Dividing Lines: Getting old

The graph of doom.

In local government they call it “the graph of doom”. It is the chart with one steep downhill line showing budget resources and, soaring above it, another line showing the demand for services to look after an ageing population.

According to the latest census, one in six Britons is past retirement age. The number of pensioners will rise from roughly 12 million now to 16 million in 2050. The number of people aged over 100 (now around 12,000) will double over the next decade. As local authorities are responsible for adult social care, they won’t be doing anything else in the future unless the system changes.

What about the National Health Service?
It isn’t designed to provide long-term care for the elderly. Many people discover that only when they or their parents need urgent help. By some estimates, a third of all hospital beds are occupied by elderly patients. Long-term social care, arranged by councils, isn’t free for all. There’s a means test.

That’s the bit where I sell my house, right?
Under current rules, if you are worth more than £23,250 you pay. How much depends on the kind of care you need and where you live but the exposure is potentially unlimited. That often means cashing in equity.

Politicians should do something.
They are. The government is proposing a cap of £75,000 on the amount any one person would have to spend, starting in 2017. There will be a new, tapered means test starting at £123,000 – and so someone worth £50,000 still has to pay something, but less than someone worth £100,000. No one should pay a penny beyond the £75,000 cap.

Really?
No. In the small print, you are still liable for some “hotel costs” – the bed and board element of residential social care, the logic being that you’d still be paying for that sort of thing at home. But the state will now ease the burden for tens of thousands more pensioners.

If all these people are being let off the hook, where does the money come from?
The Treasury will need to find about £1bn extra per year. Some of this will be coming from additional employer National Insurance contributions. Most will be raised by freezing inheritance-tax thresholds, skimming more revenue over time from legacies of the dead.

Death taxes! Yuck!
Funny you should say that. It’s the very line that the Tories used in the 2010 general election campaign when attacking a Labour plan for universal social care, funded in part from inheritance taxes.

Oh, the irony.
That’s one word for it. That campaign poisoned relations between the Labour and Tory health teams, which made cross-party agreement impossible even though everyone agrees this is one of those big, long-term issues that demands collaboration. After the election, the coalition commissioned Andrew Dilnot, an eminent statistician, to come up with a plan. His report, published in July 2011, forms the basis of the coalition’s proposal. The government’s cap is a bit less generous than Dilnot recommended.

It took them 18 months to make that tweak?
It took them the best part of 18 months to summon up the courage to do much at all. There was a social care white paper last year that avoided the Dilnot route, which sounded a bit difficult and expensive to implement. Then the coalition parties realised that they needed some policy for the second half of the parliament. That became more urgent the clearer it got that fixing the national finances – formally declared Tough Issue Number One and the coalition’s stated raison d’être – wasn’t being tackled to anyone’s satisfaction. So Dilnot’s plan was fetched into Downing Street from the long grass.

And how’s that cross-party consensus coming along?
Labour has responded cautiously to the new coalition plan, with variations on the classic “too little, too late” holding rebuttal. Separately, Andy Burnham, the shadow health secretary, has devised a grand plan to integrate social care with the NHS. The idea, under the rubric of “whole-person care”, is to find ways to maximise the value that society gets from the huge health budget with a more strategic focus on promoting healthy, happy living – supporting the elderly to stay in their homes, for example. That, in theory, works better and costs less than the present inefficient process, which intervenes too late and ends up throwing money at random at the consequences of unhealthy lifestyles and poorly managed chronic conditions.

What does that mean in practice?
There’s a review to work out the details.

What about the money?
The right kind of interventions at the right time save money in the long term, as health and social care spending would go much further if the system wasn’t forced into making so many costly last-minute emergency interventions. Hospitals wouldn’t be turned into vast geriatric warehouses.

Long-term savings appear only in the long term. You’d need money upfront to fix social care, even just to match what the government is doing.
Yes, you would. And when Labour finally decides what its spending priorities are, there is a strong chance this will turn out to be one of them.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 25 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The cheap food delusion

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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