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Reactions to the Reactionary – The New Scholarship on Fascism, 2

March 1st, 2020

[ Emlyn Cameron reviews Timothy Snyder‘s The Road to Unfreedom — second in a series [first here], and introducing a “Yale Theory of Fascism” — Emlyn Cameron holds a Masters from the Columbia School of Journalism ]
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Timothy Snyder, The Road to Unfreedom
Timothy Duggan Books (2019)
Trade paperback, 368 pages
$ 17.00 (Amazon $10.39)
ISBN 0525574476
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                                                     Because he and a few around him fear the death of the revolution,
                                                     China must be made to convulse.

                                                     Robert Jay Lifton, Revolutionary Immortality
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“It’s always something!”

This phrase punctuated every illness, automotive break down, or household repair of my childhood. I am sure it is a typical of many homes where ends are made to meet, but only just.

Depending on the moment, it could be a wry observation – the good-natured sigh under pressure that enabled my mother to collect herself before addressing the latest unexpected fee – or it could be a hiss, lashing at a world that found a way to negate every surplus dollar she managed to save away. It is the cry of a person whose world cannot be improved, only maintained, and with great difficulty.

It is a bitter hiss of this kind, warped and magnified by demagogues, to which Timothy Snyder has addressed himself in his book The Road to Unfreedom. As a political atmosphere he calls it the politics of eternity – as in Orwell’s a boot stamping on a human face forever rather than the [spiritual] life everlasting – a sense that beyond the small and guttering campfire flame of one’s culture there are always strange others waiting to move in and destroy you. In this frame of mind, all political action is an act of self-defense or a preemptive strike against an eternal coalition of enemies.

In 283 pages, with 60 pages of footnotes which follow, Snyder makes the case that Russia’s history from the collapse of the Soviet Union through 2016 is the story of a nation suffering the effects of eternity politics. This moral rot, he goes on to argue, is something the Russian Federation would transmit to the United States, and to which America is currently acutely vulnerable.

Snyder gives special attention to the years 2011-2016, each year meant to exemplify a choice between a political virtue and an aspect of eternity politics. In each case, it seems, Russia has abandoned the virtue and thereby taken a step towards authoritarianism and eternity: sacrificing individualism for totalitarianism; succession for institutional failure; global integration for imperial ambitions; novelty for eternity; truth for lies; and equality for oligarchy.

While this thematic structure is suggested in the prologue, the events are too complex and Snyder too honest a scholar (and engaging a storyteller) to confine any chapter entirely to its explicit theme. The story of Russia’s transformation into a one-party state, the invasion of Ukraine, and subsequent Russian enthusiasm for Donald Trump’s presidential campaign is relayed in primarily chronological order with brief asides for historical context, and it is better for it. The result, in Snyder’s occasionally mordant voice, is a presentation that at times reads like a thriller with an ensemble cast of ne’er-do-wells and nationalists.

The compelling story only suffers in passages where the author too fully adheres to his thematic structure, as when he gives a history of Ukrainian and Russian statehood which stretches back over a thousand years to the 980s. The information is useful and telling but coming, as it does, in the fourth chapter (and just under a third of the way through the book as a whole), it jars a reader and may test patience as the narrative winds its way to recent events again.

All this aside, the themes Snyder identifies make the book a ready complement to his own pamphlet On Tyranny, his colleague Jason Stanley’s How Fascism Works, and other recent books on authoritarianism and nationalism. Together, Snyder and Stanley’s triptych might be said to form, loosely, a “Yale Theory of Fascism” that could prove significant.

Like other analyses, it presents fascism as a set of right-ward authoritarian symptoms, themes, or trends, broader than the particular political party from which it takes its name, while tackling how their expression has evolved in the internet age and distinguishing them from mechanically similar but ideologically distinct authoritarianisms of the left.

That Snyder’s thoughts in On Tyranny correspond to events explored in Road to Unfreedom is unsurprising, but the thrill of the book is in finding such copious examples. The most memorable, for me, was reading Road to Unfreedom’s description of the Night Wolves biker gang holding a nationalistic pageant for Putin, which so easily conjured On Tyranny’s injunction to be wary of paramilitary groups and militias which court the favor of nationalist politicians.

This possible connection came to mind again in March of last year, and not just to me. That groups like the border militias and Bikers for Trump, existing outside legal institutions, desire to act as auxiliary law enforcement and adopt its methods – to internalize the might and jurisdiction thereof into their lives as private citizens – should be recognized as one of the unnerving aspects of contemporary American life.

By “government of the people, by the people” was not meant this populist redistribution of coercive authority, but institutions so staffed and administered as to represent by the work of a mandated few the interests of the whole public. That this is not the perspective of many nominal patriots and rebels against government overreach is something Snyder’s books make uncomfortably difficult to ignore.

Not so easy to anticipate, but as rewarding, is the book’s interplay with Stanley’s work.

As discussed in my review of Stanley’s book, one feature of this interplay is Road to Unfreedom’s reiteration of the importance of sexual stigma to authoritarian politics (a specific preoccupation in the defining of enemies on which Stanley and Snyder’s Yale theory of fascism seems to put greater emphasis than earlier analyses). When Snyder says that Vladimir Putin has labelled political opponents “sexually deformed” in order to shift conversation away from political debate and onto cultural reaction to people’s sexual and gender identities, one sees clearly the action of fascist politics described in Stanley’s chapter on sexual anxiety.

But, in addition to this, the two works complement one another in their exploration of the fascist view of history: Both acknowledge that fascists trade in a debased version of history that claims the homeland was once an ethnically and culturally pure utopia, spotless in its innocence and righteousness, while the present is a sordid failure that has abandoned and thereby dishonored the virtuous past. Stanley cites as example, a leader of Germany’s Alternative für Deutschland party who said, “No other people have been so clearly presented with a false past as the Germans,” and spoke of taking pride in “the accomplishment of our soldiers in both world wars.”). However, Stanley’s text suggests this is an attempt to justify a social structure analogous to family roles evoked by the mythic past, and fascist politicians’ policies create future conditions which corroborate their rhetoric about the bankruptcy and squalor of the present, while Snyder’s book shifts our notion of how fascists obscure the past.

In Stanley’s work the past is simplified and sterilized, moral wrongs removed and forgotten – the doublethink and memory-hole method of Oceania in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, in which the past is lied about and the records destroyed. But Snyder’s doublethink is a new approach, appropriate for our information-dense present: not denying that any given regime or arrangement of alliances existed, but pretending the contradictory portions of a national past are not mutually exclusive and unifying them as a justification for the present regime. In Putin’s Russia, this takes the form of a “celebration of both the far left and the far right in the past”, rehabilitating the images of both Stalin and right-wing figures who opposed communism in favor of hyper nationalism as part of a grand Russian tradition that now finds itself expressed through Putin.

In effect: The Czars were right and then Stalinists were right and now Putin’s crew is right. In fact, Russia has never been wrong.

This is a new kind of infallibility, where taking every position is just as emancipating to power as denying all positions taken before the present one. It is meaningful that this approach is being discovered and described in the age of the internet, with its vertiginous overabundance of tweets and takes and troll-bots which proliferate at the stroke of a key. In some ways, it even suggests that to destroy the evidence, as in Nineteen Eighty-Four , would be to admit weakness: It is not that we are now and have always been at war with Eastasia or Eurasia, we have been at war with both from time to time and each was a natural and just extension of the other .

This insight also illuminates some inklings available in earlier scholarship on authoritarianism that didn’t manage to be so clear. Take Umberto Eco’s essay Ur-Fascism which explained that inconsistent ideology was a major component of fascism and memorably suggested that a broadly defined section in a bookstore which housed both St. Augustine and New Age books on meditation was somehow faintly fascist. The moral is now more identifiable: It is not that this particular combination is sinister, or even just that fascists are cynical opportunists about what they will endorse – but because, in service of their authority, they must affirm that these things must be part of a greater, consistent whole. Academically honest classes on political philosophy may explore centuries of scholars as part of a culture’s intellectual history, holding each in high regard and acknowledging that many concepts or arguments that appear today have their roots in statements by one or another writer, but they do not pretend that each justifies the next – let alone the actions of a current office holder. To do so, in addition to butchering texts, would imply that a culture has not required improvement, only elaboration; that nothing a society has done required review or debate.

Not so, fascist historians claim: Anything that their society has created or learned from must be true and compatible, or their past is imperfect, and they are subject to question and failure. In addition, this serves as a ploy to leash the pride of any particular citizen over some particular part of their national history to a kind of nationalistic narcissism that admits no mistakes and carries no burden of responsibility for progress. This uncritical merging of dynamic, inconclusive intellectual history into a parade of justifications is in large part what is feared and decried when phrases like “Western Culture” are said to be dog whistles. Western Culture, if that is an idea that can be defined at all, is not some monolith (or Doric column), but many antagonistic influences, mediated between by each generation. And if that inconclusive whole has any beauty or promise, peculiar to itself or not, it is in that it has managed to be so many things at once – that it has been a forum for vehement disagreement.

The balancing of untroubled history and decadent present, it seems, is one aspect of a delicate game played by the authoritarians Snyder studies: to create a national life that is wracked with insecurities, while convincing the populace that the only solution to their constant dread is the raft of the policies which make their lives precarious – and to convince them that the future is just to be more of the same, without improvement.

This, the book explains, is at the heart of the destruction of the succession principle: The would be dictator harnesses the dread of the people to his own ends by billing himself as the solution to all problems; in order to solve his society’s ills, all power must be granted him (that this power usually also comes with extravagant privilege and luxury is mostly left unsaid); institutions are weakened and their discretion and authority accorded to the dictator, and because he is not the man he claims to be, things get worse, quickening the urgency with which his people feel they need to grant him exemptions and powers. He rides to power on and then ensures the anxieties of his peers. Finally, law is more or less what he chooses to say it is – the government becomes so closely identified with him that his personality might as well be the founding document. If he then rewrites the nation’s law so that he can retain power indefinitely it is at once a minor codification of the fact that everyone, in their hesitant expectation of catastrophe, has come to rely upon him for everything and the final measure necessary to ensure that they think they must.

This then creates a new anxiety: Someday, the people know, he will die, and they believe the capricious order with which he has become inseparably entangled will almost certainly die with him. This is despite works like Andrea Kendall-Taylor’s 2016 article, When Dictators Die, which indicates that the death of the leader in office only rarely “spell[s] the end of the regime or precipitate[s] instability in the form of coups or protests. On the contrary, authoritarian regimes have proven to be remarkably resilient when a leader dies,” even when most of the power lies with a single person (78% make it at least a year after their leader’s passing). Even when the leader died because of an assassination, authoritarian regimes collapsed within 5 years less than half the time. But this hesitance about what new unpredictability and struggle the future holds, like others which enable the authoritarian leader, is only facially rational.

The uncertainty surrounding the black maria and the midnight knock on the door is a constant fear, obvious and blunt as a truncheon. So, too is the knowledge that one’s family may or may not eat in the next week, or month, or year. And – whether one is a true-believer in the leader as last hope or a reluctant victim afraid of chaos in a power struggle – the resigned fear that the man who sends the cars and regulates the markets may not even be there the next day is a stranger, subtler anxiety, but Snyder suggests it too is there and founded on a mystery about when the next blow will fall.

Those who elected the dictator were insecure as they appointed him, they are insecure under him, and they believe that his death offers no more security than his life. And that anxiety gives him more of that feverish dedication his supporters have all along offered him. In this, the dictator has succeeded in creating the atmosphere he needs to arrogate whatever he should like to himself and to teach every mother, father, and child to expect nothing better.

“It’s always something.”

The book makes these feedback loops of insecurity coherent and memorable. In doing so they are with the reader often in the flood of current events – the subversion of succession being especially poignant now in light of Vladimir Putin’s recent call for constitutional reforms in Russia, and the speculation surrounding what these amendments could portend: It could be the first tremor indicating further personalization of the government around Putin, weakening the presidency he will leave in 2024 and according powers to his office as head of the State Council, with no end in sight of his place (someplace) in government. But it is, without a doubt, a cause for renewed uncertainty about the future of Russian government, an insecurity about the future which Snyder shows us can be turned to an authoritarian leader’s ends.

This idea of insecurity also sits at the heart of a potential disagreement over the meaning of the word Individualism in the triptych, one of a few examples of possible conflicts between Snyder and Stanley. Individualism is the most obvious example because of its prominence as one of Snyder’s political virtues and in Stanley’s description of Libertarianism, which he takes to be a largely facetious ideology amenable to fascist politics. But this conflict, I believe, can be resolved by distinguishing the definitions of Individualism the two authors use, based on their respective contexts. Snyder appears to be discussing the individual capacity for critical thinking and the political defense of a right to dissent. Meanwhile, Stanley seems to be using it as a name given to policies and beliefs which atomize citizens and make them either institutionally or morally incapable of getting forms of assistance or cooperation which make it possible for them to take meaningful political or personal action. In light of how Stanley and Snyder’s other work informs a reading of Road to Unfreedom, it is better read as a supplement to On Tyranny and How Fascism Works: They give the reader a framework for better understanding the book. Having read Road to Unfreedom first, and subsequently returned to it after completing the other two, I can attest to this effect firsthand.

This is especially true as Snyder’s style is attractive, aphoristic, and sharp (“the ink of political fiction is blood”), but can lack sufficient connective tissue to the examples which surround it to get its full point across, relying instead on the gravitas of its pronouncements. The other books, focused as they are on defining a theory of the events, fill this gap and make the epigrammatic aspects of Road to Unfreedom more approachable, with On Tyranny in particular offering practical examples of ways to make use of and defend the kinds of institutions, rights, and relationships which the other two works show to be critical in countering fascist politics.

It becomes a kind of proof of concept for the Yale theory lens of analysis, and it is a compelling one. In showing how the abstract observations he and Stanley have made can be applied to real history, he challenges us to do much the same, just as his earlier work enabled us to do so. When Snyder says, as he does in his acknowledgements, “at a certain point, I thought I was close to finishing a book about contemporary Russia, Ukraine, and Europe, only to realize its subject is much more British and American than I had thought,” it is a simple expression of his engagement with history, actively seeing new ways to apply what he has learned. It also makes clear that the utility of history is as analogy: What can we, who are so like those who have struggled like this before, learn from their effort? History is the warning that it can happen here, and a guide to ensuring it doesn’t.

Road to Unfreedom is the most ambitious of its contemporary works because it most fully represents the kind of action it asks us to take. Timothy Snyder has taken responsibility for a piece of history and, in so doing, made us responsible for our own – precisely what he shows us that fascists, in their need for an uncritical history and unknowable future, cannot do.

You take the high road and I’ll take the low road.

February 26th, 2020

[ by Charles Cameron — a terrain in which divisions may arise, and at least be understood ]

It’s not easy to see one’s good friends take the opposite view on the issue of Rightor Left these days, but it may be of some help to understand how two parties can arrive at opinions that diverge so sharply. I’d like to suggest a little mathematics might help.

Here’s a diagram RC Zeeman devised to illustrate the 3-variable cusp catastrophe in Rene Thom‘s Catastrophe Theory:

Source: RC Zeeman, Catastrophe Theory, Scientific American, 1976

Never mind the various terms Zeeman has dropped into his diagram — below, I’ve altered the diagram to suit my own purposes:

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Ugly, I’m afraid: but see below..

Okay, I’ll invite you to imagine you’re seeing a grassy landscape, starting from the left and taking a stroll to the right side. As you’ll see, there are two divergent paths from left to right — and if you imagine them as the thought paths of two friends who start off in full agreement but then diverge over political matters until the gap between them is enough to threaten their friendship — that’s what the diagram is supposed to represent.

My diagram is clearly the work of someone who doesn’t understand graphics, so I asked my friend Callum Flack to illustrate “The point is just to make it look as though people could go for a stroll and wind up in antagonistic positions” — and here’s his illustration, in Callum‘s characteristic black and white:

He’s picturing one traveler (white) who has taken the low road, and is facing the cliff — above which stands the fellow (black) who took the high road. And the height of the cliff represents the fierceness of the dispute between them.

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I like, insofar as I can, to tie my political posts into some aspect of the arts with which they share a common pattern. Here, I think of the traditional Scottish ballad, Loch Lomond.

The ballad itself is a beautiful one, but the story behind it is grim — involving the rebellion of the Scottish Highlanders against a king they regarded as a heretic and usurper, and in favor of the Scottish heir, Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Since in that grim tale, the high road and the low road serve very different purposes I’d invite you to listen first to the tale as told on NPR by Leslie Howard — Loch Lomond: https://beta.prx.org/stories/7593 — and then to listen to a traditional rendering of the song, which touches on the Bonnie Prince, and the sad, romantic tale of the Jacobite rebellion, culminating in the slaughter of so many in the Highland clans at Culloden Field:

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As a Scot, and as a Cameron, my loyalties are clear.

Worlds within the world: studio of Kiefer, mind of Vollmann

February 24th, 2020

[ by Charles Cameron — the worlds within this world are to be found in the workshops of Anselm Kiefer and William Vollmann ]
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Artist one of two: Anselm Kiefer:

Kiefer devoted himself to investigating the interwoven patterns of German mythology and history and the way they contributed to the rise of Fascism. He confronted these issues by violating aesthetic taboos and resurrecting sublimated icons. For example, in his 1969 Occupations series, Kiefer photographed himself striking the “Sieg Heil” pose. Subsequent paintings—immense landscapes and architectural interiors, often encrusted with sand and straw—invoke Germany’s literary and political heritage. References abound to the Nibelungen and Wagner, Albert Speer’s architecture, and Adolf Hitler.

Interwoven patterns? The Nibelungen? Albert Speer?

Seraphim? Jacob’s ladder, on which angels travel up and down? And in this time of nuclear and gas chamber holocausts, have they abandoned the ladder?

Seraphim is part of Kiefer’s Angel series, which treats the theme of spiritual salvation by fire, an ancient belief perverted by the Nazis in their quest for an exclusively Aryan nation.

Spiritual salvation by fire?

Okay, This fellow has the kind of dark mythological intensity that interests me. Let’s take a stroll through this man’s world — a deeper dive into his studio.

In we go:–

It was like a world inside the world. Huge metal slabs were leaning against the walls. Helter-skelter around them, on racks with wheels, stood large paintings of oceans and beaches, rivers and meadows, mountains and forests, some covered with corroded ravines of lead. Vitrines in every size were standing everywhere, filled with the strangest things: the roots of trees, rusty hammers, little clay pigs. Shelves that ran the length of the hall were stacked with balance scales, hooks, rifles, stoves, snakes, torpedoes, piles of bricks, heaps of dried flowers, even whole trees. There were more full-size fighter jets and a cage that was maybe 300 square feet that was filled with golden wheat and what appeared to be the cooling tower of a nuclear power plant with a bicycle dangling down the side.

Torpedoes! Whole fighter jets! Whole trees!

Kiefer‘s paintings, we learn, are overwhelming, dark and vast — Seraphim‘s a good example — enforcing silence before their enormous intensity. And then, suddenly — watercolors, “brimming with color — sparkling blues and brilliant reds” as bright as the moments of a life, and thus as intensely personal as the dark vast paintings had been impersonal and overbearing — as is, one is forced to admit, our century.

He’s an artist — exhibit number one.

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Here’s exhibit number two: the mind of William Vollmann..

Deep dive number two:

Bill greeted me warmly and showed me around the art-making area of his bunker, where he has a power engraver—he was working on a suite of Norse block prints when I visited—and where he prints his Dolores photographs using an arcane 19th century method called gum bichromate, which takes up to 28 days to produce a single print. Then he led me to the walk-in.

What’s in here?

This is the meat locker, where Dolores’s parts are. When the electrician wired it up, he asked, “What do you use this for?” I said, “Oh, that’s just where I keep my victims.” There was a long silence….She’s got her dresses here and I have my bulletproof helmet and various stuff from my journalism in there

Lecter, Hannibal? “That’s just where I keep my victims”?

Vollmann, like Kiefer, is possessed of a world both dark and sparkling bright. The sheer extent of his variety, too, is impressive, overwhelming.

I have in my room at the Pine Creek Care Center only two smallish bookshelves, and in them one book of Vollmann‘s: Kissing the Mask: Beauty, Understatement and Femininity in Japanese Noh Theater. I mean, how not?

Kissing the Mask is so packed with beauty, understatement — erotics, Japan, Noh, Vollmann himself, Noh backstage, behind-the-scenes, photographs — ” a string ball of thoughts” — I’d like to say “torpedoes .. even whole trees” but Vollmann‘s world within the world is other than Kiefer’s, as though there were room for two worlds within our world — three perhaps — though I’ve yet to encounter the third — “with Some Thoughts on Muses (Especially Helga Testorf), Transgender Women, Kabuki Goddesses. porn queens, poets, housewives, makeup artists, geishas, valkyries, and Venus figurines” Vollmann addsall this in small print at the bottom of the book’s cover.

And Valkyries!

It takes my reading glasses and a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass to read these days, and my copy of the abridged, one-volume Rising Up and Rising Down: Some Thoughts on Violence, Freedom and Urgent Means is in storage — a book fate which I both mourn and feel intense gratitude for.

When Vollmann turns to consider violence — “to establish a moral calculus to consider the causes, effects, and ethics of violence” as Wikipedia has it — he spends twenty and more years on the task.

The abridgment, Vollmann says, he made in half an hour, for the money. Truth to the work’s title is to be found in the $700, seven-volume original set, 3,500 copies. Even with dollar-store glasses and Holmes’ magnifying glass — enhanced with the option of bright light the better to read by — seven volumes is beyond me, as 700 pages of the condensed would be.

And there are yet other Vollmanns, with other worlds..

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Oh but let Van Gogh have the last word, eh, Vollmann?

Vincent Van Gogh, Japonoiserie, The Courtesan

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Sources

  • Guggenheim, Kiefer, Seraphim
  • NYT, Into the Black Forest With the Greatest Living Artist

  • 3 am, becoming dolores: william t. vollmann exposes his female alter ego
  • Wikipedia, William T. Vollmann

  • Metropolitan Publications, Van Gogh in Arles
  • Doing without, a new wave?

    February 23rd, 2020

    [ by Charles Cameron — intuitive and counter-intuitive redefined, no politicians, no borders, no traffic lights ]]
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    Consider these two titles, both of which I ran across today:

    Sources:

  • The Nation, What Would an Open-Borders World Actually Look Like?
  • New Yorker, Politics Without Politicians
  • **

    Consider: doing without traffic lights:

    The original example is Drachten, a town in Holland of 50,000 people. It is home to exactly zero traffic lights. Even in areas of the town with a traffic volume of 22,000 cars per day, traffic lights have been replaced by roundabouts, extended cycle paths and improved pedestrian areas. The town saw accidents at one intersection fall from 36 over a four-year period to just two in the last two years since the lights were removed in 2006.

    The counter-intuitive finding is that streets without traffic signals mean that cars drive more slowly and carefully because the rules of the road are ambiguous—there’s no red, green or yellow to tell drivers precisely what to do.

    Counter-intuitive. eh? Highly intuitive, and counter to popular assumption, I’d say. Out of the box from one-two-three to zero.

    The Fractal Partition of Bangladesh / India

    February 22nd, 2020

    [ by Charles Cameron — in and out, up and down, black and white, fractals, enclaves, exclaves and chhitmahals, the prophet Isaiah and the Virgin Mary — a wild spin through geographies, religions, people, peoples, and their maps ]
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    It’s remarkable, from a geotheological point of view, the prayers within prayers within orayers. But look at this excerpt from a Nation piece on a world without borders:

    The so-called “Radcliffe line” separated a Hindu-majority India in the center from Muslim-majority East and West Pakistan on its wings, with a smattering of independent princely states throughout. But neat division wasn’t remotely possible, and what resulted was a labyrinthine confusion of over 100 enclaves (a portion of a nation entirely inside another nation), counter-enclaves (an enclave within an enclave), and even a counter-counter-enclave, in which a little pocket of India sat in a little pocket of East Pakistan which sat in a bigger pocket of India which was entirely enisled in East Pakistan.

    The mind jumps to the Tai-chih symbol in Taois [left] and its implicit fractal presentation [right]m:

    The thing is, one can map a single mini-me of the Tai Chih within the Tai Chih, but that’s about all the eye can manage, except when the symbol is blown up to all-size. But The Subcontinent is large enough for Indian within Pakistan within India within Pakistan — something we could abstractly represent using a target:

    * in Cooch Behar
    Well, here’s a map of what the French term LA VIE ENCHAÎNÉ — enclave within enclave within enclave:

    Sensing that this sort of arrangement was unnecessarily complicated, India and Bangladesh have since done some land swaps to simplify matters, and moved villagers pof certain religious persuasions accordingly — and a certain complexity and perplexity is gone from the world map.

    There’s a certain samenness, anyway:

    A sari-clad woman tended to a small field of sticks of rolled cow dung, used as cooking fuel, bundling the ones that had baked in the sun and stacking them by a bamboo bench. A chicken, followed by four chicks, pecked nearby. If not for the corrugated metal barracks, we might have been witnessing village life almost anywhere in India, Bangladesh, or Pakistan, much as it had carried on for centuries.

    That we could map with a simple white space:

    **

    A friend where I write has a tattoo:

    It’s okay to not be okay

    That’s an enclave, Tai-Chih style insight — brava!

    **

    And let’s wind up with two celebrated quotes from the Old and New Testaments, from Isaiah 40 (Deutero-Isaiah, for textual critics) and the Magnificat of the Virgin Mary:

    :

    Isaiah‘s verse is a fom of land-swap — but it wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized Mary’s Magnificat echoes Isaiah, transposing positions within social hierarchy for heights and depths in social standing.

    **

    Hm: I do seem to have noticed this echoing of Isaiah in the Magnificat before — see my post The trouble with moral high ground, which opoens with another interesting variant of high and low ground:

    With the rise and fall of sea levels, sky levels, land emerges or submerges, mountain ranges with scattered lakes in their valleys transform into archipelagos, island clusters surge up to become continents — rise and fall, ebb and flow, wave upon wave..

    I mean, really, what of the moral high ground?

    and closes with yet another:

    O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,
    And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye


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