The left must abandon the idea of change from above

The rusted levers of the central state simply cannot cope with the complexity of the new world.

If there is one feature, above all, which manifests itself in our public and economic lives it is this: the shift from ‘them to us’.  It is the shift from a way of being for both organisations and individuals that is centralised and hierarchical to a world that is decentralised and horizontal. The implications are profound.

What we are witnessing is the breaking up of old tectonic plates born of the centralising forces of the early and mid decades of the last century. The on-going crisis at the BBC, the archetype of this organisational form, this week labelled "incapable and chaotic" over the Savile affair, is witness to the cumbersome and ineffectual nature of this type of antiquated structure. 

But all our big old institutions are in crisis; the media more generally, banking, the police and the political establishment are all finding themselves unable to cope, react or adjust to new pressures and demands. Under pressure, they react the only way they can – through different shades of managerial and technocratic responses that simply make matters worse by showing how out of touch and tune they are. Old systems that are closed, rigid, hard and hierarchical are finding it increasingly tough dealing with new systems that are open, malleable, soft and horizontal.

This process cannot be clear-cut. Paradigm shifts are always a slow and messy burn. And what is happening is more than the pendulum swing between right and left. There is no natural political winner from the ‘them to us’ switch. The new devolved and decentralised forms can be a privatised and individualised as much as they can be ‘publicised’ and socialised.  Much of this new ‘us’ world is built around technology, the morality of which is strictly neutral. It can end up with Amazon or Avaaz.

The switch gives progressives an opening but only if we can tear ourselves away from the essentially Leninist/Fordist model that says "socialism is what a Labour government does". This outsourcing of socialism to an elite is typical of the old world. The rusted levers of the central state simply cannot cope with the complexity of the dispersed systems of the new world. People want to do things for themselves and where they don’t, things will go wrong. You cannot outsource socialism or the socialisation of your children to the market or the state – you have to co-produce it by getting involved and investing part of yourself in it. It’s the only way things really work.

The idea of the democratisation of our common life, more than anything else, must be the motif that runs through the radical politics of the future. In economic development the emphasis should be on local democratic ownership and the same vision should be applied to comprehensive schooling and health. Other essentially public assets like railways and trains should be taken back into public ownership but not to resurrect the monoliths of the past – but to create new regional and local enterprises that are accountable to the people and institutions they serve.

"The old is dying and the new cannot be born," said Antonio Gramsci, the celebrated Italian Marxist. But the contours of the new can be seen all around us; from peer-to peer design, production and servicing. From on-line banks like Zopa where people lend to each other and cut out the old banks, to Wikipedia, our first port of call on any research project, from political campaigning vehicles like 38 Degrees in which over one million decide the issue and then make the campaign happen, to on the ground change through organisations like Locality.

Zygmunt Bauman, the still prolific octogenarian sociologist, describes this world as "liquid modern". The old edifices still exist but the security they offered has long gone.  It is a world in which we are both blessed and cursed with freedom without security, which, as we are finding, is a frustratingly hollow form of being free.  The thin ice on which we skate in our daily lives, the effort to keep up and the fear and anxiety of what lies around the corner, the insecurity that overshadows the liberation of the mobile and iPad, can only be traversed by skating faster.

The challenge to the exhaustion and pointlessness of so much of modern life is to find ways of being secure while still being free – not from the top down, not by relying on someone else to make us secure. No one can. Only we can. The fight and struggle of the future will be about how we knit together a social and economic fabric that enables us to be creative and innovative the best way we can – with others. It is a future that will be negotiated, with alliances formed and reformed around different issues and the thread that runs through it all won't be a single party but a belief in the capacity of people collectively to shape their world.

Demonstrators take part in a TUC march in protest against the government's austerity measures. Photograph: Getty Images.

Neal Lawson is chair of the pressure group Compass and author of the book All Consuming.

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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