Wiki man: Jimmy Wales. Image: Dan Murrell
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Mr Knowledge: Wikipedia’s Jimmy Wales

The founder of the online free encyclopedia on Turkey’s Twitter ban, the perils of clicktivism and what Star Trek can teach us about democracy.

Is technology a force for good?

Overwhelmingly, it is. We can point to various ways in which technology is used, or can be used, for bad purposes, but all of these are dramatically outweighed by the ways in which technology is changing the world for the better. Today you can buy a smartphone in Africa for less than US$50 and in areas where we have negotiated agreements with cell carriers you can access Wikipedia for free – no data charges. So you have a massive source of information in your pocket for a very low cost.

 

Is access to information a human right?

Yes, it is. Think of it as the direct implication and corollary of our rights to freedom of expression. Just as the right to freedom of expression doesn’t imply that other people must supply you with a printing press, the right to access information doesn’t mean that other people must supply you with either the tools or the information. What it does mean is that the state has no role to play in preventing people from communicating with each other.

 

Can online activism be effective?

Yes, and I think the best evidence of this has unfolded recently in Turkey. Prime Minister Erdogan acted against Twitter and YouTube not because they are ineffective – but because they are effective.

Having said that, it is important that we are not naive about the possibilities. Yes, we can use online tools to educate others and to organise to demand positive change. But real activism also necessarily involves going physically to make demands, and that’s inherently risky and requires great courage.

There is something to the charge that people sometimes engage in “clicktivism” – the lazy approach of hitting “Like” on a petition and feeling that we’ve done something useful. But that doesn’t change the fact that online communities can have very deep and meaningful impacts on people’s lives.

 

Are there things you don’t want to know? Are there things we shouldn’t know?

Yes, there is quite a lot that I don’t want to know, and things that I think we shouldn’t know. I’ll talk about two important categories, but there are more.

First, there is a need for the recognition of the importance of privacy in a civilised world. Breaking into someone’s phone or computer to gain access to their personal information, as we’ve seen in the phone-hacking scandal in the UK and similar scandals elsewhere, is a very serious matter. Rather than spending their vast resources in spying on us themselves, I’d like to see organisations like GCHQ and the NSA more focused on investing in helping us to prevent such spying by encouraging the use of strong encryption everywhere.

Second, there are military and government secrets that are perfectly valid. I don’t think we need to know the exact details of every single thing that the government is doing in terms of spying. This is where I think Edward Snowden has been so powerfully effective: rather than releasing details of particular government operatives and operations, he’s released highly abstract information that gives the public the details we should have been given all along, so that we can have a proper, rational debate about the limits of state surveillance.

 

Is Silicon Valley in bed with the security services?

I don’t think so, but I trust some companies more than others. There’s an additional factor here most people haven’t considered: the engineers of Silicon Valley are virtually unanimous in viewing attacks on their infrastructure as horrific human rights abuses that should be countered with every effort they can muster. It would be impossible for any major internet company to issue an order from the top to build in back-door infrastructure to help the NSA. The engineers would leak it, and they know how to do so without getting caught.

That doesn’t mean that the NSA isn’t infiltrating these companies with people who are doing things that the rest of the staff would be horrified by, of course. It just means that it is pretty implausible that the companies themselves are directly “in bed” with the security services.

 

How have you resisted monetising Wikipedia?

We are a non-profit charitable organisation. We’re very mission-driven. For me personally, I feel sure that in 500 years, when people look back on this era, they’ll point to Wikipedia as something remarkable and good. I’m a big fan and user of WhatsApp, which recently sold to Facebook for $19bn, but I doubt if anyone will remember it in 50 years, much less 500.

 

Is net neutrality that important?

I differ from many of my colleagues, in that I don’t think net neutrality is super-important. The fear is that companies which control the “last mile” to the consumer will leverage that choke point to stifle innovation (unless they get paid extra for it happening). And that’s not an entirely crazy thing to fear, particularly because much last-mile infrastructure remains under inappropriate, government-granted monopoly privileges – or derived from those privileges in the first place years ago.

But if we are worried about a handful of companies getting control of a choke point and using it to squeeze out competitors and make massive profits, we don’t need to look at the layer of network infrastructure and network neutrality. We just need to look at the Apple App Store (and similar), where everything that runs on your iPhone or iPad has to be approved by Apple, with them taking a huge cut of the revenue at every step, with no real competition in sight. Consumers should be very worried about that.

Can you imagine the outcry if 20 years ago Microsoft had decreed that no third-party software could run on Windows without being approved by them, and bought through their proprietary stores? Yet today we accept this model on mobile devices (and soon, I fear, on our computers) without blinking.

 

Would you choose a benign dictatorship, or dysfunctional democracy?

Like the true geek I am, I can only answer a question like this by referencing Captain Kirk and the Kobayashi Maru.

In Star Trek lore, the Kobayashi Maru is a test at the Starfleet Academy with a “no-win” outcome. Kirk took the test twice and had his ship destroyed, so before trying a third time he hacked into the system to change the outcome. If our only choices are benign dictatorship or dysfunctional democracy, it’s time to hack the system and change the rules.

 

Where do you stand on piracy?

Commandeering and robbing vessels on the high seas? I’m totally against it.

Ha, you’re really asking about file-sharing. I think here the key is that we are finally seeing the argument move on from a rather useless debate about how to stop it by using the law (you can’t) into a recognition that, more than anything else, a business-model shift is the most successful way forward for creators of creative entertainment. We know that piracy falls dramatically when studios actually make things available for sale. Spotify, Netflix, iTunes, etc are the solution and are working very well.

Yes, some flat-broke teens are going to find ways to copy things that legally they shouldn’t. That has always been true. When I was that age, teens made cassette tapes for each other.

That’s not really the issue. Large-scale commercial piracy is a different matter and existing law seems to be handling that reasonably well. Minor tweaks are always possible, but perennial proposals to lock down the internet or give ridiculous powers to state censors are neither needed nor likely to be at all effective.

 

Do you vote?

I believe in principle in voting, but I live mostly in London, where I don’t (yet) have the right to vote. In the past I have voted, although I’ve also avoided registering to vote where it seemed to require me to make public my home address. It turns out that collecting “all the world’s knowledge” draws the attention of a fair number of threatening cranks, and I prefer for my family’s safety to keep a relatively low profile at home.

 

Are we all doomed?

The Onion is my favourite humour site, a parody of news. And one of my favourite headlines in the Onion was “World death rate holding steady at 100 per cent”. So yes, in that sense, we’re all doomed. 

Jemima Khan tweets at: @Jemima_Khan

Jimmy Wales will speak at the NS and Latitude Festival event Should We Know How Far Surveillance Goes, along with Luke Harding (the Guardian) and David Omand, former director of GCHQ. At King's College, London WC2 on 3 June. Tickets: newstatesman.com/events 

Jemima Khan is associate editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 10 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Tech Issue

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Mathias Énard is the most brazen French writer since Houellebecq

Énard's latest novel, Street of Thieves, has ideas and charisma to burn.

This book, though no kind of failure, may seem a little pinched and bashful to readers of Mathias Énard’s novel Zone, a 500-page, single-sentence rumination on European cruelty that was published last summer to giddy applause. A back-cover blurb by the writer Patrick McGuinness, who also teaches French at Oxford, claims that Street of Thieves is “what the great contemporary French novel should be”, but this is a description better deserved by its predecessor – and possibly its successor, Boussole (“compass”), a grand-scale effort published in French this month by Actes Sud, which promises the reader “staggering erudition” and “heartbreaking lucidity”. Street of Thieves never calls for adjectives of that order (“involving” would be closer to the mark) though it still confirms Énard as the most brazenly lapel-grabbing French writer since Michel Houellebecq. Even on a quiet day, he has ideas and charisma to burn.

In a doomy, plague-ridden future, Lakhdar recalls a late adolescence torn between his duties as a Moroccan-born Muslim and the temptations extended by the north, an alternate universe situated just across the Strait of Gibraltar. In one scale sit “prayers, the Quran and God, who was a little like a second father, minus the kicks in the rear”. In the other sit miniskirted female tourists and the pleasures portrayed in the French detective novels that Lakhdar consumes “by the dozen”: “sex . . . blondes, cars, whisky”. When he is thrown out by his family for having an affair with his cousin, it looks as if fate is tipping the balance. But it doesn’t work out that way. Poverty keeps him tethered to his homeland, and he takes a job working as a bookseller for Sheikh Nureddin, the local imam.

Meanwhile, Lakhdar’s best friend, Bassam, is playing out the same conflict in more volatile ways. Though no less lustful and weed-smoking, he is devoted to Nureddin, for whom, it soon emerges, the Propagation of Quranic Thought is an activity broadly defined, accommodating sticks and stones – and knives and bombs – as well as the pamphlets peddled by Lakhdar.

For much of the first half, the novel is an odd mixture of picaresque and parable. Lakhdar is sometimes an object or victim of fate, sometimes a plaything of his author’s purposes, and the gear changes required can be jerky. One moment, Lakhdar will tell the reader, “And that’s how I entered the service of Marcelo Cruz, funeral services,” in a fish-out-of-water, “isn’t life funny?” sort of way. The next moment, he coolly notes the thematic overlap of his work for Cruz with a previous position that involved digitising the records of an Algerian infantry regiment in the First World War. “The idea of sending real stiffs back to Morocco after having imported dead soldiers to it virtually was rather amusing, I thought.”

Énard’s parable-making instincts frequently take control of the plot, with results that verge on tiresome. When Lakhdar sets sail on a boat named after one of his heroes, the 14th-century traveller Ibn Batuta, the vessel equals Freedom. But lack of an exit visa confines him to the port of Algeciras, then a dispute with the Spanish government keeps the boat there, too. So the Ibn Batuta becomes a symbol for the way that life dashes our best hopes – or upends them. Dreams of freedom produce a nightmare reality. An ideal of escape leads to more stasis.

Yet it feels churlish to grumble about the novel’s design when it enables so much potent writing. Sending Lakhdar from Tangier to Barcelona is a contrivance that you wouldn’t want undone. As well as furnishing different possibilities in terms of scene-setting and atmosphere, it turns the novel into a comparative portrait of two societies through their common factor circa 2011: a period of civic unrest and popular anger that failed to produce a revolution. Morocco is the country that the Arab spring forgot, while in Barcelona the deepening despair is only punctuated, never alleviated, by the occasional protest.

In the Barcelona section, richer by far than those set in Tangier and Algeciras, Énard uses Lakhdar’s outsider perspective to lay bare the shallowness of the type of dissent you find in a democracy. He notes that a general strike is claimed as a victory both by the organisers, because “they reach such-and-such a percentage of strikers”, and by the government, which didn’t have to make any changes. To Lakhdar, Spain appears “a land beyond politics”, where the nationalist government “no longer gave a shit about anyone” and industrial action has become an end in itself.

The workings of orientalism – or whatever cross-cultural logic shapes European responses to North Africa – are exposed with clarity, even flair. A feeling for paradox crowds out the platitude, derived from ­Edward Said, whereby representatives of the developed west are only ever blundering and stupid. It’s true that Judit, a student of Arabic literature at Barcelona University, so narrowly associates Tangier with sexual licence and foreign visitors (Burroughs, Paul Bowles) that Lakhdar, as a Muslim from the suburbs, feels that “we were discussing a different city”. But Énard – who teaches Arabic literature in Barcelona – is careful not to present Lakhdar’s Tangier as the “true” version and Judit’s as a romantic Other-laden mirage. Despite her overemphases, Judit never comes across as a dabbler, and it is Lakhdar’s mistiness about Barcelona that receives the harsher humbling. (The “street of thieves” lies not in Tangier, but in the Raval district of Barcelona.)

So, it is a shame, given this balancing of myopic perspectives, that Énard also feels the need to grant the older, reminiscing Lakhdar, smug in his 20/20 hindsight, a prominent place in the telling. But then Street of Thieves gives the consistent impression of a writer who, not unlike Houellebecq, views formal choices as not just secondary, but irritating. The unpunctuated first-person rant, as used in Zone, is surely Énard’s ideal device. It turns crude technique into an engine. The more intricate demands of the novel – the niceties of plotting and narrative point-of-view – merely serve to slow him down. Lakhdar is most convincing when neither a picaro nor a symbolic type, neither totally himself nor entirely representative, but a balance better suited to Énard’s analytic needs: specific enough to be vivid, while clearly standing in for the migrant who, drawn by fantasies of easy passage to streets paved with gold and teeming with blondes, finds instead an obstacle course from one site of crisis to another. 

Street of Thieves is available now from Fitzcarraldo Editions (£12.99)

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism