the end, it can’t help dipping into the same vein of nostalgia that Roger Angell mines and which, I’d like to suggest, misunderstands something fundamental about New York City.

When Angell writes about New York City he writes in the tone of elegy, of something that ‘once was’. He imagines people living in New York and saying things like “remember when…?” and “wasn’t this where…?”. His sense of E.B. White’s book is that it is lament for what has been lost and for what New York City used to be. This is how Angell describes E.B. White’s mood: “Even as he looked at the great city, he was missing what it had been.” The culmination of Angell’s analysis is that the title of E.B. White’s book should have been Here ‘Was’ New York. As Angell puts it, White “wanted it back again, back the way it was.”

I submit, though, that this is not at all the mood in which White wrote his book. Witness E.B. White’s own Forward to Here is New York:

“This piece about New York was written in the summer of 1948 during a hot spell. The reader will find certain observations to be no longer true of the city, owing to the passage of time and the swing of the pendulum. I wrote not only during a heat wave but during a boom. The heat has broken, the boom has broken, and New York is not quite so feverish now as when this piece was written. The Lafayette Hotel, mentioned in passing, has passed despite the mention. But the essential fever of New York has not changed in any particular, and I have not tried to make revisions in the hope of bringing the thing down to date. To bring New York down to date, a man would have to be published with the speed of light—and not even Harper is that quick. I feel that it is the reader’s, not the author’s, duty to bring New York down to date; and I trust it will prove less a duty than a pleasure.”

That is the mood in which E.B. White wrote his brilliant little piece on New York City, and it is notable in two of its aspects. One, in that New York is characterized by its essential fever. And Two, in that New York cannot be ‘brought down to date’ but by those who are living in it at any specific moment. And I don’t think anyone who ever wrote a Forward like that can also be said to want New York ‘back the way it was’.

Now, on the face of it, Adam Gopnik’s ‘Talk of The Town’ from January 8th, 2007 is less overtly nostalgic than Roger Angell’s preface. Gopnik is commenting on Mayor Bloomberg’s speech about the future of New York City and its infrastructural needs looking forward to 2030. While lauding the mayor’s farsightedness, Gopnik notes that the speech did not address the issue of New York in terms of its ‘soul’, in terms of the ‘kind’ of city that we want New York to be. As Gopnik says, “New York, as generations have been taught by the late Jane Jacobs, is a self-organizing place that fixes itself. But let the additional truth be told that though the life of the block is self-organizing, the block itself that lets life happen was made by the hand of a city planner. As the mayor said, and knows, what we want the city to look like in 2030 will depend on the rules we make now.”

That’s true and we do need to think about what we want the city to be. Cities don’t happen simply by mistake, they need to be planned for. City government is something. It does something. Gopnik is right about that. But he also says, “For the first time in Manhattan’s history, it has no bohemian frontier. Another bookstore closes, another theater becomes a condo, another soulful place becomes a sealed residence. These are small things, but they are the small things that the city’s soul clings to.”

Forget the fact that Mr. Gopnik reveals himself to have a pitifully small radius for New York experience (I suspect the man has never been to Queens). More fundamentally, he, like Angell, has misunderstood the essential thrust of White’s point about New York and the essential fever. It is as if Angell and Gopnik have a snapshot of New York in their memory and then they go about judging New York according to that snapshot. The degree to which New York approximates that snapshot is the degree to which it has preserved its soul. The degree to which it is indistinguishable from that snapshot is the degree to which it has lost it.

But this is the wrong way to conceptualize the essence of New York. New York City is ruthless and depressing. It destroys itself and remakes itself without pausing long enough to reflect on the consequences (just think of Penn Station). As Gopnik suggests, we could all stand to think more about what makes New York work and what doesn’t. On the other hand, that is the cost of the ‘essential fever’. New York is not a museum of itself, at least not yet. The corner store might turn into a massive development tomorrow. Maybe there is a limit, a point at which New York loses its soul in the tumult. But I don’t think we know what that is. The problem with Angell and Gopnik is that they think they do. They think they have the snapshot of New York in their mind’s eye that defines the limits and contours of its soul. They think they know New York as such. They think they know what it is supposed to be.

In the end, I prefer the trust of E.B. White. He knows there is something special about New York but he doesn’t know the specifics. He knows that New York runs in cycles of boom and bust but he doesn’t pretend to know where it will go next. For the moment, he believes in the essential fever and he is willing to admit that that essential fever will always move farther and faster than anything he could track. He assumes that the future will simply be an update of where the essential fever has gone for the next decade, the next generation, the next era.

The saddest thing, perhaps, is that we can’t really legislate or plan for the essential fever. We don’t really know what it is that makes New York what it is. We just know that here it is, here is New York.

The trek to downtown Boston from Jamaica Plain, the city neighborhood where I live and where once lived the mighty maestro Serge Koussevitzky and the mendacious James Michael Curley, is a rather mundane affair. Thanks to Michael Dukakis and his far-sighted technocratic flair, a subway line now serves us instead of a broken-down trolley line. Actually the subway line consists of an extension of an older line that used to end in Roxbury, the home of the largest African-American population in the city and the birthplace of Malcolm X. It passes that way no more, heading instead to where the city’s white people live or to where people of various colors are gentrifying neighborhoods like mine.

I arrived at the Stony Brook station, a brick and steel structure wearing its twenty years well, and what to my irritated eyes should appear but four cops and a dog set up to stop and search the bags of passengers of their choosing. As befits a true American, I averted my eyes and slinked by, but it got my Irish up, as my Grandmother used to say. So I turned to assay the situation once I had safely passed the turnstile. They had nabbed a suspect, a young college student with scruffy hair and a menacing book bag over his shoulder. It was all very low key. One of the cops was the local greeter and diverter. The other three, festooned in black jodhpurs, black boots, black shirts and black jackets with “Transit Police” written in big white letters on their backs, all of which I take to be a new police high fashion statement for maximum intimidation or simply the product of a Versace-jaded uniform maker, stood by the explosives residue sniff machine with Fido, a reassuring golden Labrador on a leash. If the dog had been a German shepherd… well I am sure by now you get the idea.

I got off at Back Bay Station, and this time, there were six cops standing by the entrance to the subway, conveniently located 75 feet from the Dunkin’ Donuts stand. Half of them were in the ersatz Versace outfits; the other three were in regular Boston police garb. No Fido, no sniff machine. They were just watching when I passed.

Suspicion-less Searches Are Legal

Welcome to America, where all of this is now right and proper. Yes, indeed, it is constitutional to stop and search persons entering or on mass transit without any reasonable suspicion that they are concealing something illegal like an explosive device. It started in New York City. Boston simply copied New York City’s guidelines, which had been declared constitutional by the federal 2nd circuit court of appeals, and at the former Governor Mitt Romney’s imperial demand, instituted a local stop and search process.

You can refuse to have your bag searched. But then you must leave the station, or suffer arrest for trespassing. The logic of the federal appeals court is quite interesting for what it reveals about our new Orwellian world. Because everyone is searchable without any judgment of suspicion on the police’s part, it is legal. The 4th amendment guarantee against unreasonable search and seizure that in many areas of law restricts police searches to those whom they suspect of a crime or who arouse suspicion of criminal intent no longer applies to subway and bus riders. Any city that wants to conduct “suspicion-less” searches on their mass transit can. The judicial trick is that because no one is under suspicion, everyone can be under suspicion. Anyone’s rights can be violated so long as everyone’s rights can be violated. Call it equal opportunity rights violation.

Why can “the state” do this? Another extraordinary piece of legal legerdemain: who is the state if not the representative of the citizens? Well, guess again. The state, like the corporation, that other brilliant piece of Philadelphia lawyering, is a legal person with “interests.” It also has “special needs.” When the state decides it needs to violate our rights to protect us, in this case from terrorism, so it can, as long as it does so indiscriminately. The Appeals Court in Brendan MacWade versus Raymond Kelly (460 F.3d 260 U.S. App.) found the fact that New York’s and now Boston’s suspicion-less stop and search operations are made to seem “random, undefined, and unpredictable,” so that the terrorists won’t catch on, an attractive feature of the policing at whatever subway station where the police find themselves. Now that would a first – color-blind justice in America. I don’t believe it. Further the court seems unaware of the fear such tactics create in ordinary persons feel when they find cops in their face unexpectedly, dressed in black and equipped with guns, a machine, and a dog, and demanding that they surrender their bags.

What’s good for courts is bad for people. You are not even permitted to develop a normal expectation, as in airports, that you will be searched. It is the perfect counter-terrorism. Like they used to say about slavery, the key is to make them stand in fear.

The suspicion-less stop and searches don’t even have to work. Don’t bother us with details, the Appeals Court says in MacWade. Quoting from a 1990 Supreme Court decision, the Appeals Court says that the decision to stop and search without suspicion of wrongdoing should be left up to the state whose agents “have a unique understanding of, and responsibility for, limited public resources.” It concludes that it is not part of the Court’s charge to assess the effectiveness of a program. It only passes on whether a program is a reasonably effective means of addressing the problem at hand, and then, the presumption is that the state knows best.

This notion really sets the mind in motion. Suppose a city is facing a drought, and the water commissioner decides that the most reasonably effective way of preserving the water supply is turning off everyone’s water. Why not? He is the commissioner after all, an agent of the state. Who know best the problem and the solution? Suppose a police commissioner determined that the most reasonable way to catch a posse of drug pushers was to barricade them in their houses until they gave up. Should they die of starvation, would the court go after the police commissioner or decide that state’s special needs entitled the commissioner take action as s/he thought fitting? Or as once was the case in Philadelphia with the group called Move, when police decided in May 1985, that they couldn’t serve them with a warrant. They bombed the house, killing eleven people inside, and set a neighborhood afire. Public safety, the city argued, demanded it. The city paid restitution to sixty-two families burned out of their homes, and even compensation to two Move survivors, but no police officer, or mayor, was ever brought to trial.

Measures for Social and Self-Defense

In suspicion-less searches, remember the state too asserts its special needs, and they are of the best kind: terrorist threats to public safety and national security. The appeals court in MacWade took the state’s agents in the New York case, including former White House anti-terrorism expert Richard Clarke, as the authorities best able to judge what is necessary. And, aside from requiring a formal showing that the solutions fit the problems that threaten the state’s special needs, the courts will set aside usual constitutional scruples, and not even ask whether the actions work or not. And you thought the Sun King and his kind were dead.

It turns out that in Boston at least, it is a good thing for the Commonwealth that it doesn’t have to prove effectiveness. According to reporter Mac Daniel in the January 31,2007 Boston Globe, the cops have stopped and searched 2500 people between October 10, 2006 and December 31, 2006. No explosive devices and no weapons. Of the 27 positive initial hits, between the sniff machine and the sniffing dogs, they were sorted out as benign. Among the things that make you sniff-positive, it turns out, are hand crème and asthma medication. Did you ever think your 4th Amendment rights could be violated for using Vaseline Intensive Care?

The Massachusetts ACLU notes that the number of searches is “infinitesimally small,” and calls suspicion-less stops and searches “a pretend security measure.” An odd position, it seems to me. Would they prefer that more persons be stopped and searched and have their constitutional rights violated?

The Massachusetts chapter of the National Lawyers Guild, according to Jeffrey Feuer, is eschewing a direct court challenge until or unless a really favorable case comes along. Why precipitate at this point a U.S. Supreme Court ruling that holds suspicion-less stops and searches constitutional, seems the reason. Instead they are working with state legislators on a law requiring the transit authority to show what there are doing, whether it technically can catch dangerous explosives, and how much it is costing. They hope that the transit authority will be forced to abandon the program on the grounds that it is both ineffective and very costly.

In the meantime, the Massachusetts ACLU website offers advice as to what to do if you are stopped by the police. They are good for any occasion, so keep them on the refrigerator with the picture of your Fido:

o Think carefully about your words, movement, body language, and emotions.
o Don’t get into an argument with the police.
o Remember, anything you say or do can be used against you.
o Keep your hands where the police can see them.
o Don’t run. Don’t touch any police officer.
o Don’t resist even when you believe you are innocent.
o Don’t complain on the scene or tell the policy they’re wrong or that you’re going to file a complaint.
o Do not make any statements regarding the incident.
o Ask for a lawyer immediately upon your arrest.

The Lawyer’s Guild adds a practical touch. Go to their website and download a sheet containing handouts that can be cut into little, business-size cards. They read:

“To Whom It May Concern: I am handing you this card because I choose to exercise my right to remain silent and to not answer your questions. If I am detained I request to immediately be allowed to contact an attorney. I will exercise my right to refuse to sign anything until I am allowed to speak with my attorney.”

Carry this card at all times. You never know when you’ll get lucky and be the tenth person hustling after that train. Random and indiscriminate, it can happen to you two or more times on the same day. Do keep multiple cards handy. Of course, do not touch them with hand crème or put them next to your asthma inhalator.

It goes without saying that shouldn’t pet Fido, or, according to the ACLU, the police officer. For those of you who are opposed to losing your constitutional rights, have authority issues, or just have a thing about uniforms, keep your head down, keep walking, and don’t get aroused.

by Waleed Hazbun

February 4, 2007
Beirut, Lebanon

Last week, after much delay, I finally landed in Beirut where I spend 2007 teaching at the American University of Beirut.

Walking down the streets of the Hamra district of Beirut I think to myself that more cities across the Arab world should feel this way. Even as the city is re-dividing itself politically and police and security forces stand watch over public spaces, key buildings, and the residences of leading politicians, Beirut remains a urban, cosmopolitan environment. By invoking this term I do not refer to the fancy shopping districts with Euro-American name brand shops, the haut-hipsters hanging out a Starbucks (or even the much cooler De Prague), or the late night dancing parties going on at the trendy clubs. Beirut is a costal Levantine city that has never been cut off from other Mediterranean cities and trade routes nor fully isolated from its Arab/Islamic hinterland. It is not a show case ‘modern’ city built next to a museumfied medieval era ‘madina,’ like Tunis nor an artificial metropolis emerging out of a desert landscape due to royal patronage or the flows of petrodollars. It is more like Istanbul and how cities on coast of Mandate Palestine might have developed in some alterative reality.

I’m not exactly an expert on the topic but Beirut’s urban form seems to be a heterotopic mosaic in which each neighborhood developed from an interactive fusion between particular local features and ties to other places near and far. The Hamra district is located near the 140+ year old American University of Beirut (AUB). It is packed with bookstores and cafes and a few stores and restaurants that cater to its staff and faculty. The campus itself its beautifully located on a hill near the edge of the water which sparkles deep blue and makes a stunning site from many locations on its treed campus. Through the AUB the Hamra district has maintained ties to universities and intellectual centers across the world including a legacy of ties with Princeton. While less diverse than in the past, AUB’s students still come from all parts of the Lebanon as well as many parts of the Arab and developing world. Until the summer 2006 war, as the Provost recently explained, it even had a few dozen students from the United States. Its graduates are spread across the globe. Ironies of ironies, maybe, the new US representative to the UN is and AUB graduate, where he will work with Lebanon’s newly appointed representative who happened to be the chairman of the AUB department (Political Studies and Public Administration) where I will begin teaching next week.

These days Hamra is also being shaped by the current political standoff between the ‘March 14’ forces that control the government and the ‘March 8’ opposition that is seeking to bring down the PM and/or force him to create a ‘unity government’ that gives forces like Hezbollah (allied with some populist and pro-Syrian forces) a veto power of major political decisions. The ‘March 14’ forces are a motley crew (that includes right wing Christians, centrist Sunni Muslims, and a few democratic leftists) cobbled together in the large shadow of the assassinated former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri who used his own personal wealth and business ties to help rebuilt this city destroyed by a the 1975-90 civil war. While a diverse district, Hamra is also historically a Sunni Muslim neighborhood where the current Prime Minister Fuad Sinora and the home of the late Hariri (where his family continues to lead the political movement he built) live. You can easily tell where they live by the concrete barricades and roadblocks that limit traffic near them and are manned by security forces from the interior ministry controlled by members of the ‘March 14’ coalition.

Other security forces and units from the national army (viewed as closer to the pro-Syrian politicians and dominated by Shia who are generally aligned with oppositions parties such as Amal and Hezbollah) are watching guard over the opposition-constructed tent city surrounding the Prime Minster’s downtown headquarters. These guards are spread across the city, having taken to the streets after the disturbing riots that took place at the Beirut Arab University, quite a long ways south from the Hamra district but still on the Western side of town bordering the shia dominated neighborhoods at the southern end of Beirut. In the wake of those riots a one night curfew was announced in an effort to defuse the tensions between rival political movements who find active supporters and cadre on the various campuses. The government even declared that all educational institutions had to shut down for a few days, delaying the start of the spring term at AUB.

I haven’t been over the ‘Christian’ East Beirut (the home of much of the fancy restaurant and night club scene), where they have their own tensions and fears due to the long string of assassinations and small scale bombing that followed the mass moving in the spring of 2005 to send the Syrian troops and intelligence networks back home. At the same time the Christian community is currently divided between followers of the March 14 forces and the populist former general Aoun who says he represents an alterative to the currupt, sectarian elites and has aligned himself with Hizballah in a effort to become the next President of the country (who must be a Maronite Christian).

The other night I read a profile of President John Waterbury in a recent issue (Jan 24) of the Princeton Alumni Weekly. It’s written by a Beirut/Damascus-based youngish Princeton grad who is a stringer for the NY Times. She often files culture/society/human interest stories. It’s not such a great piece in that it doesn’t really cover some angles, such as that some AUB students were not happy that JW suspended the counting of the student election results because there were protests outside the University gates. Some viewed this action as a suspension of democracy on campus, though the article gives him credit for defusing the situation where political protests by rival parties were taking place just outside the University gates. After the recent riots (which happened weeks after the essay was written) we are all the more sensitive to the issue, but who knows what policies would best prevent riots past and future. Internal security forces now cluster in front of the AUB Main Gate and help provide gate security. This might also be because Prime Minister Sinora lives across the street from campus. We also discovered, while getting Michelle a campus ID, that AUB has written a new policy for guests on campus. Not clear what it is, but I guess its a sign that the administration is working the situation.

The best part of the PAW article is that JW notes that every AUB class has its ‘war’ stories, some lived through wars, others riots, some student protests and sit-ins etc… (Remember we are making the 50th anniversary of the high-water era of Nasserist and Arab nationalist mobilization of the Arab street.) JW makes the point of saying that dealing with these events is part of his job and part of the AUB experience, in a sense they don’t react as if each represents a crisis, but an recurrent, almost expected sort of event that plans exist for. He notes that EVERY year ‘come hell or high water’ AUB has graduated a class. They deal with situations one day at a time. If they must close, they will for just the days they need, then they expect to get back open because its the duty of the place. In what I think is the best line of the interview, he notes ‘This show goes on.’

As I begin to sense the political tensions, that the political crisis will not likely be over soon, I have watched some of Hezbollah’s al Manar TV, complete with its slick American political campaign style negative ads mocking the achievements of Hariri (noting the corruption and massive debt that were endemic to his mode of operation)..and its pretty clear they have a critique of the govt that wont just go away, let alone their ability to gain outside support that in terms of effectiveness may match the $1 billion of so that the US is throwing behind the current govt. Who knows if regional tensions and the a New Arab/Middle Eastern cold war will tear it apart as it have other parts of the region. It will not stand isolated like the Gulf states under the security umbrella of the 7th fleet bolstered by the abundant petrodollars and financial returns.

Nevertheless, while I fear the implications of the coming Bush admin confrontation with Iran and the continuing fallout of its disastrous regional politices, the local political situation in Lebanon doesn’t seem to bother me, it only really saddens me. Maybe it’s the Baltimore still in me, the appreciation of the dwellers, entrepreneurs, and intellectuals who make their lives in that scrappy, rundown, post-industrial ruin of a formerly grand 19th century city that had its last peak, like Beirut, in the 1950s. This all leads me to fear the effects of over-gentrification, of global finance remodeling an urban space for tourism and hyper-consumerism. I have heard people mention, and seem to fear, Beirut becoming over-shadowed by the Gulf where they can buy whole libraries and museums and build “global cities” out of artificial islands, petrodollars, and imported labor and technology. Beirut might have lost some of its shine built in the last few years before its was dulled and scraped by the war and the resulting political turmoil. But it seems to me, that everything that is really interesting about this city, Hamra, and AUB are still here and will go on. It need not become again the ‘Paris, or Geneva etc.. of the Middle East.’ It likely won’t. Rather, what the Middle East needs now, and it needs it to survive out the current crisis, is a ‘Beirut’ with its difficult pluralism, intellectual debate, always inventive entrepreneurialism, and often splinted contradictory cosmopolitism.

Waleed Hazbun is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science at Johns Hopkins University.

Australian poet and author Peter Nicholson writes 3QD’s Poetry and Culture column (see other columns here). There is an introduction to his work at peternicholson.com.au and at the NLA.

Apparently Patrick White used to build himself up into a state about bad crits of his books. However, the vegetation in his garden, and across the road in Centennial Park, did not turn yellow from an excess of spleen, and Patrick kept on writing. White knew bad crits were inevitable but, after dragging The Tree of Man out of his asthmatically-wracked body back on the farm that Kylie Tennant once called Frog Hollow, I don’t guess he was exactly ecstatic to read A. D. Hope’s final reference to his prose style, in a now notorious review, as ‘pretentious and illiterate verbal sludge’. White often had this kind of reception. Later success only encouraged some to thwack away even more. Hal Porter described White’s autobiographical Flaws In The Glass as ‘high-camp mysticism and low-camp waspishness’. White returned the favour, calling Porter ‘a sac of green pus throbbing with jealousy’. Fun in its way, and a predictable stoush of the kind familiar to literature the world over. [See Angela Bennie’s Crème de la Phlegm Unforgettable Australian Reviews The Miegunyah Press 2006, from which the above examples are taken, for more examples of Australian arts criticism.]

The old, old story. Artists make the art and put it out into the world. Its fate is indeterminate, whether well received, given the silent treatment or scorned. Anyone who gets into a life in art and thinks it is going to be any different for them is being hopelessly naive.

Marbeck Valerian is my imaginary name for all the critics one is going to come across who will misunderstand work, misrepresent it, or land on it like an Exocet missile and proclaim it the best thing since sliced bread, probably the worst fate of all.

Eduard Hanslick, origin of Wagner’s Sixtus Beckmesser in Die Meistersinger, doyen of music critics in nineteenth-century Europe, simply could not connect with the contemporary masterpieces that were set before him. All the learning in the world can’t help a critical sensibility out of the impasse that comes when a mind thinks itself attuned to the spirit of the times. Which in Hanslick’s case meant Brahms. Wagner, Bruckner and Tchaikowsky were beyond him—Bruckner 8: ‘At long last, the Finale—which, with its baroque themes, its confused structure and inhuman din, strikes us only as a model of tastelessness . . .’ I suppose you can get some entertainment value out of this kind of criticism. But when your reading audience starts looking forward to seeing who, say, to take two names from the past, Kenneth Tynan or Auberon Waugh are going to eviscerate in their weekly column, something has gone askew in the relationship between artist, critic and audience. Part of the problem arises from the thinning dividing line between reviewing—one person’s opinion—and criticism, which is meant to be a more considered and analytical overview of cultural product.

Hanslick was wrong from the start, to quote someone who got into troubled waters through pride. However, this is really the way it must be. And why should art have an easy time of it? The teacher, the nurse, the miner and the police constable are not going to have an easy time of it. No. The poor and the oppressed are certainly not going to have an easy time of it either, pace the look-at-how-I’m-suffering-unlike-the-rest-of-the-world tone of some confessional verse. What is so special about artists that they should be given a dispensation from the vexations others encounter, when journalists can be murdered for simply trying to write the truth? The history of art is prolix with attacks on great works of art and grotesque misreadings of its nature. It would be the shortest of perspectives to expect anything else. The ideal, the aesthetically beautiful, must have swum through muck before it has a chance of landing on calmer historical shores. Metaphorically, art is always swimming the Hellespont in its Byronic aspiration towards the sublime, or the nihilist’s sublime denied. Carping criticism is just one of the many hurdles to be faced along the way, hurdles that change the perspectives with which we look at the art we admire, or the art we do not like, or do not understand.

There is a problem specific to poetry: mistaken thinking about poetry by the general public. Misuse of the word ‘poetic’ is so common as to be beyond repair. Proper poetry dives into the world, takes in its multifariousness, its roughnesses and tragedies, its joy at beauty, even as the poet grabs on to the broken glass shards of the Muse’s patchy visitations. ‘Poetic’ is not another word for nice, kind, sedate, palatable. Between top-heavy pronouncements from various spots around the publishing globe and the general public’s indifference to the real poetic, falls the shadow, Cynara, of the individual writer’s efforts to get him or herself understood on a proper footing.

It’s true, as Robert Hughes has said—a critic has to have a harsh side, otherwise all you get is blandout. That apart, critics will come in many guises. One will behave like Stalin, casting the unchosen to outer darkness. Another will gather in a sheaf of sensibilities with an almost creative zeal. A few imply they have read everything and therefore their commentaries come with an air of supernal wisdom. Nothing of the kind, of course. Then there are zealous attenders of conferences on Bakhtin and Benjamin who duly proceed to force-feed any perceptions they might have through the mindset of their heroes. More than a few may as well come with ‘agenda approaching’ branded on their foreheads for all the subtlety used to spruik friends or pet theories. Some see it as their solemn duty to spend a lifetime rubber stamping status quo fodder. What to say about the opaque wall of French deconstructive criticism that towered briefly across the literary landscape. So-called New Criticism, Pound’s boosterism, Leavis’ purple prose about Lawrence . . . and so on, and on. Personally, I can’t think of any critics with whom I am in general agreement about literature or art. When reading all these people you can get an interesting perspective, learn new things about art and artists, enjoy the erudition, if worn lightly.  However, in art, it is essential not to let others do the thinking for you. Perhaps that’s even more important with artists you admire and who write on art too. I often disagree with some of my favourite artists. Wagner seems misguided on all manner of subjects. ‘Poetry makes nothing happen’ and ‘All art is quite useless’ are two statements from Auden and Wilde that irritate me.

So, merrily we roll along, as the musical has it. Well, good criticism is important. We must have it, along with the self-serving or blinkered kind. The rare piece of literary criticism that proclaims the arrival of something important is notable only for its scarcity. Poets who write poetry criticism—and there are a lot who have, or do—are on difficult ground. In The Undiscovered Country Poetry in the Age of Tin [Columbia University Press 2005, 343] William Logan calls John Berryman ‘a brilliant critic’—which might very well be true—but I would much rather Berryman wrote less criticism and worked on his poetry more.

Just as well art finds its own timeline, which is not criticism’s.

Marbeck Valerian may be your long-term friend. His/her misunderstandings are the seeds from which art begins its proper journey through time’s unpredictable mangle.

                                                                     *

          The Artist’s Agony Aunt Replies

Brobdingnag into Lilliput doesn’t go—
Work that out early if you want to keep
Your gold estate
From predations by those CEOs and phonies
Who’ve risen to the level of baloney.

Art is more important than their blather,
But only you and the happy few will know
Why you’ll be intransigent and stroppy
When they’re expecting parrot words to serve
For beauties and their furies here conferred.

Art cannot wait for being understood
When blood has, by the Muse, been dispossessed.
They’ll want you to sell short your better part
For slaps on the back and lower ranks of things
Where they have dumped their burden without wings.

For all the money, politics and kudos
Others have for meaning in their lives,
When summing up a goodness that survives,
The gift of art, however hard or strange,
Is worthy of a life none with you may change.

Written 1996

If you are thinking the United States and George W. Bush you are right too, but I am thinking of something closer to my home in India, which may not be that dissimilar. The felling of Saddam Hussein’s statue in central Baghdad and the proclamation of victory in the war against Iraq seems a distant memory. What Bush and his advisers forgot was to be ready to manage the empire after the conquest. Sadly they forgot to take their clothes, and were completely exposed, caught rather embarassingly with their pants down. Three years on George Bush stands as the emperor with no clothes as anarchy reigns in Iraq and the costs of war to his own people rise, be it the loss of life or the drain on resources. The superpower humbled by its own incompetence.

What, you might ask, does this have to do with happenings in India? Well, something unusual happened last week: an ageing Indian company, no less than a hundred years old took over a much younger and bigger company in Europe. The Tata Steel takeoever  of the Anglo-Dutch behemoth Corus Steel was greeted with a chorus of euphoria in India, not dissimilar to the euphoria in America after the fall of Baghdad in 2003. India, some claim, is now a superpower spreading its economic might and empire, while the Tata’s are the army, leading the triumphant charge. A scratch below the surface of triumph conceals a reality check which all in the euphoric chorus would be well advised to take heed of.

Can India possibly claim to be superpower, the new emperor, just because some of it’s corporates are taking over firms abroad. Corporate might hasn’t turned into well-being for the majority of the people who still languish in poverty, illiteracy, hunger: basically dismal human conditions. Even possessing a few nuclear weapons doesn’t change this fact. And if half a country’s population cannot read, feed or cloth itself, what does that say about the empire? Even the American empire seems hollow when it is estimated that one in six people in the US is functionally illiterate, a large number of them live in poverty, where poverty is often a function of race, and where hurricanes like Katrina leave the mighty government fumbling for solutions.

But let’s return again to to the Indian empire. What of the valiant army, the foot soldiers, the Tata Group in this case. Are they creatings trong empires or merely those in name but no substance? A closer examination of some of the facts about this takeoever and takeovers in general may shed some light.

To begin, creating an empire, whether corporate or political costs money. And someone has to pay. The Tata’s have paid $12.1 billion for Corus. Money that is borrowed and has to be paid back, with interest. Will the new conglomorate be profitable enough to make their investment worthwhile?

One may argue that Tata Steel is now a giant, the fifth largest steel company in the world. But giants aren’t always profitable or successful. Look what happened to Corus. Look elsewhere at what is happening to other gigantic firms: General Motors is struggling, so is Ford. And these are legendary firms, which we were told, have sales in excess of the GDP of many developing countries.

But Tata Corus may be different. Possibly. Note, however, the fact that Tata Steel has acquired a firm which is much less efficient than itself, both in terms of profit margins which are about half of Tata’s and in terms of costs, which are much higher especially the costs of labour. Thus, the immediate outcome for the combined entity is a fall in profitability and efficieny from the level of Tata Steel. Think the outcome for Germany after the more prosperous West united with the less prosperous East, and you’ll get the picture. Thus, a lot of hard work is needed to pull Tata Corus up. Is Ratan Tata’s homework ebtter than George W. Bush’s, or is it an act of bravado based more on hope than on hard economic calculus? Have the Tata’s over-stretched themselves in order to ‘ win their battle’ (prompted by a jingoistic nation and it’s over enthusiastic media) for Corus, against CSN from Brazil? Groege Bush and his army are certainly over-stretched in Iraq, and feeling the heat. Even the highest quality steel can melt under extreme temperatures.

What makes things even more complicated for the Tata’s with Corus is that steel is a sunset industry in the West. The demand for steel and the production of steel in the UK, which is the home of Corus, has fallen steadily over the last thirty years. Steel in a sunrise industry in emerging markets. So it makes sense acquiring firms in say China and Brazil but does it make the same sense acquiring an Anglo-Dutch firm which basically services small and shrinking markets. Again, time will tell, but the outcome is far from certain.

An investigation into the technical side reveals evidence from economic literature on the subject suggesting that mergers and acquisitions do not always lead to higher profits for the new company, or indeed higher share prices. In fact, a lot of evidence from the industrialized countries, where a majority of mergers and acquisitions have hitherto occurred, shows the opposite. What does happen for certain is a downsizing of jobs.

Acquiring a firm in a different country brings its own adjustment problems. A probable clash of managerial and worker cultures. A resistance to control by a firm seen to be from the developing world. Again the analogy with what the Americans are facing in Iraq is obvious.

If this is sounding very pessimistic, let it not. It is not meant to be. The Tata’s have achieved a lot, both in India and abroad, especially under the able stewardship of Ratan Tata. In fact, some of their earlier acquisitions of steel firms in Thailand and Singapiore  made good sense. As did their takeoever of the bankrupt Daewoo Commercial Vehicles at a very reasonable price. India as a country, too, has made great strides over the last sixty years. But proclamations of conquest, and of empire, or of superpower status seem premature. Almost like hubris before a fall. Just like Iraq 2003. Caution is the better part of valor, and the enthusiasts would do well to temper their emotions, and let those in charge do their homework dilligently, without the pressure of jingoism and nationalism. The outcomes, in that case, are likely to be way superior.

It would seem wiser to be in a situation where one is all dressed up with nowhere to go, than to rush towards an empire with no clothes.