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What David Cameron can learn from Abraham Lincoln

Wearing the Union blue.

Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation of 1863 is one of the noblest statements ever delivered, and forcing the abolition bill through a reluctant Congress, as Steven Spielberg’s masterful Oscarnominated film attests, was a monumental achievement. But Lincoln’s principal contribution to American history was to save the Union, as those from the Southern states are quick to tell you. In the former Confederacy, the civil war is still called “the War Between the States”.

Lincoln confided his thoughts about secession and slavery in a letter of 1862. “If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that,” he wrote. “What I do about slavery, and the coloured race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union; and what I forbear, I forbear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union.”

His proclamation did not, in fact, free the slaves in the North, nor was he in a position to free slaves in the Confederate South, but, under his powers as commander-in-chief in wartime, he issued an executive order that freed all slaves in the Southern states as soon as they were occupied by the Union army.

It may at first seem a little far-fetched, but there are poignant similarities between the conundrum that Lincoln encountered 150 years ago and the dilemma David Cameron faces today. They are both confronted with threats to the very existence of the nations they govern. While Lincoln was obliged to respond to a fait accompli, a group of slave states that had decided before his election to wrest themselves from the Union, by force of arms if necessary, Cameron finds himself under siege on all sides. But while Lincoln was presented with the simple option of whether to take up arms to defend the Union or watch as his country split in two, Cam eron has no such easy choice.

In Scotland, the Scottish National Party has finally achieved what it has been dreaming of for 80 years. It has a mandate to demand from Westminster a referendum on whether, after three centuries united with England and Wales, Scotland should become a free nation again. The Union came about as a result of the Union of the Crowns, when the Scottish king James VI, son of Mary, Queen of Scots, acceded to the throne of England following the death of the childless Elizabeth I in 1603. It took a full century before the English and Scottish parliaments combined in the Acts of Union of 1707. Lincoln was obliged to defend a union barely 90 years old; Cameron must protect a union that has lasted more than 300 years.

In Ireland, Cameron presides over the latest skirmish in a bloody struggle that has lasted much longer. The colonisation of Ireland was messy and brutal from the start, and the independence wrested from Britain in 1922 left the northern, overwhelmingly Protestant and unionist part of the island in British hands. A border had to be drawn somewhere, leaving many who would prefer to live in the republic stranded in a British province. The continuing troubles offer a challenge to Cameron to find a permanent peace. No less than in Scotland, British sovereignty and British lives are severely at risk.

Then there is the European Union. Those with a sense of history will remember that joining Europe was always predominantly a Conservative project. It was Harold Macmillan, with Edward Heath at his side, who first flirted with the continentals in 1961 and had his overture rudely rebuffed by Charles de Gaulle’s “Non!”. Heath the eternal bachelor then made it his life’s mission to make a marriage with the Europeans and the lasting legacy of his otherwise awkward, chilly and ultimately tragic premiership was British entry into the European Economic Community in 1973. As Cameron must be all too aware, the principled Heath condemned the referendum that Harold Wilson called on European membership two years later as a shabby gimmick, designed to appease internal Labour divisions over the Common Market.

Since the moment when Heath’s successor Margaret Thatcher – who had campaigned in favour of remaining in Europe in 1975 – began arguing, as prime minister after 1979, against closer European union, the Conservatives have been profoundly and openly divided on the matter. The rupture over Europe, even more than Thatcher’s unpopular poll tax, led to her defenestration by cabinet colleagues in 1990. John Major’s leadership of the Tories was blighted by the question of Europe; and the election of three Eurosceptic leaders in a row – William Hague, Iain Duncan Smith and Michael Howard – did not settle the matter.

Cameron’s inheritance is a party facing both ways on Europe, and his inability to reconcile the opposing forces has given rise to a challenge for the affections of his patriotic electoral base from the anti-European Ukip. Although Ukip’s leader, Nigel Farage, along with every other Ukip candidate, failed to win a Commons seat in 2010 (Farage was beaten by a candidate dressed as a dolphin), his party stole enough votes from the Conservatives to deprive Cameron of a parliamentary majority.

When he dreamed of leading his party, Cameron could never have imagined that Britain’s existence would be subject to a three-pronged attack. But he finds himself in the same position as today’s Republican leadership in America, under assault from angry rank and file who feel they are being ignored and betrayed by their leaders. The Republicans, once the proud “party of Lincoln”, have evolved into a testy vehicle for insurgent mavericks and malcontents.

To add insult to indignity, the “Grand Old Party”, which once bravely saved the Union, is the home of a new secessionist movement. Having failed to devolve substantial powers from the federal government to the states, many are demanding independence. At present, eight states, all from the defeated Confederacy, have petitioned the White House to be allowed to secede: Texas, Louisiana, Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, North Carolina, Alabama and South Carolina. The muddled, ahistorical thinking behind the treacherous talk is evident in the argument proffered by the libertarian Ron Paul: “It’s very American to talk about secession. That’s how we came into being.”

On a personal level, there are as few similarities between Cameron and Lincoln as between Jacob and Esau. Lincoln was brought up in a sparsely furnished log cabin and, much to his ignorant father’s despair, taught himself to read and write, eventually emerging as a jobbing country lawyer in Illinois. Cameron, as we know, was the son of high privilege. Everyone who met Lincoln commented on his rough looks and his even rougher clothes. Cameron’s smooth, unlined face betrays an easy, affluent, well-fed life.

Both men, however, could be described more accurately as Whigs than Conservatives, in their commitment to parliament or Congress over absolute powers held by the monarch or president. Indeed, Lincoln was an old American Whig before he joined the Republicans over the issue of abolition. Allied to their commitment to rewarding individual effort, irrespective of background, is a strong, Protestant sense that their good fortune entails paying something back. Despite his comfortable circumstances, Cameron has argued that “it’s where you are going to, not where you have come from, that matters”. In a decisive break from the philosophy of heroic individualism that inspired Thatcher, he believes “there is such a thing as society”.

As well as soaring ambition, the two men share other similarities. Both are most eloquent when they do not refer to notes. Although stiff and wooden at first, Lincoln’s speeches gathered pace and by the peroration he would be ripping off his necktie, loosening his starched collar and throwing his arms around like a deranged windmill. “His pronunciation is bad, his manners uncouth and his general appearance anything but prepossessing,” is how one eyewitness described his platform presence.

Cameron’s delivery is calm, ordered and deliberate. His speech to the Tory party conference in 2005, delivered without notes, may not have been as powerful and inspirational as the 268 words of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address of 1863, which would be a tall order for anyone except, perhaps, Winston Churchill. But the performance at Blackpool, in its carefully pitched content tailored to the party faithful and the confidence of its delivery, ensured his election as leader.

Lincoln took into his administration the big beasts of the Republican Party whom he had beaten to the Republican nomination: William H Seward, Salmon P Chase and Edward Bates. And Cameron, too, assembled a team of former rivals. To become Tory leader, he saw off David Davis, Liam Fox and Kenneth Clarke, all of whom he invited into his shadow cabinet. Like Lincoln, Cameron leads his disparate colleagues with the minimum of friction. But there the favourable comparisons between the two leaders start to run out.

Lincoln was always a man of principle rather than pragmatism. He could be rash, failing to hold his tongue in the presence of those he knew disagreed with him, and found it difficult to compromise even when it was in his best interest to do so. Nowhere was this more obvious and powerful than when he spelled out, years before running for the White House, what he felt about race.

He declared that when the Founding Fathers wrote, “We hold these truths to be selfevident: that all men are created equal,” they meant “the whole great family of man” and not merely those with white faces. Lincoln said the founders knew enough about human nature to imagine that, “in the distant future”, people would emerge who would “set up the doctrine that none but rich men, or none but white men, were entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. But he was certain that racism could never have been in the founders’ minds and he would have none of it.

In comparison to this eloquent statement of principle, just one among dozens that Lincoln crisply articulated in his short life, Cam - eron emerges as a dissembler, always alert for a way to delay taking a stand, ever ready with the smudgy phrase and the tactical retreat. Let us give him a pass on Ireland. Few have got it right and it may well be insoluble so long as a vociferous minority in Northern Ireland demands the impossible and the intractable majority insists on being British. In Scotland, however, when the SNP obtained a majority in the Scottish Parliament and claimed a mandate to call a referendum on independence, Cameron readily ignored Lincoln’s example to resist the dissolution of the Union and readily agreed to Alex Salmond’s demands.

In calling an all-or-nothing, in-out referendum on independence next year in Scotland only, David William Donald Cameron, to give him his full, Scots-derived name, failed to question the legality of one half of the nation being able to secede from the other on its own cognisance. Instead, he conceded the principle that if the referendum records a majority of Scots in favour of secession, that is enough to grant a divorce, as if England, Wales and Northern Ireland, and the Scots living in the rest of Britain, were not entitled to a say in the dissolution of the United Kingdom. “I’m not going to stand here and suggest Scotland couldn’t make a go of being on its own, if that’s what people decide,” Cameron said. “There are plenty of small, independent nation states of a similar size or even smaller. Scotland could make its way in the world alongside countries like those.”

Lincoln would never have yielded on such a fundamental principle. As he put it, “If we do not make common cause to save the good old ship of the Union on this voyage, nobody will have a chance to pilot her on another voyage.”

When Cameron conceded the principle that one part of the United Kingdom may constitutionally break from the rest, he also declared himself “ready for the fight for our country’s life”. He appears to be in favour of two incompatible principles, the right of Britain to remain a nation and the right of Scotland to secede. He then adopts the principle that gives Scotland the moral right to secede to inform his party’s demand that Britain be allowed to renegotiate a looser union with our European partners. What, then, is Cameron’s guiding principle when dealing with Scotland and the European Union? There is none. Both are craven acts of political expedience. His promise of a referendum on British membership of the EU is largely an attempt to save the Conservatives from being driven from office by Ukip.

Cameron’s answer to the Ukip threat to the renewal of his Downing Street lease is to avoid saying exactly what the relationship between Britain and the EU should be, because plainly he doesn’t know where the line should be drawn. Instead he abrogates the responsibility of a true leader and, in the hope of being re-elected, promises an in-out referendum on EU membership, so long as he is re-elected. As Lincoln asked, “What is conservatism? Is it not adherence to the old and tried against the new and untried?”

Cameron is less a conservative than a trimmer, less a Heath than a Wilson, less a That - cher than a Blair.

When Lincoln confronted the break-up of the United States, he borrowed from the Gospel according to Saint Matthew: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” To avoid the consequences of the Conservatives’ deeply divided house, Cameron is willing to risk the dissolution of the United Kingdom and British withdrawal from the European Union. Both are too high a price to pay for trying to bridge the irrevocable schism in the Tory ranks.

Nicholas Wapshott’s most recent book is “Keynes Hayek: the Clash That Defined Modern Economics” (W W Norton, £12.99)

Nicholas Wapshott’s Keynes Hayek: the Clash That Defined Modern Economics is published by W W Norton (£12.99)

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Assange Alone

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Bernie Sanders and the future of the American left

How an old, white guy is bringing class-based politics to the Democratic primary.

One thing is immediately striking: as he addresses primary rallies across America, arms flailing like a giant bird coming in to land, snow-white hair fizzing skywards like Doc Brown’s in Back to the Future, eyes startled behind the robust spectacles he has worn since childhood, Bernie Sanders looks quite unlike any other presidential candidate.

Perhaps the surprise in those eyes is sparked by the size of the crowds Sanders has been attracting. They are enormous, rivalling the numbers who turned out for Barack Obama back in 2008, and unprecedented for a candidate who is not shy of describing himself as a socialist: 28,000 in Portland and LA, 25,000 in Boston and 15,000 in Seattle. Even in Dallas, not a renowned centre of radicalism, 8,000 turned out to “feel the Bern”.

In these days when slick suits and expensive haircuts are increasingly a turn-off for a public weary of smooth politicians they see as delivering only for the wealthy, Sanders’s persona, like that of Jeremy Corbyn, his equally unkempt British counterpart, has proved popular. But it is his message – an angry chronicling of the depredations facing so many Americans and a solid social-democratic programme for putting things right – that is really pulling in the crowds. Sanders, who is 74, and the main challenger to Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination, doesn’t just look different. With his confident calls for a “revolution” to break up the banks and impose higher taxes on the rich, he doesn’t sound like any other recent presidential contender, either.


I first met Bernie Sanders in 1996. I was the publisher of his book Outsider in the House, a political autobiography that appeared the following year (and which has just been reissued by Verso with a new foreword, and more than a hint of optimism, as Outsider in the White House). The occasion was a benefit concert during his successful bid to be re-elected to the House of Representatives from the small, rural state of Vermont.

Sanders’s early years are not well documented, least of all by him. He devotes less than three of the 300 pages in Outsider to the first three decades of his life. He doesn’t much care for the “humble roots” narrative beloved of so many politicians, generally millionaires whose ancestors lived in broken-down cabins. But the raw material is certainly there. The son of Polish immigrants, Sanders grew up in a working-class Jewish family in Flatbush, Brooklyn. At home, money was tight: “Every major household purchase . . . would be accompanied by a fight between my parents as to whether we could afford it,” he wrote.

It was an achievement to gain admission to the University of Chicago, and though he described himself as “not a good student”, that was a result of sacrificing coursework to the cause of social activism. He settled permanently in Vermont at the age of 27, having bought an 85-acre farm in the north of the state for $2,500. Four years later he moved to Burlington, the state capital, where he became involved in city politics, at first in the tiny Liberty Union Party and then as an independent. In 1981 he was inaugurated as mayor and commenced a series of tilts at the state’s congressional seat. He finally entered the House of Representatives in 1991 – the first independent candidate to enter Congress in 40 years.

By the time I encountered him, Sanders was seeking to defend his seat for the third time. The concert where we met was taking place in an old art-deco theatre in Brattleboro, perhaps the most hippiefied community in a state where tie-dye remains as ubiquitous as dairy herds. It was headlined by Pete Seeger, who ran through a panoply from his folk songbook to a packed crowd that knew all the words.

Ten years earlier, Mayor Sanders, a long-time admirer of Seeger, had recorded one of his songs, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, on a surreal folk/rap album. Now, he waited until Seeger had finished his set before taking the stage and, speaking in the only manner he seems to know – a gruff, shouted staccato – exhorted Vermonters to join him in the fight against Newt Gingrich and Bob Dole to stop the Republicans from taking over the presidency and the Senate. The response was rapturous. Sanders left the stage like a president concluding a State of the Union speech, gladhanding lines of admirers as he made his way out of the hall.

A few weeks later I met him again, this time at his congressional office in Washington, DC. On the wall of his office I spotted a plaque of Eugene Debs, who ran for Congress and the presidency on a socialist ticket, travelling to every part of the country on a train he called the Red Special and picking up 6 per cent of the popular vote in 1912, when he finished fourth, behind Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.

Sanders had invited me to lunch and so we headed off through the underground passageway that leads from the office building to the congressional dining room. We were accompanied along the way by one of his assistants who, in true West Wing style, peppered him with questions and made notes on a clipboard as we walked. We had just started our food when John Kasich, then congressman for Ohio and now governor of the state and a contender for the Republican presidential nomination, wandered over for a chat. Despite Kasich’s reputation as a fiscal conservative, it was evident that he and Sanders had a cordial relationship, and indeed, Sanders invited him to join us for lunch.

It was difficult to reconcile these two contrasting snapshots of Sanders: the rousing air punch in Vermont and the bridge-building handshake in DC. But the more one looks into his career, the clearer it becomes that this dual approach is integral to his remarkable political ascent. Sanders plays it quite differently inside and out, but he plays both sides very hard.

“Bernie doesn’t see a contradiction between working within the system and campaigning to change it,” the journalist Matt Taibbi told me, recalling the time when he shadowed Sanders for several weeks in 2005 while researching a piece for Rolling Stone. “I remember one Thursday afternoon I made a snarky comment about members of the House already sneaking off home for a long weekend and how it seemed to me that many of them were pretty lazy. Bernie scolded me, insisting that most of the people in Congress work very conscientiously. He doesn’t believe the system functions for ordinary people, but he’s not cynical about it either.”

This point was reiterated by Heather Gautney, an associate professor of sociology at Fordham University in New York who previously worked as a researcher in Sanders’s Senate office. “Working with Bernie in DC, I realised what a difficult place it was for someone more interested in movement-building than passing legislation,” Gautney said. “But Bernie was known for getting substantial chunks of the Republican vote in Vermont and he used that same skill to connect with some pretty unlikely allies in Congress.”

Sanders’s legislative record is strikingly good. In the decade after the Republicans took over the House of Representatives in 1995 no other lawmaker attached more amendments to bills that were voted on. He achieved this by using his position as an independent to put together coalitions that spanned both of the main parties, and also by sheer hard work. In his Rolling Stone article, Taibbi describes Sanders waiting patiently for hours to table an amendment in the office of the House rules committee, “a tiny, airless closet deep in the labyrinth of the Capitol where some of the very meanest people on Earth spend their days cleaning democracy like a fish”.

Sanders’s method of working across party lines is not without its critics. Especially on the left, there are voices that wonder if the compromises that inevitably accompany playing the system in DC are too large. Many of Sanders’s positions on foreign policy have skewed towards the militarism and careless disregard for human rights that prevail among the Washington establishment. Although notably, and unlike Hillary Clinton, he opposed the initial vote on the Iraq War, Sanders voted for every bill that came before Congress to fund the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. He has supported basing the new F-35 fighter plane at Burlington Airport in Vermont, despite widespread concern from residents about the environmental impact. And he did not oppose the Senate resolution that supported Israel’s attack on Gaza in 2014, which left as many as 2,200 Palestinians dead.

Sanders is clearly happier talking about problems inside the US than foreign policy. In his opening statement to last Saturday’s televised debate between the Democratic candidates, he segued awkwardly from condemning the attacks in Paris to excoriating America’s “rigged economy”. Yet on domestic issues, too, some of his stands have given progressives pause for thought: his opposition to the Trans-Pacific Partnership, a 12-country trade agreement championed by Barack Obama, has always been grounded in an argument in favour of saving jobs for American workers, rather than any notion of international solidarity. His slowness in expressing support for the burgeoning Black Lives Matter movement, something which his campaign has latterly striven hard to correct, was less of a surprise to those aware of his consistent support for the police union while mayor of Burlington. And his position on guns (he voted against the Brady Bill, which mandated background checks on buyers of firearms) is the only area in which Clinton outflanks him to the left.

But perhaps the biggest issue for many progressives is Sanders’s decision to run for president through, rather than outside, the Democratic primary. Though he began his political career in the Liberty Union Party and has stood in every election since as an independent, he is, as Howard Dean, the progressives’ challenger in the Democratic primary of 2003/2004, put it, “basically . . . a Democrat . . . [who] votes with the Democrats 98 per cent of the time”.

As Sanders relates in Outsider in the House, faced in 1996 with the choice of backing Ralph Nader, “a personal friend and an exemplary progressive” running as an independent, or Bill Clinton, whose policies on health care, welfare reform, trade, gay marriage and military spending he sharply disagreed with, Sanders decided to “support” Clinton. “Perhaps ‘support’ is too strong a word,” he frets in the book. “I’m planning no press conferences to push his candidacy, and will do no campaigning for him. I will vote for him, and make that public.”

Sanders has called for a vote for the Democratic nominee in every presidential election since Jimmy Carter left office in 1981, and early this month, on ABC’s This Week, he appeared to have completed a long transition, asserting: “I am a Democrat now.”

This failure to build an electoral force outside the Democrats always leads to a dead end, according to Anthony Arnove, a prominent member of the International Socialist Organisation (ISO) who is also a publisher and literary agent representing a range of leftish writers, including Arundhati Roy. “We’ve seen it over and over,” Arnove said: “a left challenge fires up the base and is then defeated in the primaries by a centrist, or, more accurately, right-wing candidate, who goes on to betray everything those people were mobilised around.”

Sanders’s fundraising almost matched Clinton’s over the summer – in the third quarter they raised $26m and $28m, respectively – and in September he became the first candidate to attract more than a million individual donations. (The average donation to his campaign has been $30.) But his dip in the polls after Hillary’s strong performances in the first nationally televised primary debate, and then again at her House select committee hearing on the 2012 attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, suggests he will struggle to win the nomination. As of early November he trailed Clinton nationally by 25 points.

In Arnove’s view, Sanders “won’t get further than Super Tuesday [at the beginning of March], when he’ll direct his base to vote for Clinton. This is exactly how the Democrats become a graveyard for progressive politics, when what we desperately need are social movements that can remain independent of both establishment parties and push for their own agenda.”


The revolution to which Sanders often refers is a long way from the sort envisaged by Arnove’s ISO. He is pursuing a fairer capitalism, not its overthrow. “He’s not Trotsky,” as Taibbi put it to me. But there are those inside his campaign who think its primary focus should be building a grass-roots organisation capable of transcending the four-yearly coming together of presidential elections, to create a more permanent basis for a broad, progressive movement.

One such advocate is Adolph Reed, a writer and academic who is campaigning for Sanders in South Carolina. Working with local unions and Labor for Bernie Sanders 2016, which has 70,000 signed-up members, Reed sees the potential in using Sanders’s programme, with its emphasis on basic economic demands such as the minimum wage, universal health care and free college tuition, as a way of drawing together various groups campaigning around single issues such as housing and police racism.

For Reed, who is black, class trumps race as the key to building a movement. “In New Orleans everyone talked about Katrina as having a devastating effect on black people in the city, which of course it did. But when you analyse it, class was a much better predictor of who suffered most there,” he told me. The centre of a class-based movement, Reed argues, will have to be provided by the trade unions. “Despite the fashionability of protests without any specific demands or elected leaderships, no movement initiative is going to have staying power without being anchored in the trade unions.”

Recruiting the unions to work alongside Sanders’s campaign in the way Reed envisages isn’t easy. The American Federation of Teachers and the machinists’ union have already thrown in their lot with Hillary Clinton. And Richard Trumka, the president of the AFL-CIO (America’s national federation of trade unions), has warned individual unions against coming out for Sanders. But Reed can point to significant declarations of support, from postal workers and the National Nurses Union. The AFL-CIO chapters in Vermont and, more surprisingly, South Carolina have also backed his run.

“It’s important to keep Bernie in the race for as long as possible, but the ultimate objective is to develop structures that can continue beyond the election,” Reed said. “It’s premature to say what this network will look like, but Bernie’s campaign provides an important boost to putting it in place.”


From Jesse Jackson to Dennis Kuci­nich to Howard Dean, an array of people’s champions has made a splash in the recent history of Democratic presidential primaries. None, however, has been as explicitly critical of capitalism (or so gruff about it) as Bernie Sanders. His no-nonsense, class-based politics are a measure of how the disenchantment with the ideology of a free market that arrived like a train in the 1980s and ran off the rails in 2008 is now finding its way into the mainstream.

Up until now, the critical moments of left advance in America – the Seattle WTO protests, the anti-war movement, Occupy Wall Street, the campaign for gay rights and, today, Black Lives Matter – have occurred outside electoral politics. There are a couple of good reasons for this. The US electoral system, like Britain’s, makes third-party challenges extraordinarily difficult. And inside the Democratic Party these movements would have been crushed by a conservative leadership around the Democratic National Committee, put in place by Bill Clinton.

One result is a paucity of new progressive voices inside the party. At a moment when, as Gramsci once put it, the old order no longer works but the new order has not yet been born, Sanders, with his New Deal politics and firebrand demeanour, seems not so much a successor to the old order as a throwback to a time that pre-dates it, when politicians spoke with conviction and the society they represented was less unfair. As such, he provides a staging post for a new progressive consciousness (according to a poll by Pew at the end of 2011, more Americans aged 18 to 29 would prefer to live under socialism than under capitalism) that is not yet sufficiently coherent to enter mainstream politics in its own right, either through a serious third-party challenge or the transformation of the Democratic Party.

As a middle-class white man, Sanders has been able to get a pass to promote bold positions that someone with a less privileged identity might have found hard to sell. And his age, paradoxically, has proved not to be a disadvantage with a youthful constituency dismayed by the surrender to expedience that disfigures so much of contemporary American politics. His record has been constant over such a long period that, again like Jeremy Corbyn, he can be relied on not to sell out. Though his politics are less radical, his venerability provides a messianic cloak from the same closet as the one worn by Noam Chomsky, another hero for many young progressives.

So it’s not just today’s professionally polished politicians to whom Sanders presents a stark contrast. Recent progressive movements have embraced an identity politics that was much less prevalent when Sanders started out back in 1970s Vermont. In order to forge the sorts of alliances that are necessary to mount a credible challenge on the national political stage, they will likely have to borrow extensively from his unifying class politics. But their leadership will be younger, blacker, less straight and less masculine than Sanders. In that sense, he represents the last hurrah for the old white guy.

Colin Robinson is co-publisher at OR Books (, based in New York

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The age of terror