The Utopian

By Alexander Lee.

As revolutions unfold in the Middle East, we must not look on these brave actions as foreign measures, alien to democratic nations. They are not the distant, muffled sounds of nations from which we are separated by an unbridgeable divide, but a call to arms for all those who suffer.

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A spirit of revolution is in the air. Lit by the spark of revolt in Tunisia, the flames of unrest, fanned by privation and oppression, have spread throughout the Middle East. From the arid plains of Tunisia, to the teeming squares of Cairo and the busy streets of Tehran, revolution is abroad: tyrants long accustomed to servile obedience have fallen, and the fragile states of the region hold their breath in nervous anticipation.

As the drama has unfolded, Europe has looked on, rapt with amazement and admiration. London pubs, Viennese coffee houses, and Roman cafes are abuzz with speculation and excitement as news trickles in from the East. Left and right are united in their support of the risings. The young, spurred by the enthusiasm of youth, grow militant, and the old, blessed with memories of insurrections past, smile at the sight of the ghosts of  ’68 rising again.

But if Europe watches the revolutions with growing admiration, it does so also with a sense of passivity and self-conscious resignation. However much the news of toppled autocrats stirs the passions, there is a sorrowful recognition that it could never happen here.

It is not that conditions in Europe are inimical to revolt. Across the continent, even the wealthiest nations stand precariously close to economic collapse, and the hubris of past prosperity has receded into the mists of memory. The aged watch their pensions dwindle or vanish; couples struggle with the fear of losing houses and jobs; and the young find themselves without hope or prospects with unprecedented frequency. Corruption is visible at every turn. Greece is crippled by fraud and bribery in its faceless bureaucracy; Italy stands in stunned horror as its premier is accused of abusing his power to avoid charges of child prostitution; and even in Britain, elected representatives have been jailed for defrauding the state.

Freedom, too, is under threat. In Hungary, draconian censorship laws have all but eliminated the freedom of the press, and in Italy, stringent libel laws and open threats against journalist have signalled a vigorous clampdown on the media in recent years. And intolerance is on the march. In Britain, racially-motivated violence has erupted in major cities as the Prime Minister sounds the death-knell of multiculturalism; and in France, ethnic deportations – unseen since the dark days of the Vichy regime – have already begun. Even tyranny is no stranger to Europe. In Belarus, despotism is openly practiced; in Russia, it is implicit; and in Italy, it is a reality born of an impotent opposition and the political self-interest of elected representatives.

Nor is there any lack of will for popular revolt. The signs of unrest are everywhere to be seen. Students outraged by what amounts to a punitive tax on education brought London to a standstill late last year, desecrating the nation’s monuments and attacking royals at play. In France, strikes are occurring with increasing regularity, and the working man feels more enraged by the stringent financial measures adopted by President Sarkozy. And in Italy, not only was the Leaning Tower of Pisa occupied by students in December, but pitched battles also broke out in the streets of Rome as public accountability was sacrificed on the altar of Berlusconi’s vanity in a crucial confidence vote.

It is not the lack of good cause, or the lack of motivation which keeps revolution at bay in Europe. Rather, it is an intellectual impotence born of a blind infatuation with the supposed incorruptibility of the democratic process. Just as the rose-tinted spectacles of an ill-treated lover keep him from admitting fault in the object of his affections, so Europeans have shrunk from revolt as they suffer under the blows of a still strangely captivating ideal.

Against a democratic government, it is held, there can be no legitimate revolution. If a government receives a mandate from a free and fair election, expressions of unrest, however justified or widespread, cannot have legitimacy as an agent of change. Democratic government is viewed as the most rational form of social organisation, and – so it is thought – the establishment of a stable democracy represents the final and most perfect stage in the evolution of a polity. In the fierce glare of such logic, even the finest flower of revolt must wither and die.

But it is not unreasonable to observe that a tiny crack mars the crystal structure of this argument. On the one hand, democracy does not ensure an absolute freedom of choice where policy is concerned. However free an election may be, choice is limited to a comparatively narrow range of candidates, the policies of each of which grow increasingly close to that of the others as parties triangulate their positions in an ongoing struggle to capture the elusive centre ground of European politics. On the other hand, once elected, there is little – if anything – to regulate the actions of either representatives or parties, and there are few mechanisms to ensure that a government continues to reflect the popular will. It is not only distressingly common occurrence for governing parties to abandon their election pledges once in power, but it is also not infrequent that the latent effect of self-interest leads to the insidious incursion of corruption into the political process. While an independent and active judiciary can occasionally restrain the worst excesses of corrupt politicians, such process is relatively unusual, and the trading of votes and the construction of personal constituencies ensure not only that that the public interest is often sacrificed to private concerns, but also that even the most flagrant felon can be kept from justice. The noble aspiration to representation and accountability is all too vulnerable to being lost in the storm of reality.

There is a seemingly reasonable objection to this line of thought. Where the will of the people is neglected, it is incumbent upon the electorate to choose a new and better government when elections are next called. Even the most ardent defender of the democratic process must, however, admit that the limitations which are necessarily imposed on choice by the availability of candidates and the concentration of major parties at the political centre constrains the possibility of real and lasting change being achieved by such means. There are grounds to suggest that the very structure of the democratic process and the party system precludes offences to the public will and abuses of public responsibility from being arrested, even with the most perfect electoral liberty. One might say that once political practice has drawn apart from popular sentiments, the problem is endemic, and possibly even incurable. 

Yet if it is true that the democratic process can often produce governments which act in a manner which is contrary to the popular will, and which covertly accede to a hidden corruption of the public interest, this is not in itself a justification for revolt and revolution, regardless of how outrageous the government’s abuses may be. If it is granted that liberal democracy is the most rational and equitable means of establishing a government, even the worst aberrations may be excused as merely minor imperfections. For its defenders, the good of a defective democracy still far outweighs the evil of a perfect tyranny. This is, however, an ultimately inadequate response: at root, it implies that even when the majority of people suffer as a result of the inadequacy of a democratically elected government, they must still be content with what remains the lesser of two evils, and must simply grin and bear the worst. A poignant question remains: what can be done if the political system is broken? If we accept that liberal democracy is indeed the most rational and equitable method of establishing a government, can revolution be justified as a means of correcting the imperfections in the political process itself?

In order to answer this question, we must return to the very foundations of political society. As individuals or as members of nuclear families, we are able to satisfy our needs only to a certain extent, and then only imperfectly. Political groups offer a solution.  Co-operation with others, and the pooling of labour and resources, helps to guarantee that the needs of individuals and families can be satisfied more fully and with greater efficiency than they could have been in the absence of political society. If a political group is to function, however, it needs to fulfil certain conditions. Their exact formulation is a matter of much debate, but at a sufficiently broad level of generality, we can probably all agree on them. Membership of a group is necessarily conditional on it being the product of a voluntary choice, and the group itself is defined by the shared needs of its members.  Moreover, some degree of organisation is necessary. As John Rawls, for example, has argued, a political society should rationally be regulated by principles of equality in liberty and the fair, reciprocal distribution of its most important goods.

Now, let us imagine a society which is defective in some respects, in which its members feel that corrective measures are necessary. Since the group is defined by its capacity to satisfy the needs of its members, it is obvious that if it does not do so, it loses its justification for existence. It lacks, in a word, legitimacy.

Recognising that their society now lacks its raison d’être, the members of our imaginary group are logically in a position to reconstitute the group in whatever form they see fit, and – since the group is constituted in relation to needs which are, at least partly, self-defined – they are also able to attempt this reconstitution by whatever means they feel are appropriate. The sole criterion which must be observed is that the group must be felt to have failed to address the needs of its members by the greater part of the participants, excluding any who are solely occupied with the defective regulation of its affairs. This is, of course, not to say that the members of the group would not wish to replace the defective system of regulation with anything other than the same principles of equality and reciprocity (although they would be at liberty to do so), but rather than they would be justified in effecting a revolution even if they wish merely to realign the reality to the theory.

If we return from our theoretical musings to contemporary Europe, it is immediately apparent that if a democratically elected government fails to address the needs of the people (that is to say, it acts in a manner which is contrary to the popular will)the population is perfectly free to take whatever measures are necessary to rectify the execution of democratic rule. In other words, revolution is – and must be – a legitimate recourse when a democracy errs or is perceived to err, however legal its actions may appear. Provided that it takes place, as in Egypt, with the backing of the overwhelming majority of the population, and its measures are directed solely at defective executors, revolt may be regarded as an entirely appropriate action. Indeed, in some cases, revolution may be the only viable response to a manifestly unsatisfactory situation, even if specific rights are not violated and the letter of the law is observed by the government which is targeted.

As revolutions unfold in the Middle East, we must not look on these brave actions as foreign measures, alien to democratic nations. They are not the distant, muffled sounds of nations from which we are separated by an unbridgeable divide, but the strident voices of people willing to change their lives for the better, and a call to arms for all those who suffer. We may have the good fortune not to live under oppressive tyrants, but we should not delude ourselves into thinking that our democracies are perfect, finished creations.

The neglect of our will is obvious to see, and the abuses of elected representatives painfully clear; it is for us to follow the lead of Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, and Yemen and restore the ideals that have been forsaken so blatantly by those whom we trusted to guard them. In these times of hardship and intolerance, neglect and indifference, it is not for us to hang our heads in resignation and despair, but to fight for that which we hold most dear, and to defend that which is most essential to our protection and prosperity. If we would call ourselves democrats, we must be prepared to defend democracy against itself. For the true democrat, revolution is a noble course, and in revolution lies his salvation.

Alexander Lee is an editor of The Utopian.