Seen from the state centre, this enclosure movement is, in part, an effort to monetise the people, lands, and resources of the periphery so that they become, to use the French term, rentable… The objective has been less to make them productive than to ensure that their economic activity was legible, taxable, assessable, and confiscatable or, failing that, to replace it with forms of production that were.

This strikes me as being fundamentally true, and gets to the heart of why empire lead to modern capitalism. But it also reminds me that the internet represents a new frontier in that effort; the growing online black markets are unacceptable not because they subvert a status quo, but because they cannot be integrated. Legislative efforts to curb online freedom are the logical response of a system of government that has profound cultural homogenisation at its ideological core.

Zomia is a political and geographic oddity first remarked upon by a Dutch historian, Willem van Schendel, in 2002. Loosely speaking, it refers to a massive, octopus-shaped tract of land in south-east Asia that is the subject of increasingly heated academic attention.

The map above is wrong – not only is the extent of the shaded area quite arbitrary in places, it mislabels Tajikistan as Uzbekistan – but it is presented here as illustration.

Zomia is a huge territory, conceived as being the largest contiguous area that, despite falling beneath the aegis of various national governments, is essentially beyond their control. The exact boundaries are inevitably imprecise, given that they shift with national priorities and the ability of central governments to exert power, but certainly the highlands set away from the coast of Vietnam, all of Laos, most of Thailand, the Shan Hills of northern Burma, and the mountains of Southwest China are all functionally lawless, and the famously unstable regions of Kashmir, the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan and the areas on either side of the Durand line can be said to extend this further.

Zomia is, of course, a metaphor. It does not describe a physical reality in the way that a national border does. While it is fair to assert that the area under attention is characterised, broadly, by a territorial ambiguity and general lack of statehood, giving it a name and a border ascribe a coherence to it truthfully lacks. Frank Jacobs at the NYT piece linked to above falls into that trap, using Zomia to illustrate a point about modernity and its discontents. Joshua Foust takes issue:

Unless one equates modernity with answering to a central government you did not choose, this is all wrong… the idea that these transitional regions resist their governments because they reject modernity is nonsense. Afghanistanis and Pakistanis do not reject modernity writ large: they love running water and sanitation and schools and iPhones and electricity and the Internet. Even the Taliban enjoy and appreciate these aspects of modernity. What they are rejecting is a government they view as abusive and unrepresentative. Moreover, most Afghans still identify as Afghans, even (or perhaps especially) when explaining why they reject rule-by-Karzai. So it’s not as simple as rejecting a national identity or modernity.

But while the metaphor can be over-applied, there is a real truth on the ground that is interesting and worth discussion. In his book, ‘The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia,’ James Scott describes Zomia as “the largest remaining region of the world whose peoples have not yet been fully incorporated into nation-states,” and that’s a much fairer – albeit narrower – point. The idea of an area that is beyond the reach of a central government may feel anachronistic, but in truth the Western idea of a government with total reach is a relatively modern historical oddity. There are still other parts of the world where borders are notional – think of the Western Sahara, or parts of Latin America. Zomia represents a way of life that is dying out – an area that is not anti-modern, just ruggedly regionalist. Foust again:

The idea of a lawless region as an object of analysis is fraught with issues. These regions are not “lawless,” as Jacobs calls them. They just operate under different laws that are neither drafted nor enforced by the state. The tribal areas of Pakistan, for example, actually follow a long-established pattern of competition between local and central methods of control. Similarly, Southwest Kyrgyzstan isn’t rejecting modernity by any stretch, it is just coming under the control of mafia dons who have taken up high-level positions in the local and regional government. It’s not lawless, it’s just a different kind of law, however un-ideal and crappy.

Paul argues that America’s twentieth century saw its competitiveness and prestige tarnished through a series of ideologically incoherent, politically unnecessary wars, which also happened to be massively expensive and left the country’s political class in hock to its military industrial complex. He doesn’t just want to pull US troops out of its remaining one-and-a-half wars; he wants to root the military out of government payrolls entirely, proposing to shut bases from Germany to Korea, ending foreign aid entirely (which of course plays into a broader political point, part of which is that much of that aid goes to countries who simply use it to buy American kit), and reducing both economic and military support to Israel. The last paragraph tells you one important thing about Ron Paul: namely, that he will never be the President of the United States, or even a nominee for that office. Nevertheless his ideas resonate, both with young libertarians and rightward-leaning centrists. They have a long tradition in the US – military intervention is a post-war innovation, and it has been noted that Paul’s policy really only echoes those of the country’s thirteenth President Millard Fillmore.

But Fillmore lived in simpler times. Do the politics of a complex, interconnected world allow for the isolation of its greatest power?

The short answer is probably no. Obama has found disentanglement harder than his campaign rhetoric suggested; the Afghan war drags on, drone bombings have massively increased and offences against human decency, such as corpse desecration and Guantanamo Bay, remain as problematic as they were under President Bush. This is partly a reflection of the world in which we live. Retired Colonel Pat Lang today asked

It is not clear to me what Ron Paul’s actual position is. Someone should ask him what he would do if the Iranians actually attempted to close the Strait of Hormuz to international maritime traffic. What would he do as president and commander-in-chief of the armed forces?

Presumably Paul’s counter would be that, by pulling its military out of Iran’s vicinity and reducing its support for Israel, the US would reduce tensions and improve its leverage sufficiently that such a situation would be less likely to arise. But this is optimistic, not least because the US is hardly alone amongst Iran’s agitators (Britain is arguably even less popular in Iran than the US). Disrupting oil traffic is an extreme case, but the truth is that the US is implicated, either directly by dint of supplied equipment, economically by dint of strategic interests, or morally by way of training or political support, in more or less every conflict that could conceivably take place. The international system is immensely complex. The US can not extricate itself from the web of coercive force that partly constitutes the international political order. One way or another, all wars are about power, and therefore all wars inevitably factor in the superpower. Declaring isolationism will never protect the US from being attacked.

Obama has already demonstrated that imprudently promising an end to American war. In truth, the call to war for any country is often driven more by events outside that country’s borders, and the intentions of a single leader can rarely stand in the way of the inevitable – remember, George Bush Jr came to power expecting to be a peacetime President. Paul’s rhetoric is hopeful, but it is based on a fantasy that can never be realised unilaterally. Were Ron Paul ever to find himself in the unlikely position of holding office, his principles would not survive first contact with the enemy.

Because that’s what the good men of SEAL Team Six did – they were given a kill order and they executed it, no pun intended.

It’s a complex question and gets tangled up in a lot of other problems, both emotional and intellectual. This post aims to unpick some of that.

Was it legal?

Many will hardly care whether it was legal or not, arguing that right and wrong are not always reflected in law. That’s a fair point, but legalities are still important, if only because they’re the difference between the subjective opinion of an individual and the agreed parameters established by a society.

On this issue the rules are actually very straightforward and relatively unambiguous: killing Osama bin Laden was inalienably legal under international law.

Under international humanitarian law, a member of an armed organised group can be killed as an enemy combatant, and as al Qaida was a recognised participant in the war in Afghanistan his death is an entirely justifiable act of war. The only strictures on such an action are the principles of distinction and proportionality, and the action in Abbotabad seems not to violate either of those restrictions.

Under international human rights law (a separate and oftentimes contradictory code), targeted killings are harder to justify but still not impossible. The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights of 1966 is the document that governs this code, and it states that “no one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his life” – meaning that assassination is legal so long as it can be justified. If he had attempted to surrender then the case would be sticker, but the White House claims that bin Laden resisted arrest and that is certainly consistent with his own pronouncements of the issue. Given that the White House holds video of the killing – which can be subpeona’d – we can probably assume that they are being truthful in this regard.

Was it morally justifiable?

The question of moral right or wrong breaks in two – ‘can it be coherently justified to others’ and ‘is it, at a fundamental level, consistent with the moral norms established in our society’. One can be critically examined; the other is conceptually much more woolly.

The question of whether the killing could be justified is straightforward. Yes; it is clearly possible to build a coherent and convincing argument asserting that killing bin Laden was morally preferable to taking him alive. Here’s how you do it:

• He was an enemy combatant, not a civilian. While taking him alive was an option, killing him was an equally viable one, and the question needs to be viewed in that light.

• There was no gain to be had from taking him alive, for the following reasons:
• He would not have given up information except under extreme torture, and the compulsion to use that torture would have been acute.
• Taking him alive would not have changed the ultimate outcome. He confessed to the crime, he only would have been tried in America, and he would have been put to death.
• The only difference is that taking him alive would have subjected the world to the spectacle of a court case, which would have had no real value. It would have been impossible to try him fairly, it would have been perceived to be a humiliating sham amongst our enemies (and many of our allies) overseas, regardless of how rigorous the trial actually was, and it would have given him one last prime-time podium from which to agitate for further slaughter. I accept that we should not be afraid to face extremist rhetoric, but that doesn’t mean we have to give it our network airtime.
• The key point in the above section is that it wouldn’t actually win us any friends. People don’t like that we assassinated him and that’s sad, but the shitstorm we would have faced for trying him would have been much worse. The Nuremburg trials would have been invoked, and probably not entirely unfairly. America’s own divisions would have come to the fore as everyone’s favourite bigots – Beck, O’Reilly, Palin, Trump – would have vied to be toughest on the terrorist. Even our allies in the region would have been forced into the position of defending Islam, and bin Laden by proxy, from the acid tongues of America’s most divisive assholes.
• Every day that he spends on TV in an orange boiler suit and shackles, his friends get more pissed off. That means reprisals, and not just against us – against anybody.
• The videotapes of bin Laden’s final hours would be passed from hand to hand like relics. It’s a short-cut to martyrdom.
• All of these would be equivocations from a moral imperative, though, were it not for one thing: he was an enemy soldier in a time of war. If he was a political leader, a civilian, then it would be a different matter, but he was a man whose life was war. Ultimately, this was the end he chose, and we shouldn’t let an obsession with abstract principles interfere with that.

So it’s certainly morally defensible. If the Dalai Lama can bring himself to recognise the justification then it seems bizarre to suggest otherwise.

Was it right?

If it’s legal and justifiable, then surely that shouldn’t be in question?

And yet. Outside of ground zero, away from the gates of the white house, many people – not just the airy-fairy left – are uneasy. The policy of whacking terrorist leaders is from an Israeli playbook that has a tendency to inspire revulsion, as Alan Dershowitz notes:

Among others, these critics include officials in Britain, France, Italy, Russia, the EU, Jordan, and the United Nations. [Jack Straw, the former British foreign secretary] once said, “The British government has made it repeatedly clear that so-called targeted assassinations of this kind are unlawful, unjustified and counterproductive.” The French foreign ministry has declared “that extrajudicial executions contravene international law and are unacceptable.” The Italian Foreign Minister has said, “Italy, like the whole of the European Union, has always condemned the practice of targeted assassinations.” The Russians have asserted that “Russia has repeatedly stressed the unacceptability of extrajudicial settling of scores and ‘targeted killings.’” Javier Solana has noted that the “European Union has consistently condemned extrajudicial killings.” The Jordanians have said, “Jordan has always denounced this policy of assassination and its position on this has always been clear.” And Kofi Annan has declared “that extrajudicial killings are violations of international law.”

Yet none of these nations, groups or individuals have criticized the targeted killing of Osama Bin Laden by the US. The reason is obvious. All the condemnations against targeted killing was directed at one country. Guess which one? Israel, of course.

I disagree with Dershowitz’s conclusion – I think that bin Laden is a qualitatively different name from Mahmoud al-Mabhouh, and politicians tend to be sensitive to the political sensitivities of condemning the killing of such a widely despised man. But nevertheless, a bad taste lingers. No-one is quite sure if they’ve passed through the looking glass.

Bin Laden wore no uniform. Is the argument that he was an armed combatant not a legal fudge? Yes, putting him on trial would be politically difficult. Isn’t that the kind of difficulty a strong society, with a sound ideological basis, should welcome? And aren’t the flag-waving crowds at ground zero… kinda crass?

And ultimately, those are justifiable concerns. I agree with the decision as it was made, but still, I am uneasy. It’s never comfortable to see an act of war feted on a widescreen TV.

Perhaps this moment will be a moment of closure, a final transgression that allows America to move past its dirty wars, to put Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay behind it, and to close the door on “enhanced interrogation” and extraordinary rendition. If that turns out to be the case then the moral qualms will have to be quashed, because it will have been worth it, this final destruction of the mirror that reflected America back upon itself. If not then America will continue to owe us a little more justification for this than it has yet been able to give, to quiet that tiny voice of conscience; but in that case, more and greater atrocities await.

I’m posting this, an article about an economist with some unusual ideas about poor world economic alleviation, relatively uncritically.

The central conceit of the article is the work of Paul Romer, a Senior Fellow at Stanford and successful software entrepreneur. Mr. Romer wants to build a series of what he calls “charter cities” – cities run by rich-world governments on land loaned to them by poor-world countries. The article invokes two models – Hong Kong under the British and Lübeck under Henry III of Saxony. If you think that the idea sounds wacky, then you’re not alone. It is a decidedly odd proposition, but for all that it inspires a certain sense of moral abhorrence, it’s an interesting thought experiment, and deserves to be examined for its merits.

His solution may be unconventional, but his diagnosis is complex and mostly rings true. Although an awful lot of poverty can be traced back to underlying causes – corruption, a lack of resources, an unskilled workforce, rich world privilege or weak distribution networks – one feature that is common to almost all poor societies is weak governance.

To drive home the importance of good rules to economic growth, Romer sometimes shows a photograph of Guinean teenagers doing their homework under streetlights. The line of hunched, concentrating figures presents a mystery, Romer says; from the photo it is clear that the teens are not dirt poor, and youths like these generally own cell phones. Yet they evidently have no electric light at home, or they would not be studying by the curbside. “So here is the puzzle,” Romer declares: Why do these kids have access to a cutting-edge technology like the cell phone, but not to a 100-year-old technology for generating electric light in the home? The answer, in a word, is rules. Because of misguided price controls in the teenagers’ country, the local electricity utility has no incentive to connect their houses to the power grid. Their society lacks the rules that make technological advance meaningful.

The Atlantic’s article is subject to the usual sloppy editorialism – the reason why many poor-world homes lack access to electricity cannot solely be reduced to rules, as it will also have roots in infrastructural weakness, high energy generation costs and old-fashioned sleaze. But Romer’s charter cities are more nuanced than that; not only are they intended to provide governance models that will have a pervasive effect throughout localities, they are also intended to act as mediums through which richer countries can funnel defensive stability, money and expertise into a populace.

So the idea has some merit, to the extent that it attacks some of the problems that it sets out to solve in a way that traditional aid does not. Frustratingly, the Atlantic’s article is a puff-piece, and makes very little attempt to examine the further problems that it potentially raises:

1. What country would willingly allow a project like this to take place on their land? Forget the problems implied by corruption – countries with poor governance tend to have poor governors, and western cities on the doorsteps of corrupt officials would cause unwanted scrutiny, provide a safe haven for anti-government sentiment and act as a drain on public purses intended for skimming. The colonial period demonstrated that local populations resent foreign dominance immensely. The anger and distrust that the example of Hong Kong engendered cannot be understated.
2. So if willing assent can be discounted, can it be assumed that charter cities will be imposed by force? Hong Kong was seized; Lübeck was rescued from anonymity and anarchy in the troubled times preceding the rise of the Hanseatic League. Neither example is entirely happy. Even in troubled times, Henry III’s presumption made him no friends, and his possessions were eventually taken from him. Fondness for Britain in her former colonies is in short supply. Furthermore, these were both isolated incidents. At a time when America has earned the ill will of much of the Middle East, it can be seen that no power in the modern world has the capacity to hold several such properties against the will of local populations.
3. The commitment for rich countries would be significant and long-term. This post assumes that the scheme would be undertaken as a philanthropic venture, and that the client cities would not be subject to rapacious profit-seeking – a long assumption at best, but the scheme is posited as philanthropic so that seems like the best basis upon which to judge it. Britain held Hong Kong for a hundred and fifty years and sunk huge amounts of its extensive resourced into it; by the time that Britain was a shrunken homunculus of a power. Would rich governments or populations be prepared to risk so much for such intangible rewards?
4. There is evidence that Hong Kong was exceptional, and reasons why it was exceptional have not been fully examined. Hong Kong was the only part of the British Empire to such achieve gains under the British. The rest of the Empire had mixed results. The benefits conferred upon India are debatable; developmentally it garnered advantages, but the economic gains were weak and confined to a ruling class, deepening and entrenching inequalities already in place thanks to the local caste system. Southern Africa was left with an even more extreme inequality in the form of apartheid. Egypt was left almost entirely undeveloped as its domination was purely strategic; Britain wanted control of Suez. British presence in Mesopotamia led to the formation of the state of Israel; good for Israel, but the local population received fringe benefits at best. The West Indies… so on, so on. Hong Kong was made rich for strategic reasons; it was Britain’s entrepôt and the economic capital of the region. The circumstances in which it existed were unusual.
5. Finally, there exists a problem with the fungibility of governance systems. A British system of patent, competition and bankruptcy laws, for example, may not be the most appropriate in all situations; some countries will respond, for reasons of existing legal traditions and social expectations, to a French of German system. However, this is a decision that will always be subject to political interference and historical influence.

So there are good reasons to discount the actual manifestation of the idea. But that shouldn’t be taken to undermine the perspective that it takes when considering the problems that traditional aid faces when addressing questions of global poverty. The idea exposes some real problems with the assumptions that we make when attempting to confront inequality and these problems deserve to be examined.

Full credit to Kevan for the link.

A Winter In Arabia by Freya Stark is not a straightforward book to read, but it is extremely rewarding for anyone with an interest in history, archaeology, the Middle East, and kick-ass female explorers who make it look easy.

The book was published in 1972, some 45 years after it was written. In it, the author chronicles the season that she spent – along with her companions – searching for the ancient city of Shabwah, the capital of the southern Arabian state of Hadhramaut. Long since lost, the city had been a capital of culture and trade in the region; Pliny catalogued it thus:

Almost in the very centre of that [South Arabian] region are the Atramitae [Hadramis] – the capital of whose kingdom is Sabota [Shabwah], a place situated on a lofty mountain. At a distance of eight posts [days' travel] from this is the incense-bearing region inaccessible because of rocks on every side, while it is bordered on the right by the ocean, from which high plateaux shut it in. The forests extend eighty miles in length and forty in width.

In search of this city, Stark travelled through pre-Westernised Yemen, detailing the culture of the people with whom she interacted and the landscapes through which she journeyed. Her heroics are matched by the land she describes; Hadhramaut is a particularly dramatic part of Arabia. Comprised of an immense valley, which runs for 160 km from open plains in the west, where the cliffs of the rocky plateaux to north and south close in about it, near Shabwah, towards the dry and inhospitable Wadi Masilah in the east, the area is a curious mix of desert and fertile river plains. The main Wadi (Wadi meaning river or river-cut valley) Hadhramaut itself is 12 km wide in some places, and is fed by innumerable tributaries, but beyond the city of Shabwah one quickly reaches the desert of Saihad – ‘an empty desert, a wilderness where the winds blow in all directions, a country where crows are king ‘. Only after travelling west across this desert for three days would one come to irrigated fields and settled lands once more, the beginnings of highland Yemen. This is the country that Stark describes.

The first thing that should be said about this book is that it is deeply poetic. Stark’s writing is fluidly lyrical, and is as evocative as it is enlightening. Her voice is not that of a dull-but-worthy academic, in pursuit of esoteric potsherds, any more than it’s an echo of the manly heroics of Thesiger and Lawrence; it’s… well. It’s a voice the deserves to speak for itself:

In the dry bed of the canal, close to where it takes off from an ancient “damir” or dam, we pitched our camp. A lithab tree (ficus salicifolia) hung above with long and pointed leaves; from its boughs my mosquito-net and the guns of the beduin were suspended… As I lay in bed I could hear Sayyid ‘Ali entertaining, and the entranced laughter of the company: he was imitating the
sayyids of Meshed, and the voices murmured on into my sleep; till a shock-headed man, creeping round my bed for his gun, woke me – the last inhabitant of Radhhain going home. I lay then, enjoying the warm delicious night. A sickle moon was shining; the pointed leaves of the lithab hung black before it, in Chinese loveliness; a small wind woke suddenly from nowhere, flapped the leaves against each other and died as it had come. The moon sank. Voices of foxes echoed in the cliffs – echoed and re-echoed, like some lost chorus high above the world. When I woke again it was to the singing of birds. The branches, so lovely against the moon, were the everyday branches of the lithab. Only their enchanted memory remained.

Stark’s writing conveys deep knowledge and understanding, but also profound affection for the land, the people, and the life that surround both. It’s not necessarily easy to read; you have to concentrate, or otherwise after an hour or so it all starts to elide into a formless mass of undifferentiated beauty. But this is a book to dwell over, and it rewards the persistent reader with keen insight and human detail.

The star of the book is the character behind the narration, however. Stark was an incredible woman. This book doesn’t document her first trip to Yemen; a previous expedition had failed due to an illness that almost killed her. Before then, she had already travelled extensively throughout Arabia, notably completing three dangerous treks in western Iran and being the first European to reach Alamut, the long-lost fortress of the Assassins. She was more than just an explorer, however, and A Winter in Arabia is littered with passages expounding upon her own philosophy (of which a lengthy excerpt can be found here). She continued to travel until her death, at the age of 100, in 1993. To experience Arabia with the benefit of her perception, humanity and fierce intellects is one of the great draws of this book.

This book deserves to be regarded as belonging to a corpus of European works which, when taken together, provide an overview – albeit Eurocentric – of pre-Westernised Arabia. The aforementioned Thesiger’s Arabian Sands is perhaps the most famous of this body of work. In many ways, Stark and Thesiger had a great deal in common. Thesiger was an explorer, too, most famous for crossing the Empty Quarter of the Arab peninsula – several times. He was only the third Westerner to do so, and often operated contrary to the wishes of the local and international authorities, but with the respect, admiration and friendship of the local Bedu – a respect that lasts to this day; an adventurer in the classic sense of the word, but also a gifted social observer. He shared Stark’s dismay at what he perceived as the growing Europeanisation of Arabia and its indigenous culture. A major theme of both books was the deterioration of an old order, just as it was about to be swept away: Thesiger’s last journey across Arabia’s sands was from the oasis of Al Ain to the trading port of Muscat, now a city in the UAE and the capital of Oman respectively. He spent nearly two months in 1949 in that interior. It now takes just under 4 hours to drive from the Hilton in Al Ain to the Sheraton in Muscat; I know because I’ve done it. Thesiger would have hated it, and the power of the book is such that it made me hate it, too, even as I was doing it.

Stark’s work evokes a similar sense of deterioration, but unlike Thesiger, the bland, monied future that she feared, cleansed of all of its identifying features by a glut of RAF bases and oil revenue, didn’t come to pass. What did come to pass was worse; an awkward halfway-house between modernity, with its guns and narcotics, and tribalism, poverty and alienation. Unable to resist the world that developed around it, and lacking the resources to preserve its heritage, the Yemen of today is a much-changed beast.

An alternative perspective on the issue comes from Geoffrey Bibby’s Looking for Dilmun. At the outline level, these books have a great deal in common; like Stark, Bibby was an archaeologist seeking the remains of a long-lost civilisation. Bibby’s obsession was the empire of Dilmun, a long-lost – and supposedly mythological – empire which was mentioned in Sumerian legend but never geographically placed. Contemporaneous with the Indus Valley civilisation, Sumer, Babylon and Akkad, Dilmun was found by Bibby on the island of Bahrain, although hints have since been found of an earlier civilisation on the same grounds; it is thus one of the oldest sites of human civilisation that we know of.

Unlike Stark, however, Bibby was an oil man himself, based in Bahrain and gifted only with an intellectual curiosity and a slightly more moralistic outlook than many of his contemporaries. Where Stark and Thesiger detailed an Arabia as yet unsullied by the graft of Europe’s finest grubbers, Bibby’s story is all about the cracks in the façade as they slowly spread, and the desperate attempt by Arabia’s last traditional rulers – such as the Sheikh of Abu Dhabi, who distrusted Bibby enough to eventually exile him despite Bibby’s professed academic and historic mission. Compare that with the reaction earned by Stark and her companions in the excerpt above!

Many of the characters and locations appear in two or even all three of these books. Between them they chart a heartbreaking story of the decline of an indigenous way of life, albeit – and this has to be stressed – from the somewhat Eurocentric perspective of a motley band of explorers and outsiders. Their value thus exceeds their individual conceits; these are more than just travelogues or historical diversions. They are records of a way of life that has deteriorated over the course of a single lifetime.

In that capacity, Stark’s work immediately stands out as the most successful. The human warmth and compassion that she has for her Yemeni and Bedu hosts is apparent on every page (“We cannot be completely isolated, like European delicacy in cold storage”), and her relationships with the people that she encounters transcend the vignette. In an early passage, she returns to one of the sites of her earlier journey, and “wonder[s] uneasily which of the many delicate causes that ruin eastern relationships could possibly have ruined my friendship with those two, Sa’id and Husain;”when, a few pages later, they reconcile, there is a sense of human connection that overcomes cultural barriers.

For me, this was a wonderful, nostalgic read. As an account of an a culture that has long since passed on, it’s stimulating. But what makes the words jump off of the page is the lucid, witty prose of Stark, and the character that lies behind it.

Whatever your opinion – and you only have another 20 hours or so to decide – make sure that tomorrow you go out and vote. You may not feel like it has an impact and you may, ultimately, be right. But the act of engaging in a political process is its own virtue. Own your vote, own your issues, and own your own little corner of the debate, and you will find that the politicians work pleasingly hard to meet your needs.

Over the last few weeks I’ve written an implausible amount on the three parties, their manifestos and their policies. I hope that someone has found it useful; it’s actually been quite handy for me as a way of gathering my thoughts on the various topics and investigating them at length.

But now it’s time.

—

When a politician refers to “front-line services,” they are talking about a wide array of things. Firefighting, the Post Office, jobcentres, and embassies all qualify. But in truth, the politician is probably talking about something much more narrow. In politicianese, the term “front-line service” is really shorthand for two things: schools and hospitals.

If immigration is Britain’s equivalent to the bitter cultural clashes of America’s bipolar body politic, then schools and hospitals are more like the First Amendment: although arguments as to details may get heated, there remains a consensus across the political spectrum as to the overall direction of travel. If Britain is to succeed in the 21st Century, then education needs to be strengthened and broadened; and the NHS is part of our political and social heritage, and should remain well-funded and widely accessible. This level of broad agreement means that the debates surrounding school and hospital reform tend to be somewhat more advanced than those surrounding crime or migration – which can make “correct” outcomes hard to judge.

Schools
Despite the very best of intentions, schools have not done well under Labour. It’s a stark statement but not an unfair one; results have declined over the past decade. In studies by the OECD, a rich-country think-tank, British 15-year-olds came well above the average in 2000, at eighth in mathematics and seventh in reading out of 27 countries. In 2006 they scored below the average in both, at joint 18th and 13th respectively. In science, at least, they remained above-average—but fell from fourth to ninth. The 2009 data are due but there is little evidence to suggest that they will to buck the trend.

One thing that the Labour years have clearly demonstrated is that this isn’t a spending problem. Real spending per student has doubled since 1997, to an average of £5,900 per student per year. School buildings have been improved and facilities extended; teacher pay has risen above inflation; teacher shortages, barring a few persistently problematic areas like mathematics and physics, are mostly receding, although tough schools in poorer areas can face a fearful struggle to attract a capable and qualified faculty. A lot of money has been spend on classroom assistants; a recent report (pdf) was critical of the impact that this influx of support staff has had.

Meanwhile, the Economist, amongst others, alleges that young talent has been ineffectively managed:

Able pupils have also been shortchanged. Labour has started and then wound down three schemes to stretch students in the top 5%, whether academically (“gifted”, in the parlance) or in music or sport (“talented”). Attempts to find some sort of talent in everyone, and teachers opposed to giving anything extra to those already doing well, scuppered each in turn.

While this feels like more of a political or philosophical point than one based in fact-based evidence, it’s noticeable that while all three parties have pledged to do more to support struggling students, there’s a general lack of willingness to engage with the question of how best to stretch those students whose capabilities exceed the necessary restrictions of classroom teaching.

That notwithstanding, the proposals for how to best support struggling students are mostly weak; Labour do promise to provide individual tuition for children who fall far behind their peers in primary school, but this is uncosted; the manifesto claims that:

This will include up to 40,000 six and seven year olds benefiting from extra tuition in English and Maths through ‘Every Child a Reader’ and ‘Every Child Counts’

but it’s unclear who would be delivering the extra tuition: existing teachers, classroom assistants, or additional resource. The Tories, however, seem to have a fairly narrow idea of what education needs; the manifesto devotes a measly 3 pages to it, mostly advocating a return to the 1920s – “better teachers and tougher discipline” seems to be the unifying theme. (Especially entertaining is the Troops to Teachers programme, in which the Tories envision ex-service personnel being retrained for the classroom – presumably to instil some barracks-yard drill-sergeant discipline into the youth of Peckham.) The Lib Dems are favouring the approach that they seem to have gone with in most of their manifesto promises – reach into the magic pot of Trident money and chuck it at the problem:

• Increase the funding of the most disadvantaged pupils, around one million children. We will invest £2.5 billion in this ‘Pupil Premium’ to boost education opportunities for every child. This is additional money going into the schools budget, and headteachers will be free to spend it in the best interests of children.

• The extra money could be used to cut class sizes, attract the best teachers, offer extra one-to-one tuition and provide for after-school and holiday support. This will allow an average primary school to cut classes to 20 and an average secondary school to introduce catch-up classes for 160 pupils.

The approach of targeting investment at schools that are struggling is welcome, especially after Tory and Labour proposals to link performance to results (apparently with the logical understanding that the way to fix schools with poor results is to give them less money), but it doesn’t hide the fact that the Lib Dems don’t really have any concrete proposals for actually improving performance: their manifesto contains such well-meaning emptiness as “improve discipline by early intervention to tackle the poor basic education of those children who are otherwise most likely to misbehave and become demotivated” – hard to disagree with but a long way from being an actual policy.

Having said that, both the Tories and the Lib Dems offer suggestions on how to recalibrate the curriculum (all Labour do in this field is promise to add a teacher training qualification for Mandarin). The Tories proposals are muddled (they promise a primary curriculum organised around subjects like English, Maths, Science and History; the current primary curriculum is organised around English, Maths, and Science) but they explicitly state a desire to make exams, particularly Key Stage 2 exams, harder. One interesting proposal is the suggestion that public schools would be free to offer international exams, similar to those offered by private schools, although one would hope that the governing principle would be a desire to ensure that GCSEs are competitive against these fancy international baccalaureates. The Lib Dems’ proposals are bolder. They would establish an independent body to regulate standards, incorporating OFSTED and replacing the existing (toothless) Qualifications and Curriculum Development Agency. They would scale back Key Stage 2 examination, relying on teacher checking and ongoing assessment. They would remove the arbitrary distinction between academic and vocational education, and echo the Tory policy of allowing a broader range of courses and examinations to be offered in schools. Perhaps most radically, they would axe the National Curriculum, replacing it with a “minimum curriculum” upon which teachers can embellish. This last is bold, but probably problematic, as it raises questions of how testing will be standardised and whether tougher schools, with less experienced and qualified teaching staff, or smaller schools, in which the teachers already bear a greater burden for lesson design, will be able to offer as well-tailored a product as more affluent and better-resourced schools.

Teaching is not the sole driver of results, however. The way that schools are created, closed and run is also important. The Tories have their much-mooted Swedish policy, under which the decision on who gets to open new schools will be removed from the dead hand of local government. Parents, charities and other not-for-profit groups will be encouraged to create new schools that could be open by September. Funded by the state according to the number of children who attend, they will stand or fall according to their popularity with parents. Smaller, more expensive schools that local councils are ready to abandon could be rescued by a committed citizenry.

There are costs to this. Like the (existing, mostly popular) City Academies, this scheme will be expensive and will sit alongside the existing state school infrastructure, possibly to its determent. Discouraging well-intentioned and not-so-well-intentioned groups with agendas would be more of a burden here than in small, liberal Sweden. But the truth is that until it’s trailed, it’s hard to say how effective this will be. The one place where this will certainly be unpopular is the teaching unions, whose political power would be sharply reduced.

The Lib Dems are also keen on supply-side reforms but have no idea how to go about it; their policies mostly leave schools still dependent on local government, which means that they would struggle to seriously change how schools are instituted and funded. The manifesto speaks of well-meaning platitudes, such as an Education Freedom Act banning politicians from getting involved in the day-to-day running of schools, but little of any concrete worth.

On higher ed, the picture in Britain still looks mostly positive. As discussed in a previous post, however, the Tories have policies in place that would dissuade lucrative foreign students from gracing Britain’s elite universities. Meanwhile, The Lib Dems have reinstituted their long-held policy of scrapping tuition fees, which is still a terribly policy that seriously undermines their credibility when it comes to universities. The Tories and Labour go the other way, and both parties are likely to back a raise in the cap it tuition fees from £3,000 to £5,000 per year.

This will be unpopular but may be necessary, given the lean years which are ahead. Labour argue that they missed their target, under which they aimed to send 50% of young people to University, by a whisker despite raising the levy to £3,000 in 2003; the UK’s system of student loans and grants meant that the raise actually affected admissions very little. And, to be fair, the higher education participation rate for young people from the most disadvantaged areas has increased every year since 2004. Labour have also intimated that funding for expansion of university places will linked to course types – science, tech, engineering and maths will all be promoted.

Conclusion
I have used my last two posts to talk down the importance of some major electoral issues – the economy and crime in particular. But education is genuinely important – probably the most important single issue at stake in the UK right now, and our long-term economic and cultural vitality is dependent on the right mixture of policy, infrastructure and regulation.

All three manifestos have some merit, as well as some obvious deficiencies. The Lib Dems’ approach to primary and secondary curriculum reform are probably the strongest; not just by default (Labour barely even have a policy on curriculum reform, and the Tories’ policy boils down to “whip them with nettles”) but because it contains ideas that are genuinely worth exploring, such as the flexible funding for school budgets. The Tories’ Swedish school commissioning model is interesting despite it’s potential pitfalls; although potentially expensive it could inspire some excellent results if implemented properly (neither Labour nor the Lib Dems showed up to this event). And Labour generally seem to have the strongest thinking on higher education and universities.

On the grounds that universities are generally doing reasonably well at the moment, I’m going to discount Labour on education; their manifesto reads more like a defence of their record than a serious or credible plan for reform at the mandatory levels. On education, then, it depends which area you think is important and what you’re prepared to hold your nose over. If you want a better commissioning model vote Tory; they probably won’t get their illiberal primary curriculum changes through parliament without a significant majority anyway. If you want better funded schools and a more rational approach to struggling children, vote Lib Dem – again, a tuition fee ban would never make it to law. I’ll probably do the latter but I don’t see the former as an entirely indefensible choice.

The NHS.
The health service has consistently been one of the three most important issues to voters since it was implemented over sixty years ago. This year is no different. What is different, however, is that broadly speaking there is consensus between the parties. There are no major policy objectives in this field; even the Lib Dems are saving their huge stack of Trident money for other areas.

The engine-tinkering is mostly minor stuff – all three parties have ideas about procurement, for example. The Liberal Democrats would have the Primary Care Trusts, which do the buying for hospitals, locally elected to give them more clout. The Conservatives would give GPs much more of a say by reviving the 1990s system of fund-holding, in which many GP practices had their own budgets for elective care done by hospitals. Both opposition parties would also drop or gimp performance targets; the government has been moving away from them of late suggesting that Labour would do the same. The Lib Dems would go farthest here, offering to cut the Department of Health by 50% (fun fact: I’m currently engaged in a downsizing project for a major Department, and cutting an organisation like that in half is much harder than you’d think). Labour and the Tories are also pursuing their bizarre world of perverse incentives here, threatening to use the payments system of the internal market to reward quality and penalise poor care – effectively taking money away from hospitals that are struggling.

One thing that is noticeably absent from the manifestos is closures and cuts. But some scaling back is not just demanded by the state of the economic climate, but also desirable. David Nicholson, who runs the NHS in England, thinks that by 2013 the service could wring 15% out of its budget, meeting increased demand with the same real resources. But pay would have to be held down and the workforce cut by around 10%. Some district hospitals would have to close, or do less. This will be unpopular but isn’t really a political issue. Expect whichever two parties don’t win to oppose it bitterly, and for constituency MPs of all strips to fume at length on local news programmes.

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Aside #1: On Typography
The Tories and Labour manifestos are both hideous on screen. They are clearly meant to be held and read in the hand; both go with dense, serifed fonts (Times New Roman for the Tories – suggesting that CCHQ doesn’t know how to change its defaults – and Book Antiqua for Labour). The Lib Dems’ manifesto is in a much more aesthetically pleasing Helvetica Neau. I may have mentioned in the past that there are good reasons and bad reasons for voting for or against a party. Typography is a good reason, and I look forward to punishing the Labservatives at the ballot box.

Aside #2: In Which I Discover Google Analytics
To the person who googled their way to this site asking “cet school tyumen good school?” the answer is: yes, as is the school in Nizhnevartovsk, or at least they were when I was there a year ago. On the other hand, the person who googled “did hassan steal the rubaiyaat from omar khayyam” – the answer to that is no, I’m afraid. It’s one of many narrative details that Amin Maalouf invented for Samarkand to make it a better story; the truth is that there probably never was an “original” Rubaiyaat – just a corpus of work that Edward FitzGerald pulled together and published, much of which is questionably attributable to Khayyam at best. Although Sabbah seems to have regarded Khayyam as an intellectual inspiration of sorts, it’s not entirely clear that they ever actually met in person, and there’s certainly no evidence to suggest that he was obsessed with Khayyam once Alamut became firmly established.

There was an excellent interview in last weeks’ London Review of Books with Tony Judt, the American historian of European history. As I said, it was in last weeks’ magazine, but the whole thing’s available online, so you should read it before I fisk it.

There’s quite a lot here, so I’m going to speak to general points rather than specific lines or paragraphs. Firstly, I think that there are a number of ways in which events have quite rapidly played out to undermine some of Judt’s points. He early-on makes the point that Barack Obama is a compromiser, a consensus-builder – a common criticism that is balanced out by the counter-charges that he is a “machine politician” (FiveThirtyEight did a fine elaboration on that theme way back in 2008). On the whole, I think that the later group has the right of it. Obama is not a bridge-builder, he’s just someone with an acute and subtle understanding of how the machinery of power and legislation works. Sometimes, that requires him to at least appear to seek compromise. At others, it requires him to screw his party to the sticking point and ram legislation through Congress by brute force. The recent passage of healthcare exemplifies that, and should silence those who chirp about Obama’s lack of courage in the face of intransigence, at least for a little while.

Judt later observes that courage is unheard of in today’s politicians; that it is, in fact, a negating virtue. It should be noted that the passage of healthcare was considered by many to be courageous. I’m not convinced that it was – the Dems had a majority in the House, and once they’d been talking about it for a year, passing it was more or less the path of least resistance – but I do think that some individual politicians displayed considerable courage.

His comparison of the US President with the position of his European counterpart, however, was on the nose. Although it should be noted that the UK, tepidly, held out for a much more powerful and robust holder of the mandate, by and large the actions of the EU’s leaders have been exemplified by a stark lack of spine. It’s fair that the leaders of France, Germany, Spain and Britain fear an eclipsing of their individual national clouts, as a robust EU Presidency would do exactly that; but it’s a hit that’s worth taking, because the individual national clouts of France, Germany, Spain and Britain are slight and diminishing by the day. Relinquishing some local power in order to gain access to much greater, wider-scale influence should be an easy decision to make, but it takes courage, and Europe’s leaders are trained to be some of the most risk-averse in the world.

But the internal politics of Europe are thus in most regards. Judt also talks about Europe’s relationship with Israel, correctly observing that:

Israel wants two things more than anything else in the world. The first is American aid. This it has. As long as it continues to get American aid without conditions it can do stupid things for a very long time… However, the second thing Israel wants is an economic relationship with Europe as a way to escape from the Middle East [...]They don’t want to be there economically, culturally or politically – they don’t feel part of it and don’t want to be part of it. They want to be part of Europe and therefore it is here that the EU has enormous leverage.

This is largely correct, and indeed economically and politically it has largely succeeded. Most international companies who divide their regional operations by continent will have Europe and MEA (Middle East & Africa) – with Israel firmly in the former camp. This is largely a practicality; a sales rep or local manager with an Israel stamp in her or his passport will struggle to cross Arabic borders. But it is also a reflection of a broader truth, in which the state of Israel is culturally divorced from the land upon which it lies, even as its claims of legitimacy depend on that land for their historical vigour. Should Europe start to push back – making political and economic ties incumbent on the observation of the UN Declaration of Human Rights, for example – then Israel would be faced with a choice that has the same outcome either way: one that forces it to reconcile itself with its neighbours and the contested land upon which it is built.

Judt asserts that Europe resists the impulse to use this economic and cultural leverage out of a misplaced sense of historic guilt; that many European states continue to treat Israel with kid gloves as a way of continuing to atone for the events that it either perpetrated or failed to prevent. I think that this relies on too many assumptions and thus fails to meet the standards set by Occam’s Razor. Treating Israel as a member of the club of civilised nations, when it already has America’s robust backing, is simply a continuation of progress along the path of least resistance.

That this multinational spinelessness must be rooted in a domestic system that encourages and perpetuates a venal political elite seems like the next logical conclusion, and to an extent, Judt makes that link persuasively. He talks robustly about the “bad use of fear” that has taken hold of Europe’s social democratic model:

There is the demagogic exploitation of fear of outsiders and strangers, which culminates in putting up barriers against immigration, refugees or exiles. The sense that things are out of control, that we may lose our jobs next year because of competition from China or India, or that some farms may become unworkable in five years’ time because of climate change, has been intensified by globalisation, and it has given rise to large, unspecific fears which are played on [...] in Denmark by the anti-immigrant party, or in Switzerland with the referendum against minarets [...] Britain has more closed-circuit television cameras, which keep a record of almost everyone’s movements everywhere at all times, than any other democracy in the world. In the old days we would have seen this as an unacceptable intrusion on personal freedoms, yet today it’s accepted because people are frightened of crime, outsiders, terrorism. We no longer have a choice of a wonderfully happy and prosperous, secure and stable future: this isn’t Sweden in 1965.

Again, this can be explained in many forms, and socially it makes a lot of sense, but politically it’s only rational if most or all of the actors are acting in a narrow, cowardly self-interest. Acquiescing to these fears breeds nationalism, patriotism, preventive wars and repressive anti-terrorist legislation. These trends can be satisfying for a population in the short term, but the ugly truth is that in the end it’s just excessive state power. They have no power to combat or limit terrorism; they don’t strengthen our economy or our cultural vibrancy; they limit our international political power and tarnish our model of governance with claims of hypocrisy; and in the long run, they make the local population less comfortable and less free. But the European politicians with the courage to make these points and argue forcefully against the encroaching illiberality of the state are noticeable by their absence.

If the cause of this trend is understandable then the ways of fixing it seem daunting. When asked how and why we have reached the point where mass protests are ignorable by political elites, Judt talks about the disconnect between the people and governments; and as he correctly observes, in the span of a nation’s transition to democracy from an earlier state, the window of opportunity – where a political system is sufficiently unstable that it has to listen to popular will – is quite narrow (although it can be artificially extended). In late-19th Century Britian, he remarks,

They felt very vulnerable. Elections could remove them from power and if elections didn’t work, then the masses on the streets might achieve the same result.

This isn’t a state that lasts, however, and one of the weaknesses of democracies is that as democratic structures become more entrenched and social continuity becomes more normalised, the threat of actual consequential popular uprisings recedes. It doesn’t help that much of today’s European political activities are quasi-undemocratic, being run from bureaucracies and unelected bodies (such as the European Union, haw haw).

When I did my degree, we learned about a process called “incorporation,” by which subcultures are amalgamated into the mainstream. It’s a two-stage process; first, superficial and somewhat challenging aspects of the subculture are embraced by society at large; then, the remaining aspects are rejected as extremist and ignorable. This was presented as a process affecting the subcultures that surround musical genres (for example, clothing and some of the musical trappings of punk were assimilated, while the broader political and social aspects were attributed to anarchism and discarded), but it can also be clearly seen as affecting non-artistic philosophical and social movements – in feminism, for example, in which superficial aspects of female empowerment are embraced and prominently displayed as virtuous while the wider complaints of inequality and rape culture are dismissed as excessive and extremist.

I mention this because, to some extend, it corroborates the earlier discussion of cowardice in Europe’s political ranks. Courage is, after all, collocated with threat, but the political determination of the populace has been largely incorporated into modern mainstream politics. Elections and mass-media provide some semblance of what can be referred to as direct democracy, but the wider, more effective trappings of people power are dismissed as extremist – protest, worker collectivism and engagement with party politics. Against this backdrop, modern politicians lack a serious threat and thus have very little incentive to be courageous. The truth is that, no matter how easy and tempting it is to blame the electorate for Europe’s malaise, the power to reverse it has been removed from them.

Temporarily, though. The problem with Judt’s analysis is simply that it’s too pessimistic. It treats the status quo as a final state; it assumes that cowardice is a feature that Europe is doomed never to escape. It is this underlying assumption that is shown up by the one encouraging sign that comes from across the water, where Barack Obama – the machine politician – has demonstrated that courage, or the appearance of it, can be its own political virtue. The marvellous thing about democratic systems is that they have the potential to be self-renewing; that in a time of cowards, the courageous man is valuable simply by dint of his courage, let alone the effects and intentions that lie behind it. The era of loud, brash direct mass involvement of populaces in politics may well be over, and that may not be a bad thing, but a population can still make its will felt in terms of broad themes, if not entirely on matters of specific policy.

All of which is to say: if you value political coherence and courage enough, and vote accordingly, then it will come. In the meantime: please write to your MP and demand proper debating time for the Digital Economy Bill. It’s a dreadful piece of legislation and an accelerated period of debate won’t help that.

Top Ten Reasons East Jerusalem does not belong to Jewish-Israelis

Israeli Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu told the American Israel Public Affairs Council on Monday that “Jerusalem is not a settlement.” He continued that the historical connection between the Jewish people and the land of Israel cannot be denied. He added that neither could the historical connection between the Jewish people and Jerusalem. He insisted, “The Jewish people were building Jerusalem 3,000 years ago and the Jewish people are building Jerusalem today.” He said, “Jerusalem is not a settlement. It is our capital.” He told his applauding audience of 7500 that he was simply following the policies of all Israeli governments since the 1967 conquest of Jerusalem in the Six Day War.

Netanyahu mixed together Romantic-nationalist cliches with a series of historically false assertions. But even more important was everything he left out of the history, and his citation of his warped and inaccurate history instead of considering laws, rights or common human decency toward others not of his ethnic group.

So here are the reasons that Netanyahu is profoundly wrong, and East Jerusalem does not belong to him.

1. In international law, East Jerusalem is occupied territory, as are the parts of the West Bank that Israel unilaterally annexed to its district of Jerusalem. The Fourth Geneva Convention of 1949 and the Hague Regulations of 1907 forbid occupying powers to alter the lifeways of civilians who are occupied, and forbid the settling of people from the occupiers’ country in the occupied territory. Israel’s expulsion of Palestinians from their homes in East Jerusalem, its usurpation of Palestinian property there, and its settling of Israelis on Palestinian land are all gross violations of international law. Israeli claims that they are not occupying Palestinians because the Palestinians have no state are cruel and tautological. Israeli claims that they are building on empty territory are laughable. My back yard is empty, but that does not give Netanyahu the right to put up an apartment complex on it.

2. Israeli governments have not in fact been united or consistent about what to do with East Jerusalem and the West Bank, contrary to what Netanyahu says. The Galili Plan for settlements in the West Bank was adopted only in 1973. Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin gave undertakings as part of the Oslo Peace Process to withdraw from Palestinian territory and grant Palestinians a state, promises for which he was assassinated by the Israeli far right (elements of which are now supporting Netanyahu’s government). As late as 2000, then Prime Minister Ehud Barak claims that he gave oral assurances that Palestinians could have almost all of the West Bank and could have some arrangement by which East Jerusalem could be its capital. Netanyahu tried to give the impression that far rightwing Likud policy on East Jerusalem and the West Bank has been shared by all previous Israeli governments, but this is simply not true.

3. Romantic nationalism imagines a “people” as eternal and as having an eternal connection with a specific piece of land. This way of thinking is fantastic and mythological. Peoples are formed and change and sometimes cease to be, though they might have descendants who abandoned that religion or ethnicity or language. Human beings have moved all around and are not directly tied to any territory in an exclusive way, since many groups have lived on most pieces of land. Jerusalem was not founded by Jews, i.e. adherents of the Jewish religion. It was founded between 3000 BCE and 2600 BCE by a West Semitic people or possibly the Canaanites, the common ancestors of Palestinians, Lebanese, many Syrians and Jordanians, and many Jews. But when it was founded Jews did not exist.

4. Jerusalem was founded in honor of the ancient god Shalem. It does not mean City of Peace but rather ‘built-up place of Shalem.”

5. The “Jewish people” were not building Jerusalem 3000 years ago, i.e. 1000 BCE. First of all, it is not clear when exactly Judaism as a religion centered on the worship of the one God took firm form. It appears to have been a late development since no evidence of worship of anything but ordinary Canaanite deities has been found in archeological sites through 1000 BCE. There was no invasion of geographical Palestine from Egypt by former slaves in the 1200s BCE. The pyramids had been built much earlier and had not used slave labor. The chronicle of the events of the reign of Ramses II on the wall in Luxor does not know about any major slave revolts or flights by same into the Sinai peninsula. Egyptian sources never heard of Moses or the 12 plagues & etc. Jews and Judaism emerged from a certain social class of Canaanites over a period of centuries inside Palestine.

6. Jerusalem not only was not being built by the likely then non-existent “Jewish people” in 1000 BCE, but Jerusalem probably was not even inhabited at that point in history. Jerusalem appears to have been abandoned between 1000 BCE and 900 BCE, the traditional dates for the united kingdom under David and Solomon. So Jerusalem was not ‘the city of David,’ since there was no city when he is said to have lived. No sign of magnificent palaces or great states has been found in the archeology of this period, and the Assyrian tablets, which recorded even minor events throughout the Middle East, such as the actions of Arab queens, don’t know about any great kingdom of David and Solomon in geographical Palestine.

7. Since archeology does not show the existence of a Jewish kingdom or kingdoms in the so-called First Temple Period, it is not clear when exactly the Jewish people would have ruled Jerusalem except for the Hasmonean Kingdom. The Assyrians conquered Jerusalem in 722. The Babylonians took it in 597 and ruled it until they were themselves conquered in 539 BCE by the Achaemenids of ancient Iran, who ruled Jerusalem until Alexander the Great took the Levant in the 330s BCE. Alexander’s descendants, the Ptolemies ruled Jerusalem until 198 when Alexander’s other descendants, the Seleucids, took the city. With the Maccabean Revolt in 168 BCE, the Jewish Hasmonean kingdom did rule Jerusalem until 37 BCE, though Antigonus II Mattathias, the last Hasmonean, only took over Jerusalem with the help of the Parthian dynasty in 40 BCE. Herod ruled 37 BCE until the Romans conquered what they called Palestine in 6 CE (CE= ‘Common Era’ or what Christians call AD). The Romans and then the Eastern Roman Empire of Byzantium ruled Jerusalem from 6 CE until 614 CE when the Iranian Sasanian Empire Conquered it, ruling until 629 CE when the Byzantines took it back.

The Muslims conquered Jerusalem in 638 and ruled it until 1099 when the Crusaders conquered it. The Crusaders killed or expelled Jews and Muslims from the city. The Muslims under Saladin took it back in 1187 CE and allowed Jews to return, and Muslims ruled it until the end of World War I, or altogether for about 1192 years.

Adherents of Judaism did not found Jerusalem. It existed for perhaps 2700 years before anything we might recognize as Judaism arose. Jewish rule may have been no longer than 170 years or so, i.e., the kingdom of the Hasmoneans.

8. Therefore if historical building of Jerusalem and historical connection with Jerusalem establishes sovereignty over it as Netanyahu claims, here are the groups that have the greatest claim to the city:

A. The Muslims, who ruled it and built it over 1191 years.

B. The Egyptians, who ruled it as a vassal state for several hundred years in the second millennium BCE.

C. The Italians, who ruled it about 444 years until the fall of the Roman Empire in 450 CE.

D. The Iranians, who ruled it for 205 years under the Achaemenids, for three years under the Parthians (insofar as the last Hasmonean was actually their vassal), and for 15 years under the Sasanids.

E. The Greeks, who ruled it for over 160 years if we count the Ptolemys and Seleucids as Greek. If we count them as Egyptians and Syrians, that would increase the Egyptian claim and introduce a Syrian one.

F. The successor states to the Byzantines, which could be either Greece or Turkey, who ruled it 188 years, though if we consider the heir to be Greece and add in the time the Hellenistic Greek dynasties ruled it, that would give Greece nearly 350 years as ruler of Jerusalem.

G. There is an Iraqi claim to Jerusalem based on the Assyrian and Babylonian conquests, as well as perhaps the rule of the Ayyubids (Saladin’s dynasty), who were Kurds from Iraq.

9. Of course, Jews are historically connected to Jerusalem by the Temple, whenever that connection is dated to. But that link mostly was pursued when Jews were not in political control of the city, under Iranian, Greek and Roman rule. It cannot therefore be deployed to make a demand for political control of the whole city.

10. The Jews of Jerusalem and the rest of Palestine did not for the most part leave after the failure of the Bar Kochba revolt against the Romans in 136 CE. They continued to live there and to farm in Palestine under Roman rule and then Byzantine. They gradually converted to Christianity. After 638 CE all but 10 percent gradually converted to Islam. The present-day Palestinians are the descendants of the ancient Jews and have every right to live where their ancestors have lived for centuries.