What's up, Comrade Bush?

Cajoled for years to take on Western-style economic liberalism there's more than a wry smile on the

The irony has not been lost on the political leaders of Latin America’s insurgent left movements that the governments of Europe and the US are now taking measures that involve far deeper state intervention in the economy than actions they themselves used to harshly criticize when attempted in other regions.

Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez joked that George Bush “is finally beginning to understand the road to socialism” and notes that “he isn’t criticized for nationalizing the largest bank in the world.”

“What’s up, Comrade Bush,”* he said.

Jabs coming from the leaders of left-leaning governments, which now run the vast majority of the countries of Latin America, have flowed freely as they feel vindicated in their criticisms of neoliberal policy prescriptions and as some of their interventions into their economies have sheltered them to some extent from the colossal global crisis.

But they are coupled with a deepening of resentment over the vigour and force with which certain forms of free-market policies were proposed to them in the last thirty years, often imposed as the necessary conditions for crucial loans from international organizations such as the IMF.

Their anger at opposition coming from the north to their recent attempts to re-introduce elements of regulation and protection into their economies has only intensified as global market forces and unrestricted capitalism brought even the most powerful states in the world to their knees.

Soon after important election victories for the left in Ecuador and Paraguay, the influence of neoliberal economic and ideas and of the United States, already by all accounts at an all-time low, have taken another hit in the region with the economic crisis.

John Ross, who along with Ken Livingstone is providing advice to the Venezuelan government, said that “they have abandoned every policy that they've advocated that other governments should follow over the past 20 years. And they've adopted the measures that they've condemned other governments for taking.”*

These sentiments are echoed by even the most centrist of the region’s left-of-centre governments, such as Brazil’s Luiz Inacio Lula de Silva. "We did our homework — and they didn't, they who've been telling us for three decades what to do,” he complained.

And the normally reserved Chilean president Michele Bachelet felt secure enough in the changed political climate to make the following joke, in the US, about the country’s history of intervention in the region.

“Why has there never been a coup in the United States?” she asked a group of investors.
“Because there is no U.S. embassy in the United States.”

Bachelet, the country’s first female president and member of the Socialist Party, was imprisoned and tortured by the government of Augusto Pinochet who took power in a US-supported military coup in 1973.

She was forced into exile as the government killed thousands of supporters of the democratically elected socialist Salvador Allende. The Pinochet government ruthlessly imposed neoliberal prescriptions and counted on Milton Friedman as an economic consultant.

But in the case of Chile at least the country did experience strong economic growth during the dictatorship. However, the movement of left leaders elected in the last ten years in the region was a self-conscious movement against neoliberalism, which in most cases led to unprecedented levels of inequality and historically low rates of economic growth in Latin America.

In many cases these polices were imposed under duress when these countries had their own crises. In 1982 when many Latin American countries defaulted on their huge debts to the developed world, rescue packages from international organizations influenced by the governments of Reagan and Thatcher were conditional on the acceptance of austere structural adjustment programs.

In theaftermath of the Asian financial crisis of 1997, the response from the IMF caused many commentators, especially in Asia, to complain that the measures imposed would never be so harsh if something similar happened in the West. Now that it has, leaders of the Latin American left are seeing it this way and many are disgusted at how easily the banks and rich are getting off.

Nicaraguan Congressman Edwin Castro said that "We think the Bush administration should follow the same policies that they and the International Monetary Fund have always told us to follow when we have economic problems.

"One of our economists was telling us that Bush has just implemented communism for the rich."

The Nicaraguan party to which Castro belongs is the Sandinistas, the leftist party violently opposed by the Reagan-backed Contras in the 1980s and which returned to power in 2006.

Hugo Chavez, elected in Venezuela in 1998, was the first of these left-leaning leaders to come to the fore and receives the lion’s share of attention due to his country’s oil money and his unique and controversial approach to public speaking. But since then, left-of-centre governments have also come to power in Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Bolivia, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Uruguay, and most recently, Paraguay.

Though the region will certainly be hurt by depressed commodity prices, to the extent that these governments have been able to push reforms past local and international opposition, taking forms ranging from political opposition, military coups to threats of capital flight, they have ironically served to insulate them somewhat from the current crisis.

For example, the FT’s Benedict Mander called the Caracas stock exchange an “oasis of calm” due to the country’s currency controls, implemented in 2003.

Reuters pointed out that: “Venezuela has suffered little direct effect from the market chaos because Chavez nationalised the most important companies that once traded on the minuscule Caracas stock exchange and because its currency is fixed by exchange controls.”

These kinds of economic policies, like those of Ecuador’s recently approved new constitution which allows greater government control over banks, are the exact opposite of the unregulated free-market policies promoted quite powerfully by international organizations and institutions influenced by the U.S., Europe and Japan. And pushing them through required facing stiff international opposition.

Eric Wingerter of left-leaning Latin America blog borev.net raised a comparison between the financial sector’s treatment praise of the U.S.’s recent forced nationalization of major banks and its reaction to Hugo Chavez’s decision two months ago to purchase a single and profitable bank on the open market.

The Wall Street Journal then claimed that move could lead to “mass withdrawls” that could “snowball into a systemic bank run that puts the economy and political system at play.”

Policymakers and analysts in the US and Europe will probably be concentrating on their own countries for the next weeks, or perhaps months. But if they ever turn back to Latin America, they will find they face a very difficult task if they would like to restore their credibility.

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An English tragedy: how Boris, Dave and Brexit were formed by Eton college

It's said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. Was Britain's relationship with Europe wrecked there?

The brief window in which it was cool to be an Etonian has closed. That period was marked not just by Etonian success and visibility – in politics, on the stage, in the media, even on the balcony of Buckingham Palace – but also by a new-found unabashedness in expressing pride at having attended King Henry VI’s Thames-side ­college, founded for 70 poor scholars in 1440. David Cameron summed it up when he said he was “not embarrassed” that he had gone to “a fantastic school . . . because I had a great education and I know what a great education means”.

All this was quite strange and ­perturbing to me, as an alumnus of an older era, the 1970s, when being an Etonian seemed decidedly uncool. When asked which school we had attended, my contemporaries and I muttered that we had been to a comprehensive near Slough. It was perturbing because I always had my doubts about Etonian confidence, or arrogance.

The closing of this window can be dated precisely to the early hours of the morning of 24 June. At that moment, it became clear that David Cameron had taken an insouciant, arrogant and disastrous gamble, in the interests of maintaining Conservative Party unity, by calling an unnecessary referendum on Britain’s membership of the European Union that he believed he was sure to
win. The window closed even more tightly a week later, when Boris Johnson, having helped to lead the Leave campaign, suddenly declared that he was no longer standing for the Tory leadership – the glittering prize for which he had apparently abandoned his principles and betrayed his friends.

If the Battle of Waterloo had been won on the playing fields of Eton, it now appeared that Britain’s relationship with Europe, and even its continued integrity as a nation, had been wrecked there. It was no surprise that there should be a turning against Eton, with gleeful opinion pieces from the left-leaning commentariat mocking everything from Tom Hiddleston’s backside to the commitment to public service of one of our ablest MPs, Jesse Norman.

I find this reaction as shallow as the ­excessive pride that preceded it. Maybe that is not surprising, as I both love and feel dissatisfied, even disappointed, by the school where I spent five years of my boyhood and then two and a half years teaching English literature as a young adult. The feeling of let-down is more than personal. Eton has something to answer for, at a national level. A few years ago, I wrote these words: “I’ve often wondered whether this famous Eton confidence could be skin-deep: certainly people such as Boris Johnson and David Cameron do not lack chutzpah, but the confidence to believe you deserve the high position does not necessarily mean you possess the other talents – humility, for instance, and the ability to listen to others – needed to honour it.” Now the 11 Eton pupils who managed to secure an interview with Vladimir Putin have trumped even Cameron and Johnson
in the chutzpah department, but not necessarily added lustre to their alma mater.

I had a chance to reassess the ambivalence I feel about Eton, and to reflect on the role that this ancient and eccentric place has played in our national crisis, when I attended a reunion at my old school just three days after the dark night of 23 June.

This was not a reunion of old boys but a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Eton English department, an institution for which I feel affection and profound gratitude. As a boy, I was inspired not only to read voraciously and widely – the novels of Thomas Hardy, Henry James, Dickens, William Faulkner; the poetry of Coleridge, Wordsworth, Emily Dickinson, T S Eliot, Charles Causley, Louis MacNeice, Henry Vaughan; Shakespeare at his most intense – but also to analyse, think and feel simultaneously. Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country and Dickens’s Hard Times opened my eyes to conditions as far from my comfortable Home Counties upbringing as you could imagine, to the realities of racial segregation and working-class ­deprivation; opened my heart, too, I hope.
I was being challenged to reflect on my privilege, even be discomfited by it – not just blindly perpetuate it.

For those reasons, I was honoured to be invited back to teach, initially for just a year, in the department that had given me so much mind-and-soul nourishment. I was not the most confident or organised of teachers, but pupils I bumped into years later said they had enjoyed and gained something from classes in which discipline was not always the tightest. A debate I set up to discuss the miners’ strike turned into a riot. Above all, I enjoyed directing motivated and talented boys in productions of Journey’s End and Death of a Salesman which moved audiences.

***

Inspiration, warmth and a streak of anarchy are, perhaps, not the qualities you associate with Eton. But they were present in the English department, which started as a sort of anti-establishment challenge to the hegemony of classics. Angus Graham-Campbell, my laconic head of department, summed up the department’s signature virtues as scholarship, exuberance and irreverence.

The English department was not exactly typical of Eton as a whole. It was, I suppose, the haven for sensitive and artistic souls, for subversives and mavericks. Eton had other, for me less attractive, sides. I particularly disliked Pop, the self-elected club of prefects who strutted their stuff and lorded it over underlings in brightly embroidered waistcoats – the club to which Boris Johnson (but not David Cameron) belonged. This was more Game of Thrones than “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”.

Eton, above all, was intensely male, intensely hierarchical and intensely competitive. Like Boris, I was a King’s Scholar; successors of the original 70 poor scholars, we lived apart from other Etonians in ancient quarters close to the 15th-century chapel, wore gowns and competed more for academic honours than for social kudos. Like Boris, I won the Newcastle Scholarship in classics and divinity, a strange 19th-century leftover that involved composing verses in Greek iambics, reading the Gospel of Matthew and the Acts of the Apostles in Greek and answering a paper on the doctrine of the Atonement – all in the term before A-levels.

I was proud of my academic achievements. But having had a chance to reflect on the Etonian male culture of competition from the outside, and then seeing it from a different angle when I went back to teach there, I began to doubt how healthy it was. I realised that coming top of the form and winning prizes had mattered far too much to me. It had even affected my choice of A-levels; I was good at classics and felt fairly confident of being the biggest fish in that smallish pond, rather than swimming in the broader waters of history and modern languages. Surely what mattered was finding yourself, your passion and your vocation?

I was artistically minded and Eton provided wonderful opportunities in drama (the groundwork was being laid for the flowering of acting talent we have seen recently) and music; but “creative writing” and painting, encouraged up to the age of 14, were suddenly put away as childish things when you reached adolescence (this, mind you, is not unique to Eton). From the age of 15, I never even considered choosing to go to music, art or drama school rather than taking the well-worn path to an Oxbridge scholarship. Achieving that seemed to be the pinnacle of Etonian success, and the only thing my worldly housemaster ever cared about.

Certainly no one talked much about happiness or emotional health. Eton’s pastoral care seemed close to non-existent. I kept my unhappiness to myself, with unhelpful consequences. For four of my contemporaries in college, who committed suicide in their late teens or twenties, the consequen­ces were more dire.

This may be sounding too much like a personal lament, or a reprise of Cyril Connolly’s theory of permanent adolescence in Enemies of Promise. I found my way eventually to what I wanted to be and do (it involved a lot of psychotherapy and a wonderfully liberating year in Barcelona). But I think my criticisms of Eton have a bearing on our national tragedy.

The atmosphere at the Eton English department celebration a few weeks ago did not lack the appropriate exuberance and irreverence, and the setting in the provost’s garden, surrounded with sculptures by Rodin, Jacob Epstein and Henry Moore, was exquisitely beautiful. Yet I could not help sensing the unquiet ghosts of Dave and Boris stalking the corridors behind us. I imagined them locked in an immature male rivalry that has ended up inflicting incalculable damage on a nation. Now Dave has decided to quit the political stage, leaving rather little in the way of legacy behind him.

Perhaps Boris, the King’s Scholar, could not forgive Dave for winning the ultimate prize. However, in taking revenge, he found himself hoist with his own petard, before somehow managing to emerge with a lesser prize, which some see as a ­poisoned chalice.

It all made me think of that supremely pointless sport, the Eton wall game. I played once or twice before giving up, repelled by the sheer unpleasantness of being ground into either brick or mud, and the tedium of a game in which the last goal had been scored in 1909. As a Colleger, though, I supported our team of brainboxes, drawn from the 70 scholars to play against the brawn of the Oppidans (the rest of the school, 1,200 of them). No doubting that it was antler-to-antler stuff, or like the contests of male musk oxen that knock each other senseless.

Eton remains archaic in its attitude towards women. It is still a boys-only boarding school (though a small number of girls, mainly the daughters of teachers, have been pupils there), and the staff are overwhelmingly male. Being largely cut off from women and girls for much of your boyhood and adolescence does not seem to me an ideal recipe for emotional health, or for regarding women as equals.

The school that has educated 19 prime ministers may provide a brilliant academic education and countless other opportunities, but it can leave its pupils emotionally floundering behind a façade of polish and charm. The effects of that emotional impoverishment can be far-reaching indeed. I am encouraged that the new headmaster, Simon Henderson, has signalled a change of tone at Eton, with more stress on “emotional intelligence” and “mental health”. That change is long overdue.

Harry Eyres is the author of “Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet”, published by Bloomsbury

This article first appeared in the 15 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of the golden generation