The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

Mr McLeish said Scottish Labour […] should be taking on the SNP by developing policies and an outlook “embracing pride and patriotism and wrapping them in the Saltire”.

The Herald, May 2011

Come, old broomstick, you are needed,
Take these rags and wrap them round you!

Goethe, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

Would it not be easier to cast a spell? To mutter some dark phrase, right there on stage in front of the remaining members, that sends everything back to a time when things were as they should be? The headline speakers at Scottish Labour conference wrestled with ancient, archaic incantations, political formulae handed down through generations. Gathered around the cauldron, Khan, Kez and Corbyn tossed in the traditional ingredients: “There’s no difference,” intoned Khan, “between those who try to divide us on the basis of whether we’re English or Scottish, and those who try to divide us on the basis of our background, race or religion.” Here was the old “patriotic” twist on Labour’s so-called “internationalism”. The secret of real magic is concealment, and the hidden signifier of the word “us” is the core of the spell, an example of what Michael Billig calls “banal nationalism”: what could “us” mean but Britain, that famous force for unity-by-gunboat? Kez was more explicit: “the Labour Party I lead will never support independence,” – her party would instead stand up for the workers at Faslane, in the financial services sector, and on the oil rigs in the north-east. Bombs, banks and black gold form the crux of the party’s last-gasp British nationalism, the final desperate linkage of class and nation that allows Labourism to continue its ritual procession between the two with whatever intellectual dignity it has left. Corbyn, priestly as ever, aimed for spiritual uplift: it is not nation but class that divides us, he pronounced. But the faint outline of Keir Hardie’s ghost was left fumbling with the keys to the conference centre, unnoticed by the scrum around Khan.

Scottish Labour’s spells do not work any more. There are far darker forms of magic in play now, and the cheap constitutional tricks which the party has been pulling in Scotland since the 1970s have lost their charm. The latest idea, a ‘People’s Constitutional Convention’, is a perfect example of the extent of the crisis. By the time you’ve finished reading the name, the whole proposal has collapsed in on itself. It begins with a crashing, unavoidable admission of failure: the last ‘Constitutional Convention’, the one whose proposals shaped The Scottish Parliament, was manifestly not ‘of the people’. In the words of Convention participant John McAllion: “The Scottish Constitutional Convention claimed at the time that it was open, inclusive, and broadly-based, but in fact it was none of those things. It was self-appointed, it was elitist, and it was ultimately unrepresentative.”

Within the parliament’s first few years, historians and political scientists were scrambling for answers about why high expectations had been so radically disappointed. Lindsay Paterson identified a “utopian” tendency amongst the Scottish electorate, the inevitable pathology of a small country with big ideas that could never be satisfied by reality. But whose expectations were these? Had anybody seriously believed that a chamber stuffed with sneering debate-club chums, overexcited local councillors and jaded Westminster veterans would be anything other than a disappointment? In a 1978 diary for the short-lived socialist newspaper 7 Days, Donald Dewar wrote that “an assembly controlling education, health, social work may be a talking shop but what it says will be really important.” Over two decades there was little improvement on such paltry ambitions.

And yet now the Scottish Parliament, and Scottish ‘representative’ politics in general, enjoys a legitimacy – or at the very least an extraordinary lack of popular dissent – which far outstrips its equivalents elsewhere. The SNP can bear much of the credit. They seized upon Scottish Labour’s vacuity and complacency, and articulated a distinctively ‘national’ populism that lifted theme after theme from the Scottish Labour playbook: Scottish-accented managerialism, a bolshy and defensive approach to the all-encompassing other of ‘Westminster’, and a rhetorical obsession with vaguely social-democratic ‘Scottish values’. They upstaged Scottish Labour’s dated performance of precisely the same lines, despite their unpopular constitutional politics and coming back from a dire showing in 2003. In spite of all of this, Scottish Labour still thinks that the best route to resurrection is to dress up the same old boring technocracy with a newer, smarter position on constitutional change.

All the most powerful constitutional proposals have a clear sense of who ‘the people’ are, be it Brexit’s Anglified Britons or the cosmopolitan Scots of independence (see, for instance, the smart-casual everyman holding a cup of coffee and gazing from the balcony of his nice, ‘Yes’-stickered flat in the SNP’s recent TV spot). Devolution, on the other hand, has always reflected the fundamental uncertainty of the Scottish labour movement on this question. One of its finest devolutionist thinkers, John P. Mackintosh, sought a twinned British-Scottish identity, but the politics of the British state from the 1970s onwards made such a fusion inherently unstable.

‘Scottish and British’ hovered between two poles, drawn towards whichever element offered the greatest strategic benefit in any given conflict. In almost every case – with the mid-late ‘90s as a possible exception – Scotland had the upper hand. In the 1960s and 1970s, industrial struggles pitted Scottish workers against British economic planners and multinational capital, and the STUC developed a potent rhetorical cocktail of class and national identity which drew an ever-wider spectrum of Scottish civil society towards it. Thatcher’s indifference towards Scottish politics in the 1980s alienated much of the Scottish elite, and by the time of Major and Forsyth’s limp, tartan tokenism there was a near-unstoppable consensus behind a bizarre sort of solution: a retrospective political settlement that supposedly would have stopped it all from happening in the first place, but offered little hope for a genuine reversal of the damage done.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is about hubris. The apprentice confuses power with wisdom, and in his master’s absence enchants a broom to do his chores for him. But once the broom has begun fetching pails of water, the apprentice has no idea how to stop it; he hacks at it with an axe, but only produces more brooms. Only the master’s timely return rescues the apprentice from the ensuing flood. Several scholars have offered persuasive accounts of the ways in which Scottish Labour, caught between Scottish predominance and British collapse, adopted an enthusiastic anti-Tory Scottish nationalism in the 1980s and laid the ideological groundwork for the big-N Nationalist deluge of the new millennium. But while Scottish Labour makes a fittingly farcical apprentice, few of these accounts ever consider the sorcerer. Some on the left believe that only independence, against which Labour’s “tartanisation” was pitched, can halt the saltire-bearing enchanted brooms which have overwhelmed the Scottish public sphere. Once we answer “the national question” for good (the logic goes), we can ask new, more important questions about class power, imperialism, and so on.

That’s exactly what Labour thought they were doing with devolution. It was supposed to “dish the nats” and kill nationalism “stone dead”. Scottish Labour still believe that they need only offer a clear position on the constitution, combine it with an appealing programme of UK-wide economic transformation, and suddenly the people (which people?) will come flocking back. The problem is that Scottish nationalism has never been about constitutions, or ‘civic’ institutions, or the democratic deficit of an unevenly balanced multinational union; like every nationalism, it stems from the contradiction between on the one hand, an unavoidably ‘national’ articulation of raw human identity, and on the other the inhumane experience of life under a state and economic system that does not care about human beings. The constitution, the institutions, the parties and so on force the boundless, uncommodifiable substance of human life into bordered forms of discipline and control, making people comparable and exchangeable as subjects of this or that political-economic regime. To retain popular legitimacy these static forms must offer a kind of ethno-cultural palliative – a decent, incorruptible ‘homeland’ in which people can still grasp at some memory of the togetherness and commonality robbed from them by the generalised violence of commodification. Is this not the twinkle in the eyes of every punter with a ‘Yes’ badge? As if national independence will stop people being nationalist! But this gives us an idea about the true sorcerer in question, who ought to return and stop the brooms from marching: surely it’s the labour movement itself?

It was Labour, after all, who cast the spell at its most powerful. Labour was the force that managed to fully integrate the British working class into a nation-state that has always been resolutely opposed to working class interests. Did the British left cease to be nationalist when they finally ran a state of “their own”, in 1945? On the contrary: they doubled down, wrapping themselves in the Union Flag, left-chauvinism reaching fever-pitch in 1968’s Commonwealth Immigration Act. And when the hostility of the British state to the left became all too obvious, Labour found a new one: Scotland, Keir Hardie’s birthplace and his faltering party’s chosen retirement home. But Scottish Labour never had the same integrating skill of the master. Populated by a new class of professionals and technocrats, with its connection to the working class left threadbare under the pressures of postmodernity, the party formulated a laboratory nationalism which could never survive sustained conflict with the real thing. Those advocates of a more popular, dissenting nationalism like Dennis Canavan and Jim Sillars either got shunted aside or left in frustration. All that was left was Dewar, ready to say “really important” things in his tartan talking shop.

The smugness that Labour brought to the new parliament in 1999 is still there in its defeat. There is something profoundly self-satisfied about the condemnations of nationalism that echo through the increasingly empty stalls of conference after conference, as if the party’s internationalism is confirmed by every further chunk that nationalism takes out of its poll ratings. On the contrary, it is precisely Labour’s nationalism that has made it so easy for nationalism to defeat it, and which still makes Labour so clueless about how to fight back. This is in the DNA of nationalism itself: it is powerful because it always fails, always leads you to the next false summit but offers just enough hope of the real thing to carry on trudging upwards (Camus wrote that “one must imagine Sisyphus happy”). It is simultaneously utopian, fusing personal and national liberation together, and resigned to its fate: a white flag raised against capital becomes a blank canvas to be filled in with whatever national colours you like.

The real horror of it all is this: the SNP’s ‘civic’ nationalism will fail too. They are reproducing all the worst aspects of Blairism: technocracy, bland identitarianism, corporate capture and the total subordination of politics to marketing. Sturgeon’s latest posturing as saviour of the liberal establishment will leave her shaky coalition in an extremely tight spot when the international wave of populist reaction inevitably reaches Scotland.

All of which brings us to the furious debate over Khan’s remarks comparing Scottish nationalism to racism. Many are offended that support for independence is being equated with racism, and are reacting angrily to a recent article exploring the darker racial undertones of Scotland’s myth of progressiveness. Both accusers and accused are, I think, failing to distinguish between the vast sweep of Scottish national identity and the narrower field of constitutional politics. It’s worth remembering that Scottish independence and the SNP are in fact highly partial expressions of Scottish national identity. There are huge numbers of people for whom ‘Scotland’ is a powerful signifier, but who do not support independence or vote SNP. Nationalism is not just about making territorial national borders match political ones; it also means aligning a contested, constructed ideal of what it means to be (eg) Scottish with the political priorities of the state.

It is highly likely that in the coming years as Brexit, austerity, and Scotland’s dire economic state all continue, the focus of this deeper ‘national question’ will slowly shift: this time towards the identities of those who feel left out of Scotland’s cosy liberal ‘consensus’. A new referendum may serve as a rallying point, though post-independence their fury may be even more severe, and they will find new recruits from SNP deserters frustrated by yet another constitutional flop. There is already a political party ready to take up their claim, and it’ll be too late by the time we realise that the Tories aren’t as alien to Scottish political culture as we’ve been led to believe. What if the sorcerer, when they return, isn’t on our side?

Rory Scothorne (@shirkerism)


Levelling Up

To dismiss the idea of equality, some liberals call it ‘levelling down’, or ‘politics of envy’. They characterize the pursuit for equality as the masses’ envious desire to lower the living standards and material wealth of the rich to the level of the ordinary person. Such a politics undermines reward for effort, pride in property, and diversity of lifestyle, sapping the moral lifeblood of vibrant civilised society.

Crude egalitarians rise to this bait, and insist that equality need not lower the rich’s lifestyles and living standards. They believe that if the proceeds of growth were shared then the standard for those at the top would hardly suffer, whereas it would rise for the mass of people, as small boats on a tide. Their celebrated research proves that sharing wealth more equally is good not just for the poor but for society and everyone in it. Their philosophy amounts to levelling up.

A breed of this egalitarian politics has seeped through the left of Scotland’s Yes campaign. Its propagandists have named it Common Weal: “an old Scots phrase that means both ‘wealth shared in common’ and ‘for the wellbeiing of all’. It has come the name for a different kind of politics, a politics that puts All Of Us First.”

Common Weal has a variety of demands and dimensions. It looks for progress through mutual agreement and shared interests. It looks to raise the level of the poorest without harming the interests of those at the top. It starts from the hopes and aspirations of the citizenry, as they express themselves publicly.

Its guidebook opens with a question: what are the hopes of citizens? It answers with a list of things that characterize ‘a good life’, such as a comfortable home, a secure income, and good relationships. This is a fair description of the lifestyle of our comfortable classes. Raising people to this level is the aim of Common Weal.

It is no wonder that parts of Scotland’s political and public elite have gladly welcomed this doctrine, for it flatters them directly, describing their lives as the model lifestyle. Its ideas have found fertile ground on high plains, amongst those whose lives already are comfortable – the upper middle classes – but who are morally awkward about the poverty around them. Such people are concerned about the lives of those less privileged, but naturally do not want their own quality of life to decrease. Thankfully, their philosophers (like Richard Wilkinson to Robin McAlpine) insists it will improve their lives too. ‘A fair society is good for everyone’. ‘Inequality is bad for the privileged as well as the poor’. It is no wonder that rich middle classes, not the mass of people, lead the Common Weal.

These noble levellers, demanding the distribution of rights and raising of standards, set their aims within the frame of wealth and living standards that already exist in the country. The experts come from within their own ranks. They are the ones with experience of this better life, and access to the power of distribution. They want others to share their privilege, and with a language of rights and citizenship, they spread their faith in Levelling Up.

In the seventeenth century, an organisation of reformists called themselves the Levellers. Their demand was for the extension of rights and ownership of private property to the people – not to everyone, but to many more people than before, to Level Up the rights and property ownership held by ordinary men.

As time went by, this movement presented itself to the establishment. Its most vocal proponents were part of a rich class, so they were heard at court. Theirs was a moral demand for equal rights to property, but was increasingly presented in a politically astute and mutual way so as not to upset the authorities that held power. Compromise by compromise, progress was made, but the movement did not create the revolution of demands that could have sent a shudder of hope through the poor. Most remained without the rights that the Levellers sought.

Disillusioned with their establishment brethren, a band of radicals emerged from these ranks. They called themselves the True Levellers, and have come to be known as the Diggers. For them, the call for private property and ownership of land did not go far enough. In order to disrupt the concentration of land, which at that time was the primary means of production, the land had to be seized and held in common ownership, to be worked in common for all to share in. They would not accept that they were levelling down, and indeed they were not. To level up or down, the system has to remain the same. The Diggers wanted to reach a wholly different level, of common ownership of the means of production.

The division between the Diggers and the Levellers is a historical issue. But the Diggers’ frustrations with the modest Levellers’ demands are easy to understand. The Levellers said they sought equality, but did not question private property. They wanted to advance the interests of the poor without toppling the rich, but were blind to the chains of bondage and law that tied the poor beneath the rich. They did not seek to cut down the men of property, but to raise up men of labour. The Diggers, more honest and more radical, voiced the real demand for equality – they were slandered and patronized, and the orders came to cut them down.

A similar conflict is going on today. The Common Weal, purporting to be radical, has appropriated language of equality and common wellbeing. Conscripting academics to prepare papers setting out their politics of mutual gain, their philosophy is toothless because it wants to seduce the establishment from which it came. It will not fight or challenge, but is bound by chains of law and property. It wants to raise the fortunes of the poor without coming into conflict with the rich. It says “politics of conflict have set us all against each other… We don’t need blame, we don’t need resentment, we don’t need anger. We need change.”

These words should provoke anger. The elite itself could have written them. When an ever-smaller class holds wealth, when work is done for ever-lower wages, and ever-fewer proprietors own the land, the politics of mutual agreement is an affront to the poor. Anger is legitimate. Power to appropriate and share the land and wealth in common is something to be taken from the rich – not by mutual consent, which will never be reached, but by conflict.

If not by force, then by friction. If not by social science, then by polemic. Not in terms that flatter the rich, not by presenting some ‘real alternative’ that is close to the present arrangements, but by making the kind of demand that everyone knows will not be attained without struggle that the Common Weal cannot suffer – cannot suffer because in truth they represent the very class with most to lose.