Said Simon

Inchoate thoughts on my stuff

God is dead and ‘material power’ is permitted.

Damn this term. It endlessly shows up in international relations scholarship. And it’s a huge pet-peeve of mine. Why? Because even a superficial reflection shows it to be more or less incoherent.

First, against what is ‘material’ power contrasted? Immaterial power? That would be silly; immaterial power is oxymoronic, since power implies some sort of real (capacity for) influencing of situations and people. ‘Ideational’ power, perhaps? What on earth is that? The power of ideas? Like the ideas we have about how to operate firearms or build nukes or construct sturdy fortifications or organise and direct military manoeuvres? Except these are usually exactly the sort of things that constitute ‘material power’, as far as I can tell. Ideas about morality and ethics? That sounds a bit better—perhaps there is material power, and then there is persuasive power or discursive power or normative power?

But this leads to the second problem. What isn’t material? As I just implied, nothing in society is exclusively material, as even the crudest tools of coercion or enticement require some learning and knowledge to be used. Discourse and persuasion have materiality. Just think about how much nicer it is to have a discussion in a pub in a relaxed atmosphere, or over coffee or something, compared to, I don’t know, sitting in cold puddle of mild sulfuric acid while a loud siren wails. Talking requires vocal chords, and typing requires fingers. It’s hard to debate in person when you have a sore throat or over the internet when you have arthritis, and so on.

Most people who use the term ‘material power’ really seem to mean something like ‘guns, land, money’. And of course, in the end, the meaning of a term is its use in language. What’s the problem if we all know what the term means, even if taken literally it makes no sense? Well, mainly I worry (slash actually see) that when people use it, they treat those guns, lands, and monies as if they have independent and pre-existing power—as if first you have these ‘material’ things that nourish or kill, and then you can add or subtract ideas on top of them (ideas, of course, being not material but…what, system-states of our immortal souls, which have no physical substrate?). And that this is only true of those things in particular, and not true of everything that features in social life. Then once you’ve established this special domain of ‘material power’ you go on to contrast it against moral norms or culture or something.


Military power, economic power, industrial power, financial power, yada yada any or all of these are probably fine as concepts. They adequately allow for the ways ‘the power to X’ emerges and accrues through the interaction of creative and knowledgeable people with their physical environment. Even better, X can be so many things!

But no, we got ‘materialist explanations’ (= realism, of course) and ‘material power’ (= realism’s instrumental variable) and because we got them, we can’t have nice things.

Which, if you think about it, is what these ‘realists’/’materialists’ have been saying all along. How meta.


Daniel Little’s curiously pragmatic realism

In a number of ongoing discussions with IR philosophy of social science dynamo Patrick Thaddeus Jackson I have argued that there are noteworthy realist alternatives to Critical Realism in the social sciences–that there are prima facie coherent but less radical views of social ontology, causality, and explanation than the systematic set of views traceable to Roy Bhaskar. One such alternative may lie with Daniel Little. However, it is hard to know whether this is the truly the case, because Little is often very general in how he defines realism writ large, and then prefers to be a little more substantively grounded once he begins his discussions of realism in the social sciences in particular. This leaves opaque the finer points of his metaphysical positions. It would have been helpful if, in his stunningly rich academic blog Understanding Society, he’d simply offered a point by point comparison of his views and those typical of Critical Realists, but in the absence of this, I can only rely on my best hermeneutic efforts.

Here is where Little says something I find most illustrative of where his position contrasts with ‘stronger’ views like Critical Realism, and also where I find myself asking the most questions of him.

His view is basically that social life exhibits such heterogeneity that it is impossible to specify particular forms cutting across historical time and space. In other words, each moment has enough uniqueness that it cannot be described as a formation of token instantiations of broader types of entities. Rather, the only kind of thing a social scientist can be a realist about is the mechanism. And meanwhile, any discussion of types in fact refers to analytical constructs created through a reification of given aggregations of dynamic and diverse social material.

This has some intriguing implications. First, what kind of view of mechanism does this entail? Elsewhere Little relies on a dispositional view of causality as capacities inherent within objects that govern their behaviour. This means the view of mechanism advocated by Charles Tilly under his ‘relational realism’ (which Neil Gross has argued is better understood as Deweyan pragmatism) seems too weak, too nominalist, for Little’s purposes. Instead it suggests that descriptions of social mechanisms refer to concrete particular processes–in Little’s case to local agency and action. But how coherent is this? Can Little get away with being a realist about causal powers without presuming that they exist together with their objects in essential bundles–in other words, social kinds? Or does all realist talk about mechanisms suppose essences?

Second, what actually ends up being the reference status of our theories? It may imply that some kind of ‘objective’ historical description can be offered (of mechanisms at least), but that any attempt to theorise beyond specific and concrete circumstances involves the imposition of organisational schema onto a diverse array of things that do not ‘naturally’ go together, but are thrust together for some purpose. This sounds awfully pragmatic, but introduces a tension between the realist imperative to describe and explain reality and the instrumentalist imperative to orient theory around purpose.

Little appears to be trying to build a pragmatic methodology out of realist metaphysics. I’m awfully sceptical, and not yet persuaded. At the same time, though, he has at least avoided some of the metaphysical doctrines of Critical Realism that I find border on the pseudo-mystical, such as strong emergence and downwards causation.

Why ‘post-modern’ approaches make me hesitate

An interesting recent article on the supposedly deleterious mental health effects of being a post-modern literary theorist got me thinking a bit. Specifically, it got me thinking about how best to express my own concerns over taking a firmly post-modern viewpoint—by which I mean, adopting one of a constellation of theoretical approaches arranged around the critical decomposition of narratives and ideologies.

I can see taking issue with the delivery, but the essay’s thesis is pretty clear and worth engaging with: namely, that the exhaustive and comprehensive decomposition of every expressive and normative narrative as resulting either from structural power imbalances or psychosexual impulses deprives one of any justificatory resources for asserting the validity of one’s own personal narrative of the self. The contradiction between needing a valid and coherent self (what has been referred to as ontological security by, among others, the psychoanalyst Laing and the sociologist Giddens) and the professional/vocational commitment to undermining narratives-in-general produces anxiety and ethical ennui. It forces one to choose between hypocrisy and nihilism. And most people can’t abide either.

This is a broader problem with the post-modern turn: despite being in some respects hyper-liberal, it also deprives one of the semantic resources for building a positive normative project, meaning one can only be crypto-normative and disconnected from the ethical premises of one’s own practice (eg Foucault). That is of course the choice of hypocrisy. But actually being a consistent hypocrite (har!) takes hard work.

At the same time, we are confronted with demonstrable efficacy of post-modern approaches in supplying us with the cognitive tools for spotting, describing, and analysing the relationship between narrative and power. I think that this is one of the central duties of the scholar, at least in the social sciences and humanities, so this confronts me with a difficult choice. Never mind the psychological consequences of being a consistent post-modernist; I want to talk about how to be post-modern while still doing some kind of positive philosophical and civic duty.

The answer, I think, comes from backing off from the deconstructionist project—perhaps in the manner the linked article hints at. I don’t mean to say that post-modern approaches should be ditched, or that deconstruction is useless. But a charitable, deeper reading of the article suggests that the real problem here is methods-driven research. Yes, that’s right: the same malaise that afflicts boring positivist social science afflicts nihilistic literary critique, whereby research is driven by the desire to impressively apply method to the world, rather than to seek ‘polity relevance’. Instead, our goals should be to confront public problems and supply public resources for more ethically self-aware and motivated action. We should start with some sense of why we’re doing something, and have some sense of how our enquiry will provide solutions.
In other words, our goal should be to find ways of empowering people.
Of course, this may require some significant philosophical revision, since as it stands now I’m not sure this is possible for those who want to take post-modern premises through to their epistemic conclusions.
Maybe I’ll try tackling that monster of a problem some time.

Terrorism definitions and pedagogy

Bit of an aside on definitions of terrorism:

Definitions of terrorism are really frustrating because there are so many of them. Talking about them seems to many scholars of terrorism to be like an endless trap that is pointless to get caught in, and will retard any prospects of real research. Or a hopeless bog of politics that will suck at your soul like an actual bog sucks at your feet with every step.

But pedagogically, talking definitions is one of the most important and valuable gateways into introducing students to major issues in studying terrorism, and this comes from the broader benefits of reflecting on how and why we define stuff.

First, it helps us locate and excavate implicit normative assumptions. In terrorism, this is usually most visible in the condition of ‘targets civilians’ that students typically add. In this case, the category of ‘civilian’ is not so much a legal term but a moral and cultural one, and thus we can look at how it is contended and constructed. It also focuses our attention on the ways in which terrorism-using movements and persons construct ‘the other’ to be threatening and combatant-like. The apotheosis of this can be seen in something like Shaykh Yusuf Qaradawi‘s ruling that Israeli foetuses are targets because they will eventually grow up to join the IDF. On the other end of the Israel-Palestine terrorism discourse, attacks targeting IDF soldiers typically are called terrorism and have effects that look like terrorism. Largely because soldiers are typically young conscripts and have a sort of social position as ‘everyone’s child/younger-sibling’, and thus occupy a curious valence position of power and vulnerability.

Second, it helps us draw out answers, again often implicit, to the ‘why theorise?’ question. This is always a question that should be at the forefront of our minds when we research anything, but for the study of terrorism, some major divides show up. Many definitions of terrorism are developed specifically to assist law enforcement agencies or other government institutions in counter-terrorism duties, and thus definitional criteria such as ‘unlawfulness’ or ‘non-combatant targets’ or ‘non-state perpetrator’ are there for legal and bureaucratic reasons. This is because the definition is not, in the end, aimed at a scholarly understanding of the social world, but a policymaker’s understanding. Conversely, the definition I prefer in most cases–‘the dramatic use of insurgent violence in order to influence the political behaviour of an audience’–is designed to give maximum analytical leverage on as many different historical manifestations of terrorism as possible. But as a result, it’s quite general, and doesn’t offer much help in orienting policy or ethical evaluation. It’s good for an historical and sociological study only.

My view as someone who researches and teaches on terrorism-related topics is that the two most important things I can bring to a conversation are ethical and analytical self-awareness, more so than any specific empirical insights on how (counter-)terrorism works in a causal sense or in a given case. In this sense, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the frustrating definitional debate is also the best asset at hand for doing my social duty as a scholar on this.

Anyway, merely an aside.

Polity Relevance and Political Science

Forget ‘policy relevance’. As other sharp scholars have observed, evaluating our work according to whether it contributes to the agenda of policymakers is to use a vacuous and morally concerning measure. Are we so desperate to be advisers to the prince that we’re ready to turn ourselves into the social version of civil engineers? If so, we’re doing ourselves a great professional disservice as well, since down this road lies narrower funding opportunities and the increasing delegitimisation of speculative research that cannot immediately be tortured into spilling out policy recommendations.

In fact, I might go so far as to take a leaf from Kieran Healy’s book: fuck policy relevance.

Let’s all come out for polity relevance.

What does that mean? Well, first, it means staying true to our vocation—to the ethical commitments of being a scholar, of sitting in a position of considerable social privilege and prestige, and of dedicating ourselves to the production of scientific knowledge. As social scientists, we are obliged to produce public facts. We offer up evidence and analysis with a validity beyond partisan commitments, designed to make people into better citizens. Into more thoughtful, self-aware, informed, and empowered members of our community. This is why we teach and this is why we have a right to things like tenure, without which it is basically not possible to perform our important duty to society.

Polity relevance means that we orient our work around the needs of the political community as a whole. Part of this is, without a doubt, helping the government govern better. Government is one of the needs of the political community. But it isn’t the only need, and more significant still, government is an embedded need. Government is part of governance, by which I mean the way power and values interact in practice to organise and regulate the institutions of society. The implication being, of course, ‘polity relevant’ scholarship is attainable for all social scientists, because governance as a theme suffuses our domain of study.

There’s little point in listing examples of polity relevant scholarship. Anything people care about could qualify, by definition. But I can propose a few features or virtues that can increase polity relevance.  Polity relevant work should be accessible to the public in some shape. This doesn’t mean everything has to be written for a non-academic audience, but some people in a scholarly conversation should be writing plain-language and open-source reviews covering what scholars are saying and why they’re saying it. Polity relevant work should be critical, in that it should attend to the limits or weaknesses of popular narratives, and provide the facts needed to challenge, reflect upon, and reorganise the status quo. Polity relevant work should be ambitious, produced not in search of incremental epistemic progress but in search of creative perspectives on pressing problems.

Of course, I’m not saying anything new. Much of this is old hat to anyone talking about reflexivity. Plenty of scholars calling for a practical orientation in social science or analytical eclecticism have said similar things. Really, policy relevance, narrowly conceived, is trope that survives despite all the kicking it receives. It’s a horse we failed to slay, and yet remains resilient despite the beatings.

If all I can contribute is a pithy trope of my own, then so be it. Next time you present your interesting, socially engaged work at a conference and someone in the audience questions its ‘policy relevance’, respond with ‘sorry, but aren’t you mispronouncing “polity“?’

Making Sense—and Nonsense—of ‘Religious Terrorism’

It’s been ages since I’ve posted here, and I am going to try to go back to writing posts with a bit higher frequency. But, since I am also inundated with stuff today, I’m going to totally cop-out by cross-posting something I wrote months ago but forgot to put here as well. A while back, I posted this to the generally excellent collaborative blog attached the the Bulletin for the Study of Religion.


Making Sense—and Nonsense—of ‘Religious Terrorism’

by Simon Frankel Pratt

One does not have to engage all that deeply with popular and academic conversations on terrorism before religion shows up. These days, and especially in the media, such conversations mainly consider one religion in particular, but this hasn’t always been so. A few decades ago, before Islamist militancy became such a preoccupation—of commentators and of militants—the sectarian dimensions of the conflict in Northern Ireland might have been held up as a case study in ‘religious terrorism’. Several more decades before that, Jewish nationalist violence in Mandatory Palestine may have served. But for all the attention that it has received, the relationship between religion and terrorism is often stated in the most confused of ways. It bears clarifying, and that it what I hope to do here.

One of the more problematic attempts to study that relationship is also quite oft-cited and well-known. Mark Juergensmeyer’s book Terror in the Mind of God [1] investigates the supposed phenomenon of ‘religious terrorism’, defined as ‘public acts of violence …for which religion has provided the motivation, the justification, the organization, and the world view’ (7). Surveying a range of terrorist acts, groups, persons, and causes, in admirable empirical detail, Juergensmeyer comes to a strange conclusion: ‘In examining recent acts of religious terrorism…I have come to see these acts as forms of public performance rather than aspects of political strategy’ (xi). Yet this statement makes little sense for two reasons, one conceptual and the other empirical.

To propose this dichotomy between symbolic, performative action on the one hand and strategic action on the other is to misunderstand what terrorism is all about. To define it in the most general of senses, terrorism is the dramatic use of violence in order to influence the political behaviour of an audience. Terrorism is all about performances and symbolism; the individual people killed or maimed by terrorists are targeted in order to produce a reaction in onlookers, who are moved—to fear, to hate, or even to inspiration—by the display. If an act of violence is not a public performance, then it is not an act of terrorism.

Moreover, most cases of ‘religious terrorism’ Juergensmeyer examines show, as a matter of well-established record, a clear strategic character. The IRA is the subject of countless strategic analyses while Hamas’s pragmatic orientation has been the subject of both journalistic and academic commentary, to mention two such examples. [2] In fact, both such groups are also, for all their religious convictions (which, in the case of the IRA, were never that strong), mainly interested in national liberation. That religious divides track with—or are constructed into—salient political ones is an important feature of these cases, but doesn’t imply that primacy of the former over the latter. In other words, the groups or persons that we might treat as exemplars of ‘religious terrorism’ are no less strategic than their secular counter-parts, and their actions are no more symbolic.

Where does this leave us? One option is to simply dissolve the problem. This is the approach taken by William Cavanaugh in The Myth of Religious Violence. [3] Cavanaugh offers a critique of Juergensmeyer somewhat similar to my own, but goes so far as to suggest that the problem with the category ‘religious terrorism’ in fact lies in the very notion of religion itself. Cavanaugh, building off of Wilfred Cantwell Smith, denies that religion even exists outside of the peculiar Western context in which distinct religious and secular institutional spheres emerged. Cavanaugh (and Smith) offer a strong case in defence of this view, but what if we still want to keep ‘religion’ as a category that transcends ‘the West’ and its historical configurations?

It is a simple fact that our discourses around terrorism make reference to religious dimensions. Rather than rubbish them wholesale, I prefer to draw upon sociological theories of religion and culture to try to come up with a useful approach. There are two questions I want to address here: does ‘religious terrorism’ really exist, and if not, what really is the relationship between these two things? I think answering them will provide some clarity.

In answer to the first, ‘religious terrorism’ probably does not exist, at least not as something distinct from ‘secular terrorism’. As I mentioned, explicitly religious organisations such as Hamas make use of terrorism in the pursuit of secular or at least ‘worldly’ ends. Even al-Qa’ida uses terrorism for these prosaic reasons, seeking the withdrawal of Western powers from Muslim communities and the overthrow of inadequately pious native leaders. Nor is it clear to me that Marxist-Leninist terrorists such as the Red Army Faction were any less ‘religious’ than al-Qa’ida is: both are doctrinaire organisations seeking widespread, permanent social transformation through the use of symbolic violence. Both are guided by constellations of ‘uniquely motivating’ values and metaphysical assumptions, complete with eschatologies. The fact that some terrorists defer to divine authority and prophesy, as opposed to, say, what they take to be the scientifically demonstrable laws of history, does not mean that the former engage in different form of terrorism than the latter.

But, as I have said, I still think it worthwhile to pay attention to ‘religion’ in some cases. Again, as a fact of discourse, we refer to as ‘religious’ some terrorism-using organisations on the basis of their explicit and clearly important engagement with certain theological traditions. Arguments presented in terms of scripture may play a role in ‘de-radicalisation’, while disagreements within groups may hinge over interpretations of texts or the authority of certain persons to offer such interpretation. Temples and their associated schools, as concrete institutional spaces, may be sites for recruitment, radicalisation, or contention of views that orient terrorist violence or legitimise its use. Theological discourses privilege certain kinds of claims over others; to invoke Gadamer, they have a horizon of interpretive possibility, and this will shape the outcome of contention and socialisation processes occurring in and through certain institutional fields. In other words, the sorts of things we tend to call ‘religious’, ordinarily, are much more important for understanding some terrorist groups than others. Religious terrorism may not exist as such, but the category of ‘religion’ remains a helpful one for studying terrorism in context.

This leaves us with a clearer way to look at the relationship between religion and terrorism. On the one hand, we cannot distinguish some particular variety of terrorism as distinctly ‘religious’. On the other hand, we can recognise that religious dimensions, as sets of texts, discourses, and social spaces, are implicated in some cases of terrorism more than in others. Terrorism, as a political strategy, requires recruits, resources, a guiding ideology, a message, and a place where all these things can come together. Once upon a time, we might have looked at the fringes of leftist student movements to see how this might occur; now we look at the Taliban or ISIS.

[1] Juergensmeyer, Mark. 2003. Terror in the Mind of God: The global rise of religious violence. University of California Press.

[2] See, by way of respective examples, Neumann, Peter. 2005. “The Bullet and the Ballot Box: The Case of the IRA.” Journal of Strategic Studies 28(6): 941–975; Mishal, Shaul and Avraham Sela. 2006. The Palestinian Hamas: Vision, Violence and Coexistence. New York: Columbia University Press.

[3] Cavanaugh, William T. 2009. The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular ideology and the roots of modern conflict. Oxford University Press.

Terrorism is not a tactic, and insurgency is not a strategy.

Let me first explain what I mean by these terms. ‘Tactics’ are situationally embedded forms of instrumental action. To put it more simply, a tactic is a manoeuvre. It is performed in space and in time, involving interactions between actors and their environments (including such things as ‘enemy actors’). ‘Hit and run’, ‘flanking’, ‘sweep the leg’, ‘aim for the heart’, ‘retreat when the enemy is strong’—these are all tactics, because they refer to specific movements that one can engage in.

Strategy, on the other hand, refers to forms of action disembedded from spatial, temporal, or otherwise situational structures of interaction. To put it more simply, a strategy is a kind of interaction that can take many concrete forms, depending on where and when it is employed. ‘Propagandising’, ‘provoking’, ‘deceiving’, ‘outbidding’—these are all strategies, because they are (to quote a famous definition), ways of taking the material means available to us and using them to achieve a given end.

The above definitions of tactics and strategy may be my own, in that I am phrasing them in ways that dovetail well with how I view society, how I view action, and other such Big Matters of Social Ontology. They are not, however, idiosyncratic, and look a lot like the definitions used by other strategic theorists or scholars of war and conflict.

It is pretty easy to see how terrorism is not a tactic, based on the above definition. As has been well demonstrated [1], what we might call ‘terrorism’ can be used in the service of a wide-ranging number of overarching strategies, but itself tends to follow a certain framework [2]: the use of violence before an audience to alienate people from their familiar sources of security, provoke from them a response (be it submission, retaliation, or something else), and gather legitimacy for a particular agenda based on that response. This does not describe any particular set of manoeuvres. You can do this by bombing a restaurant, shooting up a train-station, hijacking an aircraft, or even just threatening to break someone’s legs. The possibilities are endless! What it does describe is a form of interaction whereby concrete resources or behaviours can be used to achieve certain ends. In other words, it describes strategy.

Insurgency is much harder to define. There are some good candidates out there. The UK’s field manual on countering insurgency defines it as follows: ‘An organised, violent subversion used to effect or prevent political control, as a challenge to established authority…[using] a mixture of subversion, propaganda, terrorism and armed force to achieve their objectives[.]’ The US’s own manual, FM 3-24 defines it similarly as ‘[An] organized, protracted politico-military struggle designed to weaken the control and legitimacy of an established government, occupying power, or other political authority while increasing insurgent control’. The CIA’s Guide to the Analysis of Insurgency defines it as an attempt ‘[to control] the resources of a country through the use of irregular military forces and illegal political organizations… to weaken government control and legitimacy while increasing insurgent control and legitimacy [and] to control a particular area.’ These definition help give us a sense of what we’re talking about (and countering), but they also show a certain confusion.

The confusion in these definitions is that they seem to switch between describing a specific constellation of strategies (‘subversion, propaganda, terrorism…’) and describing a mode of warfare (‘organised, violent subversion [of an] established authority’). This may require some elaboration. Insurgencies are civil wars, involving an internal, rebellious challenge to an ‘established authority’—usually a state—in an attempt to topple and replace it with something else, or at least alter its form significantly. Defined thusly, the term does not refer to a strategy, but simply to a state of affairs, to an episode of conflict between a government and a challenger. Insurgencies can form around revolutionary aspirations (‘change everything!’) or nationalist ones (‘give us autonomy’), because war itself can be waged for all sorts of ends. Yet the definitions I just quoted go on to identify specific strategies with insurgency, which I think is a mistake.

It is true that insurgencies all seem to involve some similar strategies of subversion. But this does not make insurgency a strategy itself. Rather, it tells us something about the context to most insurgency: namely, that they are struggles against the modern state. The modern state rests upon a set of social conditions that should be familiar to anyone who’s taken a political science course or three: claims to a monopoly over the legitimate use of violence, effective governance, and the general willingness of bureaucrats to keep performing their institutional duties. If you wanted to subvert the state, what strategies would you employ? Hopefully, the answer should be fairly evident: undermine the state’s claimed monopology on legitimate violence, inhibit the state’s ability to govern, and dissuade (through coercion, propagandising, or baser forms of enticement) its functionaries from doing their jobs.

Yet this need not always be the case. An insurgency against something other than a state may involve different strategies, because the bases of other kinds of authority may differ from those of the state. Moreover, a simple survey of the history of insurgency against states itself shows an enormous variety of strategies. On the one hand, we have Mao, whose first major act upon arriving in the mountains of the Jinggangshan, at the head of a ragtag band of revolutionaries, was to declare a new Soviet state based out of five local villages. For Mao, insurgency involves the long-term, labour intensive construction of a counter-state within the territory of the enemy, to be used as a base for building mass support and establishing the kind of population that is ideologically and institutionally ready to accept a new regime. For Mao, insurgency ends in a final ‘conventional’ phase in which armies mass and take all major cities. On the other hand, we have someone like Carlos Marighella, whose ‘urban guerrilla warfare’ involves no attempt to build a base, no massing of armies, and is mainly devoted to provoking the state into hamfistedly alienating its own constituents through excessive counter-terrorism. Or, say, Che Guevara’s Foco theory, according to which all the revolution needs is some inspiring acts of violence to serve as focal points for popular uprising—a similar idea to the notion of ‘Propaganda of the Deed’, which underlay 19th century anarchist terrorism.

So what explains these confusions, these mistaken identifications of terrorism with tactics and insurgency with strategy? In both cases, the problem is the reification or naturalisation of certain historical moments. Well, in the case of the former, the problem may just be a poor understanding of terrorism and its history, without any need to throw in big theoretical concepts. But, especially in the latter, the problem arises when we look at the particular way a kind of situation plays out and say, ‘that’s the only way it could be’. It’s as if we defined ‘war’ as ‘a conflict between uniformed, formally constituted military forces’—surely the problems with that should be apparent? I’m not going to complain about this kind of thing when it shows up in military field manuals, since these are pieces of practical instruction designed to facilitate military success. But if we’re seeking to understand insurgency and terrorism more broadly, without merely seeking to counter them, we should show a bit more conceptual clarity and sophistication.

[1] Kydd, Andrew H., and Barbara F. Walter. 2006. “The Strategies of Terrorism.” International Security 31 (1): 49–79.

[2] Neumann, Peter, and M. L. R. Smith (2005). “Strategic Terrorism: The Framework and Its Fallacies.” Journal of Strategic Studies 28 (4): 571–595.

A new Zionism?

I was obliged to write an essay on a major threat facing Israel, for an application to a well-funded workshop that I ultimately was not accepted for. In it I argue that a major threat facing Israel, perhaps the biggest threat, has to do with the ideological underpinnings of the state as a political community. That is, the threat relates to Zionism and its problems. I also outline what a new Zionism should look like, and how it deals with that threat.

Since it is no longer under any kind of evaluation, I post it here in case it catches anyone’s interest.

One significant challenge to Israeli security and identity: the changing meaning, and practice, of Zionism.


Zionism faces a crisis. While the long-standing conflict between left-wing and right-wing Zionisms needs little introduction, its dimensions have transformed. The State is built. The Jews will not be pushed into the sea by invading Arab armies. Even the threat of Iranian nuclear weapons seems to be diminishing. Israel is at the forefront of technological and scientific innovation. Israelis are still at risk, of course: qassams and katyushas may fall, fired from Gaza or Lebanon, and Palestinian terrorism may compromise the safety of residents. But Israel now probably faces only one existential security threat.

That threat is not of physical destruction but of a loss of self—a threat to what the sociologist Anthony Giddens referred to as ‘ontological security’. If Zionism becomes completely associated with racism, apartheid, and occupation, in the minds of the world and in the eyes of liberal Jews inside Israel and outside it, then the State I earlier expressed a desire to protect will have ceased to exist. A state is not just a set of institutions, but a community with a shared will and destiny. The community of Israel marches towards a precipice, as ‘BDS’ gathers steam on North American university campuses and as many young Israelis figure out ways to acquire Western passports.

The problem may be stated thus: how can Israel survive the occupation of Palestinian lands without ceasing to be a state worthy of Zionist aspirations? The short answer is that it cannot. As the pithy adage goes, Israel can only be two of the following three things: a Jewish state, a democratic state, and a state that includes the West Bank. But while I hope for a two-state solution, I can offer no novel plan to arrive at that halcyon outcome. Before that happens, before the diplomats can work their magic and the ‘spoilers’ can be marginalised, Zionism needs to change.

The ‘New Zionism’ must evolve along three dimensions. First, it must embrace a more inclusive understanding of citizenship, of what it means to be a part of the political community, with a stake in its future and a voice in its present. Young Diaspora Jews need to be citizens, and engage not only in Hasbara but in shaping Israel as Israelis do. Moreover, Palestinians must be citizens too; they are not to be a ‘partner for peace’ in the sense of an allied community, but part of Israel and the Zionist ideal—‘ehad mishelanu’. This may take the form of separate Jewish and Palestinian states, but we must accept our shared destiny. As such, important Zionist conversations must involve more than just Israeli citizens and the odd Diaspora intellectual.

Second, it must be pragmatic. Zionism must be flexible, compromising, and reflective. This doesn’t mean giving up on core principles of Jewish self-governance, homeland, and safe haven. But it does mean recognising that not all of what we may want is attainable any time soon, and furthermore that we must bargain with people whom we may not like. Practically speaking, the main implication of this is that pro-settlement Zionism must give up the West Bank. But that is not the only implication. Left-wing Israelis must accept that Israel will not become a secular ‘Western’ space indistinguishable from Amsterdam or Berlin. Diaspora Jews must accept that they have responsibilities as citizens of Israel (in the aforementioned sense). And Jews of all kinds must continue to accept what we have accepted for countless generations: sometimes we have no friends to help us out.

Third, it must be humanistic. By this I mean, simply and forcefully, that we must not abuse the weak, the marginalised, or the defenceless in our Israel. When we are afraid, we must not become bigoted. When we are powerful, we must pay attention to who is affected by our power. When we are divided, we must remind ourselves that we’re all in this together, and this extends to everyone we touch with our actions. And when we are united, we must ask ourselves why.

The New Zionism I propose won’t tell us the best way to fight terrorism—though it may push us towards more discriminating uses of force like targeted killing. Nor will it say whether Israel should draft the Haredim or, perhaps, abolish the draft altogether. It’s not an ideology; it may not even be a form of nationalism anymore. But it will help us survive as a critical-thinking, robust, and ethical community of Jews and Israelis, regardless of what the world throws at us.

Reza Aslan’s theory of religion and politics

As talking heads in the media once again make problematic, ultra-general claims about Islam’s supposed essential bellicosity, or attribute to Islamic texts and practice the power to make adherents violent, we might be tempted to respond with Reza Aslan’s counter-arguments. Aslan is a willing pundit, unafraid and unreserved in responding to vacuous, literalist, and historically ignorant readings of Islam or claims about Muslims. There are few others willing to play this role, and it is an important one, given how much bigoted bullshit on the subject shows up from various commentators, ranging from Fox News commentators to ‘New Atheist’ authors such as Sam Harris.

I wish, though, that it wasn’t Aslan performing this role. I am not the only one to take issue with Aslan, and I suggest reading the views of actual scholars of religion on his views and work, as I am not a specialist in this area.

One reason for this is my concern for Aslan’s apparent credential inflation. Aslan routinely identifies as as scholar of religion, despite his academic post being in creative writing and not having, from what I have been able to ascertain, a single refereed publication. Indeed, he has from what I can tell only one scholarly publication, in a non-refereed journal that does not accept unsolicited submissions (ie it’s highly unusual and not part of mainstream academic conversations). While he has written numerous books on subjects ranging from the historical Christ to political Islam, all of these books are in popular presses, rather than academic ones. Aslan’s PhD is in sociology, and his dissertation research was apparently on the study of Islamist social movements, which does much to explain his perspective but which does not necessarily situate him in the sociology or anthropology of religion.

I have great respect for those who manage to do a doctorate in sociology, but if they do not publish in scholarly journals or present at scholarly conferences, then they are not scholars. They have retreated from scholarly conversations and from the academic spaces in which scholarly research is produced and discussed. Though I respect the role of informed and educated popular authors writing books on relevant subjects, I also have an interest, as an actual scholar (albeit of most junior level), in policing the boundaries of the term, and of keeping it distinct from popular commentaries.

Much more important, though, is my discomfort with Aslan’s substantive views. After all, you don’t have to be a scholar of religion to make valid and helpful points about it. Aslan appears to have taken an approach from social movement theory and inflated it into a general theory of religion in politics. Again, this is unsurprising given his educational background, but it also is methodologically unsound and misrepresents what this approach is actually good for, as exemplified in scholarship on Islamism produced by people like Carrie Wickham or Asef Bayat.

Aslan’s theory of religion and politics is that people ‘bring their values to their religion‘. This is a very succinct and illustrative quote. His approach is to view religion as a language through which political claims can be articulated, and a concrete institutional space (places of worship, community centres, schools, etc) where social movements can organise. This is fine for examining particular facets of social movement activism during periods of contentious politics, and should be a vital part of any discussion of Islamism.

It must not, however, be the end of the story when we talk about radicalisation and the role of specific religious narratives in fueling violence. The other side of the coin here is that religions are potent sources of value-generation (cf. William James) and socialisation in society. Religious spaces are where people learn their values, and theological traditions determine the boundaries or horizons of intellectual and interpretive possibility. By taking political claims-making into the realm of particular knowledge-traditions, you privilege some views over others.

In other words, we cannot treat religion as some kind of cultural epiphenomenon, reflecting non-theological cultural processes that determine the form and expression of values and beliefs. Theology is part of those processes. It is not the only part, and those processes are dynamic and complex, showing the bankruptcy of most literalist readings of religious texts or of simplistic, unidirectional causal arguments that go from textual interpretation to cultural practice. But Aslan does not seem interested in discussing that complexity, and prefers to offer a simplistic causal theory of his own, in just the opposite direction. This may be a tonic for one kind of anti-Muslim bigotry, but it does not help anyone understand Islamism better.

In addition to advancing a view of religion and politics that no sociologist or anthropologist of religion would find remotely adequate,* Aslan also seems to misrepresent the social and cultural conditions of Muslim majority countries. In this widely shared clip of him engaging with Bill Maher—whose views I find even less palatable than Aslan’s, by a long shot—Aslan suggests that countries such as Indonesia, which have de jure equality between men and women, may be held up as examples of actual gender equality in Islam. He also states that female genital mutilation is a ‘Central African problem’, which is empirically false (as discussed in this previously shared link). Either Aslan is knowingly playing fast and loose with the facts, or he just doesn’t know the facts.

With all due respect to the rarity with which scholars are willing to do what Aslan does, and the man’s many well-reviewed popular books, I see him as a charlatan, at least when it comes to his self-presentation in his media commentaries. He claims the mantle of scholarship without producing scholarship, and claims to be a scholar of religions while advancing theoretically problematic views not held by sociologists of religion (despite his background being in sociology). His defence to (possibly bigoted) attacks upon Muslims is to respond with false or dissembling claims, and while I am sympathetic to the epistemic limits of sound-bite territory, he doesn’t offer follow-up clarifications either.

There are a few other commentators on Islamism whom I would suggest going to instead of Aslan, too. Maajid Nawaz is one good example, and Shiraz Maher is another (though Nawaz has a more prominent media presence).

*Based on my admittedly limited knowledge, confined to a few books and articles in these fields and a habit of attending their conference panels when I have spare moments, as I find they are home to some innovative and sophisticated social theorising.

Remembrance Day: Reflection, Not Militarism

I wrote an op-ed with my friend Rob Tarzwell, a veteran of the Canadian Forces and currently a professor (and practitioner) of psychiatric and nuclear medicine at the University of British Columbia. We couldn’t get it placed anywhere in time for this year’s Remembrance Day, so I am carrying it here for now.


Remembrance Day and its main symbol, the poppy, sometimes get a bad rap. Critics, sensitive to how its imagery and ritual can be used to glorify war, reject both. However, in their discomfort with our government’s militaristic turn over the past few years, these critics miss something crucial. Whether or not one thinks war is justified, we enrich public discourse on foreign policy and the ethics of armed conflict by recognising and respecting veterans, and others affected by war, on November 11th.

Generations of Canadians have been to war, as members of our military and as civilians, often immigrants, caught up in hostilities. By honouring them, living or dead, we can also make space for thinking critically about foreign policy. As we stand to attention this November 11th , Canadians fight in Iraq, stand ready in eastern Europe, and maintain peace with the UN around the world, dispatched by our country to be ready to kill and, perhaps, to die. We need an honest national conversation about our military operations, but we should also show respect for those who serve. And as a matter of fact, these two things well complement each-other.

Listen to what soldiers have to say. They are sworn to become instruments of policy, and they willingly do so at great personal cost. Their choice to serve may arise from complex and personal motivations; one shouldn’t assume they know why they put on the uniform and why they fight. As a result of the pressures of this special role, they have often engaged in considerable reflection. Hearing their perspectives and their stories offers a glimpse into a world that thankfully few Canadians have experienced.

Don’t dismiss the imagery and rituals of remembrance, even if one is uncomfortable with how they are sometimes invoked in political rhetoric. One might choose not to attend the cenotaph ceremony or wear a poppy, but one can still appreciate that these are deeply cherished symbols to those who have served, to their families, and to large segments of the public.

Remembrance is for all, regardless of religion or political affiliation, and thus has the power to unify and focus our public conscience on the ethics of war.  One need not join in any national rituals to recognize that for many Canadians, participation is a communal link to all who have served and died, and a meditation on the nature of force, of courage, of wounds, and of sacrifice.

If it is policy we dislike, we should not take our frustrations out on members of the military, some of whom profoundly dislike the orders they willingly follow (within the boundaries of the law) and who are bound, while in uniform, not to comment on matters of national concern.  Voluntary surrender of the right to protest is absolutely central to the military ethos of liberal democracy, and we are wise to reflect on how difficult that is, even if for the greater good.

As Canada marches forward in a complex world of shifting threats, new allies, and old fears, Canadians should not forget to have a critical conversation about the military, about militarism, and about where and when we deploy lethal violence. We have a moral commitment to humanitarianism and to democracy, but it is often unclear how we should best honour these values. And although sometimes war is necessary, countries (and politicians) frequently have been too quick to resort to the ‘war’ option.

War carries costs. By keeping a tradition of remembrance, we bear those costs with maturity and compassion. By recognising veterans on November 11th, we learn from our past and orient ourselves towards a more thoughtful future.

For this reason, we wear our poppies and place wreathes at the cenotaph