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Planet Overload

The world’s population is 6.8 billion. That figure will rise to 9.2 billion by 2050. Meanwhile, clim

If you write about the environment you become used to a measure of unfriendly criticism. In the main, it’s pretty innocuous stuff – charges of miserabilism and so on. But since concentrating on the issue of human population growth, I have found the criticism noticeably darkening. The other week, after helping to launch a campaign encouraging couples to “stop at two” (children, that is), I received an email accusing me of “real, hard-hitting fascism” and adding: “The Nazis . . . would be proud of you!” This was nothing, however, compared t0 the hate mail I received when the organisation of which I am a part, the Optimum Population Trust, published a report arguing that, as human beings were the agents of climate change, one way of combating climate change would be to produce fewer new humans.

Population can arouse violent feelings. Much of the hate mail originated from religious groups in the United States. But the more recent message came from an academic address at Oxford. Personally, I find it hard to conceive that an intelligent, acquisitive, expansive, territorial, aggressive and physically large species such as Homo sapiens could increase in numbers from 2.5 billion to 6.8 billion since 1950 and not cause an environmental crisis. Moreover, I cannot see how, on top of the existing 6.8 billion, we can accommodate another 2.4 billion people over the next 40 years (which is what the United Nations says we can expect) without something to go seriously wrong on the earth.

Such views were once widespread but have become less so. After making much of the running on population in the 1960s and early 1970s, green groups, for instance, have become wary of the issue. The UK’s best-known environmentalist, Jonathon Porritt (see page 27), a keen advocate of stopping at two, is among those critical of the green lobby’s neglect of the population growth issue, describing it as gutless, wilfully ignorant and “less than honest”.

There are many who regard the silence of the greens on population as a shameful episode in the history of a movement that has done an enormous amount to change the world for the better. One might cite a number of factors in mitigation, however. The rise of the religious right, particularly in the US, has added to the ranks of those who believe that birth control infringes religious or political liberties – and in the process forged an unlikely holy alliance with Catholicism and Islam. The excesses of state birth control programmes in India and China have left a residue of suspicion – although China’s one-child policy has prevented the addition of 400 million to a population already facing environmental nightmare. The burgeoning human rights agenda has, meanwhile, made all exercises of judgement over the lives of others potentially suspect. So, aid-givers have lapsed into silence on population for fear of being labelled white imperialists.

To an extent, seeing, and experiencing, is believing. In the UK, concern about population was at a peak in the postwar baby-boom decades, when family size was well above the replacement level of 2.1 and the effects of growth were plainly visible. Domestically at least, a quieter demographic era then dawned: below-replacement family sizes, the expectation that the UK population would peak early this century and thereafter decline. This comfortable vision of Britain is now history.

Under the impact of an upward twist in birth rates and record levels of immigration, which now accounts for over two-thirds of population increase, numbers are rising at rates not seen since the baby-boom days. Government statisticians tell us that the UK’s population, six or seven million in 1750, 50 million in 1950 and 61 million today, will reach 85 million in 2081, with no sign of levelling off. And why should it, when we live in a globalised and globally warmed world with potentially millions of environmental refugees heading our way – making the British Isles, as the environmental guru James Lovelock puts it, one of the planet’s lifeboats?

Against this background, it is hardly surprising that the population issue has been reignited, at least at grass-roots level, as millions of us, particularly in the south-east of England, experience crowding and congestion every day and read in our newspapers, as we strap-hang on some packed commuter train, that it is going to get worse. Last September, England was confirmed as the most densely populated of all the larger countries in the EU: only Malta is more crowded. It is also not surprising that, among the political classes, the immigration component of population growth has led to silence on the issue as a whole – after all, who wants to be accused of racism? But never underestimate the power of cognitive dissonance: that human facility, only too familiar in matters of a green nature, to think one thing but do the opposite. In this respect the Daily Mail, which fulminates against higher den­sities, but describes those in favour of limiting family size as green zealots, may be all too representative of Middle England.

Yet if the silence on population has lately begun to crumble somewhat under pressure from below, a larger question lies behind it. How do we know that the world is overpopulated? Common sense might argue there must be a causal link between the loading of an extra four billion people into the biosphere in the second half of the 20th century and the contemporaneous appearance of severe ecological ills. But common sense also argues that there is lots of land left in the world – think Canada, Siberia.

The contemporary environmentalist, meanwhile, will defend his silence on population by arguing that it is not human numbers that are the problem; it is more about how those human beings live. This employs the

I = P x A x T formula popularised by the population ecologist Paul Ehrlich, author of the 1968 classic The Population Bomb. IPAT says human beings’ impact is a product of their population numbers, multiplied by their affluence and their technology. In other words, the more stuff you own and do, the more burdensome you are to Planet Earth.

The Guardian columnist George Monbiot recently argued that as global economic growth, before the credit crunch, was 3.8 per cent and population growth was 1.2 per cent, the affluence or consumption half of the equation bore twice [sic] as much responsibility for environmental damage as the population half.

The truth is far more complex – partly because the figures assume an exact equivalence between economic growth and human impact at variance with the facts. Some of the ingredients of economic growth (oil, mining) have a great deal of environmental impact; some (financial services) have much less. Many human activities do not register in gross national product at all. If I go for a walk in the park – or, for that matter, cut down a wild tree to use as firewood – I will be contributing to impact but not to economic growth.

This is more than scholasticism, however, because we are making value judgements about future human numbers all the time – whether we acknowledge it or not. Faced with sub-replacement birth rates in many countries in the developed world and with talk of a “birth dearth”, for instance, many governments have begun to promote the economic benefit of women having more babies or of higher immigration as a means of paying for our pensions. You hear less of this in the UK since the idea was rubbished by the Pensions Commission, but it is a remarkably durable piece of mythology that carries startling demographic implications. Since new arrivals grow old and then require pensions themselves, you need an ever-growing population to keep the “support ratio” between workers and non-workers the same. To maintain the present support ratio in the UK, for example, would demand a national population of 136 million in 2050 – more than double the current number.

Is that too many? Most of us would think so – including, apparently, the new immigration minister, Phil Woolas, who said last year that Britain required a population policy, and that the government wouldn’t “allow” the population to reach 70 million (we’re on target to hit that in 2028). But explaining why it might be too many is a different matter. It is not easy to determine the “carrying capacity” of a place – whether it be the United Kingdom or the planet. The American population scientist Joel Cohen asked, in his 1995 book of the same title: how many people can the earth support? But he could not answer his own question, though he noted that the carrying capacity of the number of human beings the earth could support had ranged over the past three centuries from half a billion to more than a thousand billion.

Ecological footprinting

Since the publication of Cohen’s book, however, a new methodology – “ecological footprinting” – has emerged and this is providing a higher level of consistency. Ecological footprinting measures national and global biological productive capacity (the stuff we live off) against human demand (the “footprint”). The resulting data takes both population and consumption into account and provides what many regard as the best guide yet to measuring sustainability. It has been reported that, at the current rates of consumption, the world can support only five billion people. This means the planet is already overpopulated by nearly two billion.

Given that the new science of ecological footprinting has borne out what common sense was suggesting as far back as the 1960s, it’s probably a good job we haven’t all waited for proof. In 2007, 69 out of 195 countries had policies to lower population growth, compared with 39 in the mid-1970s.

This included 70 per cent of the less developed countries: 34 out of 53 African states, for example. And there have been some remarkable, and unexpected, success stories – not least Iran, which decided after a census in 1987 that population growth was holding back development and, between 1988 and 2000, reduced its fertility rate from 5.2 children per family to a below-replacement level of two. Thailand cut fertility rates from 6.3 in 1967 to 1.7 in 2003. Many other states have reduced their birth rates at a speed comparable to China but without coercion. They include Costa Rica, Cuba, Mexico, Morocco, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tunisia, Vietnam and India (the southern states).

Half a century after the first population and family planning programmes began, the ingredients of success are well established: strong government support, often through explicit population policies; partnership with NGOs; an emphasis on women’s status, rights and education; education on sex and relationships; and, above all, the ready availability of contraceptives – supplied in Iran, for example, by a nationwide network of “health houses”.

Yet more than 200 million women worldwide lack access to contraception, and international spending on family planning – partly because of anti-abortion policies adopted by the Bush administration in the US – has recently been in steep decline. Given that even the UN middle-range world population projection of 9.2 billion by 2050 assumes a further drop in birth rates of up to 46 per cent, this is worrying indeed. Without reductions in fertility, the UN says, we could be nearing 12 billion in 2050.

How to make a difference

Oddly, in a world of large populations, small decisions do make a difference. If every woman had half a child less than currently projected, for example, the world population would be 7.8 billion in 2050 – 1.4 billion fewer people, or roughly one China less. In the UK, meanwhile, if the 26 per cent of women currently expected to have three or more children were to limit themselves to two, our mid-century population would be cut by an estimated seven million – enough to return an area the size of Wales back to nature or food production.

Would that be a good thing? If you are concerned about other species or that nebulous but powerful grouping of ideas we label “the wild”, yes. But even from a brutally anthropocentric standpoint, it has a certain logic. Footprint data suggests that, based on current lifestyles, the sustainable population of the UK – the number of people we could feed, fuel and support from our own biological capacity – is about 18 million. There are thus 43 million “too many” of us, all reliant on the outside world for sustenance. In an era of impending shortages – of food, oil, gas, water – does that not seem a little risky?

The UK has no population policy – despite ranking in the top 20 of the most overpopulated countries, judging by the standard above. If we had such a policy, it would need to address immigration as well as birth rates – a good enough reason, cynics might think, for politicians to forget the whole idea. It would also need to address a further vexed issue – what numbers are sustainable and what are desirable?

Environmental orthodoxy treats population and consumption as two factors in an equation, and thus accepts, by implication, that both are important, but concentrates on one (consumption) while ignoring the other (population). This not only compounds errors in analysis with errors of logic: it has had intangible but far-reaching effects, not least in giving environmentalists a reputation as killjoys, forever telling us what not to consume and making calculations of sustainability seem dour technical exercises in survivalism. Both tendencies have damaged the wider green mission. But there is another way of looking at the numbers question, one that goes beyond sustainability and perhaps bears more directly on what it is to be human.

Consider two Planet Earths – one of nine billion people with x amount of “consumption”, the other of one billion with 9x consumption. Bear in mind that the world of nine billion may be more inventive, but also more pressured and stressful, less spacious. Bear in mind particularly that often, by “consumption”, we mean activities which for many people, laudably or not, make life worth living – holidays, hobbies, travel, freedom to choose. In the modern environmentalist’s formulation, both worlds are the same. In practice, they are not; there are choices to be made. Shouldn’t we be making them, and urgently?

www.optimumpopulation.org

Click here for statements from the three main political parties in Britain on population and immigration

This article first appeared in the 09 March 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Planet Overload

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A nervous breakdown in the body politic

Are we too complacent in thinking that the toxic brew of paranoia and populism that brought Hitler to power will never be repeated?

The conventional wisdom holds that “all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”, in Edmund Burke’s familiar phrase; but this is at best a half-truth. Studying the biography of a moral monster triumphantly unleashed on the political and international stage points us to another perspective, no less important. What is necessary for the triumph of evil is that the ground should have been thoroughly prepared by countless small or not-so-small acts of petty malice, unthinking prejudice and collusion. Burke’s axiom, though it represents a powerful challenge to apathy, risks crediting evil with too much of a life of its own: out there, there are evil agencies, hostile to “us”, and we (good men and women) must mobilise to resist.

No doubt; but mobilising intelligently demands being willing to ask what habits and assumptions, as well as what chances and conditions, have made possible the risk of evil triumphing. And that leads us into deep waters, to a recognition of how what we tolerate or ignore or underestimate opens the way for disaster, the ways in which we are at least half-consciously complicit. If this is not to be the silly we-are-all-guilty response that has rightly been so much mocked, nor an absolution for the direct agents of great horrors, it needs a careful and unsparing scrutiny of the processes by which cultures become corruptible, vulnerable to the agendas of damaged and obsessional individuals.

This can be uncomfortable. It raises the awkward issue of what philosophers have learned to call “moral luck” – the fact that some people with immense potential for evil don’t actualise it, because the circumstances don’t present them with the chance, and that some others who might have spent their lives in blameless normality end up supervising transports to Auschwitz. Or, to take a sharply contemporary example, that one Muslim youth from a disturbed or challenging background becomes a suicide bomber but another from exactly the same background doesn’t. It is as though there were a sort of diabolical mirror image for the biblical Parable of the Sower: some seeds grow and some don’t, depending on the ground they fall on, or what chance external stimulus touches them at critical moments.

If what interests us is simply how to assign individuals rapidly and definitively to the categories of sheep and goats, saved and damned, this is offensively frustrating. But if we recognise that evil is in important respects a shared enterprise, we may be prompted to look harder at those patterns of behaviour and interaction that – in the worst cases – give permission to those who are most capable of extreme destructiveness, and to examine our personal, political and social life in the light of this.

***

It would be possible to argue that the anti-Semitism of a lot of German culture – as of European Christian culture overall – was never (at least in the modern period) genocidal and obsessed with absolute racial purity; limited but real possibilities of integration were taken for granted, converts to Christianity were not disadvantaged merely because of their race, and so on. Yet the truth is that this cultural hinterland offered a foothold to the mania of Adolf Hitler; that it gave him just enough of the permission he needed to identify his society’s problems with this clearly definable “alien” presence. In his new book, Hitler: the Ascent, Volker Ullrich compellingly tells us once again that no one could have been under any illusion about Hitler’s general intentions towards the Jews from his very first appearance as a political figure, even if the detailed planning of genocide (lucidly traced in the late David Cesarani’s recent, encyclopaedic Final Solution) took some time to solidify. Yet so much of the German public heard Hitler’s language as the slightly exaggerated version of a familiar trope and felt able to treat it as at worst an embarrassing overstatement of a common, even a common-sense, view. One of the most disturbing things about this story is the failure of so many (inside and outside Germany) to grasp that Hitler meant what he said; and this failure in turn reinforced the delusion of those who thought they could use and then sideline Hitler.

To say that Hitler “meant what he said”, however, can be misleading. It is one of the repeated and focal themes in Ullrich’s book that Hitler was a brazen, almost compulsive liar – or, perhaps better, a compulsive and inventive actor, devising a huge range of dramatic roles for himself: frustrated artist, creative patron, philosopher-king (there is a fine chapter on the intellectual and artistic circle he assembled frequently at his Berchtesgaden residence), workers’ friend, martyr for his people (he constantly insinuated that he believed himself doomed to a tragic and premature death), military or economic messiah and a good deal else besides. His notorious outbursts of hysterical rage seem to have been skilfully orchestrated as instruments of intimidation (though this did not exactly indicate that he was otherwise predictable). Ullrich devotes a fair measure of attention to the literal staging of National Socialism, the architectural gigantism of Albert Speer which gave the Führer the sophisticated theatre he craved. In all sorts of ways, Hitler’s regime was a profoundly theatrical exercise, from the great public displays at Nuremberg and the replanning of Berlin to the various private fantasies enacted by him and his close associates (Göring above all), and from the emotional roller coaster he created for his circle to the dangerously accelerated rate of military-industrial expansion with which he concealed the void at the centre of the German economy.

Theatre both presupposes and creates a public. In the anxiety and despair of post-Versailles Germany, there was a ready audience for the high drama of Nazism, including its scapegoating of demonic enemies within and without. And in turn, the shrill pitch of Hitler’s quasi-liturgies normalised a whole set of bizarre and fantastic constructions of reality. A N Wilson’s challenging novel Winnie and Wolf, a fantasia on Hitler’s relations with Winifred Wagner, culminates in a scene at the end of the war where refugees and destitute citizens in Bayreuth raid the wardrobe of the opera house and wander the streets dressed in moth-eaten costumes; it is an unforgettable metaphor for one of the effects of Hitlerian theatre. Ullrich leaves his readers contemplating the picture of a vast collective drama centred on a personality that was not – as some biographers have suggested – something of a cipher, but that of a fantasist on a grand scale, endowed with a huge literal and metaphorical budget for staging his work.

All of this prompts questions about how it is that apparently sophisticated political systems succumb to corporate nervous breakdowns. It is anything but an academic question in a contemporary world where theatrical politics, tribal scapegoating and variegated confusions about the rule of law are increasingly in evidence. On this last point, it is still shocking to realise how rapidly post-Versailles Germany came to regard violent public conflict between heavily armed militias as almost routine, and this is an important background to the embittered negotiations later on around the relation between Hitler’s Sturmabteilung and the official organs of state coercion. Ullrich’s insightful account of a de facto civil war in Bavaria in the early 1920s makes it mercilessly plain that any pretensions to a state monopoly of coercion in Germany in this period were empty.

Yet the idea of such a state monopoly is in fact essential to anything that could be called a legitimate democracy. In effect, the polity of the Third Reich “privatised” coer­cion: again and again in Ullrich’s book, in the struggles for power before 1933, we see Nazi politicians successfully bidding for control of the mechanisms of public order in the German regions, and more or less franchising public order to their own agencies. A classical democratic political philosophy would argue that the state alone has the right to use force because the state is the guarantor of every community’s and every individual’s access to redress for injury or injustice. If state coercion becomes a tool for any one element in the social complex, it loses legitimacy. It is bound up with the rule of law, which is about something more than mere majority consent. One way of reading the rise of Hitler and National Socialism is as the steady and consistent normalising of illegitimate or partisan force, undermining any concept of an independent guarantee of lawfulness in society. It is the deliberate dissolution of the idea of a Rechtsstaat, a law-governed state order that can be recognised by citizens as organised for their common and individual good. Rule by decree, the common pattern of Nazi governmental practice, worked in harness with law enforcement by a force that was essentially a toxic hybrid, combining what was left of an independent police operation with a highly organised party militia system.

So, one of the general imperatives with which Hitler’s story might leave us is the need to keep a clear sense of what the proper work of the state involves. Arguments about the ideal “size” of the state are often spectacularly indifferent to the basic question of what the irreducible functions of state authority are – and so to the question of what cannot be franchised or delegated to non-state actors (it is extraordinary that we have in the UK apparently accepted without much debate the idea that prison security can be sold off to private interests). This is not the same as saying that privatisation in general leads to fascism; the issues around the limits to state direction of an economy are complex. However, a refusal to ask some fundamental questions about the limits of “franchising” corrodes the idea of real democratic legitimacy – the legitimacy that arises from an assurance to every citizen that, whatever their convictions or their purchasing power, the state is there to secure their access to justice. And, connected with this, there are issues about how we legislate: what are the proper processes of scrutiny for legislation, and how is populist and short-view legislation avoided? The Third Reich offers a masterclass in executive tyranny, and we need not only robust and intelligent counter-models, but a clear political theory to make sense of and defend those models.

***

Theatre has always been an aspect of the political. But there are different kinds of theatre. In ancient Athens, the annual Dionysia festival included the performance of tragedies that forced members of the audience to acknowledge the fragility of the political order and encouraged them to meditate on the divine interventions that set a boundary to vendetta and strife. Classical tragedy is, as political theatre, the exact opposite of Hitlerian drama, which repeatedly asserted the solid power of the Reich, the overcoming of weakness and division by the sheer, innate force of popular will as expressed through the Führer.

Contemporary political theatre is not – outside the more nakedly totalitarian states – a matter of Albert Speer-like spectacle and affirmation of a quasi-divine leader; but it is increasingly the product of a populist-oriented market, the parading of celebrities for popular approval, with limited possibilities for deep public discussion of policies advanced, and an assumption that politicians will be, above all, performers. It is not – to warn once again against cliché and exaggeration – that celebrity culture in politics is a short route to fascism. But a political theatre that never deals with the fragility of the context in which law and civility operate, that never admits the internal flaws and conflicts of a society, and never allows some corporate opening-up to the possibilities of reconciliation and reparation, is one that exploits, rather than resolves our anxieties. And, as such, it makes us politically weaker, more confused and fragmented.

The extraordinary mixture of farce and menace in Donald Trump’s campaign is a potent distillation of all this: a political theatre, divorced from realism, patience and human solidarity, bringing to the surface the buried poisons of a whole system and threatening its entire viability and rationality. But it is an extreme version of the way in which modern technology-and-image-driven communication intensifies the risks that beset the ideals of legitimate democracy.

And – think of Trump once again – one of the most seductively available tricks of such a theatre is the rhetoric of what could be called triumphant victimhood: we are menaced by such and such a group (Jews, mig­rants, Muslims, Freemasons, international business, Zionism, Marxism . . .), which has exerted its vast but covert influence to destroy us; but our native strength has brought us through and, given clear leadership, will soon, once and for all, guarantee our safety from these nightmare aliens.

***

This is a rhetoric that depends on ideas of collective guilt or collective malignity: plots ascribed to the agency of some dangerous minority are brandished in order to tarnish the name of entire communities. The dark legacy of much popular Christian language about collective Jewish guilt for the death of Jesus could be translated without much difficulty into talk about the responsibility of Jews for the violence and poverty afflicting Germans in the 1920s. (Shadows of the same myths still affect the way in which – as recent reports suggest – sinister, vague talk about Zionism and assumptions of a collective Jewish guilt for the actions of various Israeli politicians can become part of a climate that condones anti-Semitic bullying, or text messages saying “Hitler had a point”, on university campuses.)

Granted that there is no shortage of other candidates for demonic otherness in Europe and the United States (witness Trump’s language about Muslims and Mexicans), the specific and abiding lesson of Nazi anti-Semitism is the twofold recognition of the ease with which actually disadvantaged communities can be cast in the role of all-powerful subverters, and the way in which the path to violent exclusion of one kind or another can be prepared by cultures of casual bigotry and collective anxiety or self-pity, dramatised by high-temperature styles of media communication.

Marie Luise Knott’s recent short book Unlearning With Hannah Arendt (2014) revisits the controversy over Arendt’s notorious characterisation of the mindset of Nazism as “the banality of evil”, and brilliantly shows how her point is to do with the erosion in Hitlerian Germany of the capacity to think, to understand one’s agency as answerable to more than public pressure and fashion, to hold to notions of honour and dignity independent of status, convention or influence – but also, ultimately, the erosion of a sense of the ridiculous. The victory of public cliché and stereotype is, in Arendt’s terms, a protection against reality, “against the claim on our thinking attention that all events and facts make by virtue of their existence”, as she memorably wrote in The Life of the Mind. Hitler was committed to the destruction of anything that challenged the simple self-identity and self-justification of the race and the nation; hence, as Ullrich shows in an acutely argued chapter of Hitler: a Biography, the Führer’s venom against the churches, despite their (generally) embarrassingly lukewarm resistance to the horrors of the Reich. The problem was that the churches’ rationale entailed just that accountability to more than power and political self-identity that Nazi philosophy treated as absolute. They had grounds for thinking Nazism not only evil, but absurd. Perhaps, then, one of the more unexpected questions we are left with by a study of political nightmare such as Ullrich’s excellent book is how we find the resources for identifying the absurd as well as for clarifying the grounds of law and honour.

The threats now faced by “developed” democracy are not those of the 1920s and 1930s; whatever rough beasts are on their way are unlikely to have the exact features of Hitler’s distinctive blend of criminality and melodrama. But this does not mean that we shouldn’t be looking as hard as we can at the lessons to be learned from the collapse of political legality, the collective panics and myths, the acceptance of delusional and violent public theatre that characterised Hitler’s Germany. For evil to triumph, what is necessary is for societies to stop thinking, to stop developing an eye for the absurd as well as the corrupt in language and action, public or private.

Hitler: a Biography – Volume I: Ascent by Volker Ullrich is published by the Bodley Head

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism