From flashbacks to testimony – reflections on the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Childhood Sexual Abuse

In September last year I delivered a paper to a conference sponsored by a major research centre on the history of emotions. It was a step away for me from the hidden bureaucrat who never speaks in public or who does not share the depth and range of his thoughts. Perhaps I hoped it might take me on the path not taken, and leading me back to my early career aspiration to be an historian.

But that was not to be. But I did receive a pleasing response to the paper from the conference attendees.  The paper concerned the Australian Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Childhood Sexual Abuse, which has since 2013 been inquiring into the many cases of child sexual abuse in the churches, in schools, in government institutions, in the entertainment industry and so on.

It has been a remarkable event in Australian public life. At a moment when public institutions are locked into a degrading tit-for-tat spiteful conversation about all that is petty, this Royal Commission has found a way to speak in the most dignified, profound way about issues that are distressing and difficult. It was this enigma that I wanted to portray, and I sought to connect it to the history of emotions.

Martha Nussbaum has written of the use of emotions in public and political life, and of the importance for democratic societies of tragic spectatorship, and providing a form for the difficult social emotions that can bring public life down. Here, she speaks in a timely meditation on finding a better way to be angry – surely a task for our times. And it was precisely this way of giving form and art to difficult emotions was at the foundation of the Royal Commission’s achievement.

I still think I might write a short book or a long essay on the Royal Commission, which will complete its report soon and publish it just before Christmas this year. But in the meantime I am posting my talk at the conference on Children’s Voices in Contemporary Australia.

*****

The remembered child who speaks of trauma – reflections on the Child Abuse Royal Commission.

Jeff Rich

Paper to conference held by ARC Centre for the History of Emotions

Children’s Voices in Contemporary Australia

Session – Voices that testify

September 9, 2016

The Children’s Voices in Contemporary Australia Symposium explored the status of children’s voices and their ability to tell their own stories. The symposium heard from neuroscientists, historians, legal scholars, literary scholars, mental health and child welfare practitioners, and most importantly children and young people themselves.  My contribution is a little different since it looks not at the voices of today’s children, but the remembered voices of children, as spoken by the adults who have testified at the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse.

Children’s Voices and Royal Commission Testimony

Sometimes during the many survivor testimonies at the Royal Commission, you can hear summoned from the memory of a 40 year old, a 60 year old, even an 80 year old, the voice of the traumatised child. Though spoken by adults, they are children’s voices nonetheless, even if filtered through all the prisms of memory, later experience and narrative reconstruction. To attend so carefully, at last, to these voices is one of the great achievements of the Royal Commission.

Although they are not strictly contemporary children’s voices, the way the Commission puts them on the public stage is demonstrating new possibilities for how we all respond to children today. Indeed, the example set by the Royal Commission through its inquiries, public hearings and most significantly its private sessions is reshaping community attitudes and institutional responses to children. Fragile, sometimes dissociated, remembered voices of traumatised children are no longer brushed aside as sob stories from too long ago. And so the Commission has borne witness not just to the facts, but also to the emotions carried in these voices.

More than that – and here I think the ARC Centre for History of Emotions could play a role – the Commission is reshaping our emotional responses to trauma – even inventing a new emotional regime (to use the term of William Reddy, the historian of emotions).

There is in historical writing a booming field of the history of emotions. This field has diverse  origins in the study of the mass psychology of crowds and irrational irruptions of violence in civilised societies. The field has explored contrasts between modern rationalised societies and their medieval or anthropologically remote counterparts, the birth of manners and civility, the emotional experience of family, art and many quotidian experiences. Since the 1980s, the field has received great impetus from discoveries and borrowings from the life sciences, as many disciplines learn from new understandings of how the nature of the brain, cognition, emotion and culture are intertwined in human evolution and history. Socially, too, it has been spurred by the diffusion of self-help groups across many social movements and health concerns, and this practice has prompted historians to ponder the existence of “emotional communities” – affinity groups of akin styles of expressing and acting on emotion. This opening out of historical writing to felt experience, and its examination of how emotions are shaped and adapted over time, how cultures and institutions give rise to particular patterns of emotional life, and how they enable particular ways of understanding, expressing and acting on the shifting impulses of feeling. It has led to a boom of studies of fear, anger, shame and violence that can deepen our understanding of the community response to the Royal Commission, and go beyond general arguments about social attitudes or indeed lazy clichés like “moral panic” which, in the past, have been tagged to people concerned about child sexual abuse.

William Reddy is among the most distinguished practitioners of the history of emotions.  In a strange irony, Reddy’s The Navigation of Feeling was, in fact, published the day before the terror attack on the twin towers buildings in New York on September 11 2001, and the history of emotions has ever since perhaps spoken to the anxieties of our time. Reddy has coined two terms “emotives” and “emotional regime,” which can be used to examine the articulation of emotion through the Royal Commission. “Emotives” refers to a certain characteristic of utterance of emotion – mid-way between an unacknowledged instinct and a fully intentional expression of a known self. It is an exploratory and incomplete articulation of feeling, whose point is its own experiment with expression, not revelation of truth or purpose.  In an interview, Reddy explained:

“Emotional expressions, in this sense, are neither constative nor performative, in Austin’s sense. They are a third kind of utterance: this is why I coined the term “emotives” for them…. An emotional expression is an attempt to call up the emotion that is expressed; it is an attempt to feel what one says one feels. These attempts usually work, but they can and do fail. When they fail the emotive expression is ‘exploratory’ in the sense that one discovers something unexpected about one’s own feelings.” (Plamper, “Interview”, 2010, p 240)

Reddy defines “emotional regime” as “the set of normative emotions and official rituals, practices and ’emotives’ that express and inculcate them.” In the Navigation of Feeling he explores contrasts between the emotional styles or regimes of Revolutionary France and later nineteenth century France, and argued that each regime led to different qualities of emotional suffering, with the regime in nineteenth century France offering more choices and hope to the individual.

This way of thinking about how societies shape and use emotions, or indeed how emotions shape and use societies, is of profound importance to understanding the Royal Commission. It is a truth commission that is not solely investigating documentary and analytical truth, but the truth of felt emotion. It is cultivating ways of speaking of the intimate shame of victims, bringing to light new truths about the failures of our social institutions, and new truths about how we can go beyond them. Shame is not an emotion that has been extensively investigated in the history of emotions, but it is central to the more philosophical work of Martha Nussbaum. In Hiding from history: disgust, shame and the law she explores how responses to shame and disgust are profoundly revealing of social and political distinctions, and through “projective disgust” can readily lead to derogation of the rights of others. By accepting our embodied, vulnerable and animal states, we become more accepting of others, more compassionate. But if shame leads to the separation from the strange and disgusting other, then it leads to some of the worst cruelties of humanity.

Nussbaum also explores systematically the role of emotions in public political institutional and cultural life. Her argument is that there are two main tasks of political emotion in liberal societies. The first task is to cultivate love,  sympathy, and strong commitments to worthy projects that require effort and sacrifice. So, a prime example is to cultivate the compassion for others that underpins paying taxes to support others in a full range of activities, and to redistribute some resources to the poor and frail. The second task is to hold at bay “tendencies to protect the fragile self by denigrating and subordinating others,” especially on how societies handles fear, disgust, envy, and shaming others. (Nussbaum, Political Emotions,  p. 2)” Emotions do not simply exist as passing feelings within an individual’s psyche. They find cultural and symbolic form to motivate, and they become embedded with institutions, and so become intrinsic to the institutional responses to common human dilemmas. Hence governments need to craft the use and institutional form of emotions carefully along two tracks. Nussbaum writes:

“In other words, government may attempt to influence citizens’ psychology directly (for example, through political rhetoric, songs, symbols, and the content and pedagogy of public education), or it may devise institutions that represent the insights of a valuable type of emotion— as a decent tax system, for example, could represent the insights of a duly balanced and appropriately impartial compassion. …. the motivational … is always in dialogue with the institutional” (Political Emotions, p 20).

The Royal Commission would perhaps have made a more stirring example in support of Nussbaum’s argument than the tax system.  The Royal Commission is establishing institutional arrangements to support victims, perpetrators, and bystanders to speak of their difficult emotions. And by its example, and in response to the widespread public discussion of the many stories from the Royal Commission, it is triggering a change in our history of emotions, prompting the formation from thousands of individual and institutional responses a new emotional regime, in William Reddy’s terms. It refers to the modes of emotional expression and thought that are dominant in a particular time period and cultural context. An example of changes in an emotional regime is the turn to a more effusive emotional style in the decades before and during the revolution  associated with sentimentalism and Rousseau’s writings, including his Confessions.

And, I think, unless we do create a new emotional regime to respond to trauma – we will not be able to really succeed in establishing the flexible, robust and supportive responses to children’s voices that we aim for. It is part of the practical genius of the Royal Commission that it is not only focussing on a new regime of laws and policies and systems, but developing practices, stories and changes in heart that can support such a new emotional regime.

About the Royal Commission

For three and a half years – since April 2013 – the Australian public have grown accustomed to the stories from this Royal Commission being a regular news story. Over that time we have heard many moving and distressing accounts of child sexual abuse in every major social institution with responsibility for children. 45 of 70 case studies have been heard. The most widely known cases involve Cardinal Pell and the Catholic Church – which for a week earlier this year put the Commission in the global news spotlight. But the Commissioners have investigated poor responses by many other institutions – various faiths, churches and their affiliated welfare services, schools for the elite and the disadvantaged, orphanages, disability services, hospitals, health regulators, sports organisations, State child welfare departments, youth justice centres, the YMCA, child care centres, and the police; still more institutions are to come.

It has been an extraordinary reckoning with a troubling past, ongoing failures, and some difficult questions of why? Why did this occur, and can it be prevented in the future? Why do people do these terrible things? Why do children not speak up or are not listened to? Why can it take decades before a person can disclose abuse? Why do good people fail to act when they know about them?

How I became connected to the Royal Commission

I was introduced to the work of the Royal Commission from an unusual perspective. For about two years I was coordinating the responses of the Victorian Health Department to the Royal Commission – including examining our archival and historical records for documentary evidence of any past failures in Victoria’s health institutions.

While there was some abuse in health institutions, it appears to have been much less common than in orphanages or out-of-home care, religious institutions and schools. As a result, my work refocussed on the broader interpretation of the Royal Commission – what was the significance of this public event, and what impact was it having on the community, especially the health of the tens of thousands of survivors of abuse?

Now, I am no longer in that role, but I left the role remaining curious about what the Royal Commission told us all about our shared emotional life, and those difficult questions of “why?”.

The Royal Commission seemed to be like a great rolling scandal that revealed the spirit of the times, like the Dreyfus case in nineteenth century France. So I conceived the idea of writing a book about the Royal Commission. It would share the remarkable stories from all the people who appear at the commission – the victims, the perpetrators, the bystanders, the leaders of institutions, and try to explore some of the perhaps unanswerable questions that the Commission, with its obligation to develop careful legal argument and actionable recommendations, could not address. And this paper is a first public venture of some of the ideas for that project.

Silencing children and the context of abuse

The Commission has exposed so many failures by so many institutions. As Justice McLellan has said “there has been a time in Australian history when the conjunction of prevailing social attitudes to children and an unquestioning respect for authority of institutions by adults coalesced to create the high risk environment in which thousands of children were abused” (Speech, 2015). The actuarial assessment is that 60,000 survivors will come forward to seek redress. We do not know how many have already died from suicide, crippling shame, alcohol and drugs. This great tragedy was a “system failure” [to use the term the Royal Commission prefers] in which “those in responsible positions who failed to provide appropriate policies to guide the institution and practices to inhibit the actions of offenders.” (Speech, 2015)

Perhaps the hardest thing to come to terms with in the Royal Commission was how perfectly ordinary and common this failure was. It was not just evil doers or a dark Vatican conspiracy; but good people who did good things, and yet failed to respond effectively to this great epidemic of human suffering. The hearings show over and over again, that “well-intentioned people did not understand and did not respond to failures which should have been obvious in the institutions of which they were part.” (Speech, 2015)

This failure cannot be explained without thinking about the history of emotions, and how emotional regimes drove responses to the children who spoke of their abuse. So, if as Julia Gillard says the Royal Commission will “change Australia”, it will be change not only in what we do – the policies and laws and systems we put in place – and but also how we feel, how we express and act on those emotions – especially shame and the difficult emotions provoked by childhood trauma and abuse.

We need an emotional regime in which difficult emotions in tragic situations involving vulnerable children do not drive people – victims, perpetrators, bystanders, witnesses – into frozen, silent shame that can ignore any rulebook of good policies and procedures. I do not see much evidence yet that the history of emotions as such is on the radar of the Royal Commission although as it completes its final report perhaps it should be. In some ways, however, the Royal Commission’s practice is ahead of its theory on this issue. In its most important role of bearing witness to victims, the Commission has shown a remarkable sensitivity to emotional truth and developed several practices have created a safe stage on which the remembered voices of childhood trauma can be spoken.

The Commission has devised a certain way of speaking trauma to power through its private sessions, its case studies, its preparation and support for witnesses, its publication of a hundred anonymized stories of abused individuals, and through the respectful conduct of the Commissioners and the lawyers representing all parties. It has instructed victims in simple forms of retelling their stories that have brought these private histories of trauma safely into the public discourse. Yet in doing so, it has not tampered with the fragmented, dissociated and vulnerable voices of trauma. It respects the conflicted emotions. It honours the lapses and faults in memory. It stands as a guardian for the voice of trauma that can now speak despite its fears, and the threats and the intimidating authority of the courtroom, and indeed of the Royal Commissioners as the supreme representatives of investigative powers of the state, of the symbolic blessing of the Crown. The courtroom is transformed from a site of retraumatisation to a place of healing where victims can speak of their difficult histories.  In so doing these voices are heard beyond the private and become a public cathartic drama for us all.

Parramatta case

I want to give just one example of the appearance of this remembered voice of trauma. It is from case study 7 which examined the Parramatta Training School for Girls and the Hay Institution for Girls.

Both institutions have a quite shocking record of abuse – they were subjected to harsh discipline, which went to extremes at the Hay Institution – As the Royal Commission reports:

“Witnesses said that girls were subjected to military-style discipline and forced to march everywhere with their eyes to the ground. They were only allowed to talk to each other for 10 minutes a day.  At both institutions, girls often faced severe punishments for disobedience. They might be deprived of food or told to scrub floors. But the worst punishment at Parramatta Girls was being sent to an isolation cell. (Report on case study 7, pp 5-6)”

Here girls were sent for periods of weeks in an underground isolation cell, known as the dungeon, where girls were regularly physically and sexually abused by staff, including the superintendents running the facility. Again I do not want to focus on the details of the abuse, but as we are now learning to expect, this abuse has long term and devastating impacts on life opportunities and mental health – ex-residents all experience ongoing psychological trauma, including depression, stress disorders, flashbacks, trust issues, relationship issues, problems feeling any belonging to community, and suicide attempts.

One survivor the 65 year old Coral Campbell gave evidence on the final day of the four-day hearing on Parramatta. There she said: “I walked through the big green door of Parramatta Girls as a little girl and I came out of its big green gates a slut and a prostitute” (Campbell, Transcript Day 50, p 5141, lines 43-46 )

She still suffers flashbacks and horrible memories. These flashbacks are often triggered by the number 11, as she told the Commission, because number 11 was her nominated number at the institution – that was how she was spoken to. Like many victims, she did not tell anyone in authority or the police about the abuse because she did not think she would be believed. Indeed, like many she did not say anything about the abuse until much later in life when she was 55 years old, 43 years after the events. Whenever she heard the word Parramatta or 11 she would freeze in a flashback –

“It opened up that Pandora’s box that I tried not to think about. Little things would click and I’d go back. I’d go back…. From the dungeon at ground level sat a little girl at night-time, looking through those bars. You could see the hospital. Very frightening to be on your own, not knowing what to expect next time or what’s coming up.” (Transcript Day 50, pp. 5143-44)

The abuse led to great confusion in her mind – was she a good girl, was she a bad girl? She went on “And I’m still confused today. When I first reported my statement, wrote my statement, for the Royal Commission, I was scared. I was scared. Will they believe me? Would anybody believe me? I never even told my mother and father what happened to me in that home.”

What happens next in the courtroom is both moving and revealing of the changes in practice that the Commission has introduced. The Commission did indeed gain Ms Campbell’s trust through a private session where she received the welcoming attention of two Commissioners, and therapeutic and legal assistance with preparing her statement. Nonetheless, the Counsel for the Commission wanted to draw attention to the topic of redress, or financial compensation as one of the systemic issues being investigated by the Commission. Had she ever applied for compensation?

“Oh, Mr Atkinson asked me that in the private session. I said to him, “I don’t want compensation. All I want is a funeral by the State, a wake for my friends and family and a headstone saying that Coral was a good girl. That’s all. What can money buy? What can any financial situation – if you did get it, what can it buy? It can’t bring back that little girl that I was looking for but could not find.”

To me, this testimony shows the exceptional thing about this Royal Commission; that this voice of the remembered child – both very strong and very fragile – is allowed to speak, without challenge at this Royal Commission. Indeed, this voice is given greater respect than all the lawyers, government officials and senior church figures who traipse through the court, still unable to speak with quite this raw vulnerability.  There in front of the assembled silks of NSW, in front of a long table full of over-briefed barristers, this remarkably brave woman seeks only restitution of the shame she suffered as a child.

In this way the Royal Commission is, I think, doing some of the work of staging public emotions that Martha Nussbaum discusses in her Political Emotions: why love matters for justice and her book on shame and disgust, Hidden  from humanity: shame, disgust and the law. In Political Emotions, she describes this work as “tragic spectatorship” and argues it is essential to form bonds of compassion, love and justice within a community.

So, by sitting together the voices of power and recalled trauma, the Royal Commission is bringing about lasting change. This “tragic spectatorship” can dissolve authority’s frozen shame about its dark history of child welfare. By creating institutionalised practices that can cradle the voice of traumatised children, at whatever age they choose to speak, and by cradling the difficult emotions of shame and voicing these tragic stories of remembered children on the public stage, the Commission achieves an important task – for thousands of survivors now it has sensitively and justly turned their insistent traumas of childhood into safer histories of abuse. Together with the survivors, the Commission has turned flashbacks into testimony.

 

References

Nussbaum, Martha, Political Emotions: why love matters for justice (Cambridge Mass./London, 2013)

Nussbaum, Martha, Hiding from Humanity: disgust, shame and the law (Princeton, 2004)

Plamper, Jan, “The history of emotions: an interview with William Reddy, Barbara Rosenwein and Peter Stearns” History and Theory 49 (May 2010) pp 237-265

Reddy, William, The Navigation of Feelings: framework for a history of emotions (Cambridge, 2001)

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, Report of Case Study No. 7: Child Sexual Abuse at the Parramatta Training School for Girls and Hay Institution for Girls (October 2014)

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, Redress and Civil Litigation Report (August, 2015)

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, Interim Report (June 2014)

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, Speeches, accessed from http://www.childabuseroyalcommission.gov.au/media-centre/speeches

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, Transcripts of Public Hearings for Case No. 7, accessed from http://www.childabuseroyalcommission.gov.au/case-study/f5e0f634-5670-4abf-bdf6-c7d8a58d677f/case-study-7,-february-2014,-sydney

 

 

Hannah Arendt and remembering thought

Hannah Arendt and remembering thought

After listening to an episode of the On Being podcast, titled Thinking and Friendship in Dark Times, I took up the invitation to remember the impact on my own thought of Hannah Arendt.

The podcast featured a literary critic who used the mantle of Arendt’s thought to criticise approaches to refugees, global capitalism and the evils of bureaucracy. Yet still the grounding of Arendt’s thought in the dappled things of ordinary experiences, friendship, neighbourliness, the freedom to make a new beginning shone through. The piously radical lecturer, speaking from her holiday home in Southern France, may be surprised to learn that Arendt remains an inspiration for a benighted lowly under-castellan at the far end of the world.

I took up an old faded copy of The Human Condition, which was published first in 1958, and read its profound ironic beginning that described the attempt to land a man on the moon, and so flee the bounds of the one gift that we all share, the one and only known world of ours that we may choose to love. Arendt subtly notes that this trope of escaping to other worlds shows that men are not slow to take up the dreams of science, but have outsped them by decades, notably in the genres of science fiction.

This dream of the flight to the moon, like the dreams to overcome our limits through technology or to outreach mortality itself, becomes for Arendt a symbol for modern world alienation – “its twofold flight from the earth into the universe and from the world into the self” (Human Condition, p. 6).

Amor Mundi. That was the dreamt title for Arendt’s book that became The Human Condition. To love the world as it is, and not to seek revenge against reality in utopias of technology, totalitarianism or utopias. This was the lesson that I absorbed most from Arendt when I read her works assiduously in my 20s and early 30s.

She also spoke to me as an outcast. Where our podcast literary critic embraced Arendt’s status as a refugee to castigate the world; I saw in her a determination to love the world as an outcast, to see it clearly, and yet to make new beginnings and to disclose your self to the world. That is what human freedom is for Arendt. Not to remake the world; but to give birth to new things in a world that is precious, bounded, beyond our control and yet the only one we can ever know.

It is this stance that shines through in an interview between Arendt and Günter Grass, filmed in the 1950s, complete with on-screen smoking. This interview is a remarkable survivor in itself. It begins with Grass challenging Arendt’s role as a philosopher in a male profession; to which she replies, I am no philosopher, and certainly belong to no circle of philosophers.

Then it proceeds to Günter Grass questioning Arendt on her absence of political commitment, such as joining a party, to oppose the Nazi party on its rise to power. Such dramatic irony: we know now both the intimate betrayal of Arendt by the crude political beliefs of her one-time lover, the awkward heir to Nietzsche’s tradition of poetic philosophy, Martin Heidegger;  and the secret, which Günter Grass himself held close during this interview, that Grass served in the Waffen-SS during the war.

Heidegger’s philosophy is a melancholy meditation on being thrown into time and being, anxiously anticipating death. For him remembrance discloses the miracle of Being, and all that we will lose in death. So thinking should not seek to analyse, but to memorate. So I find in one of the old index cards on which I recorded my thinking, this gloss by George Steiner on Heidegger‘s Letter on Humanism on the distinction between logos and legein:

The latter, claims Heidegger, does not signify a discursive, sequential saying, but an ingathering, a harvesting, a collecting and re-collecting (re-membering) of the dispersed, vestiges of Being. To think fundamentally is not to analyse but to memorate (Danken ist Andanken), to remember Being so as to bring it into radiant disclosure (George Steiner, Heidegger, p. 124)

Arendt, by contrast, thinks deeply about memory, but together with what she calls natality, the “capacity to begin, to start something new, to do the unexpected, with which all human beings are endowed by virtue of being born” (Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy). And natality brings her thought closer to action and the love of the world. After all, we love our children, and do not seek to remake them as more perfect humans.

It was Arendt’s political thought – and in the video interview, she denies being a philosopher in favour of being a political theorist -that moulded me deeply. From Arendt and others I absorbed a refusal to fall into oppositional categories, dualisms of left and right, conservative and progressive. The works I read most closely were Past and Present and On Revolution, which especially seemed to carry the paradox I myself experienced of wanting to love the world as an outcast. On a card I have written down from On Revolution:

To the extent that the greatest event in every revolution is the act of foundation, the spirit of revolution contains two elements which to us seem irreconcilable and even contradictory. The act of founding the new body politic, of devising the new form of government involves the grave concern with the stability and durability of the new structure; the experience, on the other hand, which those who are engaged in this grave business are bound to have is the exhilarating awareness of the human capacity of beginning, the high spirits which have always attended the birth of something new on earth. (Arendt, On Revolution)

From the irreconcilable emotions we find in beginning and enduring spring our opposites of political thought – conservatism and progressive liberalism. But, Arendt says, this centuries-old tradition of political thought “must be recognised to be among the symptoms of our loss.”

The deeper lesson of enduring through dark times that I find in Arendt’s writings is the responsibility to bring together as friends or at least as neighbours our human plurality – thought and action, enduring and beginning, conservative and progressive dispositions, aggression and passivity, vita activa and vita contemplativa. Not remaking of the world through technological or bureaucratic utopias, but poetic thought is an essential pathway to this imagined coexistence.

She closes The Human Condition with the remarks that thought remains possible “wherever men live under conditions of political freedom.” But Arendt notes that “no other human capacity is so vulnerable, and it is in fact far easier to act under conditions of tyranny than it is to think” ( p 324). This duty for poetic thought in destitute times rests on all of us, not a few ivory tower academics. We can create such thoughts each in our own public samizdat. So the last words of the book that should have been titled Amor Mundi retreat rightly from the noisy marketplace, and repeat the great words of Cato the Elder, the conservative Roman senator and historian:

“Never is he more active than when he does nothing, never is he less alone than when he is by himself.”

 

 

 

Why is alcohol policy difficult?

About 10 years ago I took a job running an alcohol and drug policy unit in the minor provincial government in which I serve as a lowly under-castellan.

It turned out to be a very rewarding experience, at least if you count the intrinsic rewards of work as the most important. I met some remarkable people – Robin Room, Stefan Grunert, David Best – and also struggled with some of the hardest questions, so it seemed at the time, of public policy.

Alcohol, so my colleagues kept telling me, was one of those wicked problems. For me though, coming to terms with the difficulty of alcohol policy was something more of a personal journey of recovery.

Serving the wayward and the drunken, it turned out, did very little for my career. I plunged deeper and deeper into a kind of career crisis, in a smelly eddy far away from the flow of success. But I also accomplished many things, and not the least of those things was a kind of understanding of my conservative disposition in which grew my attachment to the ethos of my institution.

It was that ethos that I saw forgotten and dishonoured all around me. It was the realisation that I had fused my identity with a culture that was disappearing from the world that would in time lead me into despair. About a year or so after leaving the alcohol and drug policy job, I wrote a conference paper that tried to make sense of it all. I gave this conference paper to the Kettl Bruun Society conference.

You can read it here:

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/265728731_Why_is_alcohol_policy_difficult_Reflections_of_a_bureaucrat

Or if you don’t want to bother with research gate, try this Why is alcohol policy difficult Kettl Bruun conference September 2014

Some time later, a student interviewed me about the experience when another great city took fate in its hand and succumbed to the grand follies of controlling the availability of alcohol.

The hope of none

The hope of none

In reading Austerlitz last night, I stumbled on the passage in which the relayed memories of Austerlitz tell of his ambling into the strangely desolate town in which lie the ruins from which he has averted his attention for four decades. Here he finds the reason for his long avoidance of his personal and national history. Here he recovers the fate from which he fled as a Jewish child on a train. Here he knows again the loss, the unbearable trauma, that none of his family survived.

There he sees the gate of Theresienstadt, with its slogan in wrought iron decorating its upper border.

Arbeit Mach Frei.

None who entered believed this slogan of the powerful, this siren song of productivity.

Only the eerie freedom of death, if it can be known, was delivered here.

But we have forgotten. Again, we are led to believe that work will set us free.

We need to remember, like Austerlitz, and to turn and face the great destructiveness at the heart of our modern society – this turning of the necessity of work first into a compulsion, and then into a vocation.

Creative destruction? Innovative disruption? None truly believe that surely?

It is not work, but simpler perceptions that can give us all hope, that may set us free.

So says Zbigniew Herbert in “The Envoy of Mr Cogito”:

Beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring the bird with an unknown name the winter oak 

light on a wall the splendour of the sky 

they don’t need your warm breath 

they are there to say: none will console you

 

Image: The gate of Theresienstadt in the Czech Republic, former German concentration camp

Turn and face the strange…

Turn and face the strange…

About a year ago I wrote a post Time might change me, but I can’t change time. It was prompted by Felipe Fernandez-Armesto’s A foot in the river: why our lives change and the limits of evolution, and frustration with a dose of bland management rhetoric about change.

Today I finished rereading Fernandez-Armesto’s book, again prompted to reflect more deeply on change by a defiant reaction to urgings from senior bureaucrats to change with change. I also learnt that I had misheard the refrain from Bowie’s song, and substituted one “change” for the more mysterious “trace”.

What more might I say about change beyond the slightly dyspeptic remarks of a year ago?

Fernandez-Armesto’s book is valuable because it is a deep reflection on what is really meant by change, and how change happens, especially in the realm of culture. Organic change occurs through evolution, selection and inheritance. But cultures do not evolve. The changes that occur in cultures follow no uniform pattern of descent, progress, or adaptation for survival., He rejects the common stock of metaphors that give shape to changes in cultures over time, and in their place portrays a chaotic, pluralistic world, with vectors of change shooting in all sorts of direction.

But he does agree with our bureaucratic leader friends that the speed of change is quickening. He speculates however, that these changes may slow or even cease. The great successful cultures, he remarks, are those that have endured with little change for thousands of years. Those cultures that have run furiously after the lure of change have brought on their own collapse. Today’s innovation is tomorrow’s ruin.

The striking thing about these reflections is how they emerge from a deep reflection on biology and culture, and an attempt to think on change across those disciplines, so long divided. He presents the now well-established evidence that culture is not a uniquely human treasure. Other creates have culture, especially our fellow primates. No other species has yet imagined such a bewildering diversity of cultures. And to differentiate in culture is to change chultures.

It might interest readers to note the chain of propositions that Fernandez-Armesto sets down so helpfully at the outset of his book.

  1. “culture is a by-product of faculties of memory and anticipation evolved in some species”
  2. “those faculties predispose cultures to change”
  3. “humans’ faculty of anticipation is exceptionally developed and contributes to making them highly imaginative”
  4. “humans are the most mutable of cultural creatures because in their case peculiar features of memory and imagination make them fertile in ideas (which I understand as ways of re-imagining the world)
  5. “ideas are the main motors of change in human cultures”
  6. “the pace of change is a function of the mutual accessibility of ideas: the more that ideas are exchanged, the more new ideas ensue; and cultural instability increases accordingly.”

Our biology, especially our brains, bestow on us a faculty of imagination; and with that imagination we unleash a crowd of change on the world. Imagination feeds on its own artefacts, its misprisions, its deceits, its delusions, its random deviations. Change is not a driver. It is not the final cause of external reality. It is culture’s wild child.

“Culture stimulates imagination further still, partly by rewarding it and partly by enhancing it with psychotropic behaviour. We praise the bard, pay the piper, fear the shaman, obey the priest, revere the artist. We unlock visions with dance and drums and music and alcohol and excitants and narcotics.”

Change is not an external necessity, to which we must loyally submit, but the coils of the “imaginative animal.”

Imagination is the motor of culture. We look around us. We see the world. In our mind’s eye we see it differently – improved or made more conformable to some imagined model or pattern ideal of order; or, if our taste so inclines us, we envision its destruction or reduction to chaos. Either way, we recraft our world imaginatively. We act to realise the world we have re-imagined. That is how and why cultures change.”

So we come to a more genial response to the stern lectures from managers on changing with the change that beset us. These changes are so often so petty, and yet insisted upon like a martinet commander demanding conformity with some new marching order. But they are but one imaginative reordering of the world. I choose another dream with less fury, less tempest, and deep roots in the great world-tree.

 

13 ways of looking at bureaucrat IV: in unity is death.

13 ways of looking at bureaucrat IV: in unity is death.

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

Wallace Stevens, 13 ways of looking at a blackbird, stanza IV

The supreme fiction of government is the unity of politics and administration. This fiction is told through many conceits and many variations. Sam Finer’s glorious achievement, his multi-volume History of Government from the earliest times, written after his retirement from the university, distinguished decision-makers and decision-implementers. Woodrow Wilson, long before entering politics, as a young doctoral student, looked to the Prussian bureaucratic tradition to imagine a science of administration not dirtied by “the poisonous atmosphere of city government, the crooked secrets of state administration, the confusion, the sinecurism and corruption ever and again discovered in the bureaux at Washington” (“The Study of Administration” 1887, quoted Fukuyama, Political Order and Political Decay: from the Industrial Revolution to the Globalisation of Democracy (2014). There, in an unworldly puritanism sickened the patronage of politics, public administration was born as a field of study.

Weber composed his conceit differently, with a more tragic foreboding, as rational-legal authority. Duller economists compose mathematical formulae on the principal-agent problem to seek to explain away messy human problems. Both hide away in rules or in contracts the divisions between politics and administration.The Westminster system itself, that common resort of scoundrels among the top echelons of the bureaucracy, vests this fiction in myths of Ministerial responsibility and meritocratic appointments. And then there are the true believers in political will, reform, integrity or leadership, who dream that their vision of the world can be imposed through government as one. The leader, their Cabinet, the top officials, the minor officials, the public sector unions, the stakeholders will all get on board as one, and the great Reform, the last Utopia, will reveal itself to the world..

Two cannot be one. Nor can three, and even less any higher number. We live in unresolvable plurality. Our lives are long acts of distinguishing ourselves from others. It is in finding the differences in our being and living together with them, not confusing our leaders with “unifying intelligence,” that we find authentic identities and life-giving freedom. And it is only by abandoning the supreme fiction of unity that we can see truly the presence of the bureaucrat in governing.

After all, it is not as if bureaucrats have been much loved by the politicians who are the true rulers of governments. A government is, as both the Oxford English Dictionary and Stein Ringen (in his masterpiece, A Nation of Devils: Democratic Leadership and the Problem of Obediencedefine it, is a body of persons who govern a nation. That body of persons are the Ministers who form the ruling party. To distinguish the government from governing or the vast strange web of governance is to see clearly the blackbird flying into view like the holy spirit. As Ringen writes:

we need to unwrap the system that generates governance and explore what goes on inside it. For me, the relationship between the political bosses and their civil servants, for example, is very much a part of the mystery of governance, and I don’t want to hide that mystery away in a definition that says that both bosses and servants are parts of the same thing” (A Nation of Devils).

To see the differences, we need to look past the nice compliments and befuddling stories of cohesion traded by serving and retired witnesses of high politics. Behind closed doors, or when pressed by recurrent failures, the venom and the hatred of difference comes out. What better example than that great advocate of reform and vision, Tony Blair, who Ringen magisterially assays as a master of “activism in all things, and accomplishment in none”(A Nation of Devils). A master of appearing across his brief, Blair’s unifying intelligence could never grasp why the institutions at his command did not unify before his fluffy will. His whipping boy was the civil service. He would describe them as the “sinecure cynics who despise anything modern and are made uneasy by success” (Tom Bower, Broken vows: Tony Blair – the tragedy of power (2016)).

His recurrent sallies at reforming the National Health Service all failed, so that he resembled some latter-day Don Quixote, who had lost touch with reality through reading too many business magazines and crisply titled consultants’ charts. He surrounded himself with advisers who comforted him in his delusions, but he could not ever really see the real people in the institution and how it might be made to work better.  The civil service was always wrong, always a problem, always in need of reform and modernisation. Tom Bower’s remarkable account of Blair’s tragic years in power is informed by many interviews with the most senior and many more officials who served around Blair’s sofa court. Through their testimony they make clear that Blair ran a government at odds with itself, and with any decent culture of governing. Politics itself was fragmented, and his intellectual divorce from the “traditional culture of government during his decade in Downing Street” undermined all achievement. His undeclared civil war within government itself led to the tragic failures of Iran and Afghanistan; but more Bowers concludes:

“We now realise that the path to the two wars was not an aberration but all of a piece with the way his government behaved across its entire domestic agenda, especially in the areas of health, education, energy and immigration. In a tragic sense, Blair had been consistent.” Bowers, Broken Vows, p 594

Unusually, Bowers in his biography of Blair leaves the last word to a bureaucrat. There were three top civil servants, Cabinet Secretaries who served Blair – all competently and loyally in Bowers’ judgement. They all Bowers said, after witnessing the strife of politics and administration and Blair’s many questionable acts, later judged that “Blair had not been a laudable guardian of the public’s interest.” The book closes with the reflection of longest-serving under Blair of these Cabinet Secretaries, Richard Wilson:

“There are events during my period as Cabinet secretary that make me shudder at what I remember because we had high hopes and we were so disappointed. He promised so much, but in the end so little was achieved.” Bowers, Broken Vows, p. 594

More disappointment had been harvested from the supreme fiction of government. What might have been if this illusion had been dispelled, and stronger leaders of public institutions had acted with a belief that in unity is death?

 

Image source: Daily Telegraph

13 ways of looking at a bureaucrat: vigilance amidst stillness

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
(Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, stanza 1)
We citizens flatter ourselves sometimes by believing that government, big brother, and ultimately some bureaucrat somewhere in a police or intelligence agency, is really watching us. The ever vigilant state is more a paranoid dream of libertarians, artists and entrepreneurs – all rebels against bureaucratic rule – than a genuine historical phenomenon. Yes, there have been states where individuals and their errant minds have been tracked down, followed, and described in exacting, excruciating detail. Anna Funder’s Stasiland recounts the underworld of eternal vigilance created by one such state. More powerfully, I recall that Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem was painstakingly written on cigarette papers, committed to the memory of her friend, and then silently burned so that no all-seeing eye of the KGB would detect her lament of dissent.
It is also true that we live in times of both unprecedented scrutiny and uninhibited exposure of our digital communications. The collaborations between national intelligence agencies and large information technology firms, exposed by the leaks of Edward Snowden and to a lesser extent Julian Assange, have created not an ever-twitching, omniscient eye, but a vast and messy drain in which all the banal facts and words and digits of our lives swoosh down into a dense black big data mess. We are told that clever algorithms and super-smart graduates of the best universities can see patterns in this oozy, sticky mess. I wonder if this is just hubris.
In any case, the super-spies huddled over their super-computers are a rare and atypical form of bureaucrat. And their form of vigilance is not the only kind practised by other bureaucrats. For the most part bureaucrats observe their field with the same tools we all have – publicly available information, intuition pumps that read social behaviour, the ready-made ideas that circulate in the popular press and magazines, the cultural memes of our times. This great majority of bureaucrats content themselves with recycling and rehearsing the mantras of the day – whether those mantras are taken from some inept consultant’s report, the editorial of the Financial Review, or the opinions and  prejudices fostered by their social circle. They draw their interpretations of the world from a common stock of ideas that requires little searching for truth and little investigation of deeper questions. These ideas find their confirmation quickly, and reflect the governing consensus of their patrons and the powerful kingpins who guide the networks to which they belong. These bureaucrats are the conformists and lackeys of those zombie ideas that so dominate our governments, especially after the degradation of public intellectual culture over the last 30 years. They are the managers who cannot find a better argument in favour of the changes they propose than that change is always happening and you can’t fight change. Ironically, they cannot see that the same change undermines their calls to reform the world in the static image of their own utopias and interests.
But there are some other bureaucrats, perhaps a small but significant minority, who are less like squawkish parrots with their imitative cries, and more like the eye of Stevens’ blackbird, restlessly searching a vast immoveable world of snowy mountains for a clue to the unfolding of this world. This kind of bureaucrat seeks out contrary opinions and conflicting information. This kind of bureaucrat regularly scans the best academic journals of their field to find an idea that is better than their own. This kind of bureaucrat speaks after a meeting to the quiet voices in the room, and looks carefully and meticulously at the surprising data, that does not fit neatly the line graphs of progress or decline. When this kind of bureaucrat is challenged by their Minister to find some kind of model of cultural change – “someone must have one, surely?” – they will look outside management journals, and read deeply in anthropology, biological sciences, behavioural psychology and history before realising that we are posing again the enigmas of Heraclitus, but with no patience for oracles. Such a bureaucrat will pose to themselves everyday fundamental questions that try to make deeper sense of the social patterns they observe in their reading and in the social and cultural worlds around them.
I know such bureaucrats exist; because I have been one. It is true we are a small, and likely dwindling minority. Yet are not all of our most precious cultural heritages the same scarce, endangered species? To preserve this tradition is essential if our societies are to be governed well, and our great intellectual traditions are to be conserved against degradation by the chic and stupid mantras of people on the make. It is given to a few perhaps to be the seers: to observe the things that others cannot see, and then to find the words to communicate them so that the great ship can keep sailing on. Those seers are rarely the grand mandarins who control large organisations. They do not receive the medals and the gongs. Their photoshopped faces do not appear on the Mandarin news site. Nor are they the self-confident consultocrats who trade up their reputations with the latest fashionable nonsense. They suffer the exile of all prophets, and are often found wandering wounded, lame, even blinded in the organisations who neither like nor support them. They do not even promise utopia and transformation. The long vigil has taught them of the limitations of the human animal. But if we see them, if we find a way of truly looking at this kind of bureaucrat, if we hear what they have learned through their long years of vigilance, then perhaps we can save our bureaucracies from the depredations of management that mistakes ambition for thought.