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Trump Is Threatening to Unwind AI Progress

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › technology › archive › 2024 › 10 › trump-ai-policy › 680476

If the presidential election has provided relief from anything, it has been the generative-AI boom. Neither Kamala Harris nor Donald Trump has made much of the technology in their public messaging, and they have not articulated particularly detailed AI platforms. Bots do not seem to rank among the economy, immigration, abortion rights, and other issues that can make or break campaigns.

But don’t be fooled. Americans are very invested, and very worried, about the future of artificial intelligence. Polling consistently shows that a majority of adults from both major parties support government regulation of AI, and that demand for regulation might even be growing. Efforts to curb AI-enabled disinformation, fraud, and privacy violations, as well as to support private-sector innovation, are under way at the state and federal levels. Widespread AI policy is coming, and the next president may well steer its direction for years to come.

On the surface, the two candidates couldn’t be further apart on AI. When AI has come up on the campaign trail, the focus has not been on substantive issues, but instead on the technology’s place in a supposed culture war. At a rally last winter, Trump railed against the Biden administration’s purported “use of AI to censor the speech of American citizens” (a contorted reference, perhaps, to an interview that week in which Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas denounced the “politicization” of public education around the dangers of AI, including misinformation). Trump also said he would overturn Joe Biden’s executive order on AI—a sprawling document aiming to preserve consumer and civil rights while also spurring innovation—“on day one.” Then, over the summer, the GOP platform lambasted the “dangerous” executive order as slowing innovation and imposing “Radical Leftwing ideas” on the technology, perhaps referring to the order’s stated “dedication to advancing equity.” Elon Musk, now the most powerful Trump surrogate in the world, recently invited his followers to “imagine an all-powerful woke AI.” Harris, for her part, hasn’t discussed AI much as a candidate, but she is leading many of Biden’s AI efforts as vice president, and her economic platform mentions furthering “the commitments set forth in the 2023 AI Executive Order.”

[Read: The real AI threat starts when the polls close]

Such rhetoric is par for the course this election cycle: Trump in particular has never been known for nuance or gravity, and tearing down Biden is obviously his default position. What no one seems to remember, though, is that Biden’s “dangerous” executive order echoes not one but two executive orders on AI that Trump himself signed. Many of the policies around AI that President Biden and Vice President Harris have supported extend principles and initiatives from Trump’s term—such as efforts to establish federal funding for AI research, prepare American workers for a changing economy, and set safety standards for the technology. The two most recent presidential administrations even agreed on ensuring that federal AI use is nondiscriminatory. Trump’s approach to the technology, in turn, built on foundations laid during Barack Obama’s presidency.

In other words, despite how AI has been approached by their campaigns (that is, barely, or only in the shallowest terms), both candidates have real track records on AI, and those records are largely aligned. The technology appeared to be a rare issue driven for years by substance rather than partisanship, perhaps because prior to the launch of ChatGPT, it wasn’t on many Americans’ minds. With AI now assuming national importance, Trump has promised to tear that consensus down.

Still, there’s a good chance he won’t be able to—that reason and precedent will prevail in the end, if only because there’s already so much momentum behind what began during his own administration. “To the extent that the Trump administration worked on issues of science and technology policy, it worked on AI,” Alondra Nelson, a professor at the Institute for Advanced Study who previously served as the acting director of Biden’s Office of Science and Technology Policy, told me. And in doing so, it was inheriting priorities set under a man Trump has called “the most ignorant president in our history.” Near the end of his second term, Obama directed several federal agencies to study and plan for the growing importance of “big data” and AI, which culminated at the end of 2016 with the publication of a report on the “future of artificial intelligence,” as well as a national strategic plan for AI research and development. Those included broad suggestions to grow the federal government’s AI expertise, support private-sector innovation, establish standards for the technology’s safety and reliability, lead international conversations on AI, and prepare the American workforce for potential automation.

A few years later, Trump began to deliver on those recommendations through his executive orders on AI, a 2019 update to that strategic plan, and his White House’s guidance to federal agencies on using AI. “The Trump administration made AI a national technology priority,” Michael Kratsios, who served as the country’s chief technology officer under Trump and helped design his AI strategy, told Congress last October. In that testimony, Kratsios, who is currently the managing director of the start-up Scale AI, lauded much of Obama’s previous and Biden’s current work on AI—even criticizing Biden for not doing enough to implement existing policies—and noted the continued importance of supporting “high-quality testing and evaluation” of AI products.

Biden and Harris have since taken the baton. Trump’s first executive order in particular did “have a lot of the ingredients that got much more developed in Biden’s EO,” Ellen Goodman, a professor at Rutgers Law School who has advised the National Telecommunications and Information Administration on the fair and responsible use of algorithms, told me. “So when Trump says he’s going to repeal it with a day-one action, one wonders, what is it exactly that’s so offensive?” Even specific policies and programs at the center of Biden and Harris’s work on AI, such as establishing national AI-research institutes and the National AI Initiative Office, were set in motion by the Trump administration. The National Artificial Intelligence Research Resource, which Harris’s economic plan touts by name, originated with AI legislation that passed near the end of Trump’s term. Innovation, supporting American workers, and beating China are goals Harris and Trump share. Bluster aside, the candidates’ records suggest “a lot of similarities when you get down to the brass tacks of priorities,” Alexandra Givens, the president of the Center for Democracy & Technology, a nonprofit that advocates for digital privacy and civil rights, told me.

[Read: The EV culture wars aren’t what they seem]

To be clear, substantive disputes on AI between Harris and Trump will exist, as with any pair of Democratic and Republican presidential candidates on most issues. Even with broad agreements on priorities and government programs, implementation will vary. Kratsios had emphasized a “light touch” approach to regulation. Some big names in Silicon Valley have come out against the Biden administration’s AI regulations, arguing that they put undue burdens on tech start-ups. Much of the Republican Party’s broader message involves dismantling the federal government’s regulatory authority, Goodman said, which would affect its ability to regulate AI in any domain.

And there is the “Radical Leftwing” rhetoric. The Biden-Harris administration made sure the “first piece of work out the public would see would be the Blueprint for an AI Bill of Rights,” Nelson said, which outlines various privacy and civil-rights protections that anyone building or deploying AI systems should prioritize. Republicans seem to have a particular resistance to these interventions, which are oriented around such concepts as “algorithmic discrimination,” or the idea that AI can perpetuate and worsen inequities from race, gender, or other identifying characteristics.

But even here, the groundwork was actually laid by Trump. His first executive order emphasized “safety, security, privacy, and confidentiality protections,” and his second “protects privacy, civil rights, [and] civil liberties.” During his presidency, the National Institutes of Standards and Technology issued a federal plan for developing AI standards that mentioned “minimizing bias” and ensuring “non-discriminatory” AI—the very reasons why the GOP platform lashed out against Biden’s executive order and why Senator Ted Cruz recently called its proposed safety standards “woke.” The reason that Trump and his opponents have in the past agreed on these issues, despite recent rhetoric suggesting otherwise, is that these initiatives are simply about making sure the technology actually functions consistently, with equal outcomes for users. “The ‘woke’ conversation can be misleading,” Givens said, “because really, what we’re talking about is AI systems that work and have reliable outputs … Of course these systems should actually work in a predictable way and treat users fairly, and that should be a nonpartisan, commonsense approach.”

In other words, the question is ultimately whether Trump will do a heel turn simply because the political winds have shifted. (The former president has been inconsistent even on major issues such as abortion and gun control in the past, so anything is possible.) The vitriol from Trump and other Republicans suggests they may simply oppose “anything that the Biden administration has put together” on AI, says Suresh Venkatasubramanian, a computer scientist at Brown University who previously advised the Biden White House on science and technology policy and co-authored the Blueprint for an AI Bill of Rights. Which, of course, means opposing much of what Trump’s own administration put together on AI.

But he may find more resistance than he expects. AI has become a household topic and common concern in the less than two years since ChatGPT was released. Perhaps the parties could tacitly agree on broad principles in the past because the technology was less advanced and didn’t matter much to the electorate. Now everybody is watching.

Americans broadly support Biden’s executive order. There is bipartisan momentum behind laws to regulate deepfake disinformation, combat nonconsensual AI sexual imagery, promote innovation that adheres to federal safety standards, protect consumer privacy, prevent the use of AI for fraud, and more. A number of the initiatives in Biden’s executive order have already been implemented. An AI bill of rights similar to the Biden-Harris blueprint passed Oklahoma’s House of Representatives, which has a Republican supermajority, earlier this year (the legislative session ended before the bill could make it out of committee in the senate). There is broad “industry support and civil-society support” for federal safety standards and research funding, Givens said. And every major AI company has entered voluntary agreements with and advised the government on AI regulation. “There’s going to be a different expectation of accountability from any administration around these issues and powerful tools,” Nelson said.

When Obama, Trump, and Biden were elected, few people could have predicted anything like the release of ChatGPT. The technology’s trajectory could shift even before the inauguration, and almost certainly will before 2028. The nation’s political divides might just be too old, and too calcified, to keep pace—which, for once, might be to the benefit of the American people.

The Democratic Theory of Winning With Less

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › politics › archive › 2024 › 10 › kamala-harris-narrow-path › 680465

For years, the dominant belief in both parties has been that Democrats need to run up a big lead in the national presidential popular vote to win an Electoral College majority. But in the dead-heat election of 2024, that may no longer be true. The distinctive dynamics of the 2024 campaign could allow Kamala Harris to eke out an Electoral College win even if Donald Trump runs better in the national popular vote this time than during his previous two campaigns.

The belief that Democrats need a big popular-vote win to prevail in the electoral vote hardened in the course of those two previous Trump campaigns. In 2020, Joe Biden beat Trump by a resounding 4.5 percentage points in the popular vote but still only squeezed past him by relatively small margins in the three Rust Belt battlegrounds of Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin that decided the race. In 2016, Hillary Clinton beat Trump by two points in the national popular vote but narrowly lost those same three states, and with them the presidency.

That history has weighed heavily on Democrats as a procession of recent polls has shown Trump shrinking or even erasing Harris’s national lead. But the pattern of differences among white, Black, and Latino voters found in most of those national surveys show how Harris could still potentially capture the 270 Electoral College votes needed for victory—even if she wins the nationwide popular vote by much less than Biden did in 2020, and possibly by only about the same margin that Clinton got in 2016.

The principal reason is that these recent polls show Trump making most of his gains in national support by performing better among Black and, especially, Latino voters than he did in either of those previous elections. Even the most favorable surveys for Trump consistently find Harris polling very close to Biden’s level of support in 2020 among white voters, which had improved over Clinton’s performance with that group by several points. In other words, Harris will likely rely a bit more on white voters than her party’s past two nominees did.

That subtle shift is the crucial distinction from the earlier contests. It could allow Harris to scrape a win by sweeping the predominantly white, former “Blue Wall” battlegrounds of Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin, even if Trump improves over his prior popular-vote results by gaining among Black and Latino voters (and Black and Latino men in particular).

[Read: Elon Musk wants you to think this election’s being stolen]

In each of his previous two races, Trump benefited because the decisive states leaned more Republican than the nation overall. In both 2016 and 2020, Wisconsin was the tipping-point state that provided the 270th Electoral College vote for the winner—first for Trump, then for Biden. In 2016, Trump ran about three percentage points better in Wisconsin than he did nationally; in 2020, he ran nearly four points better in Wisconsin than he did nationally, according to the University of Virginia Center for Politics.

The fact that Trump each time performed much better in the tipping-point state than he did in the national popular vote is central to the assumption that Democrats can’t win the Electoral College without a popular-vote majority. But as the Center for Politics research demonstrates, that hasn’t always been true.

The tipping-point states in the three presidential elections preceding 2016—Ohio in 2004 and Colorado in 2008 and 2012—each voted slightly more Democratic than the national popular vote. And in none of those elections was the disjunction between the tipping-point-state result and the national popular vote nearly as big as it was in 2016 or 2020. In fact, the gap between the national popular vote and the tipping-point state in Trump’s two races was considerably wider than in any election since 1948, the Center found.

Polling in the past few weeks, however, has indicated that this gap has shrunk to virtually nothing. Trump and Harris remain locked in a virtual tie both nationally and in the swing states. With polls that closely matched, none of the swing states appears entirely out of reach for either candidate.

Still, professionals on both sides with whom I’ve spoken in recent days see a clear hierarchy to the states. Both camps give Harris her best chance for overall victory by winning in Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin; Trump is considered stronger across the Sun Belt in North Carolina, Arizona, Georgia, and Nevada (ranked from most to least promising for him).

That separation reflects the race’s unexpected racial dynamics. If Trump’s polling gains among voters of color bear out in practice, that would benefit him the most in the Sun Belt battlegrounds. There, minority voters are such a large share of the electorate that even a small shift in their preferences—toward Trump—would greatly diminish Democrats’ chances.

Whatever happens in the Sun Belt, though, if Harris sweeps the Rust Belt big three, she would reach exactly the 270 Electoral College votes needed to win (so long as she held all of the other states that Biden carried by about three percentage points or more, which is very likely). All three of those major industrial states are much less diverse than the nation as a whole: In 2020, white people cast about four-fifths of the vote in Michigan and Pennsylvania, and roughly nine-tenths of it in Wisconsin, according to census figures.

“One of the potential outcomes here is that at the end of the day, Trump will have gained with Blacks and Latinos and it may not have decided the Electoral College, if we don’t need [the Sun Belt states] to win,” Paul Maslin, a Democratic pollster with long experience in Wisconsin, told me.

Obviously, Harris has no guarantee that she could survive a smaller national popular-vote margin than Biden: The polls showing national gains for Trump could be capturing a uniform uptick in his support that would deliver slim victories across most—and possibly all—of the seven decisive states. Even the most optimistic Democrats see marginal wins in the battlegrounds as probably Harris’s best-case scenario. But the prospect that she could hold the former Blue Wall states even while slipping nationally challenges the conventional wisdom that Democrats must amass a significant lead in the national popular vote to secure enough states to win the electoral vote.

“The Blue Wall states are the likeliest tipping point for either candidate,” Kyle Kondik, the managing editor of the Sabato’s Crystal Ball newsletter published by the Center on Politics, told me. “If the country moves two to three points to the right but those states only move a point or less, that’s where you start to get the tipping point looking pretty close to the popular vote.”

The Democratic strategist Mike Podhorzer, a former political director at the AFL-CIO, also believes that Harris could win the Electoral College with a smaller popular-vote advantage than most analysts have previously assumed. But he says the demographic characteristics of the swing states aren’t the primary cause of this possibility. Rather, the key factor is that those states are experiencing the campaign in an immersive way that other states are not thanks to huge advertising spends, organizing efforts, and candidate appearances.

That disparity, he says, increases the odds that the battleground states can move in a different direction from the many states less exposed to such campaigning. Both Podhorzer and Kondik note that the 2022 midterm elections supported the general thesis: Although broad dissatisfaction with Biden allowed Republicans to win the national popular vote in House elections, Democrats ran much better in statewide contests across the most heavily contested battlegrounds, especially in Michigan, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Arizona.

“It is really the difference between how well you are doing outside the battlegrounds and inside the battlegrounds,” Podhorzer told me. Inside the battlegrounds, he pointed out, voters have for years now been exposed at blast-force volume to each party’s arguments on all the major issues. “The cumulative effect of it is that they have an awareness of what is at stake, a different worldview, than people living outside those states,” he said.

The analogue to 2022 this year would be whether general disappointment in Biden’s economic record increases Trump’s popular-vote total in less-contested blue and red states alike, but Harris holds on to enough of the battlegrounds where voters are hearing the full dimensions of each side’s case against the other.

[Read: How the Trump resistance gave up]

The same national polls that show Trump gaining among voters of color this year do not show much, if any, improvement for him compared with his 2020 performance among white voters. The latest aggregation of high-quality national public polls published by Adam Carlson, a former Democratic pollster, found that Harris is almost entirely preserving Biden’s gains among white voters; that means Harris is also exceeding Clinton’s showing with them from 2016.

The comparison with Clinton is instructive. Among voters of color, Clinton ran better in 2016 than either Biden in 2020 or how Harris is polling now. But Clinton lagged about three to four points below both of them among white voters. If Harris wins the popular vote by only about the same margin as Clinton, but more of Harris’s lead relies on support from white voters, the vice president’s coalition would be better suited to win the Rust Belt battlegrounds. In that scenario, Harris would assemble what political scientists call a more electorally “efficient” coalition than Clinton’s.

Biden’s margins of victory in the former Blue Wall states were so slim that Harris can’t afford much erosion with voters of color even there. But two factors may mitigate that danger for her. One is that in the Rust Belt states, most voters of color are not Latino but Black, and Democrats feel more confident that they can minimize losses among the latter than among the former.

The other key factor is a subtle change in those states’ white populations. Calculations from the latest census data provided to me by William Frey, a demographer at the nonpartisan Brookings Metro think tank, found that since 2020, white voters without a college degree—the demographic group in which Trump performs best—have declined as a share of eligible voters by about three percentage points in both Michigan and Wisconsin, and by about 1.5 points in Pennsylvania. In Michigan and Wisconsin, college-educated white voters, who now tilt mostly toward Harris, largely made up the difference; in Pennsylvania, the share of minority voters grew. In a typical election, these slight shifts in the electorate’s composition probably would not matter, but they could in a contest as close as this one.

“There is still room to grow in the suburbs [across the region], and two things are going to contribute to that growth: January 6 and the Dobbs decision,” Mike Mikus, a Pittsburgh-based Democratic consultant, told me, referring to the insurrection at the Capitol in 2021 and the 2022 Supreme Court ruling that overturned the constitutional right to abortion. The racist slurs against Puerto Rico at Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally last weekend could also cost him with Pennsylvania’s substantial Puerto Rican population.

Sweeping Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin with a smaller national-popular-vote lead than Biden’s is nonetheless a high-wire assignment for Harris. A significant concern for Democratic strategists is whether the party has plausibly declined since 2020 only among voters of color, without suffering material losses among white voters as well.

One strategist with access to a wide array of party polls, who asked for anonymity to discuss that private research, told me that although many Democrats are optimistic that surveys overestimate Trump’s strength among Black voters, a risk also exists that polls underestimate Trump’s strength with white voters (something that has happened before). That risk will rise if Trump turns out unexpectedly large numbers of the blue-collar white voters who compose the largest share of infrequent voters in the Rust Belt battlegrounds.

However, the Republican pollster Whit Ayres told me that he is seeing the same divergence between slipping non-white support and steady white backing for Harris in his surveys—and he sees good reasons for that pattern potentially persisting through Election Day. “The Hispanic and African American weakness [for Harris] is a function of a memory of the Trump economy being better for people who live paycheck to paycheck than the Biden-Harris economy,” Ayres said. “On the other hand, there are far more white voters who will be voting based on abortion and the future of democracy. There’s a certain rationale behind those numbers, because they are making decisions based on different issues.”

Democrats generally believe that they maintain a fragile edge in Michigan and Wisconsin, partly because many public polls show Harris slightly ahead, but even more because their party has built a better turnout operation than the GOP in those states. Pennsylvania looks like the toughest of the three for Harris and, in the eyes of many strategists in both parties, the state most likely to decide this breathtakingly close race.

“Looking statewide, I’ve always thought from the time she got in that Harris would do better in the suburbs and the cities than Biden, and Trump would do better in a lot of these redder counties, and the million-dollar question is what number is bigger and how much bigger,” Mikus, the Pittsburgh-based consultant, told me.

Biden carried the Keystone state by only 1.2 percentage points while winning the national popular vote by nearly 4.5 points. Whether Trump wins a second term to execute his dark vision of “retribution” against “the enemy from within” may be determined by whether Harris can hold Pennsylvania while winning the national popular vote by much less, if at all. It would be a fitting conclusion to this bitter campaign if the state that decides the future shape of American democracy is the same one where the nation’s Constitution was written 237 years ago.

Full-On War Between Israel and Iran Isn’t Inevitable

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › international › archive › 2024 › 10 › israel-iran-attacks-war › 680418

It took 25 days, but in the early hours today, Israel responded to Iran’s salvo of missiles earlier this month. The operation, named “Days of Repentance,” was the most significant attack on Iran by any country since the 1980s. The Iranian regime’s years of waging a shadow war on Israel have finally brought the violence home, something the regime had repeatedly promised its people it would avoid.

The attacks were significant, and likely to cause considerable damage. At least four officers of the Iranian army, serving in missile-defense units, were killed. Nevertheless, Iran is relieved that its worst fears didn’t come true. A day before the attacks, Israel had used intermediaries to warn Iran about them, to make sure they wouldn’t cause massive casualties, Mostafa Najafi, a security expert in Tehran with connections to the regime’s elites, told me. He said the attacks weren’t “as vast and painful as Israeli officials had claimed” they would be. Israel did not target Iran’s infrastructure, such as its oil and gas refineries, nor did it assassinate political or military leaders.

Because of this, Iran has an opportunity to call it quits by giving a weak enough response that wouldn’t invite Israeli retaliation. Iran can stop the tit for tat, if it’s willing to resist the hard-line voices that want the country to escalate and even widen the conflict.

[Read: Iran is not ready for war with Israel]

Life in Tehran has quickly sprung back to normal. The city’s streets were clogged with traffic as usual on Saturday, the first day of the week in the country. Although all flights had initially been suspended, Tehran’s two main airports are back in operation.

“I believe Iran will respond to the attacks,” Afifeh Abedi, a security expert in Iran who is supportive of the government, told me. “But I doubt there would be escalation,” she said. “Countries of the region will stop this, and the U.S. will try to manage the situation.”

Abas Aslani of the Tehran-based Center for Middle East Strategic Studies agrees. “The evidence doesn’t currently point to a broader war,” he told me. “But this doesn’t necessarily mean that Iran won’t respond.”

I also spoke with two senior Iranian politicians, a conservative and a reformist, both of whom requested anonymity for fear of reprisals. They said that Iran wasn’t looking to broaden the conflict now. Iran and the U.S. had implicitly agreed to allow a limited Israeli strike followed by no significant Iranian response, the conservative figure, who is close to the parliamentary speaker, Mohammad-Bagher Ghalibaf, told me.  

The reformist politician, who has served in cabinet-level roles before, said that the diplomatic efforts of Iran’s minister of foreign affairs, Abbas Araghchi, helped ensure that the Israeli attacks were restricted to the military targets. Araghchi visited about a dozen nearby countries in the past few weeks, and he is believed to have asked them to put pressure on the U.S. and Israel to keep the attacks limited.

Across the region, there is broad opposition to widening the conflict. Saudi Arabia condemned the latest Israeli attacks on Iran as “a violation of its sovereignty and a violation of international laws and norms” and reiterated its “firm position in rejecting the continued escalation.” Similar condemnations have been issued by Turkey, Iraq, Lebanon, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain, Oman, Qatar, Kuwait, Jordan, Algeria, Mauritania, and, farther afield, Switzerland, Pakistan, Indonesia, and the Maldives. Jordan, which is a neighbor of Israel’s and signed a peace treaty with it 30 years ago on this very day, also confirmed that no Israeli strikers had been allowed to use Jordanian airspace. Trying to maintain neutrality, Jordan had previously helped Israel defend itself against Iranian drone and missile attacks.

[Read: Iran cannot be conciliated]

Iran knows that its future prosperity and success rely on economic development, which is actively hurt by its isolation from the international economy and its current war footing. Yesterday, the Paris-based Financial Action Task Force, a G7 initiative that helps enforce global anti-money-laundering rules, declared that it was going to keep Iran on its blacklist alongside only two other countries, North Korea and Myanmar. On Saturday, the U.S. dollar was selling for 680,000 Iranian rials, a historic high. These are not problems you can solve by fighting Israel.

Yesterday, in a rare candid moment, Ghalibaf acknowledged the stakes: “Sadly, our economy is not doing as well as our missiles. But it should.”

And yet, Iran is still a long way from taking the necessary steps to drop its anti-Israel campaign, overcome its international isolation, and focus on its domestic problems. Currently, any deviation from the anti-Israel orthodoxy leads to quick backlash by the hard-liners. Last month, the Assembly of Scholars and Instructors at the Qom Seminary, a reformist-leaning body of Shiite clerics, issued a statement that condemned Israel’s ongoing attacks on Lebanon while calling on it “to go back to its legal borders before the 1967 aggression” and urging the “formation of an independent Palestinian state.” This endorsement of the two-state solution incensed the hard-liners, some of whom called for the assembly to be shut down, but its position has been defended by the reformist press.

And some hard-liners are clamoring for all-out war with Israel.

“The Zionist regime is on decline, and Iran won’t let this attack go without a response,” Hossein Shariatmadari, the editor in chief of the hard-line daily Kayhan, told me. “Our response will be ever more decisive and crushing.”

Shariatmadari is known for outlandish pronouncements. Najafi, who tends to be more levelheaded, also believes that the Iranian-Israeli clashes are set to continue “in the medium term, especially after the U.S. elections.”

Some supporters of Israel also hope that the conflict will escalate. Mark Dubowitz, the CEO of the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, a Washington, D.C.–based think tank, said on X that Israel must now prepare for the “next phase” of its strategy: helping Iranians overthrow their regime, followed by “decisive decapitation strikes.”

As long as Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, is alive and in power, the country’s attitude toward Israel will not decisively shift. But he is 85, and, in preparation for an eventual succession struggle, the regime’s different factions are already squabbling over the country’s future direction. The hard-liners are not as politically powerful as they once were. They lost the presidency recently and are being marginalized in other institutions as well.

“The likes of Shariatmadari don’t matter to anyone,” the conservative politician told me. “Iran is set to change.”

If Iran wants to avoid a war, it can’t change fast enough.

The Liz Cheney Theory of a Harris Victory

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › politics › archive › 2024 › 10 › liz-cheney-kamala-harris-campaign › 680367

A few years ago, all of this would have been extremely weird. Actually, as the Democrats around me in the theater stood to applaud Liz Cheney—the pro-life, ultraconservative daughter of Dick—it still kind of was. The former third-ranked GOP House leader was joined onstage in the Philadelphia suburbs by three young onetime Donald Trump staffers, together issuing a warning about his potentially catastrophic unfitness for office—the four horsewomen heralding the threat of the Trump-ocalypse. Attendees seemed in awe of their bravery, and every few moments clapped with vigor.

Such an alignment, everyone agreed, would have been unthinkable in some other, more normal political universe. “If you would have told me four years ago that I’d be voting for Kamala Harris in 2024, my head would have exploded,” Sarah Matthews, a former deputy press secretary in the Trump administration, told me after the event. There were uncomfortable titters from some in the audience, of course, including once when the former White House director of strategic communications Alyssa Farah Griffin spoke highly of her two former bosses, Vice President Mike Pence and White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows. But the broader feeling—the powerful force that is disdain for Trump—kept everyone nodding solemnly in their seat.

This shared sentiment lines up with the Democrats’ closing pitch in the final days before the election: that Trump is an exceptional threat to American democracy. Voters of all ideological persuasions should choose Harris now and disagree about policy later.

Cheney and her fellow anti-Trump surrogates have run with that message in recent weeks, sometimes even joining Harris herself on the trail. Their effort, the thinking goes, gives Republicans permission to hold their nose and vote for a Democrat, maybe for the first time ever.

It might work. In an election that will almost certainly be decided by a few thousand votes in a handful of states, Cheney could reach a significant-enough sliver of the electorate for Harris to scrape by in November. They’re hopeful, even, for the deus ex machina of a silent minority. “If you’re at all concerned, you can vote your conscience and not ever have to say a word to anybody,” Cheney said Monday during an event with Harris in Royal Oak, Michigan. But centering a campaign on the nobler questions in politics—morality, democracy—is a risky bet when it comes to Trump, who has remained, throughout the past nine years, robustly immune to such high-minded attacks. The Cheney Strategy presumes that bipartisanship can win the day. It might be wishful thinking.

[Listen: Trump and the January 6 memory hole]

In the month since she formally endorsed Harris, Cheney has served as a traveling evangelist for the Democrats, hitting the road in America’s swing states to spread the good news about personal sacrifice and national redemption. There was that event onstage with the former Trump staffers in Philly, plus the stop with Harris in the Wisconsin town where the GOP was founded, and where Cheney declared that she “was a Republican even before Donald Trump started spray-tanning.” And this week, she wrapped up a three-state series of fireside-chats with Harris. In these appearances, Cheney has repeatedly referred to Trump as “cruel” and “depraved.” She warns that if he becomes president again, the mob attack of January 6, 2021, might look, in comparison, like the peaceful lovefest that Trump falsely maintains it was.

Nothing Cheney says is more telling than her example: A Republican born and bred, she effectively relinquished her seat in Congress and what was already an illustrious political career to stand up for what she thought was right. If a Cheney can vote blue, so can you. One problem, of course, is that most of the attendees at Cheney’s events are not Republicans. They are mostly Democrats—or Republicans who have been casting ballots for Democratic candidates in one election or another since 2016.

These gatherings sometimes carry the air of a religious revival, of people desperate to commune over their almighty revulsion for Trump. They weep and cheer to see Cheney confronting the bullies in this new, disfigured GOP. At other times, the events seem like a group-therapy session. At the theater outside Philly, several people told me, unprompted, about their own family divisions over politics: marriages and relationships torn apart during the Trump era. “I lost a 40-year friendship over Trump,” Sandy Lightkep, from nearby Horsham, told me. “My family’s split in half.” They come because they appreciate the sense of unity, real or imagined. “It’s wonderful that Republicans and Democrats are finally getting together,” Nancy Moskalski, visiting from Connecticut, told me. “This is what Joe Biden always wanted.”

Before a Harris-Cheney appearance in Chester County, Pennsylvania, earlier this week, I met two women who seemed to reflect the improbable alliance of the pair that would soon be onstage. “I just remember there was a time when I could have a discussion with a lot of my Republican and conservative friends,” Tanya Cain, who wore a navy-blue KAMALA HARRIS sweatshirt, told me. “We have to break this, whatever this is, and move forward.” Cain laughed. “If you would tell me Liz Cheney was gonna be in my politics—” The woman next to her, Susan Springman, broke in: “I never thought Harris would be in my politics either!” A lifelong Republican voter wearing a black turtleneck and pearls, Springman had voted for Trump in 2016 but now regretted it. “MAGA has to go, and whatever that means, I am willing to go with it to destroy that and to move forward with something else,” she said. She’d also persuaded her Republican husband to read Cheney’s book Oath and Honor, she said; he’d be voting for Harris too.

Democrats are banking on hopes that people like Springman aren’t such rare birds. That similar aisle-crossing comity is happening all around the country, under the radar. It’s totally fine, they say, if only a few Republicans are showing up to these events—they believe the important thing is the message it sends. Perhaps Cheney’s efforts will help remind voters of the violent attempt to stop the certification of the 2020 election. “It’s about driving a news cycle that reinjects the memory of what happened and tries to put the stakes back at the center of the conversation,” Sarah Longwell, the publisher of the anti-Trump publication The Bulwark who has appeared on the trail in support of Harris, told me.

The Cheney Strategy reflects a Harris-campaign pivot. For the first weeks of her presidential bid, Harris’s line about Trump was, primarily, that he was responsible for taking away women’s reproductive rights. When Minnesota Governor Tim Walz joined the ticket, the pair focused on communicating to voters that Trump and the MAGA Republicans were “weird.”

[Read: The swing states are in good hands]

Harris has worked hard to introduce herself, define her campaign, and deliver a message that sets her apart from Biden. For a while, she seemed successful, pulling ahead of Trump in several key swing states. But the polls have been tightening for weeks, compelling Harris to adopt something closer to Biden’s final pitch from 2020: that Trump is a reckless would-be dictator, whose reelection could bring about the end of American decency and democracy. “Brat summer is over,” as Vox’s Christian Paz put it. “‘Trump is a fascist’ fall is in.”

A closing argument about January 6 was the natural next move in this high-stakes election, Longwell told me. “They’ve decided that’s their closing pitch, to sort of go for those undecided voters,” she said. “Strategically, that’s correct.”

Most registered Republicans will vote for Trump, but it’s true that many conservative-identifying voters have concerns about his character. Whether enough of those exist to change the election result is debatable. Longwell and her Never Trump allies point to the GOP primary contest for evidence: Nikki Haley received 157,000 votes in Pennsylvania, even after she’d dropped out of the race, and she got 14 percent of the vote in pivotal Waukesha County, Wisconsin. “Trump has actively avoided courting any of those people,” Griffin, the former White House aide, told me. “So our belief is that there are people that you can reach—a sizable number of Republican voters—who will be willing to either cast their ballot this one time only for a Democrat, or at minimum, not vote for him.”

The gender gap in voting intention is wider than ever. College-educated women and suburbanites, in particular, are recoiling from Trump, and recent polling shows that women voters in general are 16 points more likely to support Harris. “Republican women can tip this election,” Brittany Prime, a self-identified moderate Republican and a co-founder of the anti-Trump organization Women4US, told me. Her group has identified nearly 400,000 “MAGA-exhausted” women in Pennsylvania, Georgia, and North Carolina, who, the group believes, can be persuaded to vote for Harris in November. Prime sees that effort as a twofold push. First, they assure voters that backing a Democrat “doesn’t mean you aren’t a Republican anymore,” she said. The second part of the message is that “no one’s going to find out, I promise.”

Some of the Republican women that Prime’s organization is talking to have requested that no mailers or ballots be sent to their home, she told me, because they don’t want their husband to find out. They plan to “go into the voting booth, vote their conscience, and never admit to it,” she said. When you talk to anti-Trump Republicans about this clandestine sisterhood, they will share stories about sticky notes in bathroom stalls reminding women that who they vote for is secret. Back in 2016, pollsters identified the “shy Trump voter” phenomenon, which referred to the poll respondents who were unwilling to admit that they were voting for Trump—and thus went unrepresented in surveys. Prime and other anti-Trump conservatives are hopeful that a similar phenomenon happens again, but in reverse: the shy anti-Trump voter. “We could be surprised on Election Day and the days after that there’s a silent majority, a quiet groundswell” in support of Harris, she said.

The problem with a quiet groundswell, though, is in its name. All of these hopeful anecdotes are impossible to translate into hard data about voter numbers and behavior. And some on the left are frustrated with Harris’s closing strategy, partly, because it’s an appeal to Republicans. “She’s trying to win without the base,” as Naomi Klein, the progressive author and columnist, put it this week.

A consistent drumbeat about practical, pocketbook policies would be better, other critics argue. After all, Democratic candidates in close House and Senate races are running campaign ads about abortion. A recent survey from the Center for Working-Class Politics found that voters responded better to “economically focused messages and messages that employed a populist narrative” than to warnings about Trump. “Ironically,” Dustin Guastella, a research associate with the group, wrote this week, “if Democrats are keen to defend democracy they would do well to stop talking about it.”

[Read: The everyday warfare of voting in America]

Most Americans already know what they think about Trump. As New Hampshire Governor Chris Sununu, who was once a Trump critic and now supports him, put it rather cynically on CNN this week, “With a guy like [Trump], it’s kinda baked into the vote.” Sure, Trump referring to his critics as “the enemy from within” is despicable. So is Trump’s statement as president, reported by The Atlantic’s Jeffrey Goldberg, that he wished he had generals like Hitler’s. But voters have been hearing stories about Trump’s authoritarian inclinations and norm violations for years, and the polls still show an impossibly tight race. Almost four years after rioters stormed the U.S. Capitol—and amid his four indictments and felony conviction—Trump’s favorability rating is higher now than at any time during his presidency.

After Cheney and the former Trump staffers finished speaking onstage in the Philadelphia suburbs, the audience responded with sustained applause, and the attendees I interviewed for feedback shook their heads in wonder. “It’s just amazing. I was impressed by these young women,” Ann Marie Nasek, a lawyer from Glenside, Pennsylvania, told me. It’s so difficult to understand the other side, she explained—why her neighbors and family members, who are, by all accounts, good and decent people, still support Trump, despite everything. “I wish this whole room was filled with Republicans,” she said, looking around.

On Tuesday, seven days before Election Day, Harris will deliver a speech from the Ellipse, the park behind the South Lawn of the White House where four years ago Trump rallied his supporters before they descended on the Capitol. Harris’s intention is obvious: conjure the dark imagery of the day that a defeated American president attempted to cling to power, just as voters make their final deliberations. Less clear is whether enough of those voters care.

Are the US and Israel creating a ‘new world order’ in the Middle East?

Al Jazeera English

www.aljazeera.com › program › the-bottom-line › 2024 › 10 › 13 › are-the-us-and-israel-creating-a-new-world-order-in-the-middle-east

The US and Israel are rearranging the Middle East to their liking, argues Center for International Policy's Matt Duss.

The Most Remote Place in the World

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › magazine › archive › 2024 › 11 › point-nemo-most-remote-place › 679947

This story seems to be about:

Illustrations by Anuj Shrestha

It’s called the “longest-swim problem”: If you had to drop someone at the place in the ocean farthest from any speck of land—the remotest spot on Earth—where would that place be? The answer, proposed only a few decades ago, is a location in the South Pacific with the coordinates 4852.5291ʹS 12323.5116ʹW: the “oceanic point of inaccessibility,” to use the formal name. It doesn’t get many visitors. But one morning last year, I met several people who had just come from there.

They had been sailing a 60-foot foiling boat, the Mālama, in the Ocean Race, a round-the-world yachting competition, and had passed near that very spot, halfway between New Zealand and South America. Now, two months later, they had paused briefly in Newport, Rhode Island, before tackling the final stretch across the Atlantic. (And the Mālama would win the race.) I spoke with some members of the five-person crew before going out with them for a sail on Narragansett Bay. When I asked about their experience at the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, they all brought up the weather.

With a test pilot’s understatement, the crew described the conditions as “significant” or “strong” or “noteworthy” (or, once, “incredibly noteworthy”). The Southern Ocean, which girds the planet in the latitudes above Antarctica and below the other continents, has the worst weather in the world because its waters circulate without any landmass to slow them down. The Antarctic Circumpolar Current is the most powerful on Earth, a conveyor belt that never stops and that in recent years has been moving faster. These are the waters that tossed Roald Amundsen and Ernest Shackleton. The winds are cold and brutal. Waves reach 60 or 70 feet. In a second, a racing boat’s speed can drop from 30 knots to five, then jump back to 30. You may have to ride out these conditions, slammed and jammed, for five days, 10 days, trimming sails from inside a tiny sealed cockpit, unable to stand up fully all that time. To sleep, you strap yourself into a harness. You may wake up bruised.

[Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go]

This is not a forgiving environment for a sailboat. But it’s a natural habitat for the albatross you find yourself watching through a foggy pane as it floats on air blowing across the water’s surface—gliding tightly down one enormous wave and then tightly up the next. The bird has a 10-foot wingspan, but the wings do not pump; locked and motionless, they achieve aerodynamic perfection. The albatross gives no thought to the longest swim. It may not have touched land in years.

The oceanic pole of inaccessibility goes by a more colloquial name: Point Nemo. The reference is not to the Disney fish, but to the captain in Jules Verne’s novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. In Latin, nemo means “no one,” which is appropriate because there is nothing and no one here. Point Nemo lies beyond any national jurisdiction. According to Flightradar24, a tracking site, the occasional commercial flight from Sydney or Auckland to Santiago flies overhead, when the wind is right. But no shipping lanes pass through Point Nemo. No country maintains a naval presence. Owing to eccentricities of the South Pacific Gyre, the sea here lacks nutrients to sustain much in the way of life—it is a marine desert. Because biological activity is minimal, the water is the clearest of any ocean.

What you do find in the broad swath of ocean around Point Nemo—at the bottom of the sea, two and a half miles below the surface—are the remains of spacecraft. They were brought down deliberately by means of a controlled deorbit, the idea being that the oceanic point of inaccessibility makes a better landing zone than someone’s rooftop in Florida or North Carolina. Parts of the old Soviet Mir space station are here somewhere, as are bits and pieces of more than 250 other spacecraft and their payloads. They had been sent beyond the planet’s atmosphere by half a dozen space agencies and a few private companies, and then their lives came to an end. There is a symmetry in the outer-space connection: If you are on a boat at Point Nemo, the closest human beings will likely be the astronauts aboard the International Space Station; it periodically passes directly above, at an altitude of about 250 miles. When their paths crossed at Point Nemo, the ISS astronauts and the sailors aboard the Mālama exchanged messages.

Illustration by Anuj Shrestha

The Mālama’s crew spoke with me about the experience of remoteness. At Point Nemo, they noted, there is no place to escape to. If a mast breaks, the closest help, by ship, from Chile or New Zealand, could be a week or two away. You need to be able to fix anything—sails, engines, electronics, the hull itself. The crew described sensations of rare clarity and acuity brought on by the sheer scale of risk. The austral environment adds a stark visual dimension. At this far-southern latitude, the interplay of light and cloud can be intense: the darks so very dark, the brights so very bright.

Simon Fisher, the Mālama’s navigator, described feeling like a trespasser as the boat approached Point Nemo—intruding where human beings do not belong. Crew members also described feelings of privilege and power. “There’s something very special,” Fisher said, “about knowing you’re someplace where everybody else isn’t.”

We all know the feeling. Rain-swept moors, trackless deserts, unpeopled islands. For me, such places are hard to resist. Metaphorically, of course, remoteness can be found anywhere—cities, books, relationships. But physical remoteness is a category of its own. It is an enhancer: It can make the glorious better and the terrible worse. The oceanic pole of inaccessibility distills physical remoteness on our planet into a pure and absolute form. There are continental poles of inaccessibility too—the place on each landmass that is farthest from the sea. But these locations are not always so remote. You can drive to some of them. People may live nearby. (The North American pole of inaccessibility is on the Pine Ridge Reservation, in South Dakota.) But Point Nemo is nearly impossible to get to and offers nothing when you arrive, not even a place to stand. It is the anti-Everest: It beckons because nothing is there.

I first heard the name Point Nemo in 1997, when hydrophones on the floor of the South Pacific, thousands of miles apart, picked up the loudest underwater sound ever recorded. This got headlines, and the sound was quickly named the “Bloop.” What could be its source? Some speculated about an undiscovered form of marine life lurking in the abyssal depths. There was dark talk about Russian or American military activity. Readers of H. P. Lovecraft remembered that his undersea zombie city of R’lyeh was supposedly not far away. Scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration eventually concluded that the sound had come from the fracturing or calving of ice in Antarctica. In this instance, freakish conditions had directed the sound of an Antarctic event northward, toward a lonely expanse of ocean. Faraway hydrophones then picked up the sound and mistook its place of origin. News reports noted the proximity to Point Nemo.

[Video: The loudest underwater sound ever recorded has no scientific explanation]

You might have thought that a planetary feature as singular as the oceanic pole of inaccessibility would be as familiar as the North Pole or the equator. In a sci-fi story, this spot in the South Pacific might be a portal to some other dimension—or possibly the nexus of the universe, as the intersection of First and First in Manhattan was once said to be. Yet at the time of the Bloop, the location of the oceanic pole of inaccessibility had been known and named for only five years.

I have not been to Point Nemo, though it has maintained a curious hold on me for decades. Not long ago, I set out to find the handful of people on Earth who have some sort of personal connection to the place. I started with the man who put it on the map.

Hrvoje Lukatela, a Croatian-born engineer, left his homeland in the 1970s as political and intellectual life there became turbulent. At the University of Zagreb, he had studied geodesy—the science of measuring Earth’s physical properties, such as its shape and its orientation in space. Degree in hand, he eventually found his way to Calgary, Alberta, where he still lives and where I spent a few days with him last fall. At 81, he is no longer the avid mountaineer he once was, but he remains fit and bluff and gregarious. A trim gray beard and unkempt hair add a slight Ewok cast to his features.

After arriving in Canada, Lukatela was employed as a survey engineer. For several years, he worked on the Alaska Highway natural-gas pipeline. For another company, he determined the qibla—the precise alignment toward the Kaaba, in Mecca—for a new university and its mosque in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. In time, he created a software company whose product he named after the Greek astronomer Hipparchus. This was in the 1980s, when digital cartography was advancing rapidly and civilian GPS systems were on the horizon. The Hipparchus software library—“a family of algorithms that dealt with differential geometry on the surface of an ellipsoid,” as he described it, intending to be helpful—made it easier to bridge, mathematically, three-dimensional and two-dimensional geographical measurements. Lukatela can go on at length about the capabilities of Hipparchus, which he eventually sold to Microsoft, but two of the most significant were its power and its accuracy.

By his own admission, Lukatela is the kind of man who will not ask for directions. But he has a taste for geographical puzzles. He heard about the longest-swim problem from a friend at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution and was immediately engaged. You could twirl a classroom globe and guess, correctly, that the oceanic pole of inaccessibility must lie in the South Pacific, probably concealed by the rectangle where most publishers of maps and globes put their logo. But no one had tried to establish the exact location. As Lukatela saw it, the logic of the search process was simple. It takes three points to define a circle. Lukatela needed to find the largest oceanic circle that met two criteria: The circumference had to be defined by three points of dry land. And inside the circle there could be no land at all. The oceanic point of inaccessibility would be the center of that circle.

I’ll leave the computational churning aside, except to say that Hipparchus was made for a problem like this. Drawing on a digitized cartographic database, it could generate millions of random locations in the ocean and calculate the distance from each on a spherical surface to the nearest point of land. Lukatela eventually found the three “proximity vertices” he needed. One of them is Ducie Island, a tiny atoll notable for a shark-infested lagoon. It is part of the Pitcairn Islands, a British overseas territory, where in 1790 the Bounty mutineers made their unhappy home. A second vertex is the even tinier Motu Nui, a Chilean possession, whose crags rise to the west of Easter Island. The character Moana, in the animated movie, comes from there. The third vertex is desolate Maher Island, off the coast of Antarctica. It is a breeding ground for Adélie penguins. The three islands define a circle of ocean larger than the old Soviet Union. Point Nemo, at the center, lies 1,670.4 miles from each vertex. For perspective, that is roughly the distance from Manhattan to Santa Fe.

Lukatela completed his calculations in 1992, and quietly shared the results with his friend at Woods Hole and a few other colleagues. As the young internet gained users, word about Point Nemo spread among a small subculture of geodesists, techies, and the simply curious. In time, new cartographic databases became available, moving the triangulation points slightly. Lukatela tried out two of the databases, each recalibration giving Point Nemo itself a nudge, but not by much.

Lukatela had named the oceanic pole of inaccessibility after the mysterious captain in the Jules Verne novel he had loved as a boy. Submerged in his steampunk submarine, Captain Nemo sought to keep his distance from terrestrial woes: “Here alone do I find independence! Here I recognize no superiors! Here I’m free!”

But Captain Nemo couldn’t entirely stay aloof from the rest of the planet, and neither can Point Nemo. Many of the boats in the Ocean Race carry a “science package”— equipment for collecting weather data and water samples from regions of the sea that are otherwise nearly impossible to monitor. Data collected by their instruments, later given to labs, reveal the presence of microplastics: Even at the oceanic point of inaccessibility, you are not beyond the reach of humanity.

An article this past spring in the journal Nature reported the results of a scientific expedition that bored deep into the sediment of the ocean floor near Point Nemo. The focus was on the fluctuating character, over millions of years, of the Antarctic Circumpolar Current, whose existence became possible after tectonic forces separated Australia and South America from Antarctica. The current helps regulate temperatures worldwide and keep Antarctica cold. But, as the Nature article explained, its character is changing.

I spent several hours recently with one of the article’s authors, Gisela Winckler, at Columbia University’s Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory, high on the Palisades overlooking the Hudson River. Winckler is a physicist and an oceanographer, and her interest in oceans and paleoclimate goes back to her graduate-school days at Heidelberg University, in Germany. She confessed that she’d first learned about Point Nemo not from a scientific paper but from the 2010 album Plastic Beach, by Damon Albarn’s project Gorillaz. Winckler is intrepid; early in her career, a quarter century ago, she descended to the Pacific floor in the submersible Alvin, looking for gas hydrates and methane seeps. Yellow foul-weather gear hangs behind her office door. On a table sits a drill bit used for collecting sediment samples. Water from Point Nemo is preserved in a vial.

Illustration by Anuj Shrestha

Winckler’s two-month expedition aboard the drilling vessel JOIDES Resolution, in 2019, was arduous. Scientists and crew members set out from Punta Arenas, Chile, near the start of the dark austral winter; they would not encounter another ship. The seas turned angry as soon as the Resolution left the Strait of Magellan, and stayed that way. The shipboard doctor got to know everyone. Winckler shrugged at the memory. That’s the Southern Ocean for you. The drill sites had been chosen because the South Pacific is understudied and because the area around Point Nemo had sediment of the right character: so thick and dense with datable microfossils that you can go back a million years and sometimes be able to tell what was happening century by century. The team went back further in time than that. The drills punched through the Pleistocene and into the Pliocene, collecting core samples down to a depth corresponding to 5 million years ago and beyond.

The work was frequently interrupted by WOW alerts—the acronym stands for “waiting on weather”—when the heave of the ship made drilling too dangerous. Five weeks into the expedition, a violent weather system the size of Australia came roaring from the west. The alert status hit the highest level—RAW, for “run away from weather”—and the Resolution ran.

But the team had collected enough. It would spend the next five years comparing sediment data with what is known or surmised about global temperatures through the ages. A 5-million-year pattern began to emerge. As Winckler explained, “During colder times, the Antarctic Circumpolar Current itself becomes cooler and slows down, shifting a little bit northward, toward the equator. But during warmer times, it warms and speeds up, shifting its latitude a little bit southward, toward the pole.” The current is warming now and therefore speeding up, and its course is more southerly—all of which erodes the Antarctic ice sheet. Warm water does more damage to ice than warm air can do.

Before I left the Palisades, Winckler walked me over to the Lamont-Doherty Core Repository, a sediment library where more than 20,000 tubes from decades of expeditions are stacked on floor-to-ceiling racks. The library was very cold—it’s kept at 2 degrees centigrade, the temperature of the sea bottom—and very humid. Open a tube, and the sediment may still be moist. I wondered idly if in her Point Nemo investigations Winckler had ever run into a bit of space junk. She laughed. No, the expedition hadn’t deployed underwater video, and the chances would have been infinitesimal anyway. Then again, she said, you never know. Some 30 years ago, during an expedition in the North Atlantic, she had seen a bottle of Beck’s beer from an array of cameras being towed a mile or two below the surface. In 2022, in the South Pacific, the headlights of a submersible at the bottom of the Mariana Trench—about seven miles down, the deepest spot in any ocean—picked up the glassy green of another beer bottle resting in the sediment.

Jonathan McDowell has never been to the ocean floor, but he does have a rough idea where the world’s oceanic space junk can be found. McDowell is an astronomer and astrophysicist at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is also part of the team that manages science operations for the Chandra deep-space X-ray telescope. At more or less monthly intervals, he publishes a newsletter, Jonathan’s Space Report, notable for its wide-ranging expertise and quirky humor. He has written about Point Nemo and its environs, and in an annual report, he provides long lists, in teletype font, with the coordinates of known debris splashdowns.

British by parentage and upbringing, McDowell looks ready to step into the role of Doctor Who: rumpled dark suit, colorful T-shirt, hair like a yogi’s. He is 64, which he mentioned was 34 if you count in Martian years. I met him at his lair, in a gritty district near Cambridge—some 1,900 square feet of loft space crammed with books and computers, maps and globes. One shelf displays a plush-toy Tribble from a famous Star Trek episode. A small container on another shelf holds a washer from the camera of a U.S. spy satellite launched into orbit in 1962.

McDowell has been preoccupied by spaceflight all his life. His father was a physicist who taught at Royal Holloway, University of London. As a teenager, he began keeping track of rocket launches. In maturity, McDowell has realized a grander ambition: documenting the history of every object that has left the planet for outer space. Nothing is beneath his notice. He has studied orbiting bins of garbage discarded decades ago by Russia’s Salyut space stations. If a Beck’s bottle were circling the planet, he’d probably know. McDowell estimates that the thousands of files in binder boxes on his shelves hold physical records of 99 percent of all the objects that have made it into orbit. For what it covers, no database in the world matches the one in McDowell’s loft.

Unless something is in very high orbit, what goes up eventually comes down, by means of a controlled or uncontrolled deorbit. The pieces of rockets and satellites and space stations large enough to survive atmospheric reentry have to hit the planet’s surface somewhere. McDowell pulled several pages from a printer—colored maps with tiny dots showing places around the world where space debris has fallen. The maps reveal a cluster of dots spanning the South Pacific, like a mirror held up to the Milky Way.

Guiding objects carefully back to Earth became a priority after 1979, when the reentry of the American space station Skylab went awry and large chunks of debris rained down on southern Australia. No one was hurt, McDowell said, but NASA became an object of ridicule. The coastal town of Esperance made international news when it tried to fine the space agency for littering. From the 1990s on, more and more satellites were launched into orbit; the rockets that put them there were designed to fall back to Earth. The empty ocean around Point Nemo became a primary target zone: a “spacecraft cemetery,” as it’s sometimes called. That’s where Mir came down, in 2001. It’s where most of the spacecraft that supply the International Space Station come down. There are other cemeteries in other oceans, but the South Pacific is Forest Lawn. The reentry process is not an exact science, so the potential paths, while narrow, may be 1,000 miles long. When reentry is imminent, warnings go out to keep ships away.

Illustration by Anuj Shrestha

When I mentioned the conversation between the Mālama crew and its nearest neighbors, the space-station astronauts, McDowell pointed me toward a bank of flatscreens. He called up a three-dimensional image of Earth and then showed me the orbital path of the ISS over the previous 24 hours. Relative to the universe, he explained, the plane of the ISS orbit never changes—the station goes round and round, 16 times a day, five miles a second. But because the globe is spinning underneath, each orbit covers a different slice of the world—now China, now India, now Arabia. McDowell retrieved a moment from the day before. The red line of the orbit unspooled from between Antarctica and New Zealand and traced a path northeast across the Pacific. He pointed to the time stamp and the location. At least once a day, he said, the space station will be above Point Nemo.

[Read: A close look at the most distant object NASA has ever explored]

McDowell is drawn to the idea of remoteness, which maybe shouldn’t be surprising: To an astrophysicist, remoteness is never far away. But, he said, “there are layers and layers when it comes to how you think about it.” In 2019, a space probe relayed pictures of a 22-mile-long rock known as Arrokoth, the most distant object in our solar system ever to be visited by a spacecraft. That’s one kind of remote. More recently, the James Webb Space Telescope has found galaxies more distant from our own than any known before. That’s another kind. McDowell brought the subject almost back to Earth. On our planet, he said, Point Nemo is definitely remote—as remote as you can get. “But I’m always moved by the thought of Mike Collins, who was the first person to be completely isolated from the rest of humanity when his two friends were on the moon and he was orbiting the far side, and he had the moon between him and every other human being who has ever lived.”

Collins himself wrote of that moment: “I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it.”

I joined Hrvoje Lukatela and his wife, Dunja, for dinner one evening at their home near the University of Calgary. Hrvoje and Dunja had met at university as young mountaineers—outdoors clubs offered a form of insulation from the Communist regime. They emigrated together soon after their marriage. In the basement office of their home, he still keeps his boyhood copy (in Croatian) of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Lukatela spread maps and computer printouts on the table as we ate.

Lukatela might wish to be remembered for the Hipparchus software library, but he accepts that the first line of his obituary will probably be about Point Nemo. He is proud of his discovery, and like a man with a hammer, he has a tendency to see everything as a nail. He and Dunja spend part of the year in Croatia, and in an email this past spring, he sent me some new calculations that solve the longest-swim problem for the Adriatic Sea (“with millimetric numerical precision”). Set him down alongside Loch Ness or the Central Park Reservoir, and I can guess what he’d be thinking.

Lukatela has a dream for Point Nemo, though probably not one that he can pursue alone. His hope is that someone, someday, will venture into the South Pacific and leave GPS receivers on Ducie Island, Motu Nui Island, and Maher Island, establishing the location of the triangulation points more accurately than ever before. While they’re at it, they might also drive brass geodetic markers into the rock. Ducie and Motu Nui would be relatively easy to get to—“I could do it on my own,” he ventured. (Dunja, listening, did not seem overly concerned.) Access to Maher Island, Lukatela went on, with its inhospitable location and brutal weather, might require some sort of government expedition.

[From the February 1906 issue: A history and future of human exploration]

What government would that even be? Lukatela indicated Maher Island on a map. Officially, it is part of Marie Byrd Land, one of the planet’s few remaining tracts of terra nullius—land claimed by no one. But Lukatela recalled hearing that Maher Island had recently come under the jurisdiction of one of those start-up micronations that people invent to advance some cause.

He was right. Maher is one of five Antarctic islands claimed by the Grand Duchy of Flandrensis, a Belgium-based micronation devoted to raising ecological awareness. At international conferences, the grand duke, Nicholas de Mersch d’Oyenberghe, wears military dress blues with handsome decorations and a yellow sash. But he answers his own email. Asked about Lukatela’s ambition, he explained that his country is the only one in the world that seeks to bar all human beings from its territory; the thousand or so people who have registered as citizens are all nonresidents. “No humans, only nature!” is the Grand Duchy’s motto. However, he went on, a mission to install a GPS receiver and a geodetic-survey marker would be deemed scientific, and welcomed. The Grand Duchy would be happy to provide a flag.

The astronaut Steve Bowen has orbited above Maher Island and Point Nemo many times. Before being selected by NASA, Bowen was a submariner; he knows a lot about life in a sealed container far from anywhere. He was one of the crew members aboard the International Space Station who spoke with the Ocean Race sailors as their trajectories crossed at Point Nemo. When I caught up with him this past summer, he compared his circumstances and theirs. The astronauts sleep a lot better, he said—in microgravity, you don’t wake up bruised. But the environment never changes. There is no fresh air, no wind, no rain. Bowen remembered the exhilaration whenever his submarine surfaced in open sea and he would emerge topside into the briny spray, tethered to the boat, taking in a view of nothing but water in every direction.

In the space station, Bowen would often float his way to the seven-window cupola—the observation module—and gaze at the planet below. From that altitude, you have a sight line extending 1,000 miles in every direction, an area about the size of Brazil. In a swath of the planet that big, Bowen said, you can almost always find a reference point—an island, a peninsula, something. The one exception: when the orbit takes you above Point Nemo. For a while, the view through the windows is all ocean.

That same expanse of ocean will one day receive the International Space Station. When it is decommissioned, in 2031, the parts that don’t burn up in the atmosphere will descend toward the South Pacific and its spacecraft cemetery.

Last March, aboard a chartered ship called the Hanse Explorer, a Yorkshire businessman named Chris Brown, 62, exchanged messages with Lukatela to make sure that he had the coordinates he needed—the original computation and the later variations. Brown values precision. As he explained when I reached him at his home in Harrogate after his return from the South Pacific, he and his son Mika had been determined to reach Point Nemo, and even have a swim, and he wanted to be certain he was in the right neighborhood.

This wasn’t just a lark. Brown has been attempting to visit all eight of the planet’s poles of inaccessibility, and he had already knocked off most of the continental ones. Point Nemo, the oceanic pole, was by far the most difficult. Brown is an adventurer, but he is also pragmatic. He once made arrangements to descend to the Titanic aboard the Titan submersible but withdrew in short order because of safety concerns—well founded, as it turned out, given the Titan’s tragic implosion in 2023. The ship he was chartering now could stay at sea for 40 days and was built for ice. Autumn had just begun in the Southern Hemisphere when the Browns left Puerto Montt, Chile, and the weather turned unfriendly at once. “Nausea was never far away,” he recalled.

[Read: The Titanic sub and the draw of extreme tourism]

But approaching Point Nemo, eight days later, the Hanse Explorer found a brief window of calm. Steering a Zodiac inflatable boat and guided by a GPS device, Brown made his way to 4852.5291ʹS 12323.5116ʹW. He and Mika slipped overboard in their wetsuits, becoming the first human beings to enter the ocean here. A video of the event includes photos of the men being ferociously attacked by an albatross. While treading water, they managed to display the maritime flags for the letters N, E, M, and O. Then, mindful of Lukatela’s further calculations, they headed for two other spots, a few miles distant—just to be safe. Admiral Robert Peary’s claim to have been the first person to reach the North Pole, in 1909, has long been disputed; his math was almost certainly off. Brown did not want to become the Peary of Point Nemo.

He isn’t, of course. I think of him, rather, as Point Nemo’s Leif Erikson, the man credited with the first New World toe-touch by a European. I think of Hrvoje Lukatela as some combination of Juan de la Cosa and Martin Waldseemüller, the cartographers who first mapped and named the Western Hemisphere. Jonathan McDowell is perhaps Point Nemo’s Alexander von Humboldt, Gisela Winckler its Charles Lyell and Gertrude Bell. Steve Bowen and the Ocean Race crew, circumnavigating the globe in their different ways, have a wide choice of forebears. The grand duke of Flandrensis may not be Metternich, but he introduces a hint of geopolitics.

Unpopulated and in the middle of nowhere, Point Nemo is starting to have a history.

This article appears in the November 2024 print edition with the headline “The Most Remote Place in the World.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

They Were Made Without Eggs or Sperm. Are They Human?

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › health › archive › 2024 › 10 › human-embryo-model-ethics › 680189

The little clump of cells looked almost like a human embryo. Created from stem cells, without eggs, sperm, or a womb, the embryo model had a yolk sac and a proto-placenta, resembling a state that real human embryos reach after approximately 14 days of development. It even secreted hormones that turned a drugstore pregnancy test positive.

To Jacob Hanna’s expert eye, the model wasn’t perfect—more like a rough sketch. It had no chance of developing into an actual baby. But in 2022, when two students burst into his office and dragged him to a microscope to show him the cluster of cells, he knew his team had unlocked a door to understanding a crucial stage of human development. Hanna, a professor at the Weizmann Institute of Science in Israel, also knew that the model would raise some profound ethical questions.

You might recall images of embryonic development from your high-school biology textbook: In a predictable progression, a fertilized egg morphs into a ball of cells, then a bean-shaped blob, and then, ultimately, something that looks like a baby. The truth is, though, that the earliest stages of human development are still very much a mystery. Early-stage embryos are simply too small to observe with ultrasound; at 14 days, they are just barely perceptible to the naked eye. Keeping them alive outside the body for that long is difficult. Whether anyone should is another matter—for decades, scientific policy and regulation has held 14 days as the limit for how long embryos can be cultured in a lab.  

Embryo models—that is, embryos created using stem cells—could provide a real alternative for studying some of the hardest problems in human development, unlocking crucial details about, say, what causes miscarriages and developmental disorders. In recent years, Hanna and other scientists have made remarkable progress in cultivating pluripotent stem cells to mimic the structure and function of a real, growing embryo. But as researchers solve technical problems, they are still left with moral ones. When is a copy so good that it’s equivalent to the real thing? And more to the point, when should the lab experiment be treated—legally and ethically—as human?  

Around the 14th day of embryonic development, a key stage in human growth called gastrulation kicks off. Cells begin to organize into layers that form the early buds of organs. The primitive streak—a developmental precursor of the spine—shows up. It is also at that point that an embryo can no longer become a twin. “You become an individual,” Jeremy Sugarman, a professor of bioethics and medicine at the Johns Hopkins Berman Institute of Bioethics, told me.

[Read: A woman gave birth from an embryo frozen for 24 years]

The primitive streak is the main rationale behind what is often referred to as the “14-day rule.” Many countries limit the amount of time that a human embryo can be kept alive in a petri dish to 14 days. When a U.K. committee recommended the 14-day limit in the 1980s, IVF, which requires keeping embryos alive until they are either transferred or frozen around day five or six, was still brand-new. The committee reasoned that 14 days was the last point at which an embryo could definitively be considered no more than a collection of cells, without potential individual identity or individual rights; because the central nervous system is formed after the 14-day milestone, they reasoned, there was no chance it could feel pain.

But the recent rise of advanced embryo models has led some groups to start questioning the sanctity of the two-week mark. In 2021, the International Society for Stem Cell Research relaxed its 14-day guideline, saying that research could continue past 14 days depending on ethical review and national regulations. (The organization declined to set a new limit.) In July, U.K. researchers put out a similar set of guidelines specifically for models. Australia’s Embryo Research Licensing Committee, however, recently decided to treat more realistic models like the real deal, prohibiting them from developing past 14 days. In the United States, federal funding of human-embryo research has been prohibited since 1996, but no federal laws govern experiments with either real or model embryos. “The preliminary question is, are they embryos at all?” Hank Greely, a law professor and the director of the Center for Law and the Biosciences at Stanford University, told me. Allow one to develop further, and “maybe it grows a second head. We don’t know.” (Having a second head is not necessarily a reason to disqualify someone from being human.) In the absence of an ethical consensus, Hanna is at work trying to cultivate his models to the equivalent of day 21, roughly the end of gastrulation. So far, he said, he’s managed to grow them to about day 18.

Researchers generally agree that today’s models show little risk of one day becoming walking, talking human beings. Combining sperm and eggs the old-fashioned way is already no guarantee of creating new life; even women in their 20s have only about a 25 percent chance of getting pregnant each month. Making embryos in a lab, sans the usual source material, is considerably harder. Right now, only about 1 percent of embryo models actually become anything that resembles an embryo, according to Hanna. And because scientists don’t have a great idea of what a nine-day-old embryo looks like inside the body, Greely said, they don’t actually know for certain whether the models are developing similarly.

[Read: The most mysterious cells in our bodies don’t belong to us]

And yet, in the past few years, scientists have already accomplished what seemed impossible not so long ago. Both Hanna and Magdalena Żernicka-Goetz, a developmental and stem-cell biologist at the California Institute for Technology and the University of Cambridge, have created models for mice with brains and beating hearts. Scientists and ethicists would be wise to consider what qualifies as human before human embryo models have beating hearts, too. The most important question, some ethicists argue, is not whether researchers can achieve a heartbeat in a petri dish, but whether they can achieve one with a model embryo implanted in a human womb. “It's no longer so much about how embryos are made or where they come from, but more what they can possibly do,” Insoo Hyun, a bioethicist and the director of life sciences at Boston’s Museum of Science told me. In an experiment published last year, seven-day-old model monkey embryos were successfully implanted in the uterus of three female monkeys. Signs of pregnancy disappeared about a week afterward, but the paper still raised the specter—or perhaps the promise—of a human version of the experiment.

Building more realistic embryo models could have enormous benefits—starting with basic understanding of how embryos grow. A century ago, scientists collected thousands of embryo samples, which were then organized into 23 phases covering the first eight weeks of development. Those snapshots of development, known as the Carnegie stages, still form much of the basis for how early life is described in scientific texts. The problem is, “we don’t know what happens in between,” Hanna said. “To study development, you need the living material. You have to watch it grow.Until recently, scientists had rarely sustained embryos in the lab past day seven or so, leaving manifold questions about development beyond the first week. Most developmental defects happen in the first trimester of pregnancy; for example, cleft palate, a potentially debilitating birth defect, occurs sometime before week nine for reasons that scientists don’t yet understand. It’s a mystery that more developmental research performed on embryo models could solve, Greely said.

Better understanding the earliest stages of life could yield insights far beyond developmental disorders. It could help reveal why some women frequently miscarry, or have trouble getting pregnant at all. Żernicka-Goetz has grown models to study the amniotic cavity—when it forms improperly, she suspects, pregnancies may fail. Embryo models could also help explain how and why prenatal development is affected by viruses and alcohol—and, crucially, medications. Pregnant people are generally excluded from drug trials because of potential risks to the fetus, which leaves them without access to treatments for new and chronic health conditions. Hanna has started a company that aims, among other things, to test drug safety on embryo models. Hanna told me he also envisions an even more sci-fi future: treating infertility by growing embryo models to day 60, harvesting their ovaries, and then using the eggs for IVF. Because stem cells can be grown from skin cells, such a system could solve the problem of infertility caused by older eggs without the more invasive aspects of IVF, which requires revving the ovaries up with hormones and surgery to retrieve the resulting eggs.

[Read: Christian parents have a blueprint for IVF]

Answering at least some of these questions may not require hyperrealistic models of an embryo. Aryeh Warmflash, a biosciences professor at Rice University, is studying gastrulation, but the cells that form the placenta aren’t relevant to his research questions, so his models leave them out, he told me. “In some sense, the better your model goes, the more you have to worry,” he said. Hyun told me he cautions scientists against making extremely complex models in order to avoid triggering debate, especially in a country already divided by ideas about when life begins. But given all the medical advances that could be achieved by studying realistic models—all the unknowns that are beginning to seem knowable—it’s hard to imagine that everyone will follow his advice.

What Really Fueled the ‘East Asian Miracle’?

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › podcasts › archive › 2024 › 10 › taiwan-east-asian-miracle-land-reform › 680183

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The transformation of several East Asian countries from developing, agrarian economies to highly developed, industrialized economies is one of the great success stories of the 20th century. According to one World Bank report, almost a billion people were pulled out of poverty as a result of fast growth in the region. But the questions of why this happened and how it can be replicated by other countries remain essential to answer for the roughly 700 million people trying to survive on less than $2.15 a day.

In today’s episode of Good on Paper, I talk with Oliver Kim, an economist working at Open Philanthropy, whose recent paper co-authored with Jen-Kuan Wang, a Ph.D. student at Penn State, investigates one country that was part of the “East Asian miracle”: Taiwan. In the 1950s, Taiwan pursued a series of land reforms that were widely credited for transforming its economy. Other countries in the region had pursued similar reforms—including mainland China, Japan, and South Korea—adding to the sense that these specific changes were important for understanding the region’s development. In broad terms, the story went like this: Taiwan redistributed land to the peasantry, which significantly increased the nation’s agricultural productivity and helped finance the country’s industrialization.

But Kim and Wang’s research casts doubt on this story. Diving into the data reveals a far more complicated picture of how land reforms spurred development in Taiwan, with implications for developing nations around the world.

“It is definitely true that Taiwan got richer during this time period,” Kim explains. “But you also have to remember from a critical historical perspective that this is playing an important propaganda role. And so a lot of Taiwanese historians, though they didn’t have the data that we have, have been questioning this narrative.”

He adds, “And actually, if you think about the experience of land reform more broadly in a global sense, I think our results actually bring the Taiwanese experience closer to the global experience, which is generally defined that land reform actually has been fairly disappointing in terms of its productivity impacts.”

The following is a transcript of the episode:

[Music]

Jerusalem Demsas: How does a nation pull its residents out of poverty and into the developed world? I think this is the most important question in economics, and it’s one researchers have struggled to answer.

To development economists, the rise of South Korea, Japan, and Taiwan, among others—what’s often called the East Asian miracle—has been a source of deep fascination. How did these countries so quickly enter the ranks of the global elite?

On today’s episode, we’re going to focus on Taiwan. How did this country go from a Japanese colony to an advanced industrial economy? And what lessons does it hold for other developing nations?

Over the course of the 1950s, Taiwan’s agricultural productivity took off, setting the stage for its transition to an industrial economy. Over essentially one decade, rice yields grew by more than 40 percent, unlocking a period of rapid economic growth. The traditional narrative is that land reforms are the key to development, particularly a set of reforms that redistributed land from wealthy landlords to the disaffected peasantry and thereby increased productivity.

It’s a nice story, one that puts equity and efficiency on the same side. But a new study casts doubt on whether this story is actually true.

[Music]

This is Good on Paper, a policy show that questions what we really know about popular narratives. My name is Jerusalem Demsas. I’m a staff writer here at The Atlantic, and today I’m joined by Oliver Kim. He recently co-authored a paper that is challenging deeply held beliefs about how development works.

His white paper shows that while redistribution of the land might have been a great policy on its own terms, when you dig into the data, it doesn’t explain Taiwan’s sudden burst of productivity. Other explanations make a lot more sense. We’re going to dig into them today.

All right. Oliver, welcome to the show.

Oliver Kim: Thank you for having me.

Demsas: So we’re here to talk about a very interesting new paper you wrote, but because it’s quite specific, I want us to step back a bit. There’s fundamentally one big question that development economics is trying to answer, and it’s: Why do some countries grow into developed nations where their residents are able to access high standards of living, and why do other nations fail to do so?

And one of the most important debates is centered on the divergence of East Asian countries like South Korea, Japan, and places like Taiwan from places in Latin America, Africa, and Southeast Asia. I’m hoping you can just situate us for a second back in the early 1960s. What was the state of these countries that we now think of as highly developed nations, at par or ahead of many Western nations, relative to what we consider developing nations today?

Kim: Sure. At the end of the Second World War—outside of basically Europe, North America, some other European offshoots—the basic condition in most of the world was poverty. And since then, in the present day, outside of basically if you’re lucky enough to find yourself sitting on a giant pool of oil, the only countries to really sustainably grow their economies to high-income status are really the East Asian tigers—Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, and then Singapore and Hong Kong.

So I think one of the central questions in development is, Why did this miracle happen? And one of the primary reasons that’s been put forward by economists and economic historians is land reform, which is basically redistributing land from landlords to peasant farmers. Right around the end of the Second World War and the beginnings of decolonization, all these major East Asian economies had large, sweeping land reform. Japan had one around 1947 under American occupation. South Korea, similarly, had one in 1950. And Taiwan had perhaps the largest and most sweeping land reform, which occurred from 1950 to 1958.

And the logic behind land reform is fairly simple. If you think about what most developing countries do—if you go and visit a developing country or area, what most people do to survive is: they farm, right? So I think in the present day—I think the latest stat’s from 2022—something like 40 percent of the world’s population are farmers. And this is where most of the extreme sort of poverty is.

In Asia, immediately in the postwar period, agricultural productivity went up in the 1950s and early ’60s. The most famous example is that in Taiwan, rice yields went up by 40 percent over the course of the 1950s. And if you think about the rural poor, this is a huge increase to their incomes. And so a very influential sort of view in economics is to try and connect these two things and say that land reform had something to do with the growth in agricultural productivity.

And so this was famously articulated by Joe Studwell in his book, How Asia Works. And the idea is that if you basically redistribute land—you take it away from landlords who happen to own a lot of it, and you give ownership to the peasants who actually work on it—you can improve productivity. And so you can get something that’s actually very rare in economics: You can get something that’s good for both equity and efficiency. And so the idea is that East Asia had these large, sweeping, major land reforms, and other developing areas in the world didn’t. And so this was a major contributor to the East Asian divergence.

Demsas: Okay. This story then is about landlords, and by that we’re talking about landlords of agricultural land. And so essentially, at the base, it’s just redistribution, right? You’re talking about redistributing land from these large landholders to people who are farming small hectares of land.

I’m hoping you could actually walk us through, more specifically, what this is, because I know land reform looks very different in different places, and we’re largely going to be talking about your research in Taiwan. So what was land reform there? What were the three phases? And which is the important one?

Kim: Yeah. Land reform is this big, amorphous term in development, and it means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. But I think most people would agree that the most sort of meaningful form of land reform is what you described, which is redistribution.

I guess the model you can have in your head is that in a lot of developing countries, there are these landlords who own a lot of the land, but they don’t necessarily work it themselves. And in the worst case, you have absentee landlords, who don’t even live on the land that they farm, and they have poor, oppressed peasants who are basically doing all the work and tilling the land. And the idea behind land reform—which I think is pretty compelling, at least on the face of it—is that you take that land, and you give the peasants who actually work it rights to that land. And in the most sweeping case, you give them ownership of that land.

And so in Taiwan, as you mentioned, there were several different phases of this. Just to set the historical background, Taiwan has this very unique political history. The government that runs Taiwan, the Republic of China, is basically an exile regime. And so you had Chiang Kai-Shek’s Nationalist Party, the KMT regime, that basically lose the civil war to Mao Zedong on the mainland of China, and they fled to Taiwan with something like a million of their supporters. And so this was a very sort of foreign regime that is almost a neocolonial setup, where they actually had very little ties to the local Taiwanese population, and they’ve just been kicked out by what was essentially a peasant revolution on the mainland of China.

And so you have this foreign regime coming into Taiwan, and they need to build their own domestic base of support. And they had this very recent experience where they were not very popular amongst the peasants. The KMT’s base on mainland China had been amongst landlords. It had been under urban elites. And so they needed to do something different, basically, to avoid getting thrown out a second time.

The first thing that they did was that they capped rent. So this happened in 1949. This is almost like rent control in a modern sort of rental sense. They capped the amount that these tenant farmers had to pay to the landlords. This is actually a fairly limited form of land reform, and it didn’t really do that much.

So the second thing that they did was: They just kicked out the Japanese, who had previously been the colonial overlords of Taiwan. And they took all the land that had previously been held by the Japanese, and they redistributed it to the peasant farmers. And that redistributed something around 20 percent of all arable land in Taiwan.

This still didn’t go far enough from a political perspective. And so the last stage, which ran from 1953 to the ’60s, is that they took any privately held land that was over a certain cutoff—this varied a little bit in terms of the quality of the land, but the most common cutoff was around three hectares for rice-paddy land—and they basically said, Any holding that is over that is going to get split up. So the landlord can retain up to three hectares, and then anything above that gets redistributed to the tenants who farm it. And these three phases collectively basically redistributed about a quarter of all arable land in Taiwan. And this ended up being, I think in a global sense, one of the most sweeping land redistributions in terms of the share of land that was redistributed.

Demsas: Yeah. You find that in all three stages—the three stages of land reform redistribute over 215,000 hectares of land. And for people like me who had to Google what a hectare was, that’s almost 2.5 acres per hectare. So that’s over 500,000 acres of land redistributed. So this is pretty massive. This is not some small amount of shift that’s happening here.

I appreciate you brought the historical perspective here, because part of the question that I had when I was learning about this is: Why didn’t the landholders become a political problem for the government, as well? There’s a lot of power that’s held by landholders. What did they compensate them with?

Kim: Yeah. So part of this has to do with the elite split that I was describing, where the KMT regime that comes over with a million followers—a lot of them who are soldiers with guns—they don’t feel a lot of connection to the local Taiwanese elites, the landlords there. And the KMT regime pretty quickly turns out to be very unpopular.

And so the Taiwanese actually rise up in 1947. It’s this deeply traumatic event in Taiwanese history called the 228 Incident. Local Taiwanese rise up. There’s a huge uprising throughout the island. They take over major cities. And the KMT, which still controls part of the mainland at this time, has to rush troops over, and they basically end up killing tens of thousands of people. This basically massacres a lot of the traditional Taiwanese elite. So that’s an important feature here, where there was very strong political and military coercion that essentially crushes what would be the nascent elite in Taiwan.

And so the split between the fact that you had this almost carpetbagger regime that came over, that had very little connection to the local Taiwanese—that enabled it. And there was some compensation that the KMT did. They did pay the landlords, in theory, for the land that they redistributed. But these payments actually, I guess, were not that economically significant in the final analysis.

Demsas: And so politically, this helps pacify the population. But that’s not the main mechanism by which most people think of land reform as having helped lead to the East Asian miracle, right? And it’s not just in Taiwan. As you mentioned, in the late 1940s, Japan and South Korea have similar land reforms. And in the 1970s, mainland China also has land reform.

And the mechanism is usually that land reform leads to greater agricultural productivity, right? So then you get a ton more productivity. That kind of output growth spurs the ability for people to move into manufacturing sectors. Is that the story? Can you break that down for us?

Kim: Yeah. The traditional story, which was famously articulated by Joe Studwell, is that land reform boosts agricultural productivity. And there’s a number of different mechanisms by which this can be true. But the most common one is that as you shrink the sizes of farms, paradoxically, yields—which is agricultural productivity over a unit of area, so the amount of stuff that you can grow over a hectare of land—that tends to go up.

And this is a deeply disputed sort of relationship in economics. There are a lot of advocates on one side. There are advocates on the other. But the historical view is—at least, in East Asia, in Taiwan and Japan—breaking up these land holdings that the landlords previously held and giving them to tenants had this effect of raising agricultural productivity.

And what my research basically finds with Jen-Kuan Wang (we’ve recently released this working paper) is that if you actually digitize the data—and this hadn’t been done before—but if you actually go into the Taiwanese archives, and you look in a very straightforward way at what actually happened in townships where there was more land reform, do you see more agricultural productivity growth? Do you see rice yields go up more?

We actually don’t really find a lot of strong evidence that was the case. So what we find, basically, is that in areas where there was more of phase two of the land reform—so remember, that’s where you redistribute the previously Japanese-held public land—in areas where there was more of that public land redistribution, you actually do find some small effect on rice yields. So rice yields go up by around 6 percent over 10 years as a result of this phase two of land reform.

Demsas: Is that because they’re converting things from sugar to rice?

Kim: Yeah. The idea there, basically, is that these are previously colonially held lands. The Japanese were previously mandating that you grow sugar. This was essentially feeding the Japanese empire, in a large sense. And once you lift that constraint, and you make farmers free to grow what they want, they choose to plant rice instead of sugar. And this is a classic economically liberal argument, but: You give people the freedom to choose, and they make more efficient decisions.

But the reform that everyone tends to focus on more—because it’s very rare, actually, that you have a case where you have a colonial overlord that gets kicked out, and you can redistribute their property. That can only usually happen once. The case that people typically fixate on in the case of Taiwan is phase three of land reform—this redistribution. And this obviously has a lot of resonance in present-day debates whenever there’s a lot of inequality in the world.

And the idea was that, basically, by taking land away from these landlords who own these larger estates, and you give them to these peasants, you boost agricultural productivity. But when we look in the data, when we go into the township-level data, and we run regressions on the stuff, we actually really can’t find this effect.

Demsas: So much really good economics is just in the data, right? It is in finding and cleaning data, actually going and testing theories. And one of the things that you make clear in your white paper is that this theory had not been tested by looking at the actual records on the ground in Taiwan. So can you walk us through what you did there and how you found that? Did not have access to this before?

Kim: Actually, it is a little surprising that this hadn’t been done before, because a lot of this was actually just sitting there. My co-author—I mentioned who I wrote this paper with, Jen-Kuan Wang—is Taiwanese, and he did a lot of digitization work, going into the government data archives. But the basic work, the initial regressions that we ran, actually it was just a book I pulled from the UC Berkeley library.

Demsas: What was the book?

Kim: The book was—they actually had, at the township level, the land-distribution statistics. So they had for each township in Taiwan, you know, How many people own plots that are between, like, zero and 0.5 hectares? Between 0.5 and 1 hectare? etc.

And so this very sort of commonly held story that this phase three of redistribution, that land-to-the-tiller reforms boost agricultural productivity—it doesn’t actually seem to be the case. And one reason that we hypothesize is, basically, that the farms that this created were just too small, actually, to be economically viable.

And so if you actually think about the context here—Taiwan is actually a pretty small place—the initial land holdings held by these landlords were just relatively small, and they just got broken down to an even smaller extent, to something like 0.2 hectares, which is, I think, less than an acre.

And these are just too small to support a growing family. And this had the perverse effect, basically, of pushing labor out of agriculture and into industry because these farms are just too small to support the families that were living on them. So this is very different.

Demsas: So people sold their land and moved to the city?

Kim: They often kept it, basically. In a lot of developing societies, I think there’s a lot of attachment to the land as a form of security, but it was just not enough to provide enough income to support a whole family. And so you had people leaving agriculture and starting to pursue part-time or even full-time employment in manufacturing, and that’s maybe related to the broader sort of transformation of Taiwan that people typically think of when they think of the East Asian miracle.

Demsas: And I want to ask you first: Were you surprised by the results of your study? Or did you expect to find productivity growth?

Kim: Yeah, I did. I mean, people on Twitter and stuff have been like, Oh, there’s been a lot of fighting, over, like, Oh, what this means for the Joe Studwell book, but like, Oh, this was an attempt to take down How Asia Works.

But I actually really like that book. And I was motivated to do this because I really did believe the story that land reform is good for productivity, and it had all these sort of positive effects on East Asian development. So yeah, I did go into this expecting to find a very strong result of land reform. So it was surprising to say the least.

Demsas: Okay, cool. I also enjoyed the Studwell book, so I’m glad I don’t have to throw that one out.

So there’s this question about whether small farms would be more productive than big farms, which is actually really, really important. In general, you would expect there to be economies of scale that come with bigger farms: You’re able to diversify your crops more in case of a problem. You’re able to invest in productivity-enhancing technology, whether that’s irrigation or whatever it is.

At some level, do you feel like the original land-reform story felt suspicious on face?

Kim: Yeah. So one thing that’s very interesting, particularly if you dive into the Taiwanese literature, is that local Taiwanese scholars are very skeptical of this story. And I brought up this political context, right? There’s a split—the KMT come in; they’re this foreign regime. This was a very brutal authoritarian regime. In a modern sense, this was an autocracy, right? And they need to build their local base of support, and so they play up this idea of land reform being this benevolent policy that was so good for the Taiwanese people, because it suits their interests, right?

Part of that might be true. It is definitely true that Taiwan got richer during this time period. But you also have to remember, from a critical historical perspective, that this is playing an important propaganda role. And so a lot of Taiwanese historians, though they didn’t have the data that we have, have been questioning this narrative and have been pointing to examples of the fact that, Hey, a lot of these farms were actually really small. A lot of people were actually pushed off the farm. Maybe the sort of miracle doesn’t have actually that much to do with KMT policy.

And so, yeah. I think adopting this critical historical perspective and saying, Hey, something about the story doesn’t seem quite right. And actually, if you think about the experience of land reform more broadly in a global sense, I think our results actually bring the Taiwanese experience closer to the global experience, which is generally defined that land reform actually has been fairly disappointing in terms of its productivity impacts.

Demsas: And I think that brings me to this broader observation that I’m hoping you can expand on, which is that so many debates about development, especially development—these are obviously developing nations—are being shoehorned into debates that are happening in Western countries about what sorts of economic policies are better.

And so in some ways it seems like there’s this larger debate about whether industrial policy, whether the government intervention in the market is an appropriate way to get to development. And then you have folks on the other side— the Washington Consensus, the more neoliberal economists—who are saying, No. We want free and open trade. We don’t want government intervention. And the industrial-policy people really, really like this land-reform story because it shows that there is a role for government to be intervening in the market. Is that how you see it, too?

Kim: Yeah. I think there’s always a bit of a danger from trying to transpose lessons in developing contexts to developed contexts, right? They’re deeply different in very fundamental ways. On the industrial-policy stuff, the example that everyone likes to bring up is: South Korea did a ton of industrial policy and experienced this massive developmental miracle, right? So there was massive intervention. The state heavily subsidized certain sectors—like steelmaking, like auto production, like shipbuilding—and then created these very successful industries and very successful firms that were able to compete on the global marketplace.

And I think there’s a real strong sort of temptation to try and take that logic and apply it to things like CHIPS [and Science Act] in the United States. I’m not saying, necessarily, that’s wrong. But you have to remember that the context in which Korea is implementing these policies is very different than what the United States is trying to do. Like, Korea when it was trying to build its domestic steel industry, or if you want to lump agricultural policy, so like Taiwan when it’s trying to develop its local agriculture—these are not new, frontier industries. These are not at the technological frontier.

You broadly know that you should be growing more food. You broadly know that a developed country, at least in the ’60s or ’70s—the hallmark of being a rich country is that you make your own steel, right? It’s not a mystery. Especially in Korea and Taiwan, which were former Japanese colonies, you can look over the water, and you can see your former colonial overlord, Japan, that’s doing pretty well economically by developing its domestic industries, doing all this industrial-policy stuff. And so it’s fairly simple to mimic that policy recipe and try to develop an industrial mix that catches up to countries that have already reached the frontier.

With things like CHIPS and modern industrial policy or things like electric cars, it’s much more difficult to have a guide in that sense. It’s unclear what the hallmarks of a highly rich society in the 21st or 22nd century is going to look like. So I think there’s a fundamental difference there. When you have the playbook and you have clear sort of historical examples—economists call these demonstration effects—when you have a demonstration effect that you can point to, the problem of what industrial sectors to prioritize becomes a lot easier.

[Music]

Demsas: All right. We’ll have more with Oliver after this break.

[Break]

Demsas: I want to step back broader and talk about why this really even matters. One mechanism that you guys are really undermining in your paper is the idea that land reform led to the East Asian miracle by increasing agriculture productivity.

But you hinted at this already, but there are other ways in which land reform could have helped propel Taiwan, South Korea, all these other countries into becoming a developed nation, into these high-GDP-per-capita countries. I’m hoping we can talk through some of those, because the elimination of that one causal pathway doesn’t actually mean we can say land reform isn’t important for understanding Taiwan’s or other countries’ pathway to development.

So I guess one pathway, which you hinted at, is a sort of political pathway, that you’re able to pacify the population of peasants who have already had this really, as you mentioned, traumatic uprising, have martial law now imposed, but you need to actually make sure that they’re not going to overthrow you. And so it staves off political demands for communism. Is that a pathway that you think is super valid for understanding what happened here?

Kim: Yeah. I think that’s central. I think you can’t really understand the history of East Asian development without understanding the fact that this all is happening in the context of the Cold War, right?

So I mentioned that Japan, South Korea, Taiwan all had these land reforms. These are all non-communist countries. But if you look at the map of East Asia, and you put the dates of land reforms across all countries—not just these three—on a map, you’ll notice there’s this kind of mirroring pattern. Japan has a land reform in ’47, but China also has one from ’45 to the ’50s, as Mao’s Communists take over. South Korea has one in 1950, but that’s because North Korea has one a couple years earlier.

And so the motivations, I think, are fairly obvious, which is that these are poor societies where most of the people are farmers, and across the border, in a lot of cases, you have very viable military threats, which are doing actually fairly popular programs of land redistribution that build up the support among the peasantry.

And so this is a very unique circumstance where the United States supports a lot of these very strong redistributionary measures in order to basically forestall the possibility of communist takeover. And this is not the kind of thing that’s very easy to do in a regression, like a formal statistical sense, but just knowing the historical context and the narrative of this history, it’s hard to see how these regimes could have survived without at least doing some form of land redistribution, at least building up some support amongst the farmers that made up the majority of their population. If these regimes had failed to survive, and they’d been swallowed up—let’s say Taiwan had been consumed by mainland China—you wouldn’t be talking about an East Asian miracle, probably.

And the exception that proves the rule is South Vietnam. So people forget that there was this other kind of American proto-colony in Southeast Asia. Just like Korea, Vietnam gets divided into two. There’s a communist northern half. There’s a capitalist southern half. And for particular reasons, the South Vietnamese regime basically avoids doing systematic land reform. And the American government very famously spends a lot of effort, blood, and treasure in this horrific and tragic war, which is called the Vietnam War, basically, trying to solve through coercive means what ultimately, I think, is an agrarian and a peasant sort of revolt. And part of the problem is that the South Vietnamese regime is beholden to the landlords. It’s a landlord-led government. And they’re not particularly interested until very late in the war in doing large-scale redistribution, because that’s where their wealth is tied up.

And what basically happens, of course, is that the South Vietnamese state gets hollowed out. It ultimately falls to a conventional invasion from the North, but it’s hard to argue, I think, that if they hadn’t done land reform earlier, they might have continued to exist. And failing to have done systematic land reform basically results in the regime failing to survive. And I think the East Asian states that did successfully do land reform avoided this fate.

Demsas: Okay. It sounds like you place a lot of value in that story. But as you mentioned, Joe Studwell, who writes How Asia Works—he has a few other pathways that he also theorizes. One is that landlords are forced to go do more productive things than just rent seeking. Previously before land reforms, you’re a landlord, you have a bunch of money, you have peasants working the farm, you get to raise your rents really high, and you have no incentive to really invest in that land and to increase productivity, because you’re just making a lot of money by just collecting those rents and not having to do anything else. Once your land is forcibly redistributed, in order to—you want to still be rich? You want to make money? You have to go do something more productive. Do you find that to be a valuable way of thinking about this?

Kim: Yeah. We’ve tried to find evidence for this. So the story in Taiwan is that, in compensation for the land reform, the landlords were compensated by the state, either in the form of land bonds, which basically is a claim on agricultural output. So I don’t know—you’re entitled to some number of kilograms of sweet potatoes in the next five years or something like that. My understanding is that those actually turned out to be fairly worthless.

And then the second thing that landlords were compensated with were shares of industrial companies. So Taiwan had a little bit of industry that had been leftover by the Japanese. The KMT state claims it, and they give shares to the landlords. And I think this is a little bit of what Joe Studwell is gesturing at. I’m a little bit more skeptical that this is as developmentally important, because one of the things that happens in Taiwan is that a lot of the growth in manufacturing—there is growth on the state-led sector, but the really most dynamic kind of growth-leading sectors of the economy are small-scale manufacturing.

And so these don’t really have much to do with the former—like, these lumbering, large-scale industrial enterprises that the government had redistributed these shares of. It’s more these new enterprises that sprout up in the countryside. And so that, I think, is maybe evidence against this view that it’s the landlords, in particular, who are the importance of entrepreneurs in development.

Demsas: Okay. To recap land reform: Your belief is that it largely is operating positively for growth by staving off communism and, potentially also, the low yields lead people to work more manufacturing. But you don’t really believe that there is some large productivity increase that comes from redistributing the land to the peasantry.

Kim: Yeah. That’s right. And I think this helps reconcile a little bit Taiwan with the global historical experience, right? It wasn’t unknown that South Korea and Taiwan did this. Throughout the ’70s, there were actually a lot of attempts at land reform in Latin America, elsewhere in Southeast Asia.

Now, there are a host of different reasons that this didn’t work. Often, as I mentioned, as I alluded to, in the case of South Vietnam, for political reasons, a lot of these land reforms ended up getting co-opted. But even in the instances where there was genuine redistribution, there just never were sort of the claimed productivity effects that you saw, or at least you claim to see, in South Korea and Taiwan.

And at least in the Taiwanese case, the study brings Taiwan back into line, I think, with the rest of historical experience. It’s not to say that agricultural productivity didn’t go up. Clearly, Taiwan got richer. Rice yields went up. But I think the balance of explanations and how much explanatory power you want to put on land reform versus more prosaic things—like the fact that there were, you know, improvements in fertilizer use, the fact that there were the development of higher-yield varieties sort of presaging the Green Revolution—these sort of more prosaic, technical developments probably are more important than this sort of very flashy, large-scale institutional change of land reform.

Demsas: But I also want to take a step back from land reform in particular, because in general, if you are downgrading the importance of one explanation for East Asian development, then you should be upgrading other explanations for East Asian development, right?

So I wanted to talk about some of the other reasons people often have for why nations develop or why nations fail, to quote Acemoglu, and see what you think of it now that you’ve done this study. Okay, let’s start with export discipline. Can you explain what that is and whether you feel more confident that it’s a reason for East Asian development?

Kim: Yeah. The idea there, basically, is that when you think of the East Asian countries, you typically actually think of manufacturing development. There’s actually this Calvin and Hobbes comic, I think from 1980s, where Calvin asked Hobbes to check the tag of his shirt because it says where he comes from. And Hobbes checks the shirt, and it says made in taiwan. It’s like he came from Taiwan.

I mean, the idea that Taiwan was making shirts back in the ’80s and now is doing things like TSMC and making microchips—that’s a tremendous transformation. But the common thread throughout this stuff is that it’s about making physical goods, industrial production that gets exported abroad. And the idea with export discipline is that there was a lot of industrial policy throughout the developing world throughout the ’60s and ’70s. And it was actually the policy consensus that the state has to do things to foster development.

And Joe Studwell’s argument in How Asia Works is that the differentiating kind of factor for the East Asian economies was the fact that they actually forced their big sort of industrial champions to export. And this basically disciplines the firm when a firm can just stay in the domestic market. So imagine you’re surrounded by big, tall tariff barriers; there’s really no incentive to innovate or to try and become more efficient.

Demsas: You have a captive audience.

Kim: You have a captive market. You have a captive audience. And in the comparative sense, this is what a lot of scholars view happened, for instance, in South Asia and India, in a lot of Latin American countries, where you had initially very well-intentioned policies, where it’s like, Okay. We want to foster an infant industry. We want to get industrialization going. To support that industry, to prevent it from just being strangled in the cradle, we need to have all these supports. We need to put up tariff barriers. We need to subsidize credit, all this kind of stuff.

Demsas: To make it easier for these industries not to have to compete with—

Kim: Yeah, to make these industries grow and to get them to a sufficient size that economies of scale kick in.

This is a very standard kind of economic argument, and it’s actually fairly sound. The problem is the political stuff, which is that once that firm is born and grows a little bit, it starts to create a constituency that actually really likes to have these barriers. It’s really nice to not have to compete with all these scary, big foreign firms that are potentially more efficient than you are.

And so the view is that what happened in South Asia and Latin America is, like, a lot of these controls and these barriers stayed up, and the firms are never forced to export—unlike, for instance, the Hyundais and Kias of the South Korean experience. In other countries, they never developed the productivity enhancements to become globally competitive, and so you didn’t have the sort of miraculous growth. I think this view is basically still pretty sound.

Demsas: So I think the more-popular ones that people generally tend to hear when they think about development and why it happens are these temperature and education explanations for development. So: Hotter places don’t develop well. And also, people should just invest in education. That’s why the East Asian tigers do so well, is because they have such well-educated populations. How do you think about those explanations?

Kim: Yeah. The temperature one is interesting. I think that goes back to Montesquieu or whatever.

Demsas: Yeah. It’s an old one.

Kim: Yeah, like, tropical. There’s always a little bit of, That’s a little suspect, in there.

Demsas: Oh, yeah.

Kim: I mean, Taiwan is pretty hot. Singapore, which I grew up partly in, is really hot. I don’t think there are very many economists who would seriously defend it. In a more analytical sense, Taiwan, Singapore, Vietnam, which is growing very quickly—they’re tropical climates, essentially. And so I don’t think that climate can necessarily be, like, the best explanatory sort of variable there.

The second one that you mentioned is education, right? Which I think is still very live as a hypothesis, right? And so the idea is that maybe because of cultural factors, like the sort of legacy of Confucianism, this legacy of meritocratic exams in these Confucian regimes, East Asian cultures valued a lot of education. And so that carried over to the modern period, where the educational attainment was relatively high. I think that education is obviously really, really important. I think it’s important from a rights basis. As an individual, it improves your earnings.

It’s a little bit more unclear to me how this works out at a societal level. So when you move from the specific, the micro, to the macro and the aggregate, this is a huge live debate in the development literature—how much, actually, educational attainment has gone up in the developing world.

Clearly, actual growth experience has been kind of disappointing, especially over the past four or five years. At least on paper, there have been a lot of reforms—understanding the East Asian experience, trying to apply it—there have been a lot of reforms trying to promote free primary education, particularly in sub-Saharan Africa. There’s at least a lot of rhetoric from governments that they should be prioritizing education. Whether that has actually translated into increases in learning—like the actual test scores, for instance—that is a huge open question. And I don’t think there’s very good sort of international data, particularly from these very poor, developing countries, to understand how much these test scores have gone up.

There is also a lot of political incentives. I think Justin Sandefur from the Center for Global Development has an interesting paper showing that when Western donors attach a lot of conditions, basically, to—let’s say you want to hit certain targets in vaccination rates or something like that—the official government data goes up a lot, but when you actually do a survey, it doesn’t show that much of an increase.

So there’s a lot of reporting incentives, also, to say that educational attainment goes up a lot. So that’s just a very long tangent to say that I think there’s a strong case to be made that this was an important component of success in East Asia. Whether it’s on its own enough to explain stuff, and whether it can explain growth in development more broadly, in a global sense, the jury is still out on that.

Demsas: And then, the last one is sort of—I mean, the Why Nations Fail is the big developmental econ book that gets popular amongst noneconomists, too. And to oversimplify Acemoglu’s thesis here, there are these inclusive institutions that make development possible. Part of why I think that framework can be helpful here is that when you think about why a country is able to pursue or willing to pursue land reforms or is not able to or willing to pursue it—even if they have a lot of the information, there’s a level at which it’s almost like, Yeah. There are places where people can pursue good economic policy for kind of amorphous institutional reasons. And that’s very, very hard to isolate as a thing that you can tell countries to do.

Kim: Yeah. This is sometimes phrased a little bit pejoratively as the “get a better history” kind of view. Which is that, Oh, there are these long-standing, almost fundamental historical differences that determine your economic destiny. And there’s very little that you can do about that. Obviously, history matters. Countries don’t just drop out of coconut trees. They exist in the context that came before them, right? But history is not everything.

There was scholarly work, for instance, done about China and Confucian societies in the 1950s with the view that’s very different from today, which is that Confucian societies are actually not compatible with modern economic development.

So if you’re taking the vantage point of somebody from the 1950s, you just see in Chiang Kai-Shek’s regime collapse on the mainland, it’s not even like Korea and Taiwan are doing particularly well in a global sense. Like, the miracle stuff is sort of very nascent. And so it’s a very rational kind of response, as a sociologist, to say, Hey. Maybe these Confucian regimes are just not very good at adapting to the modern world.

Fast-forward 30 years, you have Lee Kuan Yew, the prime minister of Singapore, making a very forceful case globally, going around to different countries and saying, Hey. The reason you’re not doing well is because you don’t have Confucian values. Confucian societies—we value education. We’re more respectful of the government. We’re more organized, all this kind of stuff.

And so I think a lot of these more-ingrained cultural and institutional factors are actually not so ingrained when you take a broader view of history. They’re more malleable than people can make them out to be. And so there’s always this game that you can play about, Are institutions inclusive? Or are they exclusive?

So a first approximation looking at Taiwan in the 1950s, this period, which we’ve been describing as the period where the miracle is laying down roots, this is an autocracy. This is an authoritarian, right-wing, military dictatorship. This is not like a democracy where—actually, the other famous example in How Asia Works and in the history of development is South Korea, which we know is the example of a miraculous country.

One of the first things that happened under the dictator Park Chung Hee was that he took a lot of the prominent capitalists, and he threw them in prison. And he basically threatened to confiscate their property unless they started to dedicate their resources to the goal of national development. And throughout this period, there was a lot of state intervention in the economy. And so this just, prima facie, does not sound like inclusive institutions in the “democracy is good” kind of sense.

This is not to condone dictatorship and autocracy as a route to development, but it’s just saying that history is complicated, and, like, our views of this stuff kind of change depending on our vantage point. And I think it’s, maybe, a little bit of a blind spot to think of these things as too fixed, and they can move around, and there are opportunities I think that exists for nations to reshape their economic destinies.

Demsas: And so what’s really important about your paper—and I was reading through some of the other economists that have really focused on land reform in explaining East Asia’s divergence from Latin America or other countries or Southeast Asia—it’s almost like other countries have this template. They need to do land reform, and then they can develop. I wonder if you can talk to us a little bit about: Why wasn’t it possible for other countries to pursue this? And do you think that if they had, they would have gotten the benefits? Or is it kind of like, this is not the one-trick pony for development?

Kim: Yeah. So I think the political factors are really important to foreground here. There’s a scholar, I believe at the University of Chicago, called Michael Albertus who has a great book called Autocracy and Redistribution, which I think of as the canonical theory of, Why does actual, large-sweeping instances of land reform happen? And the answer that he basically gives is that land reform occurs when there’s a split in the elites, right? So as I mentioned, this is a fact you should always bear in mind.

What Albertus basically posits is that what you need to happen is that there’s a split in the elites. And so you have one group that advocates for reform and then separates from the landed class. And so this is what happened in East Asia, right? So I mentioned Japan and South Korea had these land reforms. Well, who actually implemented the land reforms? It was the American Army, in essence, occupying these countries in the aftermath of the collapse of Japan after World War II. In Taiwan, it was less an American military presence, but it was actually, again, this foreign KMT regime that didn’t have very close ties with the local elites that was free, basically, to impose a land reform through this essentially autocratic, authoritarian means.

And so there’s this weird kind of thing where, actually, authoritarian regimes—Albertus points out—are actually, in a lot of cases, more likely to engage in land reform because they have the capacity and the willingness to disempower and remove property from the main political class, who in a democracy might actually have more of a voice.

Demsas: Yeah. That reminds me of my favorite economist and philosopher, Amartya Sen, who has a book called Development as Freedom. There’s this larger debate where people talk about whether or not democracy or authoritarianism is going to lead to economic growth. And what Sen points out is that the ends of economic growth are freedom, whether it’s freedom from hunger or thirst or whatever it is, but those are just basic political freedoms.

People are wanting to have access to these basic goods—whether you’re disrespected inside, or you’re not going to be murdered on the basis of immutable characteristics or treated differently by your government—and so not treating democracy as, Oh. Well, authoritarian government might get you closer to having a higher GDP. But people also care about basic freedoms. And so I always think that that’s an interesting—

Kim: Yeah. That’s right. And also, Sen has this view of—it’s called the capabilities approach. What matters, basically, is, you know—it’s not necessarily just wealth or income; it’s what that wealth or income enables you to do and what sort of agency it gives you.

And I think that’s also a framing with which to view the land-reform stuff, which is that even if it didn’t necessarily have the claimed productivity impacts—so both having this equity boost but also this efficiency boost, so having your cake and eating it too—it’s enough just to have the equity boost.

Demsas: Yes. Exactly.

Kim: You made society more equitable. You gave a lot of very, very poor peasant farmers a little bit more security. You gave them control over their land. This is something that, politically, they’d been advocating for and fighting for for a very long time.

I think a lot of people on Twitter and elsewhere have been trying to read the paper as, Land reform is bad, or, Joe Studwell is wrong. I think that’s maybe too much of a simplification. Giving the poor more land is, I think, a pretty good thing in itself, and you didn’t actually lower productivity as a result. So I think the view is maybe a little bit more ambivalent than the triumphalist sort of narrative. But I think land reform should still be on the table.

Demsas: Well, we have one final question for you, which is: What is an idea that you initially thought was a good one but ended up only being good on paper?

Kim: Like a lot of people—maybe who are listening to this podcast—I got pretty involved in political-betting markets around 2016 or so. And I was peak econ brain at this point in time. One of the first things you learn if you’ve taken a little bit of intermediate micro[economics] theory is that conditional on the probabilities, you want to equalize your marginal utility across different states of the world. And that’s just a very nerdy, complicated way of saying that you want to hedge your bets, right?

And so when it comes to political-betting markets, I imagine like a lot of people listening to this podcast, I have very strong preferences about the outcomes. And so in the 2016 election, I put it as a small bet—like $25 or whatever—and Donald Trump as, like, as an emotional hedge, basically.

Demsas: So that if Hillary Clinton loses, at least you have some money.

Kim: Yeah. Exactly. You feel a little bit better about yourself. And in Homo economicus logic, this makes a whole lot of sense on paper. And I fully expected Hillary Clinton to win, just like a lot of people did. And of course, she loses. And I get my little, dinky payout, and I don’t really feel a lot better about myself. In fact, I feel a little bit dirty in having—

Demsas: How much money did you win?

Kim: I don’t remember. It was on the order of $30 or $40. It was not a whole lot of money. But yeah, it just didn’t feel good relative to how horrible those months were. So I think, yeah, there’s a sense in which the Homo economicus model is missing something. So that’s something that’s maybe better on paper than it actually is in reality.

Demsas: Well, we would need a randomized controlled trial here to see if you would have felt even worse if you hadn’t had the $30. So it seems unclear.

Kim: Yeah. Maybe. Maybe.

Demsas: Thank you so much for joining the show, Oliver.

Kim: Yeah. Thanks. This was a lot of fun.

[Music]

Demsas: Good on Paper is produced by Jinae West. It was edited by Dave Shaw, fact-checked by Ena Alvarado, and engineered by Erica Huang. Our theme music is composed by Rob Smierciak. Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.

And hey, if you like what you’re hearing, please leave us a rating and review on Apple Podcasts.

I’m Jerusalem Demsas, and we’ll see you next week.

Britain’s Smoking War Lights Up

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › international › archive › 2024 › 10 › britain-smoking-farage-starmer › 680170

Nigel Farage, the populist British politician and ally of Donald Trump, recently lit up outside a pub in London. This was not in itself unusual. He has regularly been photographed with a cigarette in hand, often also with a pint of beer—part of a “man of the people” shtick that he has honed over the years, belying his private education and previous career as a commodities trader. This time, though, Farage was staging a political protest of sorts. Smokers, he told reporters, could be considered the “heroes of the nation in terms of the amount of taxation they pay.”

Farage was speaking after The Sun, a popular right-wing tabloid, reported that the United Kingdom’s new Labour government is planning to expand a law that since 2007 has banned smoking in indoor public places in England to cover pub gardens and other outdoor settings as well. The policy’s details are still in flux, but Keir Starmer, the prime minister, has not denied the thrust of the plan, and his health minister has confirmed that he is considering the measure, pending a “national debate.” Farage, who has long advocated at least a partial reversal of the indoor-smoking ban and who is now seated in Parliament for the first time, was up in arms at the news. In addition to his pub protest, he threatened, in an op-ed, to never go to a pub again if the expanded ban becomes law.

From the outside, this can look like the latest installment in a long-running culture war: Since Brexit—which Farage did much to bring about—Britain has hardly been immune to the sort of populist grievance politics that has held policy progress hostage across the West. On smoking-related policy, the U.K. might appear to mirror the United States, where cigarettes and smoke-free nicotine products have become politicized. (Tucker Carlson said last year that “nicotine frees your mind.”)

Yet the U.K. has long been an international exemplar on the regulation of tobacco products—with surprisingly little domestic controversy. Mitch Zeller, a former director of the Center for Tobacco Products at the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, told me recently that many public-health professionals in his field “look at the U.K. as a thought leader” on tobacco control and harm-reduction measures, such as medical interventions to help smokers quit. The U.K. is now poised to go further than any of its peer countries in regulating who can legally buy tobacco products, and toughen restrictions on where they can be smoked. A majority of the British public appears to be on board with that.

The effort by Farage and his ilk to conjure controversy over anti-smoking laws channels modern grievance politics in its pure form: a revolt against expertise and authority in the name of the people—even if the people may not actually be asking for it. The U.K. first saw this dynamic in the run-up to the Brexit referendum, when Michael Gove, a Conservative politician, famously remarked that Britons “have had enough of experts from organizations with acronyms saying that they know what is best.” Farage and others later railed against COVID lockdowns as part of an imagined battle between tyrannical public-health edicts and freedom—despite broad public agreement that they were necessary.

Then again, elite political discourse in Britain has been captured by relatively fringe obsessions and talking points before, such as the debate over banning fox hunting. (Brexit itself arguably started out this way.) Farage and others on the right seem to be hoping that they can fracture Britain’s anti-smoking consensus as part of their broader populist project, or at least use the issue to inflict pain on Starmer’s struggling new government.

[Read: Contesting the science of smoking]

The U.K.’s history of regulating smoking dates back at least as far as the 1960s, the decade after British scientists established a strong link between smoking and lung cancer. As the academic Paul Cairney has written, tobacco companies had emerged from World War II with a “patriotic image” after “providing cigarettes to aid the war effort.” The U.K. government did ban cigarette advertising on television in 1965, but for years, Cairney writes, regulation was mostly voluntary, and “the dominant image of tobacco was as an economic good, providing export revenue, tax revenue, and jobs, with health as a secondary concern.”

Over time, though, this changed, and eventually, in 2007, Tony Blair’s Labour government prohibited smoking in indoor public places in England. At first, Labour considered exempting certain pubs and clubs, for fear, Cairney suggests, that the party would be seen as punishing its traditional working-class base. (The U.K.’s other constituent nations—Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland—all set their own smoking policy and had imposed similar bans even earlier.)

In the end, the ban was far-reaching. Critics said it would prove unenforceable, but “compliance was 98 percent in the first year, because there’d been a massive public debate,” Deborah Arnott, a former longtime advocate with a prominent anti-tobacco group and an honorary associate professor at University College London, told me. “Compliance has to be because that’s what people want.” And so, apparently, it was: A poll commissioned by Cancer Research UK a decade later found record low levels of smoking among the British public and only 12 percent support for reversing the ban.

In 2010, a coalition led by the Conservative Party ousted Labour and, among other things, imposed a sharp program of fiscal austerity that stripped back public-health budgets. But the Conservatives left the Labour ban in place and would later introduce tough measures of their own, including outlawing smoking in vehicles when children were present. Then, last year, the most recent Conservative prime minister, Rishi Sunak, laid out plans to ban anyone born in 2009 or later from ever buying tobacco products legally—an initiative hailed by Arnott and other advocates as a historic and world-leading move toward eradicating smoking altogether. Sunak framed the measure as one of fiscal responsibility, arguing that it would reduce pressure on the taxpayer-funded National Health Service and boost national productivity by reducing sickness and disability. He also spoke in paternalistic terms. “I want to build a better and brighter future for our children,” he said. “That’s why I want to stamp out smoking for good.”

And many in Sunak’s party supported his policy. When George Young—a Conservative lawmaker who has long advocated tough smoking restrictions and is now a member of the House of Lords—entered Parliament in the 1970s, his stance “was not wholly unusual, but it’s probably true to say that most of the people on the anti-smoking side were probably not of my persuasion.” Now, he says, “there are many, many more Conservative MPs and peers who feel strongly about smoking” and are campaigning for more restrictions.

But a vocal minority can sometimes be enough to bring about significant shifts in policy. Before Sunak proposed his age-related smoking ban, a center-left government in New Zealand passed a very similar measure, which had broad public support and did not seem an issue of contention in the country’s recent election. So it was a surprise when the incoming government reversed the policy, as part of a coalition agreement with a minority populist party. The revenue from tobacco sales, the new government said, would pay for tax cuts instead. Farage and his allies might favor a similar course of action—and they could one day have the leverage to force the issue.

[Helen Lewis: Goodbye to Tory Britain]

If anything, voters seem more enthusiastic about tobacco controls than Sunak’s government was. According to recent polling by YouGov, majorities of the British public support both the age-related ban and prohibiting smoking in various outdoor settings (though the former measure appears to enjoy much greater support than banning smoking specifically in beer gardens). Smoking policy is “one of the areas where politicians are most out of touch with the public,” Luke Tryl, the executive director of the research group More in Common UK, told me. Perhaps surprisingly, Britons are “really quite authoritarian” on such issues. “We have a joke in the polling world that if you put the word ban in a poll question, support for whatever you’re proposing jumps up by 20 points,” he said. “There’s this myth that there’s a big libertarian-right constituency in the U.K.”

And yet when Sunak put forward his ban, numerous prominent voices on the right attacked it. The Spectator, the magazine of the Conservative establishment, published an article in which its writers shared their favorite experiences of cigarettes; Boris Johnson, a former prime minister (and a former editor of The Spectator) argued that Sunak was ushering in a “smoking apartheid” and decried the fact that “the party of Winston Churchill” wants to ban cigars. Nor was the opposition to the policy confined to the right. Ian Dunt, a liberal journalist, dismissed the ban as authoritarian, unworkable, and unnecessary, as youth smoking rates are already at record lows. In the center-left New Statesman, Megan Nolan wrote that she opposed the ban out of a belief in bodily autonomy—even if that “sadly puts me in a Venn diagram with the likes of Nigel Farage.”

In the spring, Sunak called a general election earlier than many expected. His smoking ban did not become law before the U.K. voted in July, when Labour won a huge majority and swept the Conservatives from power. But Labour always supported Sunak’s ban, and is poised to implement it. The new prime minister has, like Sunak, justified his stance on smoking as motivated by a need to save spending on the National Health Service, which is an institution of quasi-religious importance to Labour and its voters. A report commissioned by the new government found that the NHS is in “critical condition.” Starmer is aiming to save it in part by preventing ailments that cost money to treat. To that end, his push on smoking is just one plank of a broader public-health agenda that will also include curbs on junk-food advertising, for example.

Anti-smoking advocates told me that they don’t anticipate trench warfare over the proposed tobacco measures; as Young put it, “I don’t really see smoking as becoming a huge cultural issue when most people who smoke want to give it up and nobody really wants their children to smoke.” But the case of New Zealand shows that even broad public backing can’t immunize health policy against the power of populist revolt. Starmer himself has acknowledged that “some prevention measures will be controversial,” but pledged that he’s “prepared to be bold, even in the face of loud opposition.”

How loud might that opposition be? Britons may not have any appetite for a big political fight over smoking. But Farage and his party, Reform, can use issues such as smoking bans to energize sections of their base. In July’s election, Reform picked up five seats in Parliament, including Farage’s own. This may seem a modest achievement, but Reform won nearly 15 percent of the popular vote and played spoiler to Conservative candidates in many places—and its popularity has continued to grow since then. (Labour, by contrast, won a huge majority of seats on only a third of the popular vote, because of the distorting effects of the electoral system.)

The Conservatives are currently in the process of picking a new leader, and seem likely to tilt toward the right with their choice. The pull that Farage and his allies might then exercise brings them closer to the heart of Britain’s political debate. Although many Tories, including even committed libertarians, supported Sunak’s smoking ban, two of the favorites in the party’s leadership contest—Robert Jenrick and Kemi Badenoch—voted against it.

Jenrick has already dismissed a pub-garden ban as “nonsense,” arguing that it would hammer the hospitality industry. The Conservatives’ official account on X attacked the proposal as a means of “social control” and “more evidence that Labour hates freedom”; one lawmaker even drew a tasteless analogy with the Nazis. And the tobacco industry, of course, has the deep pockets and lobbying power to foment a longer-lasting backlash.

One thing that could heat up the smoking issue is if the U.K.’s ferocious right-wing press persists in using it as a stick with which to beat Starmer, who is often caricatured as a joyless authoritarian. Already, the Labour leader has become embroiled in a scandal of apparent hypocrisy, over lavish gifts from donors when he has told the British people that they must make sacrifices; his approval ratings are sliding rapidly. Smoking could become a symbolic issue in a bigger fight about whether Starmer is defaulting on his promise to push back against noisy populists and deliver a “politics that treads a little lighter on all of our lives.” Farage seems to be hoping that even if smokers’ rights aren’t a universally popular cause, he can still exploit it to help mobilize a generalized disgust with the establishment. Either way, his broader appeal has proved hard to stub out.

The Right-Wing Plan to Make Everyone an Informant

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › magazine › archive › 2024 › 11 › texas-red-state-surveillance-book-bans-abortion › 679950

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Photo-illustrations by Vanessa Saba

Last year, in Texas, a deteriorating marriage became the testing ground for a novel legal strategy favored by some of the country’s most prominent right-wing lawyers and politicians.

Marcus and Brittni Silva’s divorce had just been finalized when Marcus filed a lawsuit against two of Brittni’s friends. According to his complaint, Brittni had discovered that she was pregnant with their baby in July 2022, and ended the pregnancy by taking abortion medication. Marcus alleges that her friends Jackie Noyola and Amy Carpenter “assisted Brittni Silva in murdering Ms. Silva’s unborn child.” He is suing for wrongful death and asking for at least $1 million in damages from each defendant.

Noyola and Carpenter tell their own version of what happened in a countersuit they filed. Marcus drank often, they allege, and when he did, he was prone to verbally abusing Brittni. He got so drunk at one of her work events that he had to be escorted off the premises—but not before he called her a “slut,” a “whore,” and an “unfit mother” in front of her co-workers. Brittni had stayed in the marriage for the sake of their two daughters, but Marcus’s outburst convinced her that there was no saving it. In the spring of 2022, she filed for divorce.

That summer, soon after Roe v. Wade was overturned but before Texas’s abortion “trigger ban” went into effect, Brittni got a positive result on a pregnancy test. Certain that she did not want to have another child with Marcus, Brittni texted Noyola and Carpenter to talk about her options. Noyola and Carpenter allege that Marcus disapproved of the friendship; he would sometimes hide Brittni’s car keys to try to prevent her from seeing her friends.

Brittni kept her pregnancy test a secret from Marcus, but according to Noyola and Carpenter’s suit, he learned about it when he riffled through her purse and discovered a Post-it note with the number for an abortion hotline and, on her phone, her texts with her friends. Marcus took photographs of the texts. The next day, he looked through her purse again and found a pill that can be taken to induce abortion.

Later, Marcus confronted her, Brittni told her friends. She wrote in a text message that he had demanded that she give him her “mind body and soul” and act “like his wife who loves him.” If she didn’t agree to give him primary custody of their daughters, Brittni wrote, he would “make sure I go to jail.” Brittni was surprised by Marcus’s reaction, her friends’ suit alleges; he’d never been opposed to abortion. Now he was accusing her of killing a baby and threatening to go to the police. (Noyola and Carpenter have denied all the claims in Marcus’s lawsuit, and he has denied all the claims in their countersuit.)

In fact, Marcus had already filed a police report. Soon, he obtained legal representation. Jonathan Mitchell, a conservative activist and attorney and the former solicitor general of Texas, became his lawyer in the case. Mitchell is often cited as the brains behind Texas’s 2021 “bounty law,” which provides a reward of at least $10,000 to plaintiffs who successfully sue someone who “aids or abets” abortion. The Silva case follows a similar logic: Marcus is, in effect, seeking a reward for reporting his ex-wife’s friends to the state.

Mitchell declined to comment for this article. But his work on the Silva case and the bounty law, among other matters, reflects a tactic that conservatives have recently embraced in a range of social battles, including those over abortion, LGBTQ issues, and school curricula. Across the nation, Republican-controlled state legislatures and conservative activists have passed bills and embraced legal strategies that encourage Americans to monitor one another’s behavior and report their friends, family members, and neighbors to the authorities. Call it the Snitch State.

[Adam Serwer: The Constitution is whatever the right wing says it is]

Texas has been particularly hospitable to rules that promote such monitoring in service of advancing conservative ideological goals. Perhaps it’s a matter of necessity: Despite right-wing victories in court and at the ballot box in recent decades, public sentiment on a variety of cultural issues has drifted leftward. And so, in an effort to impose their values, Republicans have turned to invasive forms of coercion.

Most Americans, including most Texas voters, believe that abortion should be legal in some form. The architects of this new anti-privacy regime do not. Republican legislators in Texas have proposed numerous additional restrictions since Roe v. Wade was overturned, including bills that would punish employers who help their workers get abortions, outlaw abortion funds that help women seek the procedure in another state, and circumvent local district attorneys who refuse to criminally prosecute abortion providers. Some proposed measures would restrict access to contraception. One would criminalize speech by making it illegal to provide “information on how to obtain an abortion-inducing drug” and forcing internet providers in Texas to censor such information.

It’s hard not to conclude that the people pushing for bills like these want women to be scared to even contemplate having an abortion, let alone seek one out. They have said so themselves; in 2021, for example, the anti-abortion organization Texas Right to Life said it was “optimistic that,” in light of the bounty law, “the day is soon coming when abortion will not only be illegal, but unthinkable.” Even expressing support for abortion rights could be considered suspect. Indeed, the Silva lawsuit seems to foreshadow this reality: It alleges that Brittni and her friends “celebrated the murder by dressing up in Handmaid’s Tale costumes for Halloween,” as if their costumes indicate liberal views on abortion that deserve sanction by the state.

[From the October 2024 issue: What abortion bans do to doctors]

As of this writing, no one has yet been successfully sued under Texas’s bounty law, and other measures that seek to turn citizens into informants have faced challenges in court. (If reelected, former President Donald Trump is likely to appoint more federal judges who would look favorably upon such measures.) But these policies have chilling effects whether or not they are strictly enforced. The mere threat of having one’s privacy invaded and one’s life potentially destroyed is sufficient to shape people’s speech and behavior. American history shows us where this could lead.

The roots of this political style lie in the state-sponsored efforts of the first and second Red Scares. During the first, in the years following World War I, a wave of anarchist violence provided a predicate for suppressing free speech, as well as a justification for mob violence against people perceived to be disloyal to the government. But it was during the second Red Scare, in the 1940s and ’50s, that the informant emerged as a paramount figure in American politics, when the federal government’s attempts to block Soviet espionage metastasized into a national panic. Dozens of states passed laws criminalizing speech deemed subversive. Private employers, unions, and professional groups adopted loyalty oaths and administrative tests that inquired about personal beliefs and past associations.

According to the constitutional scholar Geoffrey R. Stone, from 1947 to 1953, more than 4.7 million people were scrutinized as part of the federal government’s loyalty program, leading to about 40,000 “full-field investigations” undertaken by J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI. The bureau relied on allegations from informants, many of which were “unsubstantiated hearsay—mere gossip, rumor, and slander,” Stone writes. The accuracy of the allegations hardly mattered; federal investigators often did not take the time to verify informants’ claims. As a result, people policed their own thoughts, actions, and relationships out of fear that someone might tell on them.

Soviet espionage and expansionism were both very real threats. Many Red hunters, however, were not merely trying to prevent the establishment of Soviet-style communism in the U.S., or to protect U.S. atomic secrets. At a moment when liberalism appeared to be ascendant, conservative beliefs about economics, labor, race, gender, and sexuality could all be imposed in the name of “fighting communism.” As historians such as Ellen Schrecker and Landon R. Y. Storrs have argued, the second Red Scare was, in this way, successful at constraining the radical possibilities of New Deal social democracy. The power of organized labor was curtailed, and the potential for a more generous welfare state was limited. Even in books, films, and television shows, Americans sought to avoid topics and storylines that might be interpreted as left-wing.

Black workers—who were asked questions like “Have you ever danced with a white girl?” and “Have you ever had dinner with a mixed group?”—were among those who “suffered disproportionately” from loyalty investigations, Schrecker has written. Homosexuality, or perceived homosexuality, was also punished. As the historian David K. Johnson writes in The Lavender Scare, at one point during the Truman administration, “in the State Department alone, security officials boasted that on average they were firing one homosexual per day, more than double the rate for those suspected of political disloyalty.” Ruining someone’s life with an anonymous accusation was, for a time, a relatively simple matter.

During the second Red Scare, communism was frequently described as a plague that infected and transformed unwilling victims. Modern conservatives use similar rhetoric to justify fighting “wokeness” or “the woke mind virus,” presenting liberalism as a civilizational threat that justifies extreme measures to suppress it—particularly, these days, in the name of protecting children. But whereas conservatives in the ’40s and ’50s depicted the Soviet Union as a dystopian cautionary tale, their counterparts today openly venerate the oppressive tactics of illiberal societies abroad. In March, for example, Kevin D. Roberts, the president of the Heritage Foundation, described Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán’s tenure as “a model for conservative governance.” In September, Trump praised Orbán from the presidential-debate stage.

The contemporary crackdown is different in another crucial respect: Although many of the people targeted during the second Red Scare chose to withdraw from public service or public life in the face of invasive surveillance and constant suspicion, that is much harder to do in the 21st century. Today, many of us share intimate details of our personal lives online with friends, loved ones, and, often, total strangers. Whether we intend to or not, thanks to the data economy, we are all our own informants, sharing our location, reading habits, search terms, menstrual-cycle dates, online orders, and more. In exchange for using online services and social-media platforms, we make ourselves more visible to those who would become the eyes and ears of the state.

If you live in a part of the country where your very person could attract unwanted attention from the state and its informants, abstaining from social media or even withdrawing from public life may not guarantee safe harbor. Sometimes, you just need to leave.

Karen Krajcer grew up in a conservative religious family in Houston before moving to Austin, where she and her husband raised their kids. When their eldest child, who is trans, was in first grade, she came up to Krajcer in the kitchen and said, “Mom, I’m a girl.” Krajcer replied, “You don’t have to be a girl to like girl things.” “I know,” her daughter said. “But I’m a girl who likes girl things.”

“She just held my stare,” Krajcer told me. “And I realized that I didn’t understand what she meant, but that I’m her parent, and it’s my job to find out.”

Then, one day when she was in fourth grade, Krajcer’s daughter asked if she was going to die. “She’s not prone to questions like that,” Krajcer told me. “She wasn’t talking about self-harm or suicide. She was afraid.”

It was February 2022, and Texas Governor Greg Abbott had ordered the state’s Department of Family and Protective Services to investigate the parents of minors who were receiving gender-affirming medical care. “The Texas Family Code is clear,” Attorney General Ken Paxton wrote in a legal opinion that Abbott used to justify his order. “Causing or permitting substantial harm to the child or the child’s growth and development is child abuse.” Abbott called upon “licensed professionals” and “members of the general public” to tell the government about families who were known to have trans children, so that they could be investigated for abuse. These families were now surrounded by potential informants: teachers, friends, neighbors—even extended family.

Photo-illustration by Vanessa Saba. Source: Bernd Eberle / Getty

Professional medical groups, including the American Psychiatric Association and the American Medical Association, objected to the order, noting in one legal brief that “the medical treatments characterized as ‘child abuse’ in the Abbott Letter are part of the widely-accepted treatment guidelines for adolescents suffering from gender dysphoria, and are supported by the best available scientific evidence.”

The portrayal of gender-affirming care as child abuse nevertheless led to a rash of reports. People called DFPS to report students “even if they’re just simply going by a nickname, or different pronouns,” Brian Klosterboer, an attorney with the ACLU of Texas, told me.

DFPS representatives appeared at Texas schools to pull students out of class for questioning, and showed up at children’s homes to speak with their parents. “As an investigator, when you go in to speak to a child, as easy as you try to be and as kind, it’s traumatizing; it just is. It’s invasive,” Morgan Davis, a former Texas child-welfare investigator, told me. Davis, who is trans, eventually resigned in protest of the order. A DFPS employee testified in court that, unlike with other kinds of investigations, she and her colleagues did not have discretion to set aside cases involving trans kids despite finding no evidence of abuse.

One DFPS employee who herself has a trans daughter asked her supervisor for clarification on the new policy. Would she now be considered an abuser for obtaining health care for her daughter? And if so, would her child be taken from her? According to a lawsuit that the ACLU filed on behalf of the employee and her family, she was put on leave hours later, and told the next day that she was under investigation. A state investigator came to her family’s home, seeking access to her daughter’s medical records.

The order threatened to separate trans children from their parents, which could lead to expensive legal battles for families who wanted to keep custody. Tracy Harting, a lawyer in Travis County who has been involved in child welfare for more than two decades, immediately grasped the cruel irony: If trans kids were taken from their parents, she told me, they would be entering a foster-care system “that’s already overrun with kids who were actually being physically and emotionally abused by their families.”

In response to the ACLU’s lawsuit, a judge blocked enforcement of Abbott’s order in March 2022, and two years later, a state appeals court upheld the injunction. But an exodus of families with trans children was already under way, particularly after Texas outlawed gender-affirming medical care for children in 2023. “I don’t want to live in this state of terror anymore,” one mother who left for Colorado told Texas Monthly.

[Listen: Radio Atlantic on when the state has a problem with your identity]

Krajcer and her family, who live in Oregon now, felt the same way. Although her daughter was not undergoing any medical interventions, Krajcer still feared that she could be reported to the authorities by someone who disapproved of her gender identity. The implications of staying in Texas, Krajcer said, were too terrifying to contemplate. “What happens if I’m out in a rural area and our trans daughter breaks her arm? Am I going to be able to take her to the ER for basic medical care? Or is there a chance that a nurse or a receptionist or just a person sitting in the waiting room could turn us in?”

“I imagined being led into some small windowless room for my monitored child visitation,” Krajcer said, “and looking at our children and knowing that we could have gone, that we could have left, but we didn’t.”

In August 2023, Michael Troncale, then an English teacher in Houston, was upset about what he saw as the “anti-trans propaganda coming from the right wing in Texas.” Wanting to show support for his transgender students, he put up a poster in his classroom that said trans people belong.

No one seemed to mind at first. But two months later, a school administrator told him that a parent had complained that the sign was “divisive.” Troncale didn’t know who the parent was, or if their child was in his class.

“ ‘Look, I’m sorry, but our legal team says you can’t have this up, because it’s a political message,’ ” Troncale says he was told. “I didn’t consider it political.”

Perhaps he should have. In the past few years, Texas conservatives have undertaken a campaign of censorship in schools that longtime educators told me is unprecedented in its breadth and ferocity—part of a nationwide backlash against what conservatives perceive as left-leaning books and ideas, many of them involving LGBTQ and racial issues. A major means of enforcement for this campaign is tattling: Parents and students alike are encouraged to report the teaching of forbidden ideas, so that those who teach them may be punished.

The recent spate of regulations against so-called critical race theory in K–12 schools exemplifies this logic. (Actual critical race theory is an academic framework conceived of by the Black legal scholar Derrick Bell; it is not generally taught outside higher education.) In 2021, Texas passed House Bill 3979, which included the provision that educators cannot “require or make part of a course” the idea that “an individual should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or any other form of psychological distress on account of the individual’s race or sex.” Using language designed to sound egalitarian, the law purportedly safeguarded all students’ psychological well-being: Educators, it stipulated, cannot teach students that “one race or sex is inherently superior to another race or sex.”

When Representative Steve Toth introduced the bill, he said it was “about teaching racial harmony by telling the truth that we are all equal, both in God’s eyes and our founding documents.” The alternative, he suggested, was communist indoctrination, “a souped-up version of Marxism” from which children needed to be protected.

In practice, though, H.B. 3979 and the similar Senate Bill 3—which went into effect three months later, replacing the House bill—constitute a de facto government ban on material that conservatives oppose, and essentially mean that the feelings of a certain category of student are the only ones that matter. In 2023, a school-district trustee in Montgomery County asked for “personal ideologies” to be “left at the door.” One parent, she said, had told her that their first grader had been so distressed by a poster celebrating racial inclusivity that he moved classrooms. Another trustee suggested that displaying LGBTQ flags in schools might be illegal.

Texas’s recent cascade of book bans has also been framed as an attempt to protect children from distress. “Parents have the right to shield their children from obscene content used in schools their children attend,” Governor Abbott has written. But parents already have the right to tell their kids which books they can and can’t read; what Abbott is calling for is the right to control which books other people’s children read.

[Read: Book bans are targeting the history of oppression]

Matt Krause, a former attorney for the Christian conservative law firm Liberty Counsel, was a Texas state legislator in the fall of 2021 when he sent a letter to superintendents inquiring about “books or content” in schools that “might make students feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or any other form of psychological distress because of their race or sex.” He attached a list of roughly 850 books, requesting that the school districts tell him how many copies of each they had. Krause—who later acknowledged to The Dallas Morning News that he did not believe he had read the books in question—had no power to order any books banned, but his list, and his invocation of the language in H.B. 3979, helped spur an avalanche of challenges across the state.

According to a lawsuit filed by library patrons in Llano County, one woman, who would later be appointed to the county’s library board, sent an email to a county official with the subject line “Pornographic Filth at the Llano Public Libraries.” Attached was a spreadsheet of books from Krause’s list that were in the libraries. Another concerned citizen, who herself would also later be appointed to the library board, was more direct about what she found objectionable: In an email to allies, she referred to Krause’s list as the “16-page list of CRT and LGBTQ book[s].” Indeed, the titles on Krause’s list, many of which deal with topics such as racism, LGBTQ rights, and abortion, highlight the political nature of his effort.

Soon, the Llano County libraries began removing some of these books from their shelves. One librarian alleges that she was fired after she refused to remove targeted books. She is now working as a cashier to make ends meet while she sues the county over her dismissal. (The county has denied any wrongdoing.)

After a court ordered the books returned to the shelves, county officials appealed the order and considered shutting down the libraries altogether rather than allow community members to access the material. (County officials said the removal of books had nothing to do with their content. They ultimately decided to keep the library open, and an appeals court later ruled that some of the books must be returned. That court is now reconsidering its order.) The officials are represented by Jonathan Mitchell, the same attorney who is representing Marcus Silva. According to Axios, Mitchell has also reportedly drafted hypothetical bounty laws that would provide financial remuneration to those who snitch on librarians for keeping banned books on their shelves—or even just for expressing pro-LGBTQ sentiments.

In 2024, the purpose of banning books is not to keep children from accessing disturbing material—the internet exists—but to use the power of the state to stigmatize certain ideas and identities. Nelva Williamson, an Advanced Placement history teacher from Houston, told me that she sees efforts like Krause’s as part of a right-wing response to the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020 and the earnest desire of many young white people to learn more about the country’s history of injustice. At the core of the backlash, Williamson thinks, is a fear that children will leave their parents’ politics behind. “They just put CRT as an umbrella over everything,” she said.

“What is included in the obscenity standard is actually very vague,” Jeremy Young, a historian who runs PEN America’s anti-censorship program for education, told me. “And this is something that you’ll see across these bill types. The vagueness is the point; the vagueness is the way that the bills are enforced. Which is to say, when a bill has very vague definitions, it can be either overenforced or underenforced, depending on the person doing the enforcing.”

Texas legislators cannot embed themselves in every classroom to monitor whether forbidden concepts and books are being discussed and assigned. But they can rely on informants. According to NBC News, a chief deputy constable in Hood County, recently spent two years attempting to bring criminal charges against a group of school librarians after activists filed a complaint alleging that their libraries were carrying obscene books (the county district attorney ultimately said there was not enough conclusive evidence to charge the librarians). In October 2021, Rickie Farah, a fourth-grade teacher in the Dallas area who had previously been named Teacher of the Year, was reprimanded by the school board after a parent complained about a book that her child brought home from Farah’s classroom—This Book Is Anti-racist, by Tiffany Jewell. Farah contested the reprimand and kept her job. But her colleagues got the message: Even allowing a student to encounter a book that a parent disapproved of might lead to consequences.

Higher education has also been a target for Republicans, who see universities as sources of “woke ideology.” Texas Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick has argued that “tenured professors must not be able to hide behind the phrase ‘academic freedom,’ and then proceed to poison the minds of our next generation.” A 2023 bill to end tenure at state universities was rejected, but the legislature instead passed a law that gives politically appointed university overseers broad leeway to terminate tenured faculty for reasons of “professional incompetence” or “conduct involving moral turpitude.” Thus, in Texas, academic freedom may now be contingent on the political approval of state officials.

In 2022, Lauren Miller, who lived in Dallas, was pregnant with twins and suffering from such severe nausea that she found it difficult to eat and had to go to the emergency room twice. When one twin was diagnosed with a genetic disorder that is almost always fatal, she and her husband struggled to get clear guidance from medical professionals. No one would even say the word abortion out loud. “We would have genetic counselors—so, people who don’t even give abortions; they just counsel on options—get midway through a sentence and then just stop, just scared to say more,” Miller told me.

Then one genetic counselor, who had lived and worked in New York, let slip that in cases like these, doctors would usually perform a procedure called a “single fetal reduction.” Miller asked what that meant.

“She immediately clammed up and she started apologizing; you could tell she was scared,” Miller said. “It was truly like we had Greg Abbott, Ken Paxton, and, you know, other politicians, Texas Supreme Court justices, just sitting in that room taking notes, chewing on a pen cap right there with us.”

Miller decided to have the single fetal reduction—aborting one fetus—to protect her health and that of the other twin. Afraid to leave a paper trail, she told friends in a group text of the diagnosis, but not about her plans. She had a quick, careful phone conversation with a friend who was a gynecologic oncologist, who recommended a doctor in Colorado. As she spoke over the phone with the Colorado doctor, Miller noticed that he made sure to say explicitly that he was not in the state of Texas.

At a party with friends that fall, Miller and her husband were careful not to mention that they were going to Colorado. “Who was there who would overhear and report us because they want that $10,000?” Miller said. “We didn’t know everybody who was at the house that evening.”

They also worried about the logistics of their trip. “The first question,” Miller said, was “what kind of digital footprint are we leaving? Do we leave our phones behind? Do we drive? Do we do everything in cash?” Because of her severe nausea, she didn’t think she would make it 12 hours in a car from Dallas to Colorado, and she was concerned about driving through rural Texas on her way to get an abortion at 14 weeks pregnant, especially if she ended up in an emergency room. She decided to fly.

Miller was perhaps more fearful than she needed to be about her trip to Colorado. The Texas bounty law has not been used against people who travel out of state, and women themselves cannot be punished for having an abortion—only people who help them can. Still, given the political climate in Texas, her cautious behavior doesn’t seem irrational. What would the ultrasound tech back in Dallas say or do when they noticed there was only one heartbeat instead of two?

The procedure went well. Miller’s severe nausea subsided, and the remainder of her pregnancy was smooth. She delivered a healthy baby in March 2023. As it turned out, Miller’s doctor in Dallas, Austin Dennard, had also recently fled Texas for an abortion because of a pregnancy complication of her own. Miller recalled that at her first appointment with the doctor after her abortion, Dennard simply said, in a formal tone, “There is only one heart rate. I will note in your file that there is an intrauterine fetal demise of one twin.” The two women later joined a lawsuit filed by the Center for Reproductive Rights, which sought to set clear standards for exceptions to the state’s abortion ban. This past May, the Texas Supreme Court issued a ruling leaving the vague exceptions language intact.

Such lack of clarity can have a chilling effect. “There’s a lot of confusion,” Damla Karsan, a Houston ob-gyn, told me. “People aren’t sure what they can and can’t legally say.” In December 2023, Karsan was personally warned by Paxton against performing an abortion for Kate Cox, a Texas mother who was ultimately forced to leave the state to get an abortion after her fetus was diagnosed with the same genetic condition as Miller’s. (Karsan was also a plaintiff with Miller and Dennard in the Center for Reproductive Rights lawsuit.)

Still, rules that provoke this kind of fear and uncertainty around private choices have flourished primarily in conservative enclaves; when I spoke with teachers in more liberal and diverse areas of Texas, they seemed less afraid of being reported to authorities. Areas like Llano County, where support for Trump is strong, have so far been most successful in their efforts to root out subversives and promote self-policing. For the time being, abortion laws like Texas’s, as restrictive as they are ambiguous, don’t stand a chance outside Republican-dominated states; women like Miller, Dennard, and Cox can still travel elsewhere—if they can afford it—to legally receive the care they need. Similarly, families with trans children can move out of state, and library patrons can go to court when books are removed from the shelves.

But for how long? In September, Texas sued to overturn federal privacy regulations that prevent investigators from seizing the medical records of women who leave the state to get an abortion. And just as the influence of the federal government supercharged the first and second Red Scares, it could very well, under a Republican president, expand the reach of the Snitch State nationwide. Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation’s blueprint for a second Trump administration, suggests adopting a measure that would allow for a political purge of anyone in the federal government who is not obsequiously loyal to Trump. The former president, and conservative legal elites, have called for the traditional independence of the Justice Department to be disregarded, which would allow Trump, if reelected, to use the immense power of federal law enforcement to target abortion providers, political dissidents, and even local prosecutors who do not use their discretion as the administration demands.

In his foreword to Project 2025’s 900-page Mandate for Leadership, Roberts, the president of the Heritage Foundation, writes that “pornography”—which he describes as “manifested today in the omnipresent propagation of transgender ideology and sexualization of children”—“should be outlawed,” and that “the people who produce and distribute it should be imprisoned.” He adds that “educators and public librarians who purvey it should be classed as registered sex offenders.” Roberts also describes gender-affirming care as “child abuse,” and echoes the legal language used to ban “critical race theory” in places like Texas. The policy blueprint outlines a plan for forcing states to report abortion and miscarriage data to the federal government, referring to the harrowing experiences of women like Miller, Dennard, and Cox with the dismissive euphemism of “abortion tourism.” Presumably, executing these plans would depend on a steady supply of willing informants.

Conservatives have long railed against the chilling effect of “cancel culture.” But by encouraging people to tell on their neighbors, Republicans have, in effect, constructed a legal framework for socializing the means of cancellation. Having routinely mocked left-wing college students as “snowflakes” for their use of content warnings and their desire for “safe spaces,” Republicans have now institutionalized their own opposition to points of view they dislike with laws that punish those who disagree with them. They have attempted to subject teachers, librarians, and educational administrators to harsh punishments should they express—or even make available—ideas that conservatives deem offensive. They have attempted to criminalize the parents of trans children, and have forced pregnant women to flee their home in order to receive lifesaving care. All of this has been done in the name of “liberty,” to combat what Roberts has called the “totalitarian cult” that is the “Great Awokening.”

The first and second Red Scares created oppressive societies in the name of preventing America from becoming one. The version of “liberty” being promoted by right-wing legislators and activists today rings just as hollow, a stifling political and social conformity enforced by the fear that someone, somewhere, might report you.

This article appears in the November 2024 print edition with the headline “The Right-Wing Plan to Make Everyone an Informant.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.