by Tim Sommers

Imagine a slave in ancient Rome with a very generous master. A master so, generous, in fact, that this slave lives their entire life doing as they choose and their master never once interferes with them. The liberal view of liberty, enshrined, for example, in the U.S. Constitution, is that liberty, or at least the most fundamental kind of political liberty, is the right to not be interfered with, especially by the government. This freedom not to be prohibited from or impeded in doing what one will is often called “negative liberty” – as opposed to “positive” liberty which implies the will (autonomy/self-directedness) and the means (money, for example) – and not just the absence of interference.

The point of the generous master hypothetical is that the slave seems to be free, in the negative, liberal sense; that is, free from interference, specifically, from their master. Yet surely, as a slave, even as the slave of a very, very generous master, one is not free. There must be something wrong, then, with the liberal idea that freedom is simply freedom from certain kinds of outside interference.

Political philosopher Phillip Pettit, who formulated this hypothetical, says, and it is hard to argue with him, that the slave is not free since the master could have interfered at any point – even though they didn’t. This kind of unfreedom he calls “domination” and, so, his account of freedom he calls “liberty as non-domination” or the “republican” theory.

Over the last twenty years, Pettit has been attempting to resuscitate, he says, “the republican viewpoint as a political philosophy.” He’s been developing a “neorepublicanism” which he thinks is founded on a significant theoretical difference between the republican and liberal views of political freedom.

Pettit thinks that his hypothetical generous master shows that the master and slave have a hierarchical relation, even if the dominant party never exercises their power. Arguably, the master still oppresses the slave without ever interfering with them. Read more »

by Azadeh Amirsadri

In 1977, I was a student at the University of Pennsylvania, majoring in French Literature. I was 19 years old and pregnant with my first child. I would dress in a long shapeless plaid green and black dress, tie my hair with an off-white headscarf, and wear Dr. Scholl’s slide sandals trying very hard to blend in and look cool and hippyish, but that look wasn’t really working well for me.  The scarf at times became a long neck shawl and the ‘cool and I don’t care’ 70’s look became more of a loose colorless  dress on top of my plaid dress, giving me the appearance of a field-working peasant. My sandals added absolutely nothing, except making me trip on the sidewalks.

I was an international student, in the process of learning English as I was enrolled in advanced French classes. I was overwhelmed by the size of the campus, all the city blocks it covered and getting to class on time during the 10 minutes I had between classes. I was also both fascinated and secretly envious of the female students who laid on the grass, wearing bikini tops and shorts and studying or just hanging out.

Most days for lunch, I would go to Houston Hall, a large campus cafeteria near Williams Hall, where my classes were held. I was in line one day, trying very hard to be cool and to fit in, and ordered one of the only few foods I could pronounce with ease: cheeseburger, hamburger, or soup. I would not veer into difficult sandwich names where I had to specify the type of bread, toasted or not, condiments, and other words I didn’t know nor could say. The lady behind the counter was working fast and after my burger order, she asked me what I wanted to drink. “Water” I said, or so I thought. It came out as a weak ‘watter’ and she didn’t have time for someone slowing her down. “What?” She yelled and I lost all courage and barely murmured ‘woutter’ trying to make it sound like the way Philadelphians pronounce that word, except it came out even worse than the first time. Terrified, I repeated it, hoping she could understand me. I wish I had thought of Coke or Pepsi or any other beverage I could pronounce. I really wanted milk since I was pregnant and believed drinking it would make my baby stronger, but saying “meelk” was out of the question for me, especially after my lame water request. Read more »

by Claire Chambers

The writer Tabish Khair was born in 1966 and educated in Bihar before moving first to Delhi and then Denmark. He is the author of various acclaimed books, including novels The Thing About Thugs, How to Fight Islamist Terror from the Missionary Position, and Just Another Jihadi Jane. He has also published poetry collections such as Where Parallel Lines Meet and Man of Glass. Khair’s academic writing includes studies of alienation in contemporary Indian English novels, the postcolonial gothic, and the new xenophobia.

In addition is Quarantined Sonnets, a sequence about Covid-19 published soon after the virus went global. In this slim volume, Khair rewrites Shakespearean sonnets with humour as well as pathos in order to examine ageing, sexuality, and other subjects. Twenty-one Shakespearean sonnets are reinterpreted to reflect the changing face of love and mortality amid health disaster. Above all, the poetry collection examines how economies are impacted by the virus, and satirizes rampant capitalism against the backdrop of the Covid-19 pandemic. Khair does something similar in his most recent novel The Body by the Shore, for which I wrote a ‘Reader’s Guide’ and so I will not say too much about it here. In both his poetic and fictional works he sends shots across the bow against materialism, corporate greed, and social inequality.

Similarly, at least two stories from Khair’s 2023 collection Namaste Trump, ‘Shadow of a Story’ and, especially, ‘Namaste Trump’, have coronavirus as a fulcrum. The narrator of ‘Shadow of a Story’ is angered by India’s plight amid the 2021 catastrophe of ‘pyres burning, bodies floating down the Ganges during the pandemic’ (167).

The titular tale ‘Namaste Trump’ is set earlier on, around the time of the American president’s state visit to India in February 2020, and examines the onset of Covid. The story centres on a young servant with physical and mental disabilities, employed under near-feudal conditions by a wealthy Hindu Right family. As Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s migrant labour crisis escalates, the family sends the boy back to his village in Bihar. Disconnected from his supposed home and attached to the metropole, Chottu flees to live among marginalized city-dwellers. Eking out an existence in a nearby dump, he contracts the virus there and goes on to die from it. Read more »

by Eric Feigenbaum

Singaporeans call it “The Moment of Anguish” – when their founding prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew broke down in tears announcing the independence of Singapore. There are relatively few surviving recordings of the actual event – a non-televised press conference on August 9, 1965 with international correspondents – but the still images of Singapore’s Founding Father with tears in his eyes, dabbing himself with a handkerchief is a key moment in the small island nation’s self-narrative.

Unlike most countries, Singapore’s independence was not greeted with celebration. It was not the result of a long-time struggle – at least not directly. At the time, Singaporeans – including Lee himself – saw independence as a failure and a moment of existential crisis.

You see, Singapore had navigated its anti-colonial struggle with Britain along with British Malaya, which in turn became the Malaysian Federation. Singapore, Sabah and Sarawak joined the federation – envisioning a single nation of related peoples. Only fractures emerged that caused the Malaysian Federation to cast out Singapore shortly before full Malaysian independence.

The issue: ethnic equality. Put simply, Singapore wanted all people to have the same rights, whereas Malaysia put the rights of ethnic Malays first – giving them extra privileges and status.

Before going further, it helps to understand what Malaysian and Singaporean even mean – and to do that it helps to rewind.

For at least 800 years, Singapore had been intermittently populated by different ethnic groups within its region and then lightly used by the Portuguese 1500’s. After 1613 when the Portuguese destroyed Malay settlements on Singapore, it was left essentially unpopulated for more than 200 years before Sir Stamford Raffles identified the island at the tip of the Malay Peninsula as his ideal for a British trading port and naval base – which came to full fruition in 1867 when Britian officially took Singapore by treaty. Read more »

Sughra Raza. Rain. Hund Riverbank, Pakistan, November 2023.

Digital photograph.

“Standing on the banks of the River Indus in Hund village, Swabi, it is difficult to get an inkling of the magnificent past of this hamlet and how it dominated the history of the subcontinent once upon a time. An intriguing symbol in this village is a Corinthian column, standing in the courtyard of a domed red brick building. One has to travel about six kilometres through a mustard plantation and wheat fields before entering this village, which is nondescript and seems to be stuck in the winter of its past. Before walking the narrow muddy streets of Hund, you will likely pass oxen pulling out water from wells. Once on your way to the river through these streets, you will come across the building with the Greek column in front and spacious lawns. The building houses Hund Museum, which opened a few years back. This small village is said to be the capital of Gandhara civilisation under the Hindu Shahi dynasty in the 9th century CE.”

More here and here.

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by S. Abbas Raza

A few weeks ago I suffered a herniated cervical disc (a part of the upper spine) resulting in extreme pain in my neck, left shoulder, and left arm which has resulted in my having to be flat on my back in a supine position 24 hours a day for a couple of weeks. This was the position in which I had the least pain, even though it was sometimes quite a bit even like that. Several doctors have now told me that it is one of the most painful conditions they know of, and managing this pain is a major part of what they try to do with people who have this not uncommon problem.

Sitting or standing or any other position in which the weight of my head (around 10 pounds) was on my neck resulted in severe pain within 30 seconds at first but then fortunately this interval grew longer over the days and the pain would come more slowly. This meant that to urinate, for example, I had to quickly rush into the toilet and could only half go before the pain would hit hard and I had to stop and rush back to some horizontal surface and lie down. After a couple of days I lay down on the floor of our shower stall with my legs sticking outside and learned to take showers that way with my wife’s help. I also had to eat lying down which is difficult. Using a computer was also not easily possible, and that is why I was away from 3QD for some time for the first time in more than 20 years. My wife devoted herself completely to taking care of me and my needs and took time off work and my sister Sughra who is a doctor also came from Boston to help. So that’s what’s been happening, in case you were wondering why the magazine posts at 3QD were missing (as was I) for a couple of weeks.

But I want to tell you about a specific and unexpected experience that I had: A few days after this problem started I was still in a lot of pain and was taking some heavy prescription painkillers including opioids. I had an appointment a couple of days later to see a neurosurgeon who would determine if I needed surgery to correct the problem. (I do not, at least yet.) So on this particular day, the morning had been one of continuous pain but by afternoon, as I was lying flat on the sofa in our living room, I noticed the pain lessening significantly. For the first time, I felt that I might be getting better. And right then a fully-formed sentence gurgled up from the depths of my brain and surfaced in my consciousness with all the force of an urgent, desperate plea, and it was this: “My beautiful, beautiful pain, please don’t abandon me!” And I was immediately gripped by a panic that the pain might go away. Not that it wouldn’t go away but panic at the thought of no pain! I was not in any state to make sense of all this but there could not have been any more clarity in my acutely-felt desire that the pain remain with me, at least in that moment. The idea of the pain leaving me almost made me weep and I addressed the pain directly: “Pain, I love you,” I said. Read more »

by Malcolm Murray

In the 21^st century, only two risks matter – climate change and advanced AI. It is easy to lose sight of the bigger picture and get lost in the maelstrom of “news” hitting our screens. There is a plethora of low-level events constantly vying for our attention. As a risk consultant and superforecaster, I try to pay disproportionate attention to the bigger picture, in order to separate the signal from the noise. With that bigger picture in mind, I would argue that climate change and advanced AI are the only two risks where parts of their probability curve include singularities where change is so fundamental that we cannot forecast beyond it. All other risks are a continuation of the status quo, to a greater or lesser extent.

The interesting thing is that not only are these two risks joined together at the hip, towering over this century like the Norns in Norse mythology, they also share many similarities – both in terms of the nature of the risks and how they are mitigated against. It can therefore be instructive to study these similarities to see what we can learn and apply across the two risk areas. The risk equation – think Lady Justice with her two competing scales – has the nature of the risk on one side and the effectiveness of its mitigation on the other. No risk goes fully unmitigated (except perhaps in a Don’t Look Up scenario). Subtracting one from the other leaves us with residual risk. This is what matters at the end of the day. Starting with the nature of the risk, two similarities stand out. Read more »

by Martin Butler

We live in a rational age. Naturalism, the view that the fabric of the world can be – and should be – discovered and understood through the theories and methods of natural science, has dominated philosophy and contemporary thought for years. The theory of evolution and the big-bang theory of the origin of the universe are classic naturalistic explanations, and even those with a religious perspective for the most part concede the natural world to science. Oddly, those who pit their religious beliefs against accepted science, still often try to use scientific evidence to bolster their argument, inevitably resulting in bad science. Trying to ‘prove’ that the age of the earth accords with the biblical account is an example of this.

Many earlier philosophers produced non-naturalistic philosophies. Descartes’ dualism gave a central place to both natural and non-natural causes. The ghost in the machine account, while giving bodily functions a scientific explanation in terms of mechanical causes, understands mental capacities in terms of an immaterial, mental entity, something we might describe as spiritual. And even with the rise of the scientific world view, God could still be relied upon to fill in any gaps where science struggled – the so called ‘God of the gaps’. Newton, for example, despite his discovery of the laws of motion, believed that God intervened to ensure the proper movement of the planets within the solar system. Laplace, however, famously moved things towards full blooded naturalism when, in response to Napoleon’s question about the place of God in his philosophical system, he is supposed to have quipped that he had ‘no need for that hypothesis’. Here we have “a nature stripped of the divine” as Schiller put it. Or, according to the sociologist Max Weber, a disenchanted world

So where does this leave the spiritual, a term still widely used even by those who do not necessarily align themselves to any particular religious belief? Read more »

by John Allen Paulos

Election season has put an increased focus on the stock market, but little attention is ever paid to the Efficient Market Hypothesis (the EMH, for short). As I’ve written in A Mathematician Plays the Stock Market, it is a fundamental and important notion, but it is also a little weird. Its recent formulation derives from the work of Eugene Fama, economist Paul Samuelson, and others in the 1960s. The basic idea, however, dates back more than 100 years when Louis Bachelier, a student of the great French mathematician Henri Poincare, formulated an early version. Roughly, the hypothesis maintains that stock prices reflect all relevant information about the stock. As Fama put it, “In an efficient market, competition among the many intelligent participants leads to a situation where, at any point in time, actual prices of individual securities already reflect the effects of information based both on events that have already occurred and on events which, as of now, the market expects to take place in the future.”

The EMH depends crucially on what information is assumed to be reflected in the stock price. The weakest version maintains that all information about past market prices is already reflected in a stock price. A stronger version maintains that all publicly available information about a company is already reflected in its stock price. The strongest version states that information of all sorts, even inside information, is already reflected in the stock price.

It was probably this last rather implausible and all-encompassing version of the hypothesis that underlies the joke about the two efficient market theorists walking through town. They notice a hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk and simply ignore it. If it were real, they conclude, someone would have been picked it up already. Even more risible is the question: How many efficient market theorists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: The answer is none. If the bulb needed changing, the wisdom of the market would have insured that it had already been changed.

So why do people think that the market efficiently, and more or less immediately, responds to changes in the conditions for a particular stock or even for the market as a whole? The answer is that investors are always seeking an edge to increase their gains or decrease their losses, and they try to do so in a multitude of ways. They’re on the lookout for new bits of information possibly relevant to a company’s stock price that may be enough to quickly raise or lower it. Because of this swarm of profit-hungry and loss-averse investors, the market rapidly responds to new information, and efficiently – there’s that word again – adjusts prices to reflect it. The changes take place so rapidly, or so the story goes, that even utilizing technical rules or fundamental analyses aren’t fast enough to be fully exploited, and investors who pursue them will see their excess profits shrink to zero. Read more »

Celtic Knot

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Hello Reader,

Because I have taken some medical leave from 3QD in the past few weeks, we have not had magazine posts for a while, though we have continued to post curated articles in the “Recommended Reading” section. I am feeling better now, so we will resume all posts starting tomorrow, meaning Monday, the 16th of September. Just wanted to let you know. More details of what happened to me also coming tomorrow.

All the best,

Abbas

by David J. Lobina

For someone who sees himself as a person of the Left, at least in the sense in which the political right and left were conceptualised by Norberto Bobbio ages ago – that is to say, as moral and political stances towards equality (and inequality) – and more concretely, as a sort-of anarchist, at least in the sense, this time, of being suspicious of authority, top-down impositions and ideas, and much preferring a society composed of spheres of self-realisation instead from the bottom up,[i] the advent and prominence of so-called ‘identity politics’ in recent years, especially in the English-speaking world, and most clearly, in the US, has been surprising, bewildering, and rather frustrating.

Even though identity politics is usually associated with the Left, both by friends and foes, I agree with some thinkers from the Left I actually follow, such as the academic Brian Leiter, that this kind of politics may well be ‘the narcissism of the aspiring bourgeoisie, who want to get their share of the “capitalist pie”, including their share of “respect” as reflected in language and culture’ – and likewise for the concept of equity so common and so often defended these days, which is not really a liberal principle per se, but more of a neoliberal keyword: no universal social programs to be set up, but instead we shall have micro-interventions here and there that can only produce a more ethnically diverse elite. Under these conditions, inequality and capitalism remain untouched, class politics unmentioned, the result a Left without the economics or the socialism, and on we go with elite representation and such worries (seriously, whatever happened to class politics?).

Rather surprisingly, at least to me, the obsession with such diversity concerns is ubiquitous here in the UK too, including at my daughter’s primary school in London, one of the most diverse cities in Europe. In June each year there is a so-called Diversity Week, which according to the Head Teacher is about ‘taking pride in who you are and all of the things that make you ‘you’, especially your differences’ (you can strike out the word especially from that statement), the main point to be conveyed being that ‘one opinion, lifestyle, religion, family make up, or cultural heritage is not more important than another; we are all individuals and our differences are what make us stronger as a community’.[ii]

As a case in point, the school once entered a local flower cart competition, and the chosen message on the cart was: We are all different, and that’s fine.

All of course laudable, at least at first sight. My point in this column is to push back a little bit, and to do so from the point of view of universality and commonality, which I regard as a much more significant property of human thought and belief systems – indeed, of human nature tour court. Or as the La Fontaine Academy flower cart could also have advertised at the competition: We are all the same, and that’s fine too! Read more »

by Mary Hrovat

Mission to Earth: Landsat Views the World, Nicholas M. Short, Paul D. Lowman, Jr., Stanley C. Freden, William A. Finch, Jr. (published 1976)

I found this book in a library at Indiana University when I was a student in the mid-1980s. I spent hours fascinated by the beauty of the photographs and the quiet, precise poetry of the geographical and geological terminology in the accompanying text.

Satellite images were not as readily available back then, and this book provides a rich banquet of them. Maps in the front of the book show where to find images of each part of the planet. First I looked up places I knew or had visited, and then I looked up places I wanted to visit or was curious about, and finally I just browsed. I’d always been interested in maps, with their place names and the history behind them. This book expanded that experience by giving me the geological, ecological, and human context of each image. It was endlessly interesting.

The book also expanded my horizons in another way. I had no theological qualms about the age of Earth or the universe, but I’d been shown a narrow world, growing up—a world centered on sin and redemption, where Earth is ultimately a way station between two eternities. I’d been a homebody as a child, caught up in my parents’ religious scruples and anxiously examining my behavior for not only sinful tendencies but also insufficient devotion to the divine.

This book was one of the things that released me to a wider view of life; it nurtured an enchantment with Earth, its dynamic intricacy and complex history, its reality as a thing in itself rather than a divine stage set. It absorbed me in the features and processes of the living planet. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I can see now that it sowed the seeds of a view of Earth itself as sublime and holy, in a completely natural sense. Read more »

by Adele A. Wilby

Many decades ago, I was fortunate to have had the opportunity of living in India for several years. I was enthralled by that country: its cultural richness; the environment; the food, but most of all the friendliness and warm hospitality of its diverse people. There were, of course, issues that confounded me and stark contradictions stared back at me from many directions, but of particular concern was the scale of the poverty amongst vast sections of the population, an issue that visited me at home frequently. A small begging community gathered regularly at my front gate, hungry and calling out for food. As my knowledge of the Indian social structure deepened, I came to understand that these people belonged to the most oppressed castes in Indian society and not only they, but a multitude of others were living in poverty, and with hunger.

Jean-Martin Bauer’s book The New Breadline: Hunger and Hope in the 21^st Century addresses those very issues of social oppression and politics also that create the condition of hunger for millions of people across the globe. He is well placed to author such a book. With twenty years of experience with the United Nations World Food Programme and now Country Director of the programme in Haiti, Bauer brings to the book a wealth of experience in humanitarian work to alleviate hunger in West Africa, Syria, Iraq and Central Africa, and now in his home country of Haiti.

Bauer tells us that fewer people than ever starve in the world today thanks to technological progress and the creation of systems to bring food aid to people. Indeed, at the turn of the 21^st century the success in winning the battle against hunger was so encouraging the world’s governments publicly committed to eliminating hunger by 2030. That aspirational deadline however appears to have been kicked into the grass as tragically in 2023 it is estimated that 250 million people still faced acute hunger, double the number in 2020. Read more »

by Steve Szilagyi

“Body and spirit are twins. God only knows which is which” –Algernon Swinburne

When I was ten or eleven, the Great Geauga County Fair still displayed what it called human oddities (the term Freak Show had fallen from use by that time). These included the Lizard Man, the Human Pincushion, and the Fat Lady. All were pictured in large paintings outside their tents. The Fat Lady’s picture might have come from the brush of Fernando Botero, the Colombian painter and sculptor who made a career out of depicting round and puffy men, women, and animals. But the real Fat Lady did not look like that at all.

“Ask me anything,” she said, as my brother and I stood before her, staring. An electric fan rippled the hem of her simple cotton dress in the late August heat. She must have been in her 30s, pink-cheeked, with massive calves. Her eyes stared past us, and her voice was flat.

My brother and I could think of nothing to ask. Even as ten and eleven-year-olds, we felt nothing but pity for this woman. She was not one of those people who are “big-boned” but a slight person who was carrying too much weight. There were romance magazines (so many!) piled at her feet, suggesting that she had a rich imaginative life.

We also felt kind of cheated. The Fat Lady was not a legitimate “other” like the Lizard Man, her neighbor in the tent next door. The Lizard Man had black, cracked skin, and stumps for arms and legs. He wore a porkpie hat, sunglasses, and satin shorts. “Hit the Road Jack” trilled from the transistor radio by his head. We thought he was cool. The Fat Lady might have been one of our country aunts if she’d eaten too many of her own apple and pumpkin pies.

The Lizard Man couldn’t help what he was. But all the Fat Lady had to do was lose some weight, and she’d be outside the tent with us—a regular person. Of course, it’s not that easy. We all know that the extent to which the obese are responsible for their condition is a topic of hot controversy. Read more »

by Mike Bendzela

I begin writing this essay the morning after dumping into the woods the sixth porcupine I have had to kill this growing season. It used to be that I would not see any evidence of porcupine damage in my apple trees until early August, but this year I began seeing chewed-off branches in late June. As with other ecological aberrations, it’s tempting to attribute the early arrival of porcupines in the orchard to a warming planet: We experienced a preternaturally early heatwave in mid-June in Maine, breaching 90 degrees on the 19th. Then it shot up to 96 degrees on the 20th, which is just weird. It stayed so hot through July that my onions and potatoes stopped growing and my broccoli failed to head up. All apple varieties are at least a week ahead of schedule this year. In the midst of this, I had to start my weekly scouting ritual extra early, going out into the orchard after midnight with a .22 pistol to deal with spiny rodents in the trees.

Why even shoot porcupines out of trees? It is undoubtedly a despicable practice, and I hate guns, but I can find no way around it. Porcupines love apple trees, and if left to themselves they will chew bark, branches and fruit until the trees are denuded of apples and permanently damaged. Then the well-fed porcupines will produce porcupettes, who will return to the orchard next season to continue the damage.

“Damage” is a matter of perspective. The porcupines are just doing what porcupines do — eat trees. They are rodents, with long, curving claws and incisors that continue to grow throughout their lives. The teeth are orange because they are literally iron-fortified. The animals can gnaw branches right off the trees and then descend to the ground to take bites out of apples. Sometimes they stay in the tree and go from apple-to-apple, gnawing and chewing. The damage they do is often shocking, but they are only doing to the trees what we humans do to lobsters — tear them to shreds and eat them. Read more »

Interior wall in the very high-ceilinged lobby of the Munich airport Hilton, showing some of the rooms.

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by Brooks Riley

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