The events that led to Donald Trump’s election started in
England in 1975.
At a meeting a few months after Margaret Thatcher became
leader of the Conservative party, one of her colleagues, or so the story goes,
was explaining what he saw as the core beliefs of conservatism.
She snapped
open her handbag, pulled out a dog-eared book, and
slammed it on the table.
“This is what we believe,” she said.
A political revolution that would sweep
the world had begun.
The market would discover a natural hierarchy of winners and
losers, creating a more efficient system than could ever be devised through
planning or by design.
Anything that impeded this process, such as significant
tax, regulation, trade union activity or state provision, was
counter-productive.
Unrestricted entrepreneurs would create the wealth that
would trickle down to everyone.
This, at
any rate, is how it was originally conceived.
But by the time Hayek came to
write The Constitution of Liberty, the network of lobbyists and thinkers he had
founded was being lavishly funded by multimillionaires who saw the doctrine as
a means of defending themselves against democracy.
Not every aspect of the
neoliberal programme advanced their interests. Hayek, it seems, set out to
close the gap.
He begins the book by advancing the narrowest possible
conception of liberty: an absence of coercion.
He rejects such notions as
political freedom, universal rights, human equality and the distribution of
wealth, all of which, by restricting the behaviour of the wealthy and powerful,
intrude on the absolute freedom from coercion he demands.
Democracy, by contrast, “is not an ultimate or absolute value”.
In fact, liberty depends on preventing the majority from exercising choice over
the direction that politics and society might take.
He justifies this position by creating a heroic narrative of
extreme wealth.
He conflates the economic elite, spending their money in new
ways, with philosophical and scientific pioneers.
Just as the political
philosopher should be free to think the unthinkable, so the very rich should be
free to do the undoable, without constraint by public interest or public
opinion.
The ultra rich are “scouts”, “experimenting with new styles of
living”, who blaze the trails that the rest of society will follow.
The
progress of society depends on the liberty of these “independents” to gain as
much money as they want and spend it how they wish.
All that is good and
useful, therefore, arises from inequality.
There should be no connection
between merit and reward, no distinction made between earned and unearned
income, and no limit to the rents they can charge.
Inherited wealth is more socially useful than earned wealth:
“the idle rich”, who don’t have to work for their money, can devote themselves
to influencing “fields of thought and opinion, of tastes and beliefs”.
Even
when they seem to be spending money on nothing but “aimless display”, they are
in fact acting as society’s vanguard.
Hayek softened his opposition to
monopolies and hardened his opposition to trade unions.
He lambasted
progressive taxation and attempts by the state to raise the general welfare of
citizens.
He insisted that there is “an overwhelming case against a free health
service for all” and dismissed the conservation of natural resources.
By the time Thatcher slammed his
book on the table, a lively network of thinktanks, lobbyists and academics
promoting Hayek’s doctrines had been established on both sides of the Atlantic,
abundantly financed by some of the world’s richest people and businesses, including DuPont, General Electric, the Coors brewing company, Charles Koch,
Richard Mellon Scaife, Lawrence Fertig, the William Volker Fund and the Earhart
Foundation.
Using psychology and linguistics to brilliant effect, the thinkers
these people sponsored found the words and arguments required to turn Hayek’s
anthem to the elite into a plausible political programme.
Thatcherism and Reaganism were not ideologies in their own
right: they were just two faces of neoliberalism.
Their massive tax cuts for
the rich, crushing of trade unions, reduction in public housing, deregulation,
privatisation, outsourcing and competition in public services were all proposed
by Hayek and his disciples.
But the real triumph of this network was not its
capture of the right, but its colonisation of parties that once stood for
everything Hayek detested.
Bill Clinton and Tony Blair did
not possess a narrative of their own. Rather than develop a new political
story, they thought it was sufficient to
triangulate.
In other words, they extracted a few elements of what their parties had once
believed, mixed them with elements of what their opponents believed, and
developed from this unlikely combination a “third way”.
It was inevitable that the
blazing, insurrectionary confidence of neoliberalism would exert a stronger
gravitational pull than the dying star of social democracy.
Hayek’s triumph
could be witnessed everywhere from Blair’s expansion of the private finance
initiative to
Clinton’s repeal of the
Glass-Steagal Act, which had regulated the financial sector.
For all
his grace and touch, Barack Obama, who didn’t possess a narrative either
(except “hope”), was slowly reeled in by those who owned the means of
persuasion.
As I
warned in April, the result is first
disempowerment then disenfranchisement.
If the dominant ideology stops
governments from changing social outcomes, they can no longer respond to the
needs of the electorate.
Politics becomes irrelevant to people’s lives; debate
is reduced to the jabber of a remote elite.
The disenfranchised turn instead to
a virulent anti-politics in which facts and arguments are replaced by slogans,
symbols and sensation.
The man who sank Hillary Clinton’s bid for the
presidency was not Donald Trump. It was her husband.
The paradoxical result is that the
backlash against neoliberalism’s crushing of political choice has elevated just
the kind of man that Hayek worshipped.
Trump, who has no coherent politics, is
not a classic neoliberal.
But he is the perfect representation of Hayek’s
“independent”; the beneficiary of inherited wealth, unconstrained by common
morality, whose gross predilections strike a new path that others may follow.
The neoliberal thinktankers are now swarming round this hollow man, this empty
vessel waiting to be filled by those who know what they want.
The likely result
is the demolition of our remaining decencies,
beginning with the
agreement to limit global warming.
Those who tell the stories run the world. Politics has failed
through a lack of competing narratives.
The key task now is to tell a new story
of what it is to be a human in the 21st century.
It must be as appealing to
some who have voted for Trump and Ukip as it is to the supporters of Clinton,
Bernie Sanders or Jeremy Corbyn.
A few of us have been working on this, and can discern what may
be the beginning of a story.
It’s too early to say much yet, but at its core is
the recognition that – as modern psychology and neuroscience make abundantly
clear – human beings, by comparison with any other animals, are both
remarkably social and
remarkably unselfish.
The atomisation and
self-interested behaviour neoliberalism promotes run counter to much of what
comprises human nature.
Hayek told us who we are, and he was wrong.
Our first step is to
reclaim our humanity.