"Sod it, let's add another two grand to the fees, they'll suck it up." Image: Getty.
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Even rich parents don’t benefit from charitable status for schools

Running schools as charities has simply insulated them from the consequences of their own financial incontinence. 

Most private schools, as any fule kno, are charities. This probably made sense back in the 1400s, when Eton and Harrow genuinely existed to educate poor local boys, but it seems a bit of an anachronism now they’re basically a machine for turning rich kids into Cabinet ministers. Charitable status, it's often argued, is bad for state schools, bad for social mobility, and bad for the taxpayer.

All this you've heard before, and either you believe it to be self-evidently true, or you think it's a load of nonsense put about by envious lefties. Nothing I write here is going to affect your position on this.

So let's try a different argument. Charitable status, I’m certain, has done untold damage to private schools themselves. And it's been an absolute disaster for the families whose kids attend them. Abolishing charitable status would be good for very nearly everybody. 

The dirty little secret of Britain's private schools is that many of them are not, in fact, very good. I don't mean educationally (although when the OECD last looked school standards, it found that they were almost exactly as good as state schools). What I mean is that they're not very well run.

Most businesses, for understandable reasons, spend a lot of time worrying about money. They want costs to be low; they want sales to be high. If the latter isn't bigger than the former, then everyone knows it's goodnight Vienna.

But charitable status has helped insulate to schools from such earthly concerns. They've enthusiastically spent the stuff on all sorts of things (swimming pools, concert halls, minuscule class sizes) that make little difference educationally, but look bloody good in the brochure. Then, at the end of this year, they tot up their costs, and adjust their income to meet them.

A school can’t just add five per cent more pupils every year, of course: they have to raise their price. The result is that, between 2001 and 2011, according to educational consultancy MTM, average school fees rose by 83 per cent. The incomes of the richest 10th of Britons rose by less than a third of that. This isn’t a fact that’s likely to elicit much sympathy, but even if you’re loaded, that’s going to sting a bit.

Revoking charitable status wouldn't immediately fix this: removing those tax breaks would probably mean more schools went under, at least in the short term. But over time, it would prevent financially incontinent head teachers from squealing, "We're a charity!" whenever parents query the latest increase in fees. Turning schools into businesses would force them to think a whole lot harder about whether they can actually afford that extra swimming pool, rather than just thinking, "Meh, the parents are good for it". It would take away their crutch.

It’s worth asking again who benefits from private schools’ charitable status. The public don't. The taxpayer doesn't. And even rich parents, for whose benefit the schools are supposed to be run, are increasingly getting screwed by it. 

The only people who benefit from charitable status are incompetent head teachers who’ve never learnt to use an Excel spreadsheet. No wonder they're so desperate to hang onto it.

Jonn Elledge is the editor of the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric. He is on Twitter, far too much, as @JonnElledge.

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue