The fall of the Soviet Union meant independence for Ukraine, and radically altered the shape and power structures of Eastern Europe. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was the culmination of a number of growing fissures and collisions in the ...
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OUPblog » Politics


The origins of the war in Ukraine [timeline]

The origins of the war in Ukraine [timeline]

The fall of the Soviet Union meant independence for Ukraine, and radically altered the shape and power structures of Eastern Europe. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was the culmination of a number of growing fissures and collisions in the region—between Russia and Ukraine, but also between Europe and Russia, and Russia and the United States. Michael Kimmage, a historian and former diplomat who served on the Secretary’s Policy Planning Staff at the U.S. Department of State where he handled the Russia/Ukraine portfolio, looks at the origins of this conflict dating back to 24 August 1991.

Feature image by Max Kukurudziak via Unsplash.

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Analysis of the Nuclear Risk Reduction Agenda

Analysis of the Nuclear Risk Reduction Agenda

Nuclear risk analysis will not save us

In a context of intensifying great power competition and deep divergences of view between nuclear and non-nuclear powers on the urgency of nuclear abolition, ‘nuclear risk reduction’ has gained renewed attention as a pragmatic framework for managing and reducing nuclear dangers. The pitch is simple. With more fundamental policy changes either undesirable or out of reach, government officials, parliamentarians, and civil society actors invested in nuclear arms control and disarmament should focus their efforts on humanity’s ‘shared interest’ in curtailing the risk of nuclear weapon use. This means collectively identifying, analysing, and sequestering so-called nuclear risk scenarios.

Centring the nuclear policy conversation on the risk of use, so goes the argument, promises to slash political polarisation between nuclear and non-nuclear powers, increase trust between states, and, most fundamentally, help manage or gradually depress nuclear dangers—perhaps even to the point of a ‘permanent escape’ from nuclear jeopardy. There is broad support among experts and officials, including many supporters of abolition, for devoting time and resources to discussing nuclear risk and risk reduction measures across domestic, bilateral, and multilateral political forums.

In a new article for International Affairs, we interrogate the assumptions underpinning the line of thinking set out above and conclude that the diplomatic orientation variously referred to as the nuclear risk reduction ‘framework’, ‘template’, ‘agenda’, or ‘approach’ offers a false promise for those seeking durable, shared solutions to the nuclear predicament.

To be clear, our gripe in this article is not with specific diplomatic measures or attempts at progressively reducing the salience of nuclear weapons in world politics. We do not mean to suggest that limited technical or diplomatic measures—be it the fitting of electronic locks on warheads, maintenance of systems for crisis communications, or doctrinal changes—cannot be worthwhile or even risk reducing in an objective sense. Instead, our contention is that these measures are not categorically derivable from risk analysis, that nuclear risks and deterrence cannot be reliably ‘managed’ over the long term, and that risk analysis offers a poor overarching framework for those eager to advance nuclear devaluing and disarmament. Advocates of the latter, we suggest, would be better off anchoring their demands either in explicit normative commitments or a general ethic of restraint.

We see three big problems for the risk reduction agenda. The first is that meaningful risk analysis requires access to a level of knowledge and foresight that is quite simply unattainable in the secretive and often contingent world of nuclear politics—a world where even a single error could prove disastrous. Epistemic errors and knowledge gaps could end up leading policymakers down dangerous paths. A second challenge is that risk thinking often encourages an unduly instrumental view of complex techno-political systems, inviting potentially catastrophic overconfidence. As we show in the article, central luminaries of the risk reduction school have systematically underestimated the chances of disaster, placing outsized faith in leaders’ ability to maintain control in difficult situations. The third and final problem we identify is that the risk reduction framework is too indeterminate to steer diplomatic action. As a result, discussions of nuclear risk can easily be coopted, and nuclear-armed leaders cannot be held accountable for their actions one way or another.

Tellingly, the risk reduction agenda has lent itself to everything from calls for deep nuclear stockpile reductions to demands for new nuclear weapons acquisitions and a resumption of explosive nuclear testing. And as long as nuclear risks remain effectively unmeasurable, risk analysis cannot adjudicate these disagreements. What’s more, and contrary to what its proponents often claim, the risk reduction agenda is severely circumscribed by the putative requirements of nuclear deterrence. Deterrence practices, after all, are necessarily ‘risky’ as the credibility of nuclear deterrence, in particular extended nuclear deterrence, depends on ‘threats that leave something to chance’.

Proponents of the nuclear risk reduction agenda would be right to point out that the current international security environment does not look particularly conducive to radical nuclear policy changes. Implementing common-sense measures of restraint would be better than doing nothing, they might argue. We do not disagree. Our objection is that the radical uncertainty that defines the nuclear world renders ‘risk reduction’ a poor overarching frame for diplomatic action; the discourse of risk, we suggest, does not offer advantageous terrain for advocates of change. If what proponents of nuclear risk reduction really want to do is to promote nuclear de-alerting, new or improved communication hotlines, ‘deterrence only’ postures, risk reduction centres, or the adoption of no-first use policies, they should just do that and not invite a discussion about unmeasurable risks that can easily be coopted by those eager to do the opposite. The search for a consensus-based, ‘pragmatic’ approach to nuclear arms control and disarmament—a nuclear politics without politics—is in vain.

Feature image by Kilian Karger via Unsplash.

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The third sister: beauty, and why the aesthetic matters

The third sister: beauty, and why the aesthetic matters

In the current critical/political atmosphere, the “aesthetic” has come to be regarded as the province of dandies and their descendants, not to do with the enormous difficulties of the here and now. What work, if any, as the sky threatens to collapse over our head, might the aesthetic do to help us out of this mess? Can one make the case that the aesthetic is not peripheral to all that matters in this tumultuous, difficult, and utilitarian world, but that it always has been and is still an urgently valuable element in it?

We have seen, particularly with the crisis of COVID—which closed cinemas, theaters, concert halls, and museums—how immediately and pressingly society manifested a deep need for the arts. They proved essential to the psychological wellbeing of millions of people, and their absence from public life had economic impact as well. People sought and found new ways to perform, to hear, to see those elements of social life, literature, film, theater, music, graphic art, for which they are now not eager to pay for in the education of their children.

On the one hand, in both England and America, the humanities, with their crucial aesthetic components in the arts, are regularly defunded for the sake of more obviously utilitarian studies. On the other hand, within the humanities themselves, the aesthetic components of the arts are being increasingly ignored in favor of more apparently urgent political problems. As Ankhi Mukherjee puts it, in much criticism “political…stands for literature that is not beautiful.” The Question of the Aesthetic argues that the aesthetic should be seen as a mode of knowledge—not incompatible with such currently inflammable issues as imperialism, or race, or gender, but as an important means to understanding them.

The peculiar value knowledge the aesthetic generates is not discursive and generalizing but singular, emotive, and humanizing. Knowledge of the aesthetic helps pose critical questions that disciplines and discourses inattentive to problems like form or “beauty” cannot. The aesthetic, as Herbert Tucker puts it, “can provide a salutary check on the rush to relevance in contemporary humanities study, which will labor to better effect, even in service to causes that summon it most urgently, as it redoubles attention to the resources of artistic form, and the unexpected truth that beauty harbors.”

The Question of the Aesthetic attempts to address this double difficulty—the idea that the aesthetic is peripheral to the urgencies of human life, and the idea that attention to it deflects attention from the issues that really matter. Although the conventional understanding of evolutionary development is that all species change as a result of fundamentally utilitarian pressures, a strong case can be made that the aesthetic sometimes trumps the utilitarian. Richard Prum argues that aesthetic preference, the desirability of the beautiful, has played a crucial evolutionary role, as on the model of Darwin’s sexual selection: new species have often emerged out of the preference of one sex for beauty in the other, as evidenced by the astonishing elaboration of the peacock’s wings.

But while this argument should be taken as one piece of evidence that the aesthetic is not only compatible with the fundamental needs of human life, but in many cases is a critical element in satisfying those needs, it should be supplemented with broader understanding. With their attention to the facts of history, to the language in which that history is embodied, to the very materials of art and the cultural and political and economic conflicts that mark the lives of everyone, art engages with the felt experience of the facts. Through aesthetic representation, unattended facts speak, or can speak, across cultures, opening to fresh understandings of the other. It is not by chance that various forms of art—in music, poetry, fiction, film—become the media through which human experience, in conflicts, oppression, liberation, and simple suffering or simple joy, are most forcefully articulated. The power of critique of such representation is critical to whatever future the world can work out for itself. The beautiful—the traditional subject of aesthetics—should be an unembarrassed sister of knowledge and ethics, and a vital condition for that intellectual and moral work.

“The humanities,” concludes Helen Small, “have a special interest in the experiences of beauty…as they alter the quality of our perception and understanding of the world—recognizing that what moves us is at once private and shared, conventionally determined and constantly subject to change. …It is in the process of acknowledging, discussing, debating, disputing aesthetic experience…that much of our social and political experience takes place. Critical to that thinking is the power aesthetic experience affords us to apprehend the idea of agency through language, and thus be in a position to respond better to the reality of injustice.”

Featured image: Ayush Tiwari on Unsplash.

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Election plays and the culture of elections and electioneering in the days of Dunny-on-the-Wold

Election plays and the culture of elections and electioneering in the days of Dunny-on-the-Wold

England’s pre-Reform elections are memorably satirized in the historical sitcom, Blackadder the Third. Also glancing at late 1980s politics, the series begins with the rigged by-election for a fictional rotten borough—Dunny-on-the-Wold—taking centre stage. The first episode of the TV series based on the Horrible Histories books by Terry Deary contributes to the same satirical and comedic tradition: the sketch ‘How to Vote in a Georgian Election’ mocks the corrupt aspects, inequalities, and elite control of pre-democratic politics, for example, by stressing the importance of voting for the lord of the manor’s son: ‘You have to, there are no other candidates’.

In fact, these satirical takes on the long eighteenth century on the small screen have much in common with the drama of the period itself—as well as with related forms, such as Hogarth’s famous series of paintings, and associated prints, on the ‘humours’ of an election. Across the eighteenth- and early nineteenth centuries, and across the country, a rich and varied genre of election plays—that is, plays about contemporary elections and electioneering—presented society with images of itself, displaying key aspects of the political process, corrupt practices, abuses endemic to the electoral system, and acts of principled resistance, through the entertaining lens of particular dramatic performances and conventions.

Although potentially subject to forms of censorship, these daringly topical plays nevertheless circulated in print and manuscript, and were staged, in different parts of the country, before and after the Licensing Act of 1737 (which stipulated that new plays, and new material added to old plays, should be submitted for official examination in advance of performance). Election plays were also adapted—for instance, as printed plates for a toy theatre—and disseminated as extracts: for example, ballads featured in these plays circulated separately and in song books. The genre includes the work of canonical authors such as Shakespeare, as well as lesser-known playwrights and anonymous and now lost pieces.

One example is Henry Fielding’s self-consciously ‘libellous’, commercially canny ‘rehearsal play’, Pasquin, A Dramatick Satire on the Times (1736). The play presents an eighteenth-century precursor to the metatheatrical The Play That Goes Wrong plays of today, a kind of Election Play That Goes Wrong. Set in the theatre itself, it features the rehearsal of a ludicrously bad comedy about an election, with commentary provided by the playwright, Trapwit, and rival dramatist, Fustian, as well as the critic Sneer-well and other stage personnel.

Through the farcical dramatization of electoral bribery in Trapwit’s ‘senseless’ comedy—at one point, Trapwit directs the actors playing the voters to ‘range your selves in a Line’, and those playing the candidates to ‘come to one End, and Bribe away with Right and Left’—Fielding satirically suggests the similarities, as well as differences, between this parodic, exaggerated representation and real life. Fustian asks, ‘Is this Wit, Mr. Trapwit?’, to which Trapwit responds: ‘Yes, Sir, it is Wit; and such Wit as will run all over the Kingdom’. The play was a hit at the Haymarket in the spring of 1736, due, in no small part, to the appeal of its electoral comedy.

Fielding’s play also circulated widely in print. In 1737, there appeared what claimed to be a tenth edition, printed by Edmund Cook. The edition had a smaller, more portable duodecimo format than previous Pasquin editions. It also attracted purchasers by prefacing Fielding’s play-text with a frontispiece portraying a scene from the rehearsal of Trapwit’s election comedy, further underscoring the popularity of this part of the play.

Pasquin. A Dramatick Satire on the Times.

Although it is not a straightforwardly accurate representation, the frontispiece brings into focus some of the ways that election plays afforded voters and non-voters opportunities for political engagement and expression, at a time when the ability to vote was restricted. For example, as the copy in the Senate House Library Malcolm Morley Collection shows, the illustration highlights the presence of unenfranchised women in Fielding’s theatre audiences (members of whom have a prominent place on the left-hand side of the frontispiece); women could also read, hear readings from, and view the frontispiece to, the printed edition itself. (In writing his election plays Pasquin and Don Quixote in England (1734), Fielding was, moreover, following the example of Susanna Centlivre, whose influential works include the seminal election farce, The Gotham Election (1715).)

Again, the frontispiece comments on the role of actresses as active agents in shaping Fielding’s electoral comedy; the illustration represents the satirical onstage encounter between Miss Mayoress, a government supporter, and Miss Stitch, a supporter of the opposition, who, in Trapwit’s comedy, is susceptible to the bribe of a hand fan. In addition, the frontispiece points to the dynamic interplay between literary and visual satire key to the era’s electoral culture, apparent in the fruitful exchanges between numerous writers and artists, including Fielding, Hogarth, and Frederick Pilon. 

Election plays like Pasquin had both immediate and wider, long-lasting implications for literature and political culture. Such plays reveal important interconnections between commercial theatre, the market for entertaining print, and the expansion of an audience for representations of contemporary political life in the long eighteenth century. This is also suggested by the way that other forms of electoral culture tapped into the popularity and appeal of dramatic forms (including election plays). These forms include partisan electioneering materials, such as mock playbills attacking particular candidates, which could also be sold as part of printed election miscellanies—collections of texts generated by particular contests—further highlighting connections between the commercialization of literature and politics.

At the same time as election plays energized contemporary drama, they also had an impact on political life. In a period when many seats were not contested (that is, the candidate(s) for a particular constituency faced no formal opposition) and many could not vote, election plays fuelled political engagement and the formation of opinion about elections across the social spectrum and across the country in terms of their diverse authors, audiences, and performers. These plays had the potential to popularize ‘libellous’ views, promote electoral partisanship, and encourage calls for reform. Interacting and overlapping with other forms—including ballads, prints, and novels—election plays helped to create an active culture of elections and electioneering in the age of ‘Dunny-on-the-Wold’ itself.

Today, political culture continues to draw upon and rework well-known cultural forms, including entertaining dramatic forms, at a time when many people also engage with elections and electioneering without voting, for example, by sharing parodic online memes. Campaigning for the UK general election held in December 2019 saw the Labour and Conservative parties circulate adaptations of the well-known seasonal romcom Love Actually (2003) on social media, reimagining the romantic declaration made by Andrew Lincoln’s character Mark to Keira Knightley’s Juliet via cue cards as an act of doorstep canvassing.

As forms of political communication continue to draw upon dramatic culture, elections remain occasions for satirical and comedic creativity. During campaigning for the 2015 general election, the comedy series Ballot Monkeys reworked the classic satirical theme of ‘canvassing for votes’ by focusing on rival party ‘battle’ buses. The election play itself remains alive, and ready for reinvention. December 2019 also saw the topical updating of James Graham’s election play, The Vote, previously staged and televised on election night in 2015. The next UK general election, currently expected to take place in 2024, may well see Graham’s play revived and adapted to the times once again, as earlier election plays were revived, adapted, and repurposed to suit different political and cultural occasions. If a variety of dramatic forms still feature in today’s political and cultural landscape, election plays of the long eighteenth century offer us a window onto the drama and political life of the past, and the vital exchanges between them.  

Featured image credit: Frontispiece to Henry Fielding, Pasquin. A Dramatick Satire on the Times, ‘Tenth Edition’ (London, 1737) © University of London, Senate House Library, Malcolm Morley Collection, M.M.C. 2841

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Less-than-universal basic income

Less-than-universal basic income

Ten years ago, almost no one in the United States had heard of Universal Basic Income (UBI). Today, chances are that the average college graduate has not only heard of the idea, but probably holds a very strong opinion about it. From Silicon Valley elites to futurists to policy wonks, UBI is igniting passions and dividing opinions across the political spectrum.

Much of the credit for this is due to Andrew Yang, whose 2016 presidential campaign took a centuries-old academic idea and transformed it into a focal point for conversations about poverty, inequality, and the future of work in an age of increasing technological automation.

Since then, the idea of UBI has taken off. The organization Mayors for a Guaranteed Income reports that it has sponsored almost 60 pilot programs in various cities across the United States, and the results of these pilots have been largely encouraging. In Stockton, California, a guaranteed income program not only reduced income volatility and mental anxiety, but significantly boosted full-time employment among recipients—by 12 percentage points, compared to a mere 5-point increase in the control group over the same period. A more recent experiment in St. Paul, Minnesota, showed similar increases in employment as well as improvements in housing and psychological wellbeing.

And yet, for all its popularity, the idea of UBI seems stuck at the level of a temporary experiment. No government has yet to implement UBI as a permanent, large-scale policy, and none seems likely to do so in the near-term future.

The UBI That Almost Was: Nixon’s Family Assistance Plan

After all, we’ve been here before. Back in the 1960s, a similar wave of enthusiasm for UBI (or “guaranteed income,” as it was called at the time) swept the United States. Milton Friedman popularized the idea in 1962 with his proposal for a Negative Income Tax. In 1968, a letter supporting a guaranteed income garnered over 1,000 signatures from academic economists and received front-page coverage in the New York Times. Finally, by 1969, Richard Nixon proposed his “Family Assistance Plan,” which would have provided a federally guaranteed income to families with children. Between growing bipartisan support and extreme public dissatisfaction with traditional welfare, it looked like the timing might be just right for the idea to actually become a reality.

Except, it didn’t. After months of struggle and compromises that left no one happy, the Family Assistance Plan ultimately failed to make it through Congress. The full story of its defeat is a complicated one, well-documented in Brian Steensland’s masterful book, The Failed Welfare Revolution. But, in essence, its failure came down to the same two objections that always bedevil guaranteed income programs: cost and fairness.

The Two Main Objections to UBI: Cost and Fairness

The issue of cost is a serious challenge for advocates of UBI. A grant of $1,000 per month would be close to enough to bring a single individual with no other income up to the poverty level. But a fully universal grant of $1,000 per month to all the roughly 330 million people living in the United States would cost almost 4 trillion dollars – more than half the entire federal budget for 2024! A smaller grant would cost less money, but the smaller the grant, the less effective it will be at lifting people out of poverty. Fiscal constraints thus create a dilemma that is difficult to escape.

The other problem is, if anything, even more difficult to manage. One of the defining features of UBI is its universality, meaning, in this context, that everyone is eligible to receive the grant, whether they are working or not. But it is precisely this universality that strikes many people as morally unfair. It’s one thing, the argument goes, to help people who are trying to support themselves but can’t. It’s quite another thing to declare that everybody is entitled to live off the federal dole, whether they’re able and willing to work or not. The old Victorian distinction between the deserving and the undeserving poor resonates deeply with a sizable majority of the American public, liberals, and conservatives alike.

It might be time to consider an alternative approach to UBI—one that avoids the main objections to the policy while retaining much of what makes it so attractive in the first place.

Of course, UBI advocates have responses to both objections. The cost of a UBI can be mitigated by imposing modest new taxes, consolidating existing welfare programs, or both. And claims of unfairness can be met by pointing out that just because full-time parents, artists, and caretakers aren’t working, this doesn’t make them free-riders. There are other ways of making a positive contribution to one’s community beyond participation in the paid labor market.

These responses are serious enough to merit more attention than I can devote to them here. But so far, at least, they have failed to persuade a majority of the American public. This doesn’t necessarily mean that they should give up. But it does suggest, perhaps, that it might be time to consider an alternative approach to UBI—one that avoids the main objections to the policy while retaining much of what makes it so attractive in the first place.

The Child Tax Credit as an Alternative to the UBI

We don’t have to stretch our imaginations to conceive of what such an alternative might look like. We’ve already tried it—at least briefly. In 2021, responding to the economic crisis caused by COVID-19, the United States made its Child Tax Credit (CTC) fully refundable. This meant that families whose income was too low to owe any taxes received cash payments from the government, the size of which depended on how many children they had. The results of this experiment were impressive. Childhood poverty levels fell to their lowest level on record—5.2%. When the expansion ended in 2022, child poverty more than doubled almost immediately, skyrocketing to 12.4%.

So far, efforts to make the expansion permanent have been unsuccessful. But its demonstrated success and relative popularity suggest that it might be the viable path forward for enacting a policy of large scale, no-strings-attached cash transfers.

First, because the CTC is limited to families with dependent children, its scope is far narrower than a fully universal UBI. Only about 40% of US households have children under the age of 18, so even keeping the size of the grant constant, a CTC cuts the cost of UBI by more than half.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, because the CTC is focused on families with children, it is much less vulnerable to the kind of worries about unfairness that plague UBI. Even if you think that there’s something morally objectionable about able-bodied adults being dependent on government support, surely that objection doesn’t apply to children. Children aren’t responsible for putting themselves in poverty. And they aren’t capable of getting themselves out of it. If anyone deserves a helping hand, it is children.

As Josh McCabe has recently noted, other countries such as Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the United Kingdom all have child tax credits that are at least partially refundable. The United States not only lacks such a policy, but spends less on cash transfers to children than any other country in the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD). No surprise, then, that the US also has the highest post-tax, post-transfer child poverty rates of any other country in the developed world.

For many of UBI’s supporters, its universality is one of its strongest appeals. And yet the objections about cost and fairness show that it might also be one of its greatest political liabilities. A permanent expansion of the Child Tax Credit has the potential to realize much of the promise of permanent, broad-based, unconditional cash transfers, while simultaneously avoiding the biggest pitfalls of UBI. In bridging ambition with practicality, expanding the Child Tax Credit could be the key to transforming the ideal of universal financial support into a sustainable reality.

Feature image by Andre Taissin via Unsplash.

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