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Karl Popper. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.
Karl Popper. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

BooksNovember 10, 2019

What Karl Popper can teach modern New Zealanders

Karl Popper. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.
Karl Popper. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

Karl Popper, 20th century philosopher, was a defender of free speech and a believer in the vulnerability of democracy. Dr James Kierstead and Dr Michael Johnston from Victoria University of Wellington discuss Popper’s politics and the relevance of them today.

In March 1938, a little-known Viennese philosopher called Karl Raimund Popper arrived in Christchurch to take up a position at what was then Canterbury University College of the University of New Zealand. By 1945, he had left for England and another appointment at the London School of Economics. In the meantime, he had written a book, The Open Society and its Enemies, which Michael King called “the most influential book ever to come out of New Zealand”.

Popper loved New Zealand (“the best-governed country in the world”) and New Zealanders (“decent, friendly, and well disposed”), even if students like philosopher and historian Peter Munz remembered him as an ornery presence. But despite the global impact his ideas have had (not least through the Open Society Foundation of another student, George Soros), Popper is not much of a presence in New Zealand intellectual life. We think this should change and that Popper’s political ideas still have a lot to say to us, particularly right now. 

First, Popper’s political thought rejected authoritarianism of both the right and the left. A Jewish refugee from Hitler’s Germany, he was equally opposed to Soviet-style communism (which he foresaw would be increasingly influential even as he was writing The Open Society). For Popper, both styles of authoritarianism made a crucial mistake in seeing politics as a one-way street leading to a destination where discussion and compromise would no longer be needed. 

What was needed, he thought, was a politics of continual and often minor adjustments to the way things were, always in response to what people wanted. This is the second idea we want to highlight: politics as “piecemeal social engineering”. Popper knew that big, wholesale changes looked tempting, but could often lead to major harms. To him, politics was like science: a way of constantly trying out new ideas, then jettisoning the ones that didn’t work. 

As someone who lived through the German Reichstag’s vote to hand over power to Hitler’s cabinet, Popper was acutely aware democracy had an Achilles heel: it could vote itself out of existence. He called this “the paradox of democracy” and also warned of a “paradox of tolerance”. This second paradox has been widely misunderstood, and has even been used in attempts to stifle free speech. Popper’s point wasn’t that we shouldn’t tolerate ideas that some might consider intolerant; he thought we should be open to all sorts of ideas. What we shouldn’t tolerate are attempts to shut down debate “by the use of … fists or pistols”. These two paradoxes together make up the final idea we want to highlight: that the principles of liberal democracy are tolerant but substantive ones, and ultimately need to be defended if we want to keep on living our lives in political equality and freedom.

Popper’s insight about the potential for democracy to be vulnerable to its own mechanisms – to being “voted out of existence” – is one we would do well to heed in the present political moment. Unless it is safeguarded by deep understanding of – and fidelity to – underlying democratic principles in the body politic, the institution of voting will not, of itself, long support the continued existence of democracy. Democracy relies on a set of cultural values and customs; elections do not define democracy and neither are they enough to support it on their own. 

A protest at the University of California, Berkeley campus in 2017 (Photo: JOSH EDELSON/AFP/Getty Images)

An essential cultural value for the survival of democracy is reverence for free speech. If free expression is suppressed, public debate is deprived of potentially powerful ideas, especially if those ideas initially appear unappealing, threatening or offensive. Neither Darwin’s theory of natural selection nor the notion that women ought to be afforded the same political rights as men is controversial today, but when they were first proposed both were widely considered outrageous. Even so, once articulated, both ideas eventually won widespread acceptance, despite initially facing fierce opposition. This is at least partly because they arose in cultures that valued free expression. 

There is a price to pay for the cultural dynamism and political liberty made possible by free speech: the expression of ideas that are genuinely bad, offensive and even cruel must also be allowed. That is because until an idea has been fully articulated, debated and tested – that is, subjected to the process that the principle of free expression makes possible – it is arrogant to think we are in any position to decide on its quality. 

Some ideas are truly ill-motivated; hate speech is a genuine phenomenon. But even hateful ideas are best exposed to the light. Such ideas come from resentment and fear – from places of psychological ill health. If those who express hate are censored, they do not simply stop having hateful thoughts. Instead, relegated to the shadows, they become even more pathological, twisted by resentment born of repression – and all too often they later erupt back into the public sphere, armed with weapons instead of words.

As the second decade of the 21st century draws to a close, the world’s longest-standing democracies find themselves at a crossroads. Many western countries have restricted free expression with ‘hate speech’ laws, holders of controversial views have been banned from speaking in public venues and those deemed to be guilty of offensive speech find themselves banned from social media. Some academic journals and publishers have taken to rejecting, or even ‘unpublishing’ academic work, not on scholarly grounds, but simply out of fear that material may offend or run afoul of newly minted and ill-defined legal restrictions. 

In one such recent incident, Emerald Press, based in the United Kingdom, reneged on the previously scheduled publication of a book defending the principle of free speech by the University of Otago’s Emeritus Professor James Flynn. Emerald Press cited “potential for serious harm to Emerald’s reputation and the significant possibility of legal action” as reasons for de-scheduling the book. It seems Flynn’s treatment of “sensitive topics of race, religion, and gender” – to quote from Emerald’s communication to him – were simply considered too hot to handle.

Some would argue free speech is really only at issue when governments seek to censor it through legislation. While legal concerns do seem to be a factor in the Flynn case, arguments like this miss the point: law tends to follow culture rather than the other way around. A democracy in which free speech is legally protected but no longer culturally esteemed is imperilled. 

In a recent Spinoff piece about Emerald Press’s decision, Danyl Maclauchlan defended the publisher, arguing “there’s no freedom of speech argument that can force a private company to publish a book they don’t like”. That, of course, is true, but again misses the point. The fact is that by Emerald’s own admission it did not reject Flynn’s book because it doesn’t like it, or because it considers it lacking in quality. It rejected it because it is too intimidated by reputational and legal concerns to publish a scholarly book by an international expert. That, in our view, is a sign of a culture no longer conducive to the maintenance of liberal democracy.

How then might we preserve the cultural foundations of democracy in the face of rising fear and division? Education is one possible answer; ‘civics’ education is offered in many countries for exactly this reason. A free media is another. Both institutions are important, although it might seem we get the education system and media our cultural values support; our teachers and journalists and for that matter our politicians and judges are subject to the same social forces as the rest of us. 

Liberalism and democracy, as Karl Popper recognised, rest on substantive values, values that have to be defended if liberal democracy is to survive and flourish. And it’s up to all of us to do the work of defending these values. If we say nothing while governments, corporations and ideologues threaten and quash the free expression of ideas, we are, at least tacitly, voting democracy out of existence.

Dr James Kierstead is a senior lecturer in Classics and Dr Michael Johnston is associate dean (academic) in the faculty of education at Victoria University of Wellington.

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Image: Alan Tunnicliffe Photography/Getty
Image: Alan Tunnicliffe Photography/Getty

BooksNovember 10, 2019

‘We need to help it die’: the beautiful, shocking first chapter of Auē

Image: Alan Tunnicliffe Photography/Getty
Image: Alan Tunnicliffe Photography/Getty

Becky Manawatu’s first novel is published by Mākaro Press and it’s a blinder. Dedicated to her cousin Glen Bo Duggan, who was 10 when he was killed by his mother’s boyfriend, it’s a story about kids and gangs and curdled masculinity. About serendipity, and taniwha, and resilience. It begins with Taukiri dropping his little brother Arama at their uncle and aunt’s place. 

Taukiri and I drove here in Tom Aiken’s truck. We borrowed it to move all my stuff. Tom Aiken helped. Uncle Stu didn’t. This was my home now.

Taukiri said that – ‘Home now, buddy’ – but he wouldn’t look at me. He looked around me, at the toaster, at a dead fly on the windowsill, at the door handle. He said something dumb, ‘You’ll love it, there are cows.’

You’re an orphan. I’m leaving. But cows.

He carried boxes into my new bedroom and pretended not to notice I hadn’t said a word since he’d packed up our house in Cheviot and driven me here. To Kaikōura. To Aunty Kat. To a place we sometimes visited but never stopped the night. He put the bed against the wall and the toys on the shelves, and lined up some of the books just like before. Not all of them. He left some of the books in the box, then he lifted it with a grunt and shoved it in the wardrobe.

‘Look after them for us,’ he said.

I didn’t answer. He didn’t care.

Taukiri looked around like he was happy now. ‘Just the same. Good eh.’

He didn’t say it like a question, so I kept my mouth shut.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?’ But something in his voice didn’t sound like him.

I followed my brother outside. The others followed too. Tauk kissed me on top of my head then got in his car. He looked at the steering wheel, looked at the road ahead, plugged his phone in, scrolled through, hit the screen. Music roared from the car. Snoop Dogg.

Aunty Kat came over and folded her arms. Tauk turned the song down before Snoop said the ‘N’ word. Beth and Tom Aiken were there too. Tauk stared at Beth, then her dog, Lupo, like he was actually leaving me with them and not with Aunty Kat and Uncle Stu.

‘Be good,’ he said.

‘The driving. That coast, Taukiri,’ Aunty Kat said, her arms still folded, ‘just go easy.’

I hadn’t said a word in so long because I was afraid of how I’d sound. I hoped it would stop him, me not talking. Worry him a bit. But even when I didn’t say goodbye, he left.

He turned up Snoop Dogg as he drove off, which stung a bit.

We stood in the driveway. Me and Beth. Aunty Kat and Tom Aiken. Lupo was wagging his tail because he thought it was a happy thing. He didn’t know about goodbyes. At least this time I had a chance to say it. I just couldn’t. Uncle Stu wasn’t outside with us. He was drinking beer in front of the TV in the lounge of my new home. He’d had a long day, Aunty Kat said.

‘You and your brother look so different,’ Beth said as Taukiri’s car disappeared into the dust cloud it made for itself. Lupo had run off behind the car, chasing the spinning wheels, but then he’d seen a butterfly and decided to follow that instead.

Taukiri and I didn’t look different. We looked exactly the same. But I wasn’t talking yet, so I couldn’t argue with Beth.

‘You both have those eyes, though,’ she said, looking at mine. ‘But yours are sad. His are angry.’

Tauk’s car was on the main road. His surfboard on the roof made it look like he was just going to the beach for a surf, but something in my tummy told me it might be a long one.

‘He’s an idiot. You’re better off without him,’ said Aunty Kat, and she stomped off to the house.

Tom Aiken put his hand on my shoulder. ‘He’ll be back. Before you know it.’

I hoped he’d come and take me away from this shit-hole. I’d never used the word ‘shit’ before, but my mum and dad were dead and my brother just drove off with his guitar and surfboard, listening to Snoop Dogg, so there was no one around who’d care if I said ‘shit- hole’, or even the ‘F’ word. It was weird. I didn’t think I was happy about it. I’d heard Taukiri swear before, but not around me or Mum and Dad. Only when he was hanging out with his mates and he thought none of us was around to hear him. It’s actually funny how much you learn from hearing things you shouldn’t. I never thought my brother was much of a troublemaker, but I’d heard Nanny say he was. He sure was.

Becky Manawatu and her debut novel, Auē.

When Taukiri was gone we went to the bush to play.

I dug a hole in the dirt while Beth swung on a branch.

‘I dare you to eat a worm,’ I said. It surprised me that my voice sounded totally normal.

I flicked the dirt off a worm I’d found and hiffed it at her.

She caught it in one hand. ‘Right,’ said Beth, and she popped it into her mouth. Even let it dangle there a bit. It was wriggling around, but she didn’t care. She sucked it up so slowly I nearly puked. I told her to stop, so she spat it out. A bird swooped down from the trees and snatched it up.

‘Lazy bird,’ Beth said. ‘That worm was dug up.’

I decided to make a rule for myself – if I said a swear word, I’d have to eat a worm like Beth did.

We went to the swamp. Lupo started barking and Beth told him to shut it. When he stopped we heard a noise. A scuffle then a cry, like something was being hurt.

Beth pointed to the flax bushes, ‘Is that mum weka teaching her baby a lesson?’

There were two wekas busy doing something terrible.

‘That’s not what mum wekas do. Is it?’

Beth shrugged. ‘Let’s see.’

We walked closer. The strange cry got loud. The wekas were using their beaks to tear at the thing that was making the sound.

‘Bastards got a baby rabbit,’ Beth said.

In the muddy edge of the swamp there was a baby rabbit with skin hanging off, and legs going ways they shouldn’t, and the tiny bottom jaw torn away. It was crying like a baby. The wekas kept going at it with their beaks, their wings back behind them like seagulls do at washed-up fish or chips.

‘Oi!’ Beth yelled, and she ran towards them. They moved away, but not far. The baby rabbit tried to jump but it moved like it was made of the insides coming out of its belly. Its face fell into the swamp, and we watched it try to get air by lifting a nose out of the muddy water as if it was the heaviest nose an animal ever had.

Beth ran to it. She took her jersey off and scooped the muddy, blood-covered baby into it. The crying stopped.

Shhh, I got you. Those bastards. Eating you alive!’ Beth turned to where the birds were watching, grunting like winged lions. ‘Bugger off.’

‘What should we do?’ I asked.

Beth opened her jersey and we looked inside at the rabbit. Its back was like luncheon sausage, the face was half gone and the tiny top teeth were all that was left of its mouth. The legs had turned under, as if they were only fur now. Just soft fur and meat with no bones inside. It made me think of a toy, a toy made yuck for halloween.

Beth opened the jersey some more, and out the side of the rabbit’s belly a little bit of a yellow-bag thing was poking, and a fringe thing with teeth made from skin.

I threw up.

‘You weirdo,’ said Beth. ‘We need to help it.’

I wiped my mouth, ‘We can take it home and get some bandages. Plasters.’

I swallowed back more throw-up.

‘No,’ Beth said. ‘We need to help it die. It’s probably wishing it was never born.’

‘Rabbits don’t wish.’

‘What would you know, townie?’

Cheviot was actually country as, but I didn’t get into that with her. ‘If it can wish then take it home, bandage it, plaster it.’

‘It’ll be dead. Go get me a rock.’

Lupo followed me, sniffing around, wagging his tail the whole time. I found a big rock, and when I got back with it Beth put the baby down under a tree on a thick root.

‘Give it.’

I gave her the rock.

‘Don’t look if you don’t want,’ she said. ‘Ready?’ she said to the rabbit, which didn’t answer.

She lifted the rock up and I kept looking. I wished I hadn’t. Lupo barked and Beth wobbled. The rock came hard down on the rabbit’s back legs, making it cry like it had before, only more squealed.

The wekas started to grunt again.

Beth was crying. ‘I missed.’

Lupo barked. I kicked him in his guts to shut him up. He yelped. Beth picked up the rock that had a bloody brown-and-yellow slick over it. The baby rabbit’s eyes said it was ready. Beth brought the rock down again. Right on its head this time. She sat down on the ground and looked at her hands. There were a few little smudges of blood on one palm. I sat beside her.

‘Are you okay?’

She didn’t answer, then stood up. ‘Don’t kick my dog ever again, townie.’

‘Sorry … I …’

‘You what? Wanted to help? I didn’t need it.’ She dragged her hand across her wet eyes. ‘This is a farm. And that was just a rabbit.’

She bent down and rolled the rock away. I looked at the squashed meat and guts and fur.

‘Now you bastards can have the damn thing,’ Beth said, walking away. The wekas tore away pieces of rabbit and ran into the bush.

She stormed off towards her house, with Lupo behind. I followed too, but she didn’t want me following her because she turned and stuck her tongue out. I stopped at the barn and cut across the paddock to my house.

To my house, like Taukiri said.

I went straight to the bathroom to wash my hands. I looked in the bathroom cabinet and found a box of plasters. I put one on my thumb, which felt good. So I put one on my knee too. Then I put one on my forehead, and another one on my other knee and one on my wrist. I wrapped one around my other thumb and I put one on the back of my neck, one on my chest and one on my cheek, and I put one over my belly button, and when there were no plasters left I stopped searching for places I was sore.

Auē, by Becky Manawatu (Mākaro Press, $35) is available at Unity Books.