How the World Works by Noam Chomsky

  There are few political thinkers that have been as prolific and formative as Noam Chomsky. Whether it’s through Manufacturing Consent or audio recordings of his voice thrown into the beginning or end of punk songs, it seemed his influence throughout the 90s and early 2000s was inescapable, and for good reason.

Somewhat surprisingly, though, I have actually read very little of Chomsky’s work. The odd book or anthology here and there, and so forth. When I read his work on media production and analysis, I had the proverbial moment of scales falling from my eyes. I also find that he is consistently worldly, aware of all kinds of social movements around the globe, which is perhaps one of the factors that drew me towards reading his book How the World Works. 

How the World Works is a collection of interviews with David Barsamian and edited for focus and clarity by Arthur Naiman. The interviews discuss U.S. foreign policy and how it has operated in particular areas, like NIcaragua, Guatemala, Panama, Southeast Asia, and beyond. There is also discussion of class confrontations within the U.S. itself, particularly with respect to the drug war, the health care system, and exploitation of workers by corporations. That exploitation then takes a global focus, considering how the global economy and free trade in particular has impacted the “Third-World.” There are also various sections of miscellany in which Chomsky offers some more general ideas about things like postmodernism and popular resistance.

In short, the book covers a lot of ground, if shortly. One of the issues of having a selection of interviews is that they are decontextualized from their original source. This volume was published in 2011 and it relies on interviews from even earlier; not that things have changed that much, but the nature of a discussion is that it is ephemeral. As a result, the book does not and cannot offer the most up-to-date discourse on issues like, for instance, the current state of affairs in the Middle East. The other issue is that the conversations often seem to come up short; Chomsky will make an interesting statement and then the section simply ends. If anything, the book has shown me how much more enriching it is for me, personally, when books follow a cohesive structure and really delve into one topic. Chomsky certainly does that elsewhere but the compilation format of text here takes away from the incisiveness of his thought. Also, if somewhat ironically, the observations here offered are not exactly revolutionary. Perhaps at the time Chomsky’s dissidence was unique, but now many of his observations are commonplace—it’s the curse of being a trailblazer, I suppose, that the Left has popularized the ideas to a point where they are no longer, in my eyes, controversial.

That’s not to say he doesn’t offer some excellent commentary rooted in helpful historical frameworks. Something I really appreciate about Chomsky is that he is so informed about popular movements around the world that he never comes across as being a partisan hack. Even on some topics we take for granted—like NAFTA, say—he offers a balanced view that remains critical of corporate power while subverting what we in the general populace have accepted and been sold by corporate-owned media. 

Just a brief tangent here: in one section, Chomsky discusses how in one of his books he was challenged as being a pedant because of his use of footnotes and he pointed to the double-edged sword. If you don’t use footnotes, the right will accuse you of making things up. If you use footnotes and document all of your research, you’re seen as a pedant. Go figure.

Incidentally, one of the things he discusses is that the language of politics is deliberately obscure in order to make it impossible for the masses to talk about them coherently. In turn, we cannot understand what is happening in the world and therefore cannot take action. One example he provides is the discussion of what “socialism” means and the confusion that is strewn about it. He then targets the term “special interest” in common parlance. Chomsky notes that the Republicans in the U.S. have often accused Democrats of being the party of “special interests,” by which they meant “women, labor, the elderly, the young, farmers — in short, the general population.” Chomsky then suggests that there was one area of the population that was never listed as a special interest: corporations and business. It’s funny how political motivations can be masked so easily.

Chomsky takes that discussion further and notes that Democrats then suggested they were not the party of special interests and that they served the national interest, too. What I found particularly surprising is how Chomsky then suggests that the Democrats lack the “single-minded class consciousness of their Republican opponents.” He discusses how the Republicans are aware of their status as owners and managers in class war against the population, implying that they have adopted (bastardized) Marxist rhetoric and concepts and resorting to “jingoist hysteria, fear, and terror, awe of great leaders, and the other standard devices of population control.” Chomsky says that, by comparison, the Democrats are less clear about their motivations and thus lose in the propaganda war. Of course, we couldn’t possibly look to the contemporary United States to find a readymade example in the recent election—surely!

In pointing to the term “conservative,” Chomsky notes they are “advocates of a powerful state that interferes massively in the economy and in social life. They advocate huge state expenditures and a post-war peak of protectionist measures and insurance against market risk, narrowing individual liberties through legislation and court packing, protecting the holy state from unwarranted inspection by the irrelevant citizenry. In short, those programs that are the precise opposite of traditional conservatism.” They are in allegiance to the people that own the country. Personally, I’m more inclined towards Zadie Smith’s definition of conservatives as arsonists, particularly now. Although I’d perhaps add that they are consistently shadows: conservatives pretend to advocate for minimal spending and “axing the tax” and whatnot while secretly spending more than liberal governments at every turn. They may claim desire for a free market while legislating where trade can happen. They may claim to be the popular and populist party but repeal protections on lawful protest. But I digress,

The point is that Chomsky reveals the complexity of language that aims to bar people from political action. Even the supposedly simple categorizations of right and left are not as easily understood. Actually, one of the most poignant discussions in that regard is the discussion of freedom as a concept. The right often makes the claim that the left wants to take away freedoms (while they themselves are literally taking away freedoms…). Chomsky reframes the discussion of freedom and rights, giving several notable examples. We may opt to limit someone’s freedom to smoke in public—sure, it’s a reduction of freedom—but that’s because it impacts others’ right to life and good health. Red lights limit our freedom to drive as we wish to get to work, but protect the rights of the little girl crossing the street. In reframing the discussion, I think it really places good emphasis on what the Left and the Right are after: protection for the vulnerable vs. unmitigated actions.

Chomsky also gave some compelling stats in that regard; I’d be curious where the data originated at the time of his citing it and then what the data looks like now. About 90%-95% of people polled suggested that corporations had a responsibility to limit profits and redistribute wealth among their workers. I feel like they’ve been winning the PR battle and people now think that it’s some kind of Commie Plot to think that corporations should be paying their workers more—although, given the response to the recent CEO shooter, perhaps I’m mistaken.

Returning to a few of the more controversial points regarding language and politics, I was interested in Chomsky’s brief comments on postmodernism. Postmodernism is often presented as a leftist philosophy (cf. Jordan Peterson—or better yet don’t.) Chomsky criticizes its jargon and its oblique nature as actually inhibiting popular action and suggests that at least some of the critiques postmodernism has to offer are formed in ignorance. Their critique of systems as nonsense is somewhat valuable, but at the same time allows the logical systems to be owned exclusively by those who benefit from them. What good does it do, for instance, to expose the fallacies of the economic system to those who are continually exploited by it? Similarly, Chomsky resists the phrase “speaking truth to power” on very sensible grounds—power already knows the truth. We must speak truth about power to and with the workers and the underclass in order to better challenge it.

Of course, that’s where everything leads: how do we change the world? Chomsky offers an interesting discussion of how that question gets framed along the lines of privilege. For oppressed people, when he gives talks they say, “Here’s what we’re doing. How do we improve?” For privileged people, when he gives talks they say, “What’s the solution?” Chomsky’s answer is always for people to organize and continue to do the relentless work of challenging power. I have to admit my own privilege here, because it seems very hard. Chomsky himself recognizes that the workers are left with no time to organize—that’s by design. He notes how student organization is at an all-time low. Everyone is struggling, thus they have no time or energy to resist. The question for me then becomes, how do we liberate people enough that they can continue their work fighting for social causes? I appreciate that there are organizations already doing the work and you just have to join them, but then I also worry about how only the relatively privileged are able to take action on behalf of those who are even more pressed—but then we run into a vanguard situation. I don’t know how to resolve that contradiction.

I would also posit my own idea here for why people are not taking action like they used to or why privileged people keep asking, “What can be done?” The reality is this: people want to see the needle move. We may take action over and over and over and volunteer every weekend but the gains are not immediate. It’s hard to envision continuing to do the work if you feel there’s no effect, and until we can see that needle move we will continually have people asking “What is the solution?” I don’t think that’s a bad thing, per se. It’s not an ill-intentioned question; in my mind, it’s one of pragmatism: where can we see the most gains?

Chomsky refers to a group in (I believe) Brazil a few times. He talks about how the outside intelligentsia went in and made a series of commercials that didn’t land with the public. Then, they hired local students to do the filmography and write the scripts and that was far more effective with the population there. It’s a revolutionary act to put media back in the hands of the populace so that they can discuss more thoroughly the impacts that global policies have on them, free from the corporate biases that sneak into popular media. Some of Chomsky’s comments there are highly encouraging and I hope that people have the sense to engage with their more local media. (Although, Jon Oliver has a great and depressing piece about how local media in the United States is owned and is distributed stories by corporate masters…) Chomsky also proves prescient with respect to social media. I’d be very curious to read his thoughts on social media today; I suspect it’s just as corporately owned and antidemocratic as our previous systems, though now we have the illusion of public discourse. That may be a bit harsh, but even my particular bubbles that I approve of serve to reinforce my own beliefs and play into the illusion of choice with the content that I’m consuming.

Overall, Chomsky’s commentary is illuminating, if not all that surprising anymore. I’d say on most issues I’m in fundamental agreement and otherwise it’s only a matter of the particulars. I’ll continue to appreciate the influence Chomsky has had on me, my chosen communities, and the world at large. Really, I can’t express how foundational he has been. So, there are two net steps to keep that legacy alive: 1) read more of his non-anthology books and 2) get organizing.

Happy reading; happy resisting!

How To Get Filthy Rich In Rising Asia by Mohsin Hamid

    You will be forgiven if, after you read Mohsin Hamid’s third book, How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia, you find that your bank balance has failed to increase. Masquerading as a self-help book, Hamid’s novel takes place in “rising Asia,” though the specific country is never quite identified. I suspect it’s meant to be Pakistan, India, or Afghanistan. Each chapter begins with some advice, ostensibly, on how to pursue wealth. Smuggled through its pages, though, is a narrative with you at the center.

    The book makes use of the second person throughout, which recalls Hamid’s earlier book, The Reluctant Fundamentalist. I find that one of the most compelling stylistic elements of both texts, and I see a fair deal of nuance in how that use of second person is deployed. In Hamid’s sophomore novel, the use of “you” places the reader in the role of American interlocutor with a potential terrorist; the politics and the reader’s ambiguous affect are fascinating to me and what lingered with me. Here, the use of “you” is less profound, but still interesting in its usage, oscillating between a prescriptive mode and an immersive one. The prescriptive mode tells you how to become rich and the immersive one tells you your life story. Ultimately, the ending of the book has some meditations on what it means for a writer and a reader to be in communion: “I too contain you, who may not yet even be born, you inside me inside you [...] and so may you, may I, may we, so may all of us confront the end” (222). Admittedly, the ending fails to land with the same force of Hamid’s previous novel, but it still felt narratively satisfying.

    To take a step back, the book recounts how you grew up, how you worked as a delivery boy for a film bootlegger, how you met a pretty girl, how your parents passed away, how the pretty girl moved away, how you married someone else, how you started some shady business dealings, how you were under attack, how you lost your business, and how you passed away. Due to the structure of the novel, each chapter reads like a vignette or short story. This allows Hamid to really focus on a few key moments in your life.

    The approach has some advantages and some drawbacks. One advantage is that the book never feels like it overstays its welcome and another is that it allows Hamid to go through a variety of moods to great effect. There are tender moments, hopeful moments, and dark, tense moments that stand out beautifully against the others. The drawbacks are that your characterization is somewhat lacking and that there are some moments that are dropped or underdeveloped.

    I’d like to start with one of the moments that really impressed me. About a fourth of the way through the novel, your mother is diagnosed with cancer. When the doctor calls for someone to explain the diagnosis, you are chosen because you are the most educated family member. So you go in to serve the family. It’s a gut-wrenching scene. Your mother keeps asking about the practical concerns: how much will the treatment cost? (It’s more than your father’s annual salary.) Your mother then asks what will happen without the treatment. (Death.) You watch while your mother considers her options. You have to negotiate what to do: surgery, radiotherapy, hormones, and so on. The staging of the scene with you in the middle evokes so much sympathy for the novel’s central character and then it gets even more powerful: you explain everything to your family. Then, “Your father looks at you repeatedly, and each time you nod. He is tearfully grateful to the matriarch for agreeing to pay for the surgery. He smiles and blinks and shifts his weight. [...] You have not seen him in the presence of one of his employers since you were a child. To observe him like this disturbs you” (65). Meanwhile, your other “has until now utterly refused to believe that she will not soon return to health” (65). It’s a complicated dynamic. Your mother, knowing she will die, agrees to something for the benefit of your father, who does not have the capacity to pay for what is ultimately a favour to him. The scene has a rich bittersweet tone that really demonstrates Hamid’s prowess as an author.

    By contrast, Hamid is able to ramp up the tension in other scenes. In one, you are involved in a strange criminal enterprise. You bring an idea to your armed boss that would increase profits, but he is skeptical of you (rightly so: your money-making method is to buy expired goods, remove their expiration dates and replace them with consumer-friendly ones). The conversation teeters on the brink of an outright conflict, but instead it simmers beautifully. Later, your life is under threat and a murder takes place to protect you. Later, a boutique is subject to a heist, resulting in the death of another character following being hit with the butt of a rifle.

    Between these moments is a wistful thread where you are pursuing a pretty girl from your village. She gets a fair amount of narration, as well, and her backstory is compelling, though palpably male-drafted. Essentially, she is looking for a new life and resorts to sex work in the hopes of becoming a model. She is ultimately successful, becoming a model and an actress before becoming a furniture dealer. There are tender moments between you and this girl. It’s perhaps true to life that she appears in infrequent blips throughout your life before the two of you ultimately form a partnership, but the lack of development both romanticizes the relationship while also feeling somewhat underdeveloped. I suppose the storyline follows the first rule of show business: “always leave them wanting more.”

    All this to say, the variety of moods throughout the novel make it engaging to me even in moments where the story dips. Unsurprisingly, the moments of ambiguity are still what most grip me. Hamid makes reference to various organizations that are supportive to you—-because it’s unclear in which country, exactly, this story takes place, it makes it hard to determine. I somewhat suspect that the shadowy organization of which you are a part is a communist group, but I can’t say for sure. Then, the shadowy politics of a government contract for water permeates throughout, but it’s always unclear exactly how you fit into a grand scheme. The penultimate chapter refers to the narrator’s sneakiness: “I suppose I should consider at this stage confessing to certain false pretenses, to certain subterfuges that may have been perpetrated here, certain of-hands that may have been, um sleighted” (197). It’s an intriguing line because it does not feel, entirely, that the hand has been shown. The book feels like one where the more you examine it, the more the mystery will deepen, and I really appreciate that about it.

    Hamid’s humour is also a nice touch and, while sometimes on the nose, I appreciate his insights into the reader-author relationship. While this book pretends to be self-help, Hamid comments on the distinction between genres pretty early in the text to mitigate the imagined critique. He writes that, “It’s remarkable how many books fall into the category of self-help” (19). He elaborates, “Why, for example, do you persist in reading that much-praised, breathtakingly boring foreign novel, slogging through page after page after please-make-it-stop page of tar-slow prose and blush-inducing formal conceit, if not out of an impulse to understand distant lands that because of globalization are increasingly affecting life in your own? What is this impulse of yours, at its core, if not a desire for self-help?” (19). Hamid frames the novel here in a self-referential wink but one that appeals to the political backdrop for the production of the novel. In considering novels as a form of self-help, Hamid then says “At the very least they help you pass the time, and time is the stuff of which a self is made” (19)---and I quite like that idea of identity. In deconstructing the genre, the narrator says “all books, each and every book ever written, could be said to be offered to the reader as a form of self-help” (20). So, here we have a book that offers self-help, even if that self is the author, the narrator, the reader, or an amalgam of each.

    Reading the book in a diasporic context gives the telling of a self-help story an additional dimension. Towards the end of the book, the narrator admits that it has been pretty useless as a money-making venture. Instead, the book becomes a project of introspection and broader social considerations. All things considered, the novel’s main character is full of regrets or paths that never materialized, and as the end approaches the melancholia of the book becomes all the more evident. In some ways, it reads like Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.

    I leave one representative quotation from the novel that I think encapsulates the ‘vibe’ of the novel and its ultimate purpose:

“We are all refugees from our childhoods. And so we turn, among other things, to stories. To write a story, to read a story, is to be a refugee from the state of refugees. Writers and readers seek a solution to the problem that time passes, that those who have gone are gone and those who will go, which is to say every one of us, will go. For there was a moment when anything was possible. And there will be a moment when nothing is possible. But in between we can create” (213).

In between we can create.