The Catcher in the Rye

As I was reading J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, a recurring thought was: what is it that made this book a best seller? Why did it resonate with so many people? The book has sold millions of copies and has been translated into 145 languages; illustrious writers like Adam Gopnik have called the book one of the three best novels in American literature. My impression of the book was very different: it is essentially a two hundred page narcissistic dialogue of an angry, sexually frustrated, and alienated young man growing up in the fifties. Of course, feeling those things is not unique to that era; most teenage males, including my generation (which grew up in the eighties and early nineties) felt similarly. This, then, might be the secret of the book’s success: it speaks to the experiences of youth that are universally felt regardless of the era. Dissatisfaction with the norms, values, and beliefs of our parents, the desire to rebel, the seemingly inescapable cage of endless self-absorption, the need for approval from one’s peers, the wish to escape it all; these are the things that many youth must go through in that sometimes tortured phase from childhood to adulthood.

The main character of the Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield, experiences all these things with the fiery intensity that characterizes the adolescent and teenage years. The book starts with his problems at the boarding school. He is obviously a bright kid with a talent for writing but he is unable to follow the school’s rules and strictures, nor can he tolerate most of his classmates, one of whom he violently clashes with. He eventually flunks, and most of the rest of the book is about his journey home from school. This journey, of course, is interpreted through the narcissistic dialogue adumbrated above, but there are some features of this experience that are genuinely interesting. There are, for example, his impressions of New York that illuminate the character and life of the city in the forties and fifties. One particularly memorable part was in the dingy hotel that he found himself in, and the sexual perverts he would see through the window in the buildings across the street. In the same hotel, he is cajoled by an elevator-attendant (another indication of a long-gone era) into buying the services of a prostitute. When she comes to his room she is surprised to discover that Holden does not want sex with her; he just wants her company, an indication that behind the veneer of anger and alienation is a deep longing to be loved and accepted.

Holden eventually goes to the home of one of his former teachers who had left a good impression on him. The teacher offers Holden a place to stay, and before bedtime gives him an inspiring talk about the need to read to escape the cage of self-absorption, about how reading helps us to realize that we are not alone, that our feelings of anger and alienation are shared by even some of the greatest minds, and that how reading the best that has been written can unleash our potential to contribute something larger than ourselves. Holden’s former teacher seems to be that rare creature in the teaching profession who goes beyond and above others to transform the character and direction of young minds. This is impressive stuff, until the scene that suggests the teacher is—gulp—an alcoholic and a pedophile. Holden dashes from the apartment, and eventually goes home, where he finds his sister whom he adores. The love between the two siblings is perhaps the most heartwarming part of the book, for it highlights that even the in the cesspool of humanity that Holden finds himself in, there are pure and noble relationships and experiences.

One of the redeeming qualities of the book is that it can be interpreted through the lens of psychology to discover patterns that reveal insights into Holden’s thought processes and behaviour. For example, one of Holden’s traits—shared by many adolescents—is the tendency to lie and speak hyperbolically for no apparent reason. He seems to do this with everyone, raising the question of why. Perhaps it is the desire to fit in, or a deep sense of insecurity, or the need for approval, or a combination of these things. There is a deep irony here: Holden expresses his hatred for people countless times because they are “phony”, and yet he himself is the phoniest of all. His hatred of society, therefore, perhaps more accurately reflects his hatred of himself that he then projects outwards to others. One is reminded of the syllogism that people often become the very thing they detest; for Holden it is the reverse: he detests himself and then radiates it outwards to others.

The book might also appeal to those who, like me, are interested in the evolution of language. The Catcher in the Rye contains words and phrases that have largely fallen into disuse, such as “yellow” (coward), “wad” (handful of cash), “necking” (kissing the neck) and “phony” (fake). Reading them gives one the feeling of being transported to another era that, although within living memory of my parents, seems to be as distant as another planet. One also gets the sense that the Catcher in the Rye helped to provide the vocabulary of a whole generation of angry youth that they carried with them into adulthood. I still recall hearing the use of these phrases when I was a kid, especially from the generation before me (which would be the one born in the fifties).

Despite these qualities, overall I did not enjoy the book, but this perhaps has more to do with me than with the text. I am thirty six years old and very curious about the world outside of me, and hence I prefer books that address some of the existential concerns of adults, and that have something insightful to say about their characters’ society, surroundings, and relationships. The Catcher in the Rye does none of these things. It is essentially a long winded rant that expresses the anger, alienation, and frustration of adolescence and the teenage years. I might have enjoyed the book had I read it 20 years ago, when I was about Holden’s age. But those days are—thankfully—long gone.

The Fragility of Life

                                                    Life’s Fragility

A frightened teenager with tender pink skin lies on a gurney as his father caresses his hair.

An elderly woman enters. She is coughing blood, this ominous symptom giving her terror.

Parents clutching feverish and crying babies. Homeless men,

Either drunk or disoriented or both, crying for attention.

The nurses tend to them. Friendly yet detached, warm yet indifferent, fulfilling their role

Helping people when they are at their most vulnerable,

When they are afraid of death, afraid of a life that is so fragile,

A fragility that is often ignored or forgotten, and difficult to reconcile,

With life’s delights. Until one, inevitably, finds himself in the sterilized confinement of the emergency room,

Surrounded by the sick and needy, impatient to leave the hospital, impatient to resume

Their fragile lives

This was inspired by my visit to the hospital emergency room in Toronto last week. I was there because I fell off my bike: as I was cycling across an intersection that was full of streetcar tracks, my front tire got caught in one of them and I lost control, impacting the cold hard pavement while onlookers stared, wondering whether I was seriously injured. It turns out that I was not. I got up immediately, picked up my damaged bike and took it to the sidewalk. The elbow and knee on the right side of my body were bloodied, and although I could walk, I felt a piercing pain on my right hip and in my right-side rib cage. Luckily, I was about 100 meters from St. Joseph’s hospital. I walked over to the emergency room to get checked out, and it turns out that I broke a rib. My first question to the doctor was: could I continue to cycle? He said yes, but that I should be more careful. My next question was: could I continue my hip hop dance lessons? He said of course because I am in good shape.

The experience was and is painful. Certain movements and activities, like lying down or laughing, hurt. But it was also very positive for several reasons. First, it forced me to rethink my capacity as a cyclist. I have been an avid bike-rider for almost three decades, and in that time period I have developed a certain talent, the kind that comes whenever one repeatedly practises something. The knowledge of this talent made me overconfident, and falling and breaking my rib has taught me that I have a lot to learn. No matter how good I get, there will always be that unforeseen circumstance that happens when one least expects it. Now, I am hyper aware whenever I cross streetcar tracks, and this awareness will likely prevent that kind of accident from ever happening again, but who knows? Lurking silently around the corner of some other street might be some other known-unknown that will make me vulnerable to another bike accident.

Mostly importantly was the reminder of how fragile life is. One moment I was cycling down Queen Street, full of energy and life and potential and optimism, and the next moment I was lying bloodied and broken on the street, and in need of the help of medical doctors who thankfully were but a short distance away. It was a metaphor of this strange life that we find ourselves in, where one wrong turn, or a miscalculation, or one momentary distraction can lead even the strongest among us lying helpless and in need of assistance. My strong impression of life’s fragility was reinforced when I entered the emergency room. While I was groaning in pain and impatiently waiting to be attended to, I closely observed the people coming in, some of whom are mentioned in the poem above. A young man, no older than 19 or 20, comes in shaking and crying and complaining of severe chest pain. He probably believed he was dying of a heart attack, although most likely he was suffering from severe anxiety. And then an elderly woman comes in coughing blood into a rag. I listened as the nurse asked her questions: “do you have a history of tuberculosis? Do you have cancer?” “Not that I know of,” answered the elderly lady. For all I know, she may have been diagnosed with cancer or something serious shortly after she was taken to speak to a doctor.

The knowledge of life’s fragility is unnerving, but it is also a salutary reminder that tomorrow is not guaranteed to anyone. This induces a kind of existential humility about the universe and one’s place in it. It encourages one to treasure the things that matter, such as love, and recognize that the things that we often strive for—material gain, status, and prestige—are ultimately irrelevant. It helps one to be grateful to be alive, to have a sensory apparatus to perceive, a mind to think, and people to care for. Funny how it takes a biking accident to become vividly conscious of that.

The Interconnections Between Property, Love and Power (a book review of George Eliot's "Middlemarch")

George Eliot’s “Middlemarch” is a book about the web of relationships in an eponymously named town in early nineteenth century England, when many significant and long-lasting social and political changes were taking place, such as the abolition of slavery and the granting of the franchise to men without property. These political changes play a significant role in the book, and for good reason: George Eliot (her real name is Mary Evans) was a feminist who promoted many of the progressive causes of that time (although some of her observations would anger contemporary feminists; more on that below). It was also a time of the flourishing of science and the decline of religious belief among elites, and Middlemarch nicely captures those cultural changes in many of the characters, like Dr. Lydgate, who represent the archetype of the hero of science: irreligious, determined to expend most of their time and effort to reveal the secrets of the material universe even if it costs them their careers, families, and other petty pleasures that average people pursue.

These cultural and political layers are the background to the more important part of the book, that which forms the substance, the crux, the issues that take up most of the space and analysis: romantic love and the way it manifested itself within the constraints in that time period. These constraints were experienced by both men and women. For the latter, the fact of essentially being property of the father or brother meant that for a love to be consummated in a way that ensured a good standing in the community, the male members of the family had to give their consent. This clearly limited the woman’s options; a dalliance or love affair would be difficult if the father or patron of the household objected. On this basis, it would be easy to assume that men had more freedom in romantic love, but this is only superficially true. In order for a man to get the woman he loved (in the sense of getting both her and her fathers’ consent) he would have to have property, and this obviously constrained the many men who either did not have the privilege of being born into wealth or who did not have some aristocratic lineage.

The interconnections between property, love, and marriage are Eliot’s way, I would argue, of highlighting how so many relationships depend on factors that are mostly outside our control. We see this, to some extent or another, in most of the main romances in the book—Dorothea and Casaubon, Dorothea and Ladislaw, Fred and Mary, Celia and James, and Rosamond and Lydgate. All of these relationships either begin with the promise of property, are impeded because of the absence of property, or deteriorate because the expectations of property are not met. Take Dorothea and Casaubon. She falls in love with him because he has the knowledge that she wants, and because she wants to be of service to his scholarly and religious inclinations. This happens despite the fact that they are a poor match: she is young and desirous of a vibrant emotional life, and he is old, apathetic, and emotionally detached. This mismatch would not have happened had Mr. Casaubon not inherited wealth that allowed him to pursue his ultimately fruitless scholarly ambitions while supporting a wife. After the pathetic Mr. Casaubon dies, Dorothea and Ladislaw fall in love, and their union is nearly scuttled precisely because Ladislaw does not have any property. In a similar vein, the vain Rosamond falls in love with Lydgate partly because of her wish to connect with his aristocratic lineage. She has expectations of endlessly frolicking with barons and others with fancy titles while servants meet her every need, and these romanticized beliefs help her to overlook the fact that Lydgate is what today might be called a “starving artist”, even though he was a medical doctor trained in Paris (evidently being a physician in George Eliot’s time was not as remunerative as it is now).

Of course property, lineage, and wealth are not the main aspects of the relationships in the book. More importantly are the emotional dimensions of courtship, love, and union. Eliot is at her best when she recounts the internal dialogues and associated subjective impressions that are experienced when falling in love, an experience that was aptly described elsewhere as coming and going “independently of the will”. The character of Dorothea nicely embodies this. She first falls in love with Mr. Casaubon, but it was the naïve type of love that anybody over 25 would recognize, based on a highly misleading reading of the beloved by “filling in the blanks with unmanifested perfections”. It was a love that flowed from two aspects of her personality: the classical love of knowledge and the Christian spirit of self-sacrificial service to humanity. Mr. Casaubon, described above, seemed to have the qualities that would have allowed these noble motives to flourish, but her desires clouded her judgement, ultimately leading to an unhappy marriage with someone whose true character is revealed only when it is too late. After he passes away, Dorothea and Ladislaw fall in love, and their budding romance is one of the most interesting parts of the book. Her feelings for Ladislaw begin with friendship and outrage at the unfairness of the injustice that happened to him: he was denied his family’s property only because his mother fell in love with and married a poor Polish Jew. Dorothea aims to correct this injustice by appealing to Mr Casaubon, who is Ladislaw’s cousin, to give the latter his share of the property that he inherited. Mr. Casaubon, correctly suspicious of the germinating romance between them, refuses, and out of pure spite writes in his will that, upon his death, Dorothea would not inherit his property if she married Ladislaw. But her feelings of warmth and caring and love for Ladislaw overcome this attempt by Mr. Casaubon to prevent their union. Initially, she is not aware of her love for him. She only knows that she cares for him, and misses him when he is not around. Her love for him only registers when her heart starts palpitating violently when she overhears that Ladislaw might be in love with another; it is the feeling of jealousy—an emotion that is seemingly so contrary to Dorothea’s pure and untainted soul—that makes it clear to her that she loves him. Ladislaw’s love for Dorothea is also beautifully recounted, as in the scene when Rosamond berates him because of his preference for Dorothea, and he angrily replies “I never had any preference for her any more than I had a preference for breathing!”

But I digress. Eliot promoted women’s rights and other progressive causes but there are passages in the text that would anger many contemporary feminists. Notable in this regard is when she says that women “enslave” men and “conquer” them even when they are married, and that men are the “subjects” of women (subjects require rulers, and the obvious implication is that women are the rulers). This asymmetric power relationship between the sexes plays itself out most vividly in the marriage between Rosamond and Lydgate. His whole raison d’etre seems to be the futile attempt to please her, and his failure to do so creates misery and despair that undermines his true vocation to be the heroic scientist. When he encounters financial difficulty, the most logical response is to reduce their standard of living until things improve, but Rosamond would have none of it. She betrays him several times, and although he gets upset, it does not in any way undermine his wish to make her happy. This poor soul—perhaps unsurprisingly—meets a tragic end, dying young of disease while Rosamond, shortly after, marries a wealthy and older aristocrat who can meet her seemingly inexhaustible needs.  What Eliot is saying here, I think, is her belief in the capacity of romantic love to metaphorically enslave men, and that this power can be more meaningful in people’s lives than the political and social power that comes from having equal rights. That Eliot, a progressive female intellectual, would imply such a thing would jar the nerves of many. My precocious 14 year old daughter, for example, is a committed feminist and would probably be outraged at the idea that women of the early 19^th century were anything but oppressed chattel under the yoke of male dominated social structures. This theme of the disparate and perhaps conflicting power relations in the romantic sphere versus the political and social habitat is too complex to address here; suffice to say that some of the observations in Middlemarch on the subject give a lot to chew on.

My version of Middlemarch is 800 pages—hardly the stuff of easy beach reading. But the time and effort required to get through the text is worth it, and the book deserves its status as a classic. There are many layers of meaning that will satiate the intellectually hungry soul—political, scientific, social, and romantic. What is more, George Eliot does this with prose that is deeply nuanced, entertaining, and page turning, making the reader hungry for more, especially as the book progresses. Once one really gets into the lives of the characters, it is hard to not want to taste what comes next, and what does happen is a delightfully sweet exposition of the human heart and the way it is constrained by social and political factors outside its control. But those with a stomach for drama will not be disappointed, as the book ultimately quenches the thirst for a happy ending. 

Europe's elections

In March of this year, I gave a guest lecture at my place of employment, Trent university, on the European elections that took place on May 25th. Even then, pundits knew that the election would be significant, mainly because polls indicated a dramatic increase in support for radical, anti-EU parties. The neo-fascist character of some of these parties (such as Golden Dawn in Greece) played a major role in my talk. At the question and answer part of the lecture, one of my more perspicacious students asked me "what will happen if the fascists win power in Europe?" My response was that we will see "pressure towards the US to invade, conquer, and save Europe from itself--for the third time in the last 100 years".

Of course, I was greatly exaggerating (playful hyperbole can really spice up a lecture). For one, radical parties, fascist or not, did not win a majority of votes; pro-European parties control around 70% of the European Parliament. Second, even if they would have won a majority, their power would have mainly been relegated to legislation at the European level, which is not insignificant, but which should also not be exaggerated since most major decisions--in the areas of spending, taxation, and defense--are made at the national level. And lastly, it will be difficult for the radical parties to find common ground and coalesce on major issues. They agree on some things--they admire Putin, oppose globalization, immigration, and are nationalistic--but whether these areas of agreement are sufficient for them to unite is very much in doubt. The clearest example of this is that the UKIP in the UK has already refused to ally itself with the NF in France because of the anti-Semitic and racist streak in the latter, even though both strongly object to the euro and the EU.

Still, the significance of the vote should not be underestimated. The rise of radical parties in Europe is not a new phenomenon; their origins can be traced to the collapse of the Soviet Union and the consequent demise of Europe's post-war order. The nineties saw many parties abandon socialism as a political program and adopt the policies normally associated with the right, especially the acceptance of free markets and globalization. At the same time, the structural shifts in the global economy did not benefit many Europeans, especially those from the working class. These trends left many working class voters without a political party through which they could express their objection to the new economic and political order. The radical parties filled the gap, largely by appealing to themes that resonate with these voters--nationalism, opposition to immigration and globalization, and in particular, opposition to the euro, the establishment of which has helped to devastate many economies, especially in Southern Europe.

The euro zone crisis that started in 2010 has been a major factor in the rise of these radical parties. Of course, it is not the only explanation. The UK, which is growing at an enviable 3.2% and which did not adopt the common currency, was one of the countries which saw the greatest rise in support for the radical right; meanwhile, Italy, one of the countries that has suffered the most from the crisis (industrial production has decreased 25%, youth unemployment is at 40%, the already struggling South has become even poorer) elected a pro-Europe and pro-euro party. But these two countries do not really buck the trend. The euro zone crisis has strengthened euro-skepticism in the UK, mainly because it has seemingly proved to them that Brussels is out of touch, and that its grand schemes for unification are detrimental to the peoples of the continent. Meanwhile, Matteo Renzi won in Italy in part because he did not really campaign on a pro-euro platform (even though his party, the PD, is traditionally the most pro-European on Italy's political scene). Rather, he told voters that he would "stand up" to Brussels against the German-led austerity that many Italians feel is the source of the country's woes.

Now, across Europe, there is a sense that for the EU to survive, it must change direction towards less austerity and more growth. But in the humble view of this writer, this is largely wishful thinking, because for most of Europe's countries, especially the rich, mature, and developed Western part of the continent, it is not clear what, exactly, Brussels can do to promote growth. Many of the obstacles that hinder economic expansion are national or even local in character, especially in Southern Europe. For example, it has been estimated that gender inequality in Italy (which has some of the highest rates of female exclusion in Europe) has a significant economic cost: GDP would be around 6 or 7% higher if its levels of inequality were at or above Europe's average. Up to now, Europe's many and concerted efforts to increase gender equality in Italy have mostly failed. Why? Because the fundamental causes of this inequality are cultural, and it stretches the imagination to imagine that Brussels can have a significant impact on these culturally entrenched attitudes.

The largest impact of the result of these elections will probably be at the national, not the European, level. It will pressure some mainstream parties to adopt the rhetoric, or even the policies, of the radical parties. The largest threat perhaps is France, where the NF came first and trounced both the center-right and center-left. Despite its weaknesses, France is, after Germany, the most strategically important country in Europe. It is an essential partner to Germany in the attempts to stabilize the euro, and as a founding member of the EU, its preferences count more than most other European countries. The coming months and years will be crucial: if France's economic decline continues, the NF will have a decent chance of winning executive power at the national level, after which we could expect it to leave the euro, the EU, and re-establish the primacy of ethnic nationalism in domestic politics. And if that were to happen, many Europeans would probably welcome a US invasion to save Europe from itself.

The Cycles of Life--Birth and Death, Loss and Glory, Destruction and Triumph

"Demian" by Hermann Hesse is a short, engaging, and highly enjoyable text with well defined and developed characters that make the book very easy to read; little mental effort is required to follow Hesse's clear and precise prose. The book revolves around the experiences of a young man growing up in early 20th century France, and traces in minute and penetrating detail the painful transition from adolescence to adulthood that most of us experience.

Growing up is rarely a smooth and linear process. It usually entails ruptures, dramatic breaks and breakthroughs, and experiences of pain that lead to emotional and mental maturity. As this happens, a personality is shaped that colors, enriches, or impoverishes future experiences. Often, it is relationships with specific people that have these effects. Our first crush, or romantic experience, or that deep feeling of connection and belongingness from our childhood friends often alter us for good, and for the better if the inevitable disappointments are dealt with constructively. For Sinclair, the first major turning point is his attempt to impress the bully Kromer. The latter exudes brute physical force and a contempt for civilized norms of conduct, and as so often happens in these kinds of situations, the relatively weaker Sinclair wants to impress him. He does this by concocting a story about a theft that never took place. Kromer uses this to extort Sinclair and, in the process, teaches him important lessons: that evil exists, acquiescing to it only makes it stronger, and that dishonesty can lead to unpleasant and degrading consequences, in this case, being subject to the arbitrary will of someone much physically stronger.

Demien, perhaps the most significant person to enter Sinclair's life, represents a Jesus-like figure who comes to save him from the depredations of Kromer. The text is not clear on how he does this; one assumes that he either cast a spell, or threatened Kromer's life (my impression is that it was the latter). Demien's greatest impact on Sinclair is philosophical and spiritual. The latter's socialization was Catholic, a worldview with a clear division between good and evil, a cosmology that gives order and meaning to the universe, a teology that gives the flow of history a clear chronological narrative: man's pride leads him to sin against God, he is redeemed by Christ, and will enter heaven if he is good in this life, a life full of temptations and seductions. Demien's philosophical framework does not completely reject the Christian worldview. Rather, he complements it by introducing the Eastern philosophical embrace of contradiction: rather than reject evil, Demien accepts it as an intrinsic and inevitable element in the structure of life and the universe. In that sense, he seeks a new spirituality in the form of a new god, Abraxas, which is both good and evil and which, like the gods of yore, must be sought, worshiped, and loved. Needless to say, this worldview was, in early 20th century France, quite heterodox. 

Another dominant theme is the necessity to go against the grain, to challenge dominant norms, to be the black sheep, to not follow the herd. But for Demien, one cannot choose to do this; rather, one is chosen by some quasi-mystical force to carry out this mission. But how does one know if they have this status? Only by peeling away the crusty layers of rules and desires that are imposed by the dominant culture. Once this is done, the "true self" emerges to enlighten and guide towards the mission that one has been chosen for. Practitioners and devotees of New Agism and other fadish forms of spirituality will find much to admire here; it affirms their belief in the existence of some spiritual force in the universe (like "energy" or "vibes") that somehow unites with our deepest selves to provide direction and enlightenment, as opposed to the ostensibly corrupt and polluted influences of the human-constructed order.

Although both Demien and Sinclair are presented as agents actively aiming to discover and actualize their true selves by uniting with Abraxas, much of the subtext is focused on how little we actually control our fate. Sinclair discovers, through dialogue and interpretations of his dreams, that he is special in the sense that he has been chosen with some specific mission to alter the course of civilization. The meta-narrative is that he was lost in the oppressive society in which he grows up, and is subsequently redeemed through the discovery of the truth. This will sound familiar to students of the three monotheism's, especially Christianity. But it is also a metaphor for Europe at the time that the "Demien" was being written. The previous decades (late 19th century) saw huge advances in technology and global trade, as well as the secularization of Europe's elites. But below the surface there were dark forces festering: the anomie and ennui that resulted from the loss of meaning provided by organized religion, the rise of nationalism, the popularity of social darwinism, and the colonial aggrandizement of Europe's powers, all of which reached a crescendo with the outbreak of World War 1. These forces were created by human agents and yet seemed outside of human control; it is as if one way or another the conflagration would have happened regardless of efforts to stop it. But of course, this devastation set the framework for a new world order that would emerge, such as the rise of the US as global policeman, a system of global governance to regulate inter-state behaviour, and eventually, self-determination as a cardinal principle of international politics. Out with the old, in with the new, death and birth, destruction and triumph: these are the eternal truths that are revealed in "Demian", as they become manifest at the levels of both the individual and broader social aggregates.

Democracy and the Arab Spring--the Case of Jordan

It has been over three years since protesters in the Middle East enraptured the world with their largely peaceful attempts to bring down the dictators that ruled their countries. So far, the event that  we now call the Arab Spring (or Winter, depending on ones's point of view) cannot be called a success. Only Tunisia has made significant progress: Islamists there have agreed to a constitution that entrenches secularism and that protects the rights of women and minorities. The coalition government that helped to forge the agreement collapsed and now the country is ruled by technocrats who are in the process of organizing a referendum on the new constitution, and, if that goes smoothly, elections will take place shortly after. Not exactly a consolidated democracy, but going in the right direction (although the economy of the country is a mess; that is another story). The other countries impacted by the protests for democracy are either in a state of war (Syria) ungovernable because of weak central authority (Libya), or have reverted to the authoritarian structures which existed previously (Egypt, Yemen) or have been able to co-opt, with a mix of sticks and carrots, those trying to promote change (Saudi Arabia, Jordan).

My views from the beginning of the Arab Spring have been tempered by my understanding of democracy as a system that cannot be reduced to majority rule; rather, true democracy entails equality for minorities and women. This condition is especially crucial in many Middle Eastern countries with sizable minorities of Christians, secularists, Kurds, Druze, Shiites, and others, and with traditional tribal and religious structures that have not been conducive to equality between the sexes.

One of the purposes of my current travels in the Middle East was to ask locals about their views on democracy and equality. In particular, I was interested in the views of minorities in the region. Luck would have it that my tour guide in Jordan was an educated and articulate Jordanian Arab Christian who spoke fluent English. I spent hours talking to him privately about his life, his views on Jordan and the politics in the region, and in the process learned many valuable things which I will try to summarize.

The first thing that was clear was that he adores the ruling Hashemite family, especially the reigning monarch, King Abdullah. This is not unique to him; while travelling around Jordan one notes that images of the king are everywhere. An informed person I met in Israel told me that that is hardly voluntary; similar to other authoritarian countries where pictures of the ruler are plastered everywhere, in Jordan the security forces can subtly ensure that everyone toes the line (as in giving a nudge nudge, wink wink signal to anyone who refuses to). I cannot confirm this; but what I can say is that my Jordanian Arab Christian friend seemed completely sincere in his veneration of the king (and my bullshit detector is pretty good). He recounted to me how the king has been central in promoting peace and stability in the country, no small feat given that Jordan is composed of rival tribes and sects.

I then asked him whether he wants democracy in Jordan. "NO"!!! he emphatically told me, "if there was democracy in the country there would be a civil war because the rival tribes would not be able to peacefully settle their differences". He also told me that, as a minority in the country (five percent of Jordanians are Christian), he needs the protection of the king. He proceeded to tell me several examples of king Abdullah directly intervening to assist and protect the beleaguered Christians. In light of the fate of minorities elsewhere in the region, it is hard to doubt his sincerity. The clearest example of this is Iraq: since the majority Shiites have taken power through the ballot box, the minority Sunni's have been excluded and persecuted, and Iraq's ancient Christian community has been decimated, with some estimates indicating that almost three quarters have fled the country.

In light of the above, it is unsurprising that in the Syrian civil war, he supports Assad against the rebels.If the rebels came to power, he said, they would destroy the country and utterly oppress or devastate the myriad minorities in the region.

What to make of this? There are many possible interpretations. One is that others in Jordan likely would have a less rosy view of the ruling Hashemites and would actually prefer a move towards democracy. This might be the case, especially from those who are excluded from the system, and there are probably many: travelling across Jordan, one sees much poverty and underdevelopment (as well as the trappings of a modern, sleek, and forward looking society). But it would be mistaken to assume that the views of my interlocutor belong only to him; rather, to some extent they reflect his status as a member of a minority in a region that does not have encouraging track record of respecting the rights of  those not in the majority, especially in the last 15 years. Therefore, his views deserve to be taken seriously.

Trade does not necessarily lead to peace

From the ancient times to the present, thinkers have tried to understand war and the question of whether humans can somehow transcend their seemingly interminable propensity for territorial aggrandizement, violence, and lust for power. Realists, from Thucydides forward have generally had a pessimistic view, arguing that these tendencies flow from intrinsic and unchangeable features of human nature and/or organization. The best we can do, according to realists, it to try to preserve some stable balance of power that instills fear, because fear, it is believed, generates cautiousness and makes men less willing to use organized violence as a tool of politics.

Liberals tend to disagree, arguing that human nature and political organization are more malleable and that, with the right mix of good intentions and effective institutions, man can escape his tendency towards war and live in peace. Liberals generally have three prescriptions for promoting international peace: better global governance institutions, more democracy, and free trade. I have always been skeptical of the sunny optimism of these ideas, and my current travels in the Middle East have only reinforced that impression. In the eight days that I have been here, I have traveled to, and spoken to people in, Israel, Palestine, and Jordan. Despite increased trade between these different peoples, hostility remains high and shows no substantive signs of abatement.

For the past few days, for example, I have been in Jordan and have spoken to many Arabs in the country. Most of the views towards Israel I heard were negative, ranging from mild antipathy to outright hostility. The border crossing between the two countries, similarly, does not show any signs of the fact that trade has increased dramatically between them. We were held up at the border for more than two hours, and had to present our passports several times. When I arrived in Jordan, one Arab Christian from the country told me that he has never visited Israel despite living just across the border. To my question of why, he responded that it is too difficult.

75% of Palestinian trade goes to Israel and despite this the Palestinian border crossings give the sensation that you are encountering a line that divides peoples who are in a state of war. They are divided by big, ugly, and grey security walls with barbed wire. When arriving at the checkpoint, Israeli soldiers holding automatic rifles with their fingers on the trigger (literally), some just teenagers, board the bus and ask everyone for their passports. The whole process takes a long time and consequently there are huge line-ups of cars, buses, and trucks that force one to wait over an hour. One friendly and sunny teacher from California who lives and works in Palestine told me that some of his students have to go through these crossings twice everyday. These crossings may prevent the smuggling of weapons but they also increase animosity, which only exacerbates the already existing hostility in the region.

It is hard to see how more trade can ameliorate this situation. Interestingly, one Israeli businessman who I spoke to who has business partnerships with Palestinians told me that he thinks the conflict will never be solved. It is not hard to see why. The conflict is ultimately about irreconcilable claims to sacred pieces of land, to different religious narratives that are largely not compatible. In light of that, the only thing that will really solve the conflict is the transformation of these narratives, and there is little evidence that that is happening, and the notion that more trade will somehow promote those necessary changes relies on a degree of faith for the things unseen that, ironically, would not seem out of place here in the Holy Land.

Of course, it is not only the Middle East that suggests that there is a tenuous, or absent, link between trade and peace. The increase in trade between China and its neighbors has manifestly not led to more peaceful relations between them. China is now the largest trading partner of Australia, Japan, Vietnam, Taiwan, Philippines, and others in the region. And how are they reacting? By increasing their military expenditure and allying themselves with China's great geopolitical rival, the US, the country they rely on to protect their sovereignty from Chinese encroachments on their (disputed) territories.

Although the evidence does not support the liberal faith in the salvific effects of trade, liberals do provide something valuable: by adding a dose of optimism to a dreary international system, they provide hope that a better world is possible, even if there is little evidence to support that.