Showing posts with label Donald Trump. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Donald Trump. Show all posts

23/02/2025

Trump's War On The Arts

 

 


 

Throughout history, authoritarians and dictators have understood the power of the arts, both as a means of control and as a dangerous form of resistance. From Hitler's censorship of "degenerate art" to Stalin's iron grip on Soviet cultural expression to Kim Il Sung using the arts in North Korea to glorify his rule as Supreme Leader, strongmen have either sought to silence artists or to co-opt them into serving their agendas. In Trump's second term, we are seeing these familiar patterns emerge in the United States. His recent takeover of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and his ban on drag performances (more on this later) are not isolated cultural policies – they are part of a broader, more insidious effort to reshape American culture in his image, just as autocrats before him have done. 

Trump's Long and Complicated History with the Arts 

Donald Trump's relationship with the arts has always been transactional. He has never shown a genuine appreciation for artistic expression as a means of cultural or intellectual enrichment. Instead, he used art to inflate his ego, attempted to erase or defund art that challenged him, or manipulated cultural institutions to reinforce his power.

In keeping with his pattern of behavior where history repeats itself, his past actions foreshadowed what is happening now. In the 1980s, Trump famously demolished Art Deco sculptures meant to be preserved in the Bonwit Teller Building to make way for Trump Tower. It was a literal destruction of beauty and history in service of his ambition. In 2017, he disbanded the President's Committee on the Arts and the Humanities after its members resigned in protest over his response to the Charlottesville white nationalist rally. I remember vividly watching this play out while in my role at the Department of Homeland Security. It was apparent then, as it is now, that artistic voices, especially those that challenge bigotry and autocracy, would not be tolerated in Trump's America. Former President Joe Biden restored the Committee, but in Trump's first executive order of his second term, he revoked it again. Never mind that former President Ronald Reagan established the initiative aimed to enhance the nation's cultural life without relying solely on federal funding by establishing public-private partnerships. The original DOGE concept without the foolery?

Then there's Trump's approach to using the arts for his personal glorification. Let's be honest, his so-called "National Garden of American Heroes," reinstated this term, is not about celebrating American culture. The more likely explanation, given his narcissistic personality, is his ongoing positioning of himself as a defender of traditional American values and heritage. It's an attempt to align himself with these celebrated figures, enhancing his own legacy. The question remains: will this be a genuine celebration of diverse American contributions or a curated group of icons designed to reinforce his vision of national identity? The inclusion process will reveal much about the administration's goals for American history – and who is deemed worthy of remembrance. Place your bets and watch this space.

This is what autocrats do: they rewrite history in stone and marble, curating which figures are worthy of adulation while erasing those who might challenge their narrative. And while we're on the topic of sculptures, don't lose track of Republican Congresswoman Anna Paulina Luna of Florida's bill proposing that President Donald Trump be carved into Mount Rushmore. Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen. 

The Kennedy Center Takeover and the Death of Free Expression

One of Trump's most bizarre and random moves in his second term has been his recent takeover of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. It isn't just symbolic – it was a calculated move to control one of the nation's most important cultural institutions. By exploiting executive authority, he dismissed existing board members. His appointment of himself as chairman was a first in history, an act more in line with authoritarian leaders who directly oversee state-sponsored arts programs. The first significant change (other than an AI-generated image of himself as a symphony conductor)? A ban on drag performances. It's all part of marginalizing and erasing the LGBTQ+ community and expression, just as authoritarian regimes have done in the past. The slow burn of there is only one version of America, and dissenting voices will be silenced. Again, the pattern: the media, drag queens…the arts…

This move mirrors actions taken by authoritarian leaders like Viktor Orbán in Hungary, who has reshaped his nation's cultural institutions to serve his regime's ideological goals. Trump's restructuring of the Kennedy Center is part of the same playbook: purge independent voices, install loyalists like Richard Grenell, whom he just tapped to be the interim director of the Kennedy Center, and dictate the terms of artistic expression.

The Erasure of Government-Supported Art

Beyond his attempts to control the arts, Trump has worked to eliminate public funding for artistic expression. In his first term, he repeatedly attempted to gut the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) and the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH), two organizations that have long supported independent, thought-provoking work. While Congress ultimately blocked those efforts at the time, his return to the Oval Office gives him a renewed opportunity to defund the arts and silence creative voices.

Another authoritarian hallmark: Dictators do not want publicly funded, independent artistic expression because they cannot control it. They prefer state-sponsored art that glorifies them or reinforces their preferred narratives. Just look at how the Nazis promoted propaganda films while suppressing modernist and experimental works. Trump's attempts to starve independent arts of funding while pushing a sanitized, nationalist version of culture follow this same pattern. It's the perfect Russell Vought dream!

The Criminalization of Artists Who Defy the Agenda

Targeting artwork that does not align with an authoritarian agenda is designed to isolate the artists. Suddenly, their work and their very existence become criminal in nature. Once celebrated for pushing cultural boundaries, dissenting artists are recast as threats to the state. Their art is deemed subversive, their performances restricted, and their presence outlawed. This tactic is as old as authoritarianism itself. By criminalizing certain forms of artistic expression, regimes force artists into exile, silence them, or use the power of law to imprison them. The message is clear: comply with the sanctioned narrative or face the consequences. This is not just censorship; it is cultural warfare, which Trump excels at despite his claims of being focused on the economy. Therefore, we must remain vigilant about what he does next when it comes to the arts. It’s another indicator of what’s to come. Watch your back Kendrick Lamar!

Fearing the Arts

The reason leaders like Trump, Putin, and Orbán go after the arts is simple: free artistic expression is one of the most powerful forces of resistance. Throughout history, artists have played a crucial role in exposing injustice, rallying opposition, and envisioning a better future.

Consider the role of protest music in the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, and the power of samizdat – the underground literature in Soviet Russia. The arts offer a way to communicate ideas that authoritarian regimes want to be suppressed. That is why Trump's efforts to reshape or silence artistic expression should alarm us all. It is not about personal taste. It is about consolidating power by controlling the culture itself.

So, what can we do? The first step is recognizing that these attacks on the arts are not isolated—they are part of a broader strategy to erode democracy. Defunding, banning, and reshaping cultural institutions are the opening moves in a larger game of controlling public thought. If we allow Trump to dictate what art is acceptable, what performances are allowed, and which voices are heard-- we are conceding ground in the battle for democracy itself.

Artists, cultural leaders, and citizens alike must push back. That entails supporting independent art, funding grassroots cultural movements, and using creative expression as a means of resistance. It means refusing to allow institutions like the Kennedy Center to be transformed into state-controlled propaganda outlets. It necessitates calling out these authoritarian-like tactics for what they are: attacks on freedom of expression and democracy.

If history has taught us anything, it's that art and authoritarianism are natural enemies. Those who seek absolute power will always try to control creative expression. Still, as long as artists and free thinkers continue to create, resist, and challenge, the fight is far from over. Trump may try to dictate the future of American culture, but he cannot erase the voices of those of us who refuse to be silenced.

With love for the arts,

Former saxophone player, theater major, musical theater actress, and dancer,

Olivia

 

Erasing Dissent: Trump’s Slow Burn War on the Arts : Censor. Control. Repeat. By Olivia Troye. Living It With Olivia Troye, February 11, 2025.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

06/01/2021

Machiavelli : Politics of Fear


 




 
Even if 2020 felt apocalyptic, it is reasonable to think we have not yet hit rock bottom. The threat of climate disaster and resource wars, the building of walls and refugee camps, the exorbitant wealth of powerful oligarchs alongside poverty and precarity—these will not go away with vaccines or new presidents. Amidst all this, no wonder Niccolò Machiavelli has returned to our reading lists. In his new biography of the Florentine Secretary, Machiavelli: The Art of Teaching the People What to Fear, originally published in French in 2017, historian Patrick Boucheron reminds us that there is always interest in Machiavelli in turbulent times “because he’s the man to philosophize in heavy weather. If we’re reading him today, it means we should be worried. He’s back: wake up.”
 
Born in 1469 in Florence, Machiavelli is a central figure in the Western canon of political philosophy. Though he is best known in the popular imagination as the conniving mastermind behind The Prince (written in 1513), which so many think of as a kind of House of Cards how-to guide for seizing and maintaining political power, we miss what is crucial when we reduce his political thought to the simplistic thesis that the ends justify the means. It is not this misunderstood consequentialism that is noteworthy in Machiavelli’s philosophy; what really makes his writing so radically distinctive is his class-based, materialist outlook. He came from an impoverished household, and his philosophy disrupted naturalized hierarchies and the hegemonic ideas that reproduce them. John Adams would rightly describe him as the founder of a “plebeian philosophy” that marshaled strong arguments for embracing popular control over government.
 
Though the Machiavellis seem to have had an illustrious past and Niccolò’s father, Bernardo, trained as a lawyer, inherited debts effectively excluded the family from wealth, privilege, and political power. They lived in a deteriorated palazzo on the Via Romana and relied mainly on yields from their farm located at the outskirts of Florence. This relative material deprivation left an imprint on the young Niccolò, who would anchor his political philosophy on a plebeian point of view—giving voice to the claims of those who want to live free from oligarchic domination. In his dedication letter to The Prince, Machiavelli described himself as part of the populace, “a man of low and humble station” who, given his position “low down on the plain,” could discern clearly the nature of those who are “high up on mountain tops.”
 
Despite his modest upbringing, Machiavelli received a good education and inherited, in addition to his father’s debts, his precious library. Growing up in an oligarchic republic controlled by the Medici—financiers who owned the biggest bank in Europe—he found that a career in public office for someone like him, lacking connections with the grandi, had been foreclosed. But when the Medici were ousted from power in 1494 after losing the war against Charles VIII of France, new possibilities arose. In 1498 Machiavelli was appointed as secretary of the second chancellor of Florence, in charge of the republic’s military forces. During the fourteen years he served the republic, he wrote foreign affairs reports and some poetry on the side, traveled as a diplomatic envoy, and set up a citizen army to replace an expensive and dangerous system of defense that relied on mercenary soldiers paid through loans from the financial oligarchy. But his political trajectory was cut short when the Medici returned to power in 1512. Machiavelli was ousted from his post, tried for conspiracy, tortured, imprisoned, and then relegated to private life in the countryside, which afforded him the time to write his most famous and consequential works—not just The Prince but also the Discourses on the First Decade of Titus Livy (written in 1517) and The Art of War (written in 1519–20)—from the point of view of a political praxis forged in turbulent times.
 
As part of his view of a self-aware and socially engaged history, Boucheron offers a Machiavelli who is a “scout”: someone able to think from uncharted and dangerous territory, and thus someone who needs to be read “not in the present but in the future tense.” Boucheron’s forward-looking analysis is anchored in the past­—in his studies of the relation between political power and urban transformations in medieval Milan—and aimed at broadening the limits of historical interpretation. In his previous book, Léonard et Machiavel (2008), Boucheron combined historiography and literature, imagining a meeting between Leonardo de Vinci and Machiavelli based on scarce and fragmentary traces of their probable encounters. In the new book he also undertakes a hybrid format in an “attempt to harmonize in style” with Machiavelli’s “art of thinking” by fusing poetry and politics. The result is a series of intimate snapshots of Machiavelli’s life and work. They are not only accurate (even though no sources are cited) but also intriguing and playful. Each of the thirty chapters is only three pages long and is paired with an evocative image—from portraits of Machiavelli, Lorenzo de’ Medici, and friar Girolamo Savonarola to a copy of Machiavelli’s original dedication in The Prince and a picture of Machiavelli’s tomb in the Basilica of Santa Croce.
 
The introduction to the English edition of The Art of Teaching the People What to Fear, written in June 2019 for readers in the United States, begins with the theme of fear in politics and an issue of Time magazine with Trump on the cover. Boucheron argues that the United States had entered a “Machiavellian moment”—“the dawning realization of the inadequacy of the republican ideal”—in the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and that today, under “Trumpian America,” a fusion of politics and fiction has allowed for techniques of domination to be perfected, setting “a general disregard for the ‘actual truth of the matter.’” Referencing George Orwell’s 1984, Boucheron sees the United States as captured by a propaganda machine that has undermined reality and common sense—“that sixth sense Machiavelli spoke of, the accessory knowledge that the people have of what is dominating them.” Given the pervasive lack of realism in U.S. politics today, it is clear that the republic would appear to Machiavelli as a corrupt order, not because the powerful few break the rules or because a faction attempts to undermine the integrity of elections, but because the people have been “either deceived or forced into decreeing their own ruin.” Perhaps the most important part of Machiavelli’s wisdom for our own time is that republics tend to become oligarchic, giving the powerful few indirect control over government.
 
In the first five chapters of The Art of Teaching People What to Fear, Boucheron blends biographical details and the diverse interpretations of Machiavelli’s work. To illustrate the wide range of interpretations and the general animosity toward the teachings of the Florentine Secretary, he references Émile Littré’s nineteenth-century tendentious description of Machiavelli as an author theorizing “the practice of violence and tyranny used by the petty tyrants of Italy” and as a figure referring to “any statesman lacking principles.” Boucheron also dispels a common misattribution: that is was Jesuit Giovanni Botero and not Machiavelli who invented the concept of “reason of state,” the idea that the state has no law other than self-preservation. The section ends with a crucial chapter on the source of Machiavelli’s materialist thought: Lucretius’s six-book poem De rerum natura, or On the Nature of Things, which comes to disrupt Neoplatonism by discussing a “world that has no creator, where nature constantly reinvents itself.” Just as Lucretius’s dangerous poem “swerves” and “derails the world and knocks it off its hinges,” Machiavelli’s books are allies in revolution.
 
A second section discusses Machiavelli’s encounter with the political reality in Florence and his role as a diplomat. Boucheron argues that it was the failure of Savonarola’s regime against vanity and excess that prompted Machiavelli to engage with the themes of leadership, the use of force, and states of emergency, “to take up his political plan at the point where [Savonarola] left off.” During his time in diplomacy, Machiavelli “could observe, discuss, and compare” the inner workings of power in different states, learning “about the speed needed in making decisions, the art of surprising the world around him, and the ruthlessness required of a ruler in conducting politics.” Because he was “always to be disappointed by the statesmen he met,” he was free of the intellectual blunting that is inevitable in those who “become entranced with a powerful figure” and surrender their intelligence. The closest he got to endorsing a leader was with Cesare Borgia, illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI and brilliant military commander. But after the death of the pope and Borgia’s consequent failure to secure his control over the Romagna, Machiavelli sets him as an example of the weakness that befalls those who are reliant on others rather than on their own resources.
 
Machiavelli’s downfall and his most famous work, The Prince, are analyzed in the third section. For Boucheron, the most revolutionary element in Machiavelli’s work is his realism, his commitment “to describe accurately how things happen, and to leave the task of drawing up the ensuing rules of action to others.” Boucheron thus reads The Prince as an exercise on typology in which Machiavelli classifies the principalities that have been “conquered, by force, by guile, or by luck: those principalities, in effect, that come under the sway of bold heroes of fortune, new princes.” As for Machiavelli’s “rules of action,” Boucheron writes, they “have no other end than their utility: use them or not according to necessity.” Therefore, a new prince, as an “unscrupulous virtuoso of his own self-preservation,” should always expect “the worst from those he governs.” Even a powerful new prince, backed up by the support of the common people, cannot be secure; conspiracies and treason come with the territory. For Machiavelli, relying only on the love of those who support you is a recipe for disaster.
 
The following section, “Politics of Writing,” departs from Machiavelli’s political work to focus on his private life and his theater writings. For example, Boucheron offers an analysis of The Mandrake (1524)—a play in which a plebeian, Callimaco, with the help of a friar, seduces Lucrezia, the young wife of Nicia, a senile noble. For Boucheron, the drama is a political allegory in which a corrupt Florence is being robbed of its liberty by the Medici. Boucheron further pursues Machiavelli’s picaresque and dingy edge by following him from the theatrical stage to the brothel. Silently judging, he pairs Machiavelli’s correspondence with his wife, Marietta Corsini, with whom he had five children, with a letter to his friend Luigi Guicciardini in which he describes “his ‘desperate rut’ with an old and atrociously ugly prostitute.” Trying to stay in an indeterminate space, Boucheron attempts to disrupts his own judgment by recognizing that “to present obscenity is to make visible what normally occurs out of sight” and that this means to be “the bearer of bad tidings.” This makes Machiavelli not only a “scout” of dangerous territory but also “an unsavory character,” who disrupts traditional notions of morality. Even if Boucheron seems uneasy with the Florentine Secretary’s deplorable sexual conduct, he dwells in this uncomfortable zone, refusing to shy away from the gruesome features that accompany Machiavelli’s genius.
 
Leaving behind the home and the brothel, Boucheron dedicates the next section, “Republics of Disagreement,” to an analysis of Machiavelli’s Discourses on the First Ten Books of Titus Livius and his “energetic attempt to derive from the materials of history a practical art of freedom.” From the point of view of democratic politics, this is the most interesting section of this little book. Boucheron describes the republic as a government that takes into account popular opinion, unveiling Machiavelli as a partisan of the people. “The populace can govern,” Boucheron writes, because
 
   “ it is capable of truth. The people know what they want, or, more accurately, they know what they don’t want: to be dominated. Through this knowledge, the people arrive at the truth, which is the truth of domination.”
 
Within this framework, pro-justice laws are not the result of adequate legislative procedures, but rather the result of conflict, the product of the people’s pushback against domination.
 
 
While analyzing the strength of republics, Boucheron makes an observation that seems crucial to understanding contemporary popular regimes that have fallen or corrupted due to their own reaction to conspiracy and rebellion. If we take the case of Hugo Chávez in Venezuela, who was elected in a landslide on a redistributive platform and survived an oligarchic coup three years into his presidency, Machiavelli’s insights allow us to understand the process of political action and reaction and their unforeseen effects in the relative strength of the post-coup regime. Thinking with Machiavelli, Boucheron concludes that
 
    ‘coups strengthen the state they are meant to undermine. And yet . . . in making itself stronger, the state makes itself weaker. . . . conspiracies give the prince reason to fear, and fear gives him reason to secure himself, and securing himself gives him reason to harm others, from which arises hatred and, often enough, the prince’s ruin.”
 
Digging deeper into the relation between foundational violence and politics in Machiavelli’s thought, Boucheron states that “coups reveal what states normally keep hidden, which is their constituent violence,” and when this violence is exercised and exposed, the strength of the state, paradoxically, diminishes. A failed coup compels a new prince to fortify himself and engage in preemptive violence; this show of force inevitably weakens the foundations of any good regime, even if it assures its survival.
 
Although violence can be necessary, this does not mean that Machiavelli thought that the end justifies the means. As Boucheron notes, the Florentine Secretary never wrote those words that made him so infamous. In fact, endorsing this motto would be contrary to his political philosophy. As Boucheron puts it, because Machiavelli’s “philosophy of necessity rests on the principle of the changeableness of the times and the unpredictability of political action,” the end cannot but remain unknown. This view chimes with Machiavelli’s thought, but arguably what remains unknown is not the end itself—understood as the final cause of political action—but rather the success of the enterprise. Machiavelli states that the aim of a new prince is to set republican foundations that would allow plebeians to live in liberty, free from the domination of the oligarchy. Only a lasting constitutional order would justify unlawful and violent means. However, since at the time of the founding there is no way to know if the new order will be able to endure, unlawful action can only be justified ex post facto, after a considerable amount of time has passed. There are no justified, irreproachable means in the present tense, only necessary ones.
 
In the final section of this biographical portrait, Boucheron engages with Machiavelli’s final years and describes him as a “public historian” who was commissioned by the Florentine Academy to write “the official chronicle” of the city-state. Following his realist approach to politics, in his History of Florence (published posthumously in 1532), Machiavelli described not only “the full extent of the strife, the discord, the enmity that played out in his city’s politics” but also the plight of plebeians, making visible what usually is excluded from official accounts. When referring to the 1378 revolt of the ciompi (wool workers) that overthrew the government and briefly installed a plebeian revolutionary regime, Machiavelli includes a speech by an anonymous rebellious workman stating the radical equality between nobles and plebeians, “made by nature in the same way.” Presented at turns as the philosophical scout and unsavory fellow, Machiavelli now ends up as public historian, writing a history aimed at “giving equal dignity to the ciompi and the Medici, in giving those who have no voice a hearing, in saying in plain terms that this took place, this was possible.” By documenting the popular insurrection and its voices, by giving it space in the official history, Machiavelli was a trailblazer for historians of social history who attempt to capture multifaceted narratives and to democratize knowledge by bringing the common people into the main storyline.
 
 
Machiavelli died rather suddenly in 1527, about a month after Rome was sacked by the Visigoths, the Medici were overthrown, and a popular uprising restored the popular Republic in Florence. His works were published a few years later in three volumes, authorized by Pope Clement VII. But the Church’s benediction would not last long. Three decades later, after the “Jesuits orchestrated what amounted to an anti-Machiavellian campaign in Italy,” his works were forbidden. Shortly thereafter his name was turned into an “-ism” that became a synonym of tyranny, and his teachings slowly became “as invisible as a mist.”
 
Boucheron ends the book by showing how this mist has been gathered in puddles and even streams every time Machiavelli is read “when a storm is threatening”—from the Jacobins during the French Revolution to Antonio Gramsci, Louis Althusser, and the readers of today. As an “awakener” whose thought can lash out, like a raging river, against the fortresses containing “the opacity of representation, what we would call today the fatigue of democracy,” Machiavelli seems a good companion for these turbulent times in which the institutional order is being put into question in the United States and the economic devastation of the pandemic threatens to linger for years to come. “When capsize seems inevitable,” as Boucheron writes, Machiavelli’s realism, irreverence, and commitment to the liberty of the common people can lead us to safe harbor.
 
Our Machiavellian Moment. By Camila Vergara. Boston Review, January 5, 2021.




 

 “Real power is – I don’t even want to use the word – fear.”
 
This sentence could have been written by Niccolò Machiavelli. It was spoken by Donald Trump in March 2016 when Trump was still only a candidate for the US presidency, and these words now appear as the epigraph to Bob Woodward’s book Fear: Trump in the White House.
 
Is a more off-putting introduction to our subject imagin­able? If we are tempted to assign words spoken by Don­ald Trump to Machiavelli, it’s not just because many western leaders have, and for a long time, bolstered their sense of their own power by affecting a cynical and crafty tone in the belief that it represents the last word in Machiavellian thought. It’s because we literally don’t know what to think of Machiavelli. Should we admire him or not, is he with us or against us, and is he still our con­temporary or is what he says ancient history?
 
My little book doesn’t pretend to resolve these questions; nor is it addressed to those who will read it to feel that they have right on their side – whether that side is answerable to justice or to power. On the contrary, this book tries to stay in that uncomfortable zone of thought that sees its own indeterminacy as the very locus of politics.
 
I should, at this stage, give a few explanations – who is speaking, and to whom. I don’t con­sider myself a historian of political ideas, but I approached Machiavelli a decade ago, yoking him with Leonardo da Vinci in an essay on contemporaneousness. Unexpect­edly, I found Machiavelli a useful guide and support – I’d almost say a faithful friend, one whose intelligence never failed me.
 
My conversations with Machiavelli became more regular and fruitful as I approached topics of which the Florentine author was, in his day, the most clear-sighted analyst. This happened first as I researched the political meaning of the architecture of the quattrocento. Machia­velli taught me to see it less as a representation of power than as a machine for producing political emotions: per­suasion, in the public buildings of the republican city-states; and intimidation, in the fortified strongholds that the princes built to keep those states in line. In every case, Machiavelli proved a worthy brother-in-arms who, because he had thrown light on his own times, threw light on ours – proving himself a contemporary in the very best sense.
 
During the summer of 2016, I gave a series of daily talks on French public radio in which I tried to articu­late this capacity of Machiavellian thought to sharpen our understanding of the present. My little book col­lects those texts, which in their biting brevity and direct address attempt to harmonize in style with Machiavelli – not simply his manner of writing but his art of thinking, which brings to flashpoint the fusion of poetry and politics.
 
Only one of these talks was not broadcast on the France Inter network during the summer of 2016, the fifth, focused on Machiavelli’s reading of Lucretius’s De natura rerum, “a dangerous and deviant book that makes the world jump its rails and come off its hinges”. The plan was to air the episode on Friday 15 July, but it was swallowed up by the sorrow, anger and numbness that followed the terrorist attack on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice on 14 July, France’s national holiday, when 86 peo­ple were killed and more than 400 wounded. Although this book restores the text to its original place, there is still a gap left by the lasting stamp of fear.
 
Is that why I have chosen to give prominence in the book’s American edition to the politics of fear? Not solely. As I write this preface, I am remembering a dia­logue that I had with the political scientist Corey Robin, the author of a major book in 2004, Fear: The History of a Political Idea.
 
“One day,” he wrote, “the war on terror­ism will come to an end. All wars do. And when it does, we will find ourselves still living in fear: not of terrorism or radical Islam, but of the domestic rulers that fear has left behind.” Our discussion, which led to the publica­tion in 2015 of L’exercice de la peur: usages politiques d’une émotion (Spreading fear: the political uses of an emo­tion), asked whether the American way of fear might be exported around the world.
 
We touched on Hobbes, of course, De Tocqueville and Hannah Arendt, but also Machiavelli, who continually inquired about the fears of those who govern: what makes them truly afraid? When justice stops being effective (or when crimes of corruption stop being punished) and when political vio­lence is no longer a threat, there is nothing left to cause fear in those who govern shamelessly, that is, buoyed by a mood they aren’t in control of and that no one is on hand to countervail. What will then happen to the repub­lic? This question inevitably arises when anxiety is felt about democracy, because the republic loses its stability when it no longer reflects a pacified equilibrium between the different fears that divide it.
 
In 1975, JGA Pocock defined that loss of equilib­rium as “the Machiavellian moment”, when there is daylight between a republic and its values. American his­torians have since associated Machiavelli’s name with that form of political crisis, a practice I have followed in this book. And today we are undeniably living through another Machiavellian moment, again bringing the Flor­entine author close to the core of American reality.
 
Living in unstable times, Machiavelli was keenly aware that the old political lexicon, which the Mid­dle Ages had inherited from Aristotle, no longer served him adequately. He defined the intellectual’s task as a kind of resoluteness toward truth – being unmoved by the dazzle of words to “go straight toward the actual truth of the matter”.
 
This experience, which is profoundly Machiavellian in nature, is one that recurs again and again in history, whenever the words for expressing the things of politics become obsolete. What do we do when confronting adversaries we can’t put a name to? We call them “fascists”, for want of a better term – just as in Italy’s medieval communes, the people called the lords “tyrants”. We intend to confound them, to abash and bring them down, when we should in fact be examining what they say closely for its fascist potential. One thing is certain: when we use words from the past, we are show­ing our inability to understand the present.
 
Since the summer of 2016, in France but also in the United States and elsewhere, every political forecast has been systematically proven wrong. In the past few years it seems that the perverse pleasure that the pub­lic takes in contradicting pollsters – who minimize the voters’ ability to choose by presenting developments as foreordained – has turned to fierce vindictiveness. Looking only at electoral results, from the United King­dom’s Brexit vote on 23 June 2016, on whether to remain in the European Union, to Donald Trump’s election to the US presidency on 8 November of that same year, the qualità dei tempi has definitely turned to storms.
 
The consequences for the French electoral cycle, starting in January 2017, were similarly astounding. Following a series of extraordinary circumstances that eliminated all the expected candidates one after another – those picked either as favorites or as dead certainties – the election gave the presidency to Emmanuel Macron, a man who happened in his philosophical youth to have written an essay on Machiavelli. When a journalist asked me about this electoral smash-and-grab, so characteristic of the boldness commended by the author of The Prince, I glibly described Macron as a “Machiavelli in reverse”, meaning that the French president had abandoned philosophy for politics, whereas Machiavelli chose to make his mark in philosophy when politics abandoned him.
 
 What import does a virtuoso of political ruses like Machiavelli have for us? If he were nothing more than the wily and unscrupulous strategist that a hostile pos­terity has portrayed him to be, then not much at all. In these troubled times, when the stutterers can’t be told from those who are talking of the future, the last peo­ple anyone wants to hear from are the so-called experts at predicting trends, who reduce all the indeterminacy in political life to a few elementary rules of collective action. The simplicity of those rules has everything to do with the experts’ lack of imagination.
 
Machiavelli is that thinker of alternatives who dissects every situation into an “either/or”, drawing a crossroads of meaning at every stage of historical development. But if he is captivating, it’s because he lets us see how the social energy of political configurations always spills out of the neat constructs in which it’s meant to stay put. His sentences invariably run away with him; he has no sooner declared that there are only two avenues than he proceeds down a third. When we try to work out whether a particular political situation is going to turn out one way or another, it’s well to remember that it is carried along by a general movement that has already occurred. Perhaps this is what awaits many European and other world nations: they are so worried about a pending catastrophe that they won’t understand when it has already happened.
 
People who see history as primarily tragic have always felt that the scenes of our disarray might well have been penned by a ghostly Shakespeare. But as “the grotesque wheels of power” (in Michel Foucault’s phrase) grind into motion, it seems that the coarsening of public discourse we are now experiencing got its start on a less exalted stage – none other than that misleadingly named feature of Trumpian America known as “reality TV”. It is there that a general disregard for the “actual truth of the matter” was patiently nurtured. Not for the first time have upcoming politics had their start in fiction.
 
That’s why, in 2017, there was such a surge of interest in the United States in George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Literature doesn’t predict the future any more than it protects us from its threats. It warns, yes, in the sense that it sounds the alert about a catastrophe that generally doesn’t hap­pen, or not in the way it was imagined. Ever since 1984 came and went without bearing out Orwell’s dystopian predictions, we no longer read his novel as a foreshad­owing or preview of a totalitarian regime. At this stage, we know that totalitarianism is a category not so much meant to describe a political reality as to make that real­ity fit into a pre-established form – for instance, at the end of the second world war, when the liberal democracies were intent on demonstrating that communism would pur­sue nazism by other means.
 
In a sense, totalitarianism is a political fiction. It had its first trial in George Orwell’s 1949 fable and was then given a theoretical analysis by Hannah Arendt in 1951. We now know that what came after, what obtains today, took its place without receiving a name. Orwell imag­ined the tyranny of a “Ministry of Truth” but that’s not what happened, and we don’t yet know if it’s for better or worse. “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears,” Orwell’s hero, Winston Smith, says in Nineteen Eighty-Four. And: “Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality was tacitly denied.” What the novel describes is the capacity of propaganda to hollow out a receptive space in people by undermin­ing reality and sense experiences. “The evidence of one’s eyes and ears” referred to by Orwell could be common sense; it could also be that sixth sense Machiavelli spoke of, the accessory knowledge that the people have of what is dominating them.
 
Admittedly it was not the Party, as imagined by anti-totalitarian writers, that spoke when Sean Spicer, the White House press secretary, declared, “Our inten­tion is never to lie to you,” before adding “sometimes we can disagree with the facts.” It’s not a Party, but it’s something else that we don’t know what to call, a fiction that is taking on body under our eyes. And what we need to understand is: what is this taking on of body, and how can our own society come to embody monstrousness? Gramsci read Machiavelli’s The Prince replacing the word “prince” with the word “party”. We could in turn read Orwell and replace “party” with “prince”. Either way, Machiavelli needs to be read not in the present, but in the future tense.
 
Should we look in Machiavelli’s work for the art of coming to terms over our disagreements or look instead for that skill the dominated have of recog­nizing the science of their domination? And in that case, why not look at his theater, his histories, even his love poetry?
 
I tried during the summer of 2016 to reconstruct the face of Machiavelli hidden by the mask of Machiavel­lianism; and if that face turned out to be as changeable as a storm-tossed sky, it’s because its owner hardly had the time to choose among his different talents. They all brought him back to his art of naming with precision that which was happening, his ability to take stock implaca­bly, inextricably joining poetry and politics.
 
Three years later, what is the sense of spending fur­ther time with Machiavelli? The same sense, perhaps, that Walter Benjamin attributed to the very ambition of history: “To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’. It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger.”
 
This is an edited extract from Machiavelli: The Art of Teaching People What to Fear by Patrick Boucheron, published in the US by Other Press.
 
 
'Real power is fear': what Machiavelli tells us about Trump in 2020. By Patrick Boucheron. The Guardian,  February 8, 2020. 













01/11/2020

Vile Anti-Semitic Hoax 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ Still Around

 



An anti-Semitic hoax more than a century old reared its ugly head again as the Republican National Convention was underway last week.
 
Mary Ann Mendoza, a member of the advisory board of President Trump’s reelection campaign, was due to speak on Aug. 25. But she was suddenly pulled from the schedule after she had retweeted a link to a conspiracy theory about Jewish elites plotting to take over the world.
 
In her now-deleted tweet, Mendoza urged her roughly 40,000 followers to read a lengthy thread that warned of a plan to enslave the “goyim,” or non-Jews. It included fevered denunciations of the historically wealthy Jewish family, the Rothschilds, as well as the top target of right-wing extremism today, the liberal Jewish philanthropist George Soros.
 
The thread also made reference to one of the most notorious hoaxes in modern history: “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.” As a scholar of American Jewish history, I know how durable this document has been as a source of the belief in Jewish conspiracies. The fact that it is still making the rounds within the fringe precincts of the political right today is testament to the longevity of this fabrication.
 
Fake news
 
Surely no outright forgery in modern history has ever proved itself more durable. In the early 20th century, the Protocols were concocted by Tsarist police known as the Okhrana, drawing upon an obscure 1868 German novel, “Biarritz,” in which mysterious Jewish leaders meet in a Prague cemetery.
 
This fictional cabal aspires for power over entire nations through currency manipulation and seeks ideological domination by disseminating fake news. In the novel, the Devil listens sympathetically to the reports that representatives of the tribes of Israel present, describing the havoc and subversion that they have wrought, and the destruction that is yet to come.
 
The Okhrana – “protection” in Russian – worked for what was then the most powerful anti-Semitic regime in Europe and wanted to use the hoax to discredit revolutionary forces hostile to the reactionary policies and religious mysticism of Tsarist rule.
 
The document became a global phenomenon only about two decades after the Okhrana’s fabrication. Widespread publication and republication coincided with both the influenza pandemic of 1918-20 and the aftermath of the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 – both of which stirred fears of obscure forces that menaced social control.
 
Scapegoating Jews for disease and political unrest was nothing new. Medieval Jews had been massacred in the wake of accusations of having poisoned wells and spreading plagues.
 
But a century ago, the crisis in public health probably mattered less than the Communists’ seizure of power in Russia, which, if unchecked, might overwhelm the political order that the Great War had destabilized. That some of the revolutionary leaders were of Jewish birth seemed to reinforce the predictions of the Protocols.
 
Tsar Nicholas II, the last of the Romanovs, was known to have read the Protocols before being executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918. In the following year, Hitler delivered his first recorded speech, in which he depicted an international conspiracy of Jews – of all Jews – to weaken and poison the Aryan race and to extinguish German culture.
 
Hitler himself was unsure of the authenticity of the Protocols – a question of verification that may not have mattered all that much to the Nazis. The Führer told one of his early associates that the Protocols were “immensely instructive” in exposing what the Jews could accomplish in terms of “political intrigue,” and in demonstrating their skill at “deception [and] organization.”
 
‘Americanized’ conspiracy
 
In the U.S., the hoax was given a wide distribution by the most admired businessman of his time: Henry Ford. By 1920, Ford had “Americanized” the forged document as “The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem.” It ran as excerpts in his newspaper, the Dearborn Independent, for 91 straight weeks. “The International Jew” was translated into 16 languages.
 
Though Jewish communal leadership mounted a lawsuit that forced the auto magnate to issue a retraction in 1927, the malignant hatred behind the Protocols continued to seep into the public conversation.
 
In the 1930s, the popular anti-New Deal “radio priest” Charles E. Coughlin excerpted the Protocols in his newspaper, Social Justice. But Father Coughlin was wary about endorsing its accuracy, and merely stated that it might be of “interest” to his readers.
 
History as conspiracy
 
Why is it that this demonstrably false document continues to hold sway today?
 
Perhaps the simplest explanation is human irrationality, which neither education nor enlightenment has ever managed to defeat.
 
The willingness to believe in the fantasy of a surreptitious Jewish stranglehold on the international economy and on mass media also validates the insight of the Columbia University historian Richard Hofstadter. He traced in political extremism of both right and left an apocalyptic strain and a belief in an imminent confrontation between good and absolute evil.
 
Hofstadter was well aware that conspiracies punctuate the annals of the past. But especially for those Americans who hanker for the security of a settled way of life, political paranoia is tempting, such as the belief – as Hofstadter wrote – that “history is a conspiracy,” in which unseen forces are the shadowy driving mechanisms of human destiny.
 
Because anti-Semitism has survived nearly a couple of millennia, no form of prejudice has yet found a more vivid place in the imagination. And the fact that no international Jewish conspiracy was ever located has never depleted the power of the Protocols to tap into subterranean currents of demonization.
 
From the Rothschilds to Soros
 
What sustains the influence of the Protocols among cranks and extremists is not the language of the text itself – which few of them are likely to have fully read in its various versions – but what this forgery purports to underscore, which is the astonishingly cunning influence of Jews in modern history.
 
The Protocols thus have no importance in themselves; they are spurious. But they do bestow precision upon apocalyptic fears, which could not survive without some ingredient of plausibility – however wildly far-fetched.
 
The Rothschild family was pivotal to the emergence of finance capitalism in 19th-century Europe. The family firm had branches in Germany, France, Austria, Italy and England, which lent credence to the charge of “cosmopolitanism” during an era of rising nationalism. The boom-and-bust oscillations of the economy generated not only misery but also grievances against financiers who seemed to benefit from such uncertainties.
 
Today, Soros, a Hungarian-born, British-educated American Jew, has become an especially hated figure for the far-right. Among the world’s canniest investors, he has spent billions of dollars promoting progressive causes. He seems to personify what Ford called “the international Jew.”
 
Venom against minorities other than Jews has not resulted in any equivalent to the Protocols. Judeophobia produced a specious documentation that bigotry against no other minority has ever elicited. Perhaps the very explicitness of the Protocols helps strengthen the suspicion that majority beliefs and interests are under attack, and keeps this dangerous form of anti-Semitism alive.
 
 
Why the ‘Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ is still pushed by anti-Semites more than a century after hoax first circulated.   By Stephen Whitfield. The Conversation ,  September 2, 2020.

 




Here are some facts about The Protocols of the Elders of Zion: they were first published in the US exactly a hundred years ago this summer. While they were presented to readers in 1920 as the secretly recorded words of a Jewish leader forming a conspiracy to overtake the world, we now know it is a fabrication, created by tsarist agents in Russia two decades earlier. Published here by Henry Ford in his anti-Semitic Dearborn Independent newspaper starting in June 1920, The Protocols purport to be the minutes of a series of lectures given by a Jewish elder, plotting world domination. And in their broad incoherence, they sound a lot like the conspiracy theories inundating our discourse now—and the president’s speeches.
 
The text itself is comprised of 24 numbered sections. Each is two to six pages long, loosely based around a subject or a theme. Well, very loosely. Subjects are listed in terse sentences at the top of each section, and include “topics” such as gold, economics, international Masonry, gold (gold comes up a lot), drunkenness and “the meaning of anti-Semitism.” The Protocols is the most famous anti-Semitic tract in the western world, and though it’s regularly referenced in that context, I’ve never met anyone who has read it. Frankly, I suspect the vast majority of people who have referenced it have not read it.
 
With so many conspiracy theories surfacing toward the mainstream in 2020, no small number of them with an anti-Semitic bent, I felt it was time to read it myself.
 
So here are some other facts I can share, having done so: The Protocols are repetitive, unconvincing, fragmentary, a pure slog; disordered, ridiculous, elliptical, deliberately confusing, and above all, incoherent. So, so incoherent. One gets the sense while reading The Protocols that while a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters given a thousand years couldn’t compose King Lear, those same monkeys given six months and a bottomless pot of coffee might have created this mess. Here’s a sample paragraph, taken from “Protocol No. 1,” that will give you a sense of how they sound:
 
The despotism of Capital, which is entirely in our hands, reaches out to it a straw that the State, willy-nilly, must take hold of: if not—it goes to the bottom.
 
Should anyone of a liberal mind say that such reflections as the above are immoral I would put the following questions:– If every State has two foes and if in regard to the external foe it is allowed and not considered immoral to use every manner and art of conflict, as for example to keep the enemy in ignorance of plans of attack and defense, to attack him by night or in superior numbers, then in what way can the same means in regard to a worse foe, the destroyer of the structure of society and the commonwealth be called immoral and not permissible?
 
So, yes . . . willy-nilly and despotic, to be sure. We could take the time to break down the broken syllogism, the extraneous interpolations, the half-formed similes—but clearly the intention is not for it to be read so closely. It’s to confuse, to obfuscate, and as recourse for their confusion to make the reader think, “Right, hate the Jews, we’re supposed to be hating the Jews.” The text goes on like this for almost 80 pages, and its lone appeal is as a secretive look into secretive meetings—the sound of a voice in situ, a clandestine peek into the clandestine. There’s something far more complicated about it for its unintended audience, in possession of it as a forgery; reading it as the words of a tsarist agent trying to imitate a Jewish plotter, I found myself in that strange confusion I used to feel when on the satirical Colbert Report there was an author interview, and I’d lose the thread of Colbert in faux-Fox-News persona. In that case, the recourse was to say, Oh, right, satire and book promotion. Again, with The Protocols, the recourse is always: anti-Semitism.
 
It’s also worth pointing out that there are almost no proper nouns in The Protocols, granting the text a sense of universality, but also causing a broad atmosphere of generalized confusion. It’s hard to comprehend purely from a close reading, at any specific moment, who is speaking, and to whom, and why. There is no effort, to borrow Coleridge’s phrase, to conjure “willing suspension of disbelief.” The forgery relies entirely upon our accepting its verisimilitude as a given. The voice of The Protocols doesn’t convince the reader that it truly represents spoken word. There is no attempt at persuasion.
 
Which makes sense on its own terms, but is heavily troubled by the fact that Coleridge was describing how fiction works. We’re meant to believe that this particular incoherence is reality. In which case it strikes the reader that the incoherence is the point—we enter this text in a state of confusion, seeking answers. We grow only more confused as it incoherently proceeds. The only purchase we can really gain over it is remembering that is it meant to be factual, an artifact, authentic. Its lack of authenticity on its own terms hardly matters.
 
Incoherence, pseudo-authenticity, secrecy: the same qualities define the conspiracy theories that have overwhelmed the discourse in Right Wing circles for four years (and longer, frankly, none more than QAnon. Without rehearsing its entire history, in brief: a purported administration insider who calls himself Q began posting what appeared to be inside information on how Donald Trump was breaking up a ring of “deep state,” or pedophile, or otherwise nefarious actors not only in the world of politics, but in Hollywood (Spielberg, Hanks, COME ON) and philanthropy (Soros). While at first it seemed a fringe hobby, in recent days disgraced former National Security Advisor Michael Flynn has taken the group’s oath, sharing a video saying, “Where we go one, we go all,” and multiple GOP primary winners to varying degrees are open supporters of the conspiracy theory. They sell a lot of merch. The theory itself builds around Trump’s cryptic comment in a 2017 Oval Office interview that “a storm’s coming.”
 
The language of Q’s initial posts shared many qualities with The Protocols. Clipped, terse, bearing an aesthetic that suggested military concision and allusiveness, the style helped those who jumped on with Q early to be swayed by a sense of its verisimilitude. Here’s Q’s first post in its entirety:
 
          HRC extradition already in motion effective yesterday with several countries in case of cross border run. Passport approved to be flagged effective 10/30 @ 12:01am. Expect massive riots organized in defiance and others fleeing the US to occur. US M’s will conduct the operation while NG activated. Proof check: Locate a NG member and ask if activated for duty 10/30 across most major cities.

Of course there are aspects of Q’s voice that are markedly different from the voice of The Protocols. There are knowable proper nouns, starting with the reference to Hillary Clinton, as “HRC.” There are time stamps, dates, the repeated reference to the National Guard as “NG.” But these references serve the same purpose at the elliptical generality of the voice of The Protocols—where in 1920 Henry Ford was presenting us with the purportedly authentic minutes of a meeting (leaving aside the fact they contain no real “protocols” in a literal way), in 2017 Q was presenting an ostensibly authentic voice of a government official on social media. Marshall McLuhan would remind us that each medium—the secrecy of meeting notes, the exposition and revelation of information on Twitter—determines the message. And in each case the message is: something serious is going down, and you’re not in on it.
 
Beyond that, there are some clear similarities in each voice. Compare Q’s cadences, the terse constructions, with the introductions to each of The Protocols. Here’s the opening of “Protocol No. 18”:
 
           Measures of secret defense. Observation of conspiracies from the inside. Overt secret defense—the ruin of authority. Secret defense of the King of the Jews. Mystical prestige of authority. Arrest on the first suspicion.
 
One quality of this writing is that it appears to require some inside clandestine knowledge of its own system of reference. If you have to ask what HRC means, what NG means, you’ll never know. Same with the coded language of “the King of the Jews,” that “secret defense” both Wilsonian Americans and tsarist Russians might have feared in the Communists in their midst. It serves as well as a shorthand, pushing back against the painful project I myself undertook: You don’t really need to read the whole thing to get what it’s about. Here are some conspiratorial SparkNotes. There is also a marked absence of narrative. Narrative itself suggests causation—this happened, and then that happened next as a result. In The Protocols, in Q world, there is only one causal relationship: this exists because of the conspiracy itself, which predates and always supersedes the argument.
 
This kind of coded language as it pertains specifically to The Protocols themselves carries over into the rhetoric of our moment more directly. In anti-Semitic flare-ups this summer, NFL receiver DeSean Jackson caused controversy after sharing fabricated Hitler quotations on his Instagram account, and after apologizing, was backed up by former NBA star Steven Jackson, who was less contrite. Comedian Nick Cannon was fired from one of his jobs for referring to a Protocols-like conspiracy involving “Rothschilds,” language from all three appearing to derive from the rhetoric of Louis Farrakhan. Longtime anti-Semitic commentator and one of the few humans I believe actually has read The Protocols, British former footballer and full-time conspiracy theorist David Ickes, made a video claiming COVID was caused by new 5G cellular phone towers. It was immediately taken down in June by YouTube, but only after Britons had torn down 5G towers in England (it didn’t kill the virus). But the Icke video found new hosts, including space on the official personal website of longtime vocal anti-Semite, the novelist Alice Walker, who also posted on her site the pseudo-documentary Plandemic, about COVID-denier and disgraced former doctor Judy Moskovitz.
 
All these threads converged at the 2020 RNC. Only hours before she was to speak as part of the convention, Mary Ann Mendoza, the mother of an Arizona police officer killed in 2014 by a drunk driver, had her speech canceled. That day she’d retweeted a long Twitter thread claiming that QAnon had uncovered a Jewish plot, led by “Rothschilds,” [sic] to take control of world governments. “‘The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ Is Not A Fabrication,” a part of the thread read. “And Certainly It Is Not Anti-Semetic [sic] To Point Out This Fact.” Mendoza had a long history of tweeting out such anti-Semitic canards.
 
So. Yes. Varied conspiracy theories proliferate, and The Protocols themselves have found their way back into our discourse alongside them. Early in Trump’s impeachment trial, in November 2019, security analyst Fiona Hill brought up the fact that anti-Semitic smears by Roger Stone, against her and philanthropist and Holocaust survivor George Soros, were literally out of the same playbook: “This is the longest-running anti-Semitic trope that we have in history,” Hill told congress. “This is the new Protocols of The Elders of Zion.” She at least was involved enough to describe the text as a tsarist forgery. On his Fox News show, GOP propagandist Tucker Carlson recently disparaged the popular book White Fragility by suggesting that seeing someone reading it on the subway is akin to watching someone reading The Protocols openly (I only brought my own copy to the public pool, and was careful to cover it up with my daughter’s Pocahontas towel).
 
And in May of this year, when the president himself went to visit a Ford factory in Michigan, he made his not so subtle dog whistle to all these conspiracists. Speaking to reporters, he said, “The company was founded by a man named Henry Ford. Good bloodlines, good bloodlines, if you believe in that stuff you’ve got good blood.” The ouroboros of conspiracy theorizing was complete. Who can even tell head from tail at this point.
 





Which inevitably, as all things seem to do in 2020, brings us back to the fascism-curious POTUS himself. In the epilogue of The Protocols, in the edition I read—I’m consciously not mentioning the publisher or editor, as it’s packed with all kinds of other anti-Semitic hate and doesn’t deserve our attention—the purported translator of the 1905 edition of the text, a Czech named Sergius A. Nilus, writes that when The Protocols were supposedly discovered, “the storm was about to break on apathetic Russia.” Is this the same storm Trump was dog whistling in Michigan, along with his propping up of Henry Ford? Could he be expected to remember such details? Wasn’t Churchill’s World War II memoir called The Coming Storm? How specific are storms, and their coming, their breaking? At some point when reading so much conspiratorial thinking one fears he’s growing to be part of the conspiracy, and ducks out. Remembers that the point of all these primary documents—The Protocols, Q’s posts, Plandemic, even Trump’s speeches and comments themselves—signify to the listener simply because they exist. There’s no narrative, no causation, just patterns in the rug.
 
This is almost certainly true of the rambling, incoherent speeches the president has given since the pandemic began. At his ill-conceived indoor rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in June, Trump’s long speeches could go on for endless paragraphs. Take this one, a kind of conspiratorial thinking about the upcoming presidential election:

     Joe Biden and the Democrats want to prosecute Americans for going to church, but not for burning a church. They believe you can riot, vandalize and destroy, but you cannot attend a peaceful pro-America rally. They want to punish your thought, but not their violent crimes. They want to abolish bail, abolish and open up your borders. They want open borders, let everyone, and by the way, we’re doing so well. We have a record this month on the borders. Nobody’s coming in. Very few people. And they want to abolish ICE, our great people from ICE who send the roughest toughest, meanest people that you’ve ever seen or ever heard.
 
The paragraph reads like someone who has read The Protocols and wants to sound like them. I’d be remiss not to point out that even this long paragraph doesn’t come close to approaching the length and prolixity of any single protocol, and served as a reminder to this reader, at least, that the sheer length of each protocol strains the credibility of The Protocols as a record of actual spoken lectures. Reading a Trump rally speech on the page bears out something of the same thing that we find in The Protocols, in QAnon. It doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. It doesn’t often cohere. It’s so broad as to be difficult to track, and hides its outright lies (“Biden wants to prosecute Americans for going to church”) in a willy-nilly garble. It purposely obfuscates. But in the midst of the miasma, the confusion, we’re forced to grasp back at what we came here for. In The Protocols, it’s the anti-Semitism, fulfilling our belief in a Jewish plot to destroy non-Jewish culture merely because it exists. In Trump, it’s Trump’s desire to gain and retain power.
 
Some facts about this speech, still: it is repetitive, unconvincing, fragmentary, a pure slog; disordered, ridiculous, confusing, and above all, incoherent. But it’s not the voice of The Protocols, not exactly. It belongs to the same genre: spoken, boasting, elliptical. Early on in “Protocol No. 1” the forgery reads, “Every man aims at power, everyone would like to become a dictator if he could.” That part, at least, is not at all hard to comprehend. In fact, it sounds quite familiar.
 
The Incoherence of Hate: Reading The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. By  Daniel Torday.  LitHub, August 27, 2020.
 


 

The modern world’s most consequential conspiracy text was barely noticed when it first appeared in a little-read Russian newspaper in 1903. The message of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion is straightforward, and terrifying: The rise of liberalism had provided Jews with the tools to destroy institutions—the nobility, the church, the sanctity of marriage—whole. Soon, they would take control of the world, as part of a revenge plot dating back to the ascendancy of Christendom. The text, ostensibly narrated by a Jewish leader, describes this plan in detail, relying on centuries-old anti-Jewish tropes, and including lengthy expositions on monetary, media, and electoral manipulation. It announces Jewry’s triumph as imminent: The world order will fall into the hands of a cunning elite, who have schemed forever and are now fated to rule until the end of time. 

It was a fabrication, and a clumsy one, largely copied from the obscure, French-language political satire Dialogue aux enfers entre Machiavel et Montesquieu, or The Dialogue in Hell Between Machiavelli and Montesquieu, by Maurice Joly. But it has enjoyed a remarkable appeal, despite various attempts to ban it and calls for individuals to denounce it—and now, in our conspiracy-saturated moment, it has decisively reemerged.
 
The book sells widely in Turkey, Syria, and Japan; remains a staple of Russian Orthodox bookshops; and in 2002, was the subject of a long-running Egyptian television series. It is widely available on eBay and on the Barnes & Noble website. The British charity Oxfam sold it on its site until March of this year. When asked by The New York Times in 2018 to name the books at her bedside, Alice Walker listed David Icke’s And the Truth Will Set You Free, a contemporary summary of The Protocols. At a 2019 congressional hearing, the former National Security Council official Fiona Hill described The Protocols’ image of a greedy, devious Jew as “the longest-running anti-Semitic trope we have.” Last week, when an automated Twitter bot managed by the FBI posted a 139-page file containing the text and the agency’s documents on it, hate-filled praise streamed in alongside the replies condemning the tweet for its lack of context. For devotees, The Protocols’ capacity to explain the world remains so resonant that the COVID-19 pandemic has now been blamed on the machinations of the ubiquitous Jewish elders.
 
A mountain of writings has surfaced over the past century and more, each devoted to revealing the supposed perfidy of the Jews. But nearly all have disappeared: The back shelves of research libraries are packed with anti-Semitic best sellers now turned to dust. (Who still reads Houston Stewart Chamberlain’s The Foundations of the Nineteenth Century, a massive best seller celebrated by George Bernard Shaw at the time of its publication in 1899 as a “masterpiece”?) Even Hitler’s Mein Kampf is rarely cited, though it remains a favorite of the Nation of Islam’s Louis Farrakhan and in a newly energized far right. 
 
But The Protocols has survived, more so than any other text of its kind. It has done so not because its ideas are particularly original, and certainly not because they’re correct. It has done so for the simple reason that The Protocols is, curiously enough, a compelling read. Conspiracy theories are many things, but most of all, they’re narratives—understandable, comprehensive stories about how the world works, complete with the arcs and the rhythms of any other epic tale of heroes and villains. Part of what makes certain ones endure is how well they unfurl that story.
 
The Protocols’ voice is cool, patronizing, vile; the voice of someone who is ready to perform any task, however dastardly, in the march toward world domination. This, then, is no secondary source, unlike other familiar, formulaic expressions of anti-Semitism, but a chance to overhear a consequential Jewish leader plotting the fate of the world. This narrative immediacy is the difference between a newspaper article and a novel, between remove and urgency. The Protocols is not, purportedly, mere narration of a diabolical plot—it’s evidence of one. It projects authority by obscuring its authorship, not unlike various religious texts—or, to use a much more recent and pertinent example, the anonymous dispatches that form the foundation of QAnon.
 
And beneath its wild, hate-filled surface, The Protocols has a surprisingly solid, if plagiarized, core. Joly’s source material is an astute portrait of modernity’s ills, imagining a collision between (the well-meaning, but inadequate) Montesquieu and (the brilliant, immeasurably more persuasive) Machiavelli, and ultimately reveals the susceptibility of liberal society to manipulation and distraction using war, or greed, or the clouds of nostalgia. It was a prescient view of the world, as the political theorist Hans Speier has said, one that perceived “the hazards of popular sovereignty as well as the abuse of power by social engineers.” Nearly everything about The Protocols is wrong, but just enough about its depiction of the onset of totalitarianism is insightful that it is harder to dismiss than other, more outlandish conspiracy theories.
 
And though its most fervent following is on the far right, the text itself is without any emphatic leftist or rightist coloring. This is why it can be embraced as it is today by disparate groups such as evangelicals, neo-Nazis, some anti-Israel activists, and a slice of black-metal fans. It is endlessly versatile, a Rorschach test onto which a great assortment of convictions can readily be sketched.
 
Perhaps the finest of all scholars writing today about The Protocols is Michael Hagemeister, a mild, left-leaning German based at the Ruhr University in Bochum. His entry into the study of this text provides a useful look at its rapid move in recent years from obscurity at the far fringe of political life to something close to the mainstream.
 



Hagemeister was introduced to The Protocols when he was visiting the Soviet Union in the early 1980s to research a dissertation on the 19th-century right-leaning philosopher Nikolai Fedorov. Hagemeister’s interest in Fedorov, coupled with his ancestry—relatives had served as senior figures in the Romanov administration—convinced the rightist intellectuals he encountered that he was a kindred spirit. As a result, one of them, a specialist in German thought, asked if on his next trip he might bring along a copy of a book of great importance, a book that proved worldwide Jewish domination.
 
To Hagemeister, the plot laid out in The Protocols seemed no more current than the fear of the Illuminati or the Freemasons, the stuff of a Dan Brown bestseller. Its fortune has risen considerably since. Having now spent 30 years studying the text, Hagemeister told me recently that he isn’t surprised that it’s been used to explain the pandemic. The Protocols feels all the more pertinent, he added, at moments of crisis such as this one, when the righteous are urged to close their ranks to repel the enemy—a strategy the book suggests could effectively stop the Jews. Like QAnon’s missives or some of the finest novels, The Protocols is a narrative about the crucial moment just before cataclysm, and the notion that those horrors can still be averted with a swift and unequivocal response.
 
The belief captured by The Protocols that the world is in the clutches of a cabal—mighty, yet small enough to fit itself into the discreet, darkened corner of a club—certainly isn’t the sole possession of those who loathe Jews. But Jews, whether in the guise of Soros or Rothschild, Disraeli or Marx, provide a time-tested, biblically vetted vortex. And at a jittery moment such as ours, when it’s so easy to feel the world is cascading out of control, it’s revealing that The Protocols has shed its archaic feel.
 
The Conspiracy Theory to Rule Them All. What explains the strange, long life of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? By Stephen J. Zipperstein. The Atlantic, August 25, 2020.