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The Rise of the Post-Marxist Electorate

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › ideas › archive › 2024 › 10 › democratic-voters-educated-populist › 680462

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A simple and intuitive view of democratic politics holds that political parties exist to advance the material self-interest of the coalitions that support them. If this were true, then as the Democrats became the party of high-earning college graduates, they would have abandoned economic policies that would threaten those voters’ pocketbooks. A version of this essentially Marxist analysis has become standard fare on the right, where the phrase woke capital has become a slur to describe the Democrats’ supposed fealty to corporate America; the Republican vice-presidential candidate, J. D. Vance, has argued that the Democratic Party is now the party of Wall Street.

But as wealthier and better-educated voters have shifted toward the Democrats, the party and its constituents have become more economically progressive, not less. They have largely united around an economic agenda that emphasizes aiding the poor and middle class, and around messaging that places that agenda front and center. The very richest Democrats have become just as left-wing on economics as their less affluent party members, and far more economically progressive than low- and middle-income Republicans. U.S. politics seems to have decisively entered what you might call a post-Marxist or post-materialist phase.

From the New Deal through the George W. Bush era, the Marxist view of politics largely held up. The rich and educated overwhelmingly voted for Republicans, who pursued tax cuts and deregulation, while the working class mostly voted for Democrats, who expanded the social safety net.

[Rogé Karma: Why America abandoned the greatest economy in history]

Over the past decade and a half, however, the dynamic has dramatically shifted. In 2008, the top fifth of earners favored Democrats by just a few percentage points; by 2020, they were the group most likely to vote for Democrats and did so by a nearly 15-point margin. (Democrats won the poorest fifth of voters by a similarly large margin.) Democrats now represent 24 of the 25 highest-income congressional districts and 43 of the top 50 counties by economic output. A similarly stark shift has occurred if you look at college education rather than income. Perhaps most dramatic of all has been the change among wealthy white people. Among white voters, in every presidential election from 1948 until 2012, the richest 5 percent were the group most likely to vote Republican, according to analysis by the political scientist Thomas Wood. In 2016 and 2020, this dynamic reversed itself: The top 5 percent became the group most likely to vote Democratic.

This newly educated and affluent Democratic Party did not swing to the right on economics. Quite the contrary. Following the 2020 election, the Biden administration pursued an expansive economic agenda that included a generous pandemic stimulus package, a massive expansion of the social safety net for the middle class and poor (including cash transfers to families and universal pre-K), and large investments to create well-paying jobs in left-behind places. These policies, if fully enacted, would have represented a significant redistribution of wealth. Most of the $4.5 trillion in proposed new spending would have been funded by a spate of new taxes on corporations and the ultra-rich. “The Biden agenda was more ambitious and redistributive than anything else pursued by Democrats since the 1960s or ’70s,” Jacob Hacker, a political scientist at Yale and co-author of a recent paper on the Democrats’ changing coalition, told me. “This is not a party pursuing a ‘Brahmin left’ agenda. It’s pursuing an incredibly progressive economic agenda.”

Despite its ambition, this agenda did not provoke anything resembling a rebellion from the party’s rich, educated base or the politicians who represent them. (Indeed, one of the biggest obstacles to its enactment was West Virginia Senator Joe Manchin, who represents a much more working-class state than most of his Democratic colleagues and who switched his affiliation to independent this year.) Kamala Harris is now running on many of those same policies and, according to the polls, her support among college-educated voters is even higher than Joe Biden’s was in 2020.

A common complaint from the center and the right is that the influx of affluent, highly educated voters into the Democratic Party has caused it to focus primarily on culture-war issues instead of pocketbook economics. But when Hacker and his co-authors analyzed party platforms since 1980, they found that since the early 2000s the share dedicated to economic issues has steadily increased and that economic issues take up twice as much space as cultural issues. They reached a similar conclusion when looking at Twitter, where you’d most expect to see party elites pandering to the cultural tastes of their base. They looked at the tweets of high-ranking Democrats from 2015 to 2022 and found that nine of the 10 most frequently tweeted phrases were focused on economic issues, such as Build Back Better, Affordable Care Act, and American Rescue Plan; the only noneconomic issue in the top 10 was Roe v. Wade. (By contrast, just three of the top 10 Republican-used phrases referred to economic issues.) The authors also found that members representing wealthy districts were actually slightly more likely to discuss pocketbook issues such as economics and health care than members from poor districts.

The policies and rhetoric coming from party leaders reflect the fact that affluent liberal voters have moved well to the left on economic issues. A major survey conducted after the 2020 election found that overwhelming majorities of Democrats in the top fifth of income distribution favored raising the federal minimum wage, hiking taxes on individuals earning more than $600,000 a year, making college debt-free, and enacting Medicare for All. That’s similar or slightly higher than the support for those policies among poor and middle-income Democrats and anywhere from 20 to 40 points higher than support among low- and middle-income Republicans.

None of this means material self-interest doesn’t matter at all to affluent liberals. Some evidence suggests that although wealthy Democrats tend to support higher taxes in the abstract, they are less likely to support specific tax increases that affect them directly; they are also known to oppose new housing construction in their own neighborhoods that would make housing more affordable. But even those exceptions are less exceptional than they may appear. According to the survey cited above, a bare majority of the richest Democrats support raising taxes on individuals making more than $250,000. And during this campaign season, the leaders of the Democratic Party—including both Harris and former President Barack Obama—have trumpeted their support for building more housing.

The leftward drift of high-status voters is partly a story about a genuine ideological conversion. Since the 2008 financial crisis, politicians, academics, and the media have paid far more attention to how the existing economic system has produced inequality and hardship. Highly educated, affluent voters, who also tend to be the most plugged-in to national politics, seem to have responded to this shift by embracing more progressive economic views.

[David Deming: ]Break up big econ

The story is also about political strategy. After Donald Trump’s 2016 victory, many Democrats became convinced that the best way to win back disaffected working-class voters was to enact policies that would help them. Surveys consistently find that middle- and low-income Republicans strongly disagree with their own party leaders on most economic issues, creating a potential opening for Democrats.

The Biden agenda that was shaped by those views has largely produced its intended economic effects. Unemployment has fallen, wage inequality has shrunk, and hundreds of billions of investment dollars have poured into red states. Many of the country’s forgotten communities are making a strong comeback. Politically, however, the effort to win back working-class voters appears to have flopped: If polls are to be believed, the Democratic Party is bleeding working-class support more badly than it did in 2016 or 2020.

Part of that failure seems to be because, when it comes to the economy, many voters are concerned about high prices above all else and view Democrats as responsible for them. But there’s also compelling evidence that Republican voters aren’t particularly motivated by economic policy in the first place. That is, although they disagree with GOP politicians about health care, taxing the rich, and the minimum wage, they don’t much care about that disagreement. A recent paper by the political scientist William Marble analyzed nearly 200 survey questions going back decades and found that in the 1980s and ’90s, non-college-educated white voters were more likely to vote in accordance with their economic views, causing them to support Democrats. Since the early 2000s, however, that dynamic has inverted: Non-college-educated white voters now place a far greater emphasis on culture-war issues over economic ones, pushing them toward supporting Republicans.

That realignment leaves both parties in a strange place heading into November. Voters consistently say that the economy is the most important issue of the 2024 election. And yet the affluent overwhelmingly support Kamala Harris, whose administration favored bold redistribution and big government spending, while a critical mass of working-class voters favor Donald Trump, whose economic agenda consisted largely of cutting taxes for the rich and trying to kill the Affordable Care Act.

The irony is that the Biden administration’s economic-populist push implicitly assumed that the Marxist view of politics was correct all along. Democrats embraced an agenda that largely went against its voters’ immediate material interests in the hopes that they could win over less-wealthy voters by appealing to their material interests. But working-class Trump supporters, just like liberal elites, turn out to have other things on their mind.

Elon Musk Wants You to Think This Election’s Being Stolen

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › technology › archive › 2024 › 10 › elon-musk-x-political-weapon › 680463

Elon Musk didn’t just get a social network—he got a political weapon.

It’s easy to forget that Elon Musk’s purchase of Twitter was so rash and ill-advised that the centibillionaire actually tried to back out of it. Only after he was sued and forced into legal discovery did Musk go through with the acquisition, which has been a financial disaster. He’s alienated advertisers and turned the app, now called X, into his personal playground, where he’s the perpetual main character. And for what?

Only Musk can know what he thought he was buying two years ago, though it seems clear the purchase was ideological in nature. In any case, the true value of X—the specific, chaotic return on his investment—has become readily apparent in these teeth-gnashing final days leading up to November 5. For Musk, the platform has become a useful political weapon of confusion, a machine retrofitted to poison the information environment by filling it with dangerous, false, and unsubstantiated rumors about election fraud that can reach mass audiences. How much does it cost to successfully (to use Steve Bannon’s preferred phrasing) flood the zone with shit? Thanks to Musk’s acquisition, we can put a figure on it: $44 billion.  

Nothing better encapsulates X’s ability to sow informational chaos than the Election Integrity Community—a feed on the platform where users are instructed to subscribe and “share potential incidents of voter fraud or irregularities you see while voting in the 2024 election.” The community, which was launched last week by Musk’s America PAC, has more than 34,000 members; roughly 20,000 have joined since Musk promoted the feed last night. It is jammed with examples of terrified speculation and clearly false rumors about fraud. Its top post yesterday morning was a long rant from a “Q Patriot.” His complaint was that when he went to vote early in Philadelphia, election workers directed him to fill out a mail-in ballot and place it in a secure drop box, a process he described as “VERY SKETCHY!” But this is, in fact, just how things work: Pennsylvania’s early-voting system functions via on-demand mail-in ballots, which are filled in at polling locations. The Q Patriot’s post, which has been viewed more than 62,000 times, is representative of the type of fearmongering present in the feed and a sterling example of a phenomenon recently articulated by the technology writer Mike Masnick, where “everything is a conspiracy theory when you don’t bother to educate yourself.”

[Read: Elon Musk has reached a new low]

Elsewhere in the Election Integrity Community, users have reposted debunked theories from 2020 about voting machines switching votes, while others are sharing old claims of voter fraud from past local elections. Since Musk promoted the feed last night, it has become an efficient instrument for incitement and harassment; more users are posting about individual election workers, sometimes singling them out by name. In many instances, users will share a video, purportedly from a polling location, while asking questions like “Is this real?” This morning, the community accused a man in Northampton County, Pennsylvania, of stealing ballots. Popular right-wing influencers such as Alex Jones amplified the claim, but their suspect turned out to be the county’s postmaster, simply doing his job.

The most important feature of the Election Integrity Community is the sheer volume of posts: dozens per hour, such that scrolling through them becomes overwhelming. It presents the viewer with fragmented pieces of information—more than any casual news consumer (or most election offices, for that matter) might be able to confirm or debunk. And so the feed is the purest distillation of what Musk’s platform wishes to accomplish. He has created a bullshit machine.

There are three major components to this tool. The first is that X exposes its users to right-wing political content frequently, whether they want it or not. To test this theory, I recently created a new X account, which required me to answer a few onboarding questions to build my feed: I told X that I was interested in news about technology, gaming, sports, and culture. The first account the site prompted me to follow was Musk’s, but I opted instead to follow only ESPN. Still, when I opened the app, it defaulted me to the “For You” feed, which surfaces content from accounts outside the ones a user follows. A Musk post was the first thing I encountered, followed quickly by a post from Donald Trump and another from an account called @MJTruthUltra, which offered a warning from a supposed FBI whistleblower: “Vote, arm yourself, Stock up 3-4 Months Supply of Food and Water, and Pray.” After that was a post from a MAGA influencer accusing Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg of “censoring patriots,” followed by posts from Libs of TikTok (a video from a school-board meeting about girls’ bathrooms), MAGA influencers Benny Johnson and Jack Posobiec, and Dom Lucre, a right-wing personality who was once banned from the platform for sharing an explicit image of a child being tortured.

[Read: I’m running out of ways to explain how bad this is]

X is also experimenting with other algorithmic ways to surface rumors and discredited election news. The platform recently launched a new AI-powered “stories for you” feature, which curates trending topics without human review and highlights them prominently to selected users. NBC News found five examples of this feature sharing election-fraud theories, including debunked claims about voting machines and fraud in Maricopa County, Arizona.

This algorithmic prioritization represents the second prong of the approach: granting far-right influencers and the MAGA faithful greater reach with their posts. A Washington Post analysis of lawmaker tweets from July 2023 to the present day show that Republican officials’ posts go viral far more often than Democrats’ do, and that Musk's right-wing political activism has encouraged Republican lawmakers to post more, too, “allowing them to greatly outnumber Democrats on users’ feeds.” According to the Post, “Republicans’ tweets totaled more than 7.5 billion views since July 2023—more than double the Democrats’ 3.3 billion.” Musk has effectively turned the platform into a far-right social network and echo chamber, not unlike Rumble and Truth Social. The difference, of course, is X’s size and audience, which still contains many prominent influencers, celebrities, athletes, and media members.

The third and final element of X’s bullshit engine is Musk himself, who has become the platform’s loudest amplifier of specious voter-fraud claims. Bloomberg recently analyzed more than 53,000 of Musk’s posts and found that he has posted more about immigration and voter fraud than any other topic, garnering roughly 10 billion views. Musk’s mask-off MAGA boosterism has also empowered other reactionaries with big accounts to shitpost in his image. When they do, Musk will frequently repost or reply to their accounts, boosting their visibility. Here’s a representative example: On October 23, the venture capitalist Shaun Maguire posted that he’d heard a rumor from a senator about more ballots being mailed out in California than the number of legal voters. “Can anyone confirm or deny this?” he asked his more than 166,000 followers on X. Musk replied to the post, noting, “I’m hearing one crazy story after another.”

[Read: Elon Musk says he would recognize a Harris election victory]

On this point, I believe Musk. The billionaire is inundated with wild election speculation because he is addicted to the rumormongering machine that he helped design. This is the strategy at work, the very reason the volume of alarming-seeming anecdotes about a stolen election work so well. Not only are there too many false claims to conceivably debunk, but the scale of the misleading information gives people the perception that there is simply too much evidence out there for it all to be made up. Musk, whether he believes it or not, can claim that he is “hearing one crazy story after another” and coax his bespoke echo chamber to proffer evidence.

X’s current political project is clear: Musk, his PAC, and his legion of acolytes are creating the conditions necessary to claim that the 2024 election is stolen, should Kamala Harris be declared the winner. But the effects of that effort are far more pernicious. If you spend enough time scrolling through the Election Integrity Community feed and its unending carousel of fraud allegations, it isn’t hard to begin to see the world through the paranoid lens that X offers to millions of its users. It is disorienting and dismaying to have to bushwhack through the dense terrain of lies and do the mental calisthenics of trying to fact-check hundreds of people crying nefarious about things they haven’t even bothered to research. Worse yet, it’s easy to see how somebody might simply give in, beaten into submission by the scale of it all. In this way, even though X is Musk’s project, it may actually be built in the image of the MAGA candidate himself. A $44 billion monument to Trump’s greatest (and only real) trick, as he put it in a 2021 speech: “If you say it enough and keep saying it, they’ll start to believe you.”

The End of Francis Fukuyama

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › ideas › archive › 2024 › 10 › francis-fukuyama-end-greatly-exaggerated › 680439

From 11:09 a.m. to 11:14 a.m. yesterday, I thought Francis Fukuyama had died. When an X account that seemed connected with Stanford University announced the legendary political scientist’s passing, many people were fooled. Much to my chagrin, I was among them. And then the account declared itself to be a hoax by Tommaso Debenedetti, an Italian prankster. Minutes later, Fukuyama himself posted on X, “Last time I checked, I’m still alive.”

Debenedetti, whom I could not immediately reach for comment, has previously issued many fake death announcements, including for the economist Amartya Sen (still alive), the pseudonymous writer Elena Ferrante (still alive), the Cuban leader Fidel Castro (dead as of 2016). In 2012, Debenedetti told The Guardian that his purpose was to reveal how poorly the media do their job, arguing that “the Italian press never checks anything, especially if it is close to their political line.” But fooling people undercuts the idea of shared truth—a cornerstone of liberal democracy itself.

That the hoax was targeting Fukuyama, one of liberal democracy’s greatest defenders, made the situation all the more striking. In 1989, as communism was on the verge of collapse, Fukuyama published an essay called The End of History, which argued that modern liberal democracy had outcompeted every viable alternative political system. Humanity, he argued, had reached “the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.” (He later expanded the essay into a book, The End of History and the Last Man.)

[Francis Fukuyama: More proof that this really is the end of history]

But how durable is liberal democracy? Although Americans are experiencing far greater material prosperity than their forebears, fears of political violence are growing, and the Republican presidential candidate, Donald Trump, is using authoritarian language. Fukuyama foresaw the potential for trouble in 1989. “The end of history will be a very sad time,” he wrote back then. “The struggle for recognition, the willingness to risk one’s life for a purely abstract goal, the worldwide ideological struggle that called forth daring, courage, imagination, and idealism, will be replaced by economic calculation, the endless solving of technical problems, environmental concerns, and the satisfaction of sophisticated consumer demands … Perhaps this very prospect of centuries of boredom at the end of history will serve to get history started once again.”

Wondering what Fukuyama thought of yesterday’s hoax—and our current political moment—I requested an interview. The transcript below has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Jerusalem Demsas: It’s great to find you alive and well. How are you feeling?

Francis Fukuyama: Yeah, that was an unusual event.

Demsas: How did you learn about your “death”?

Fukuyama: One of my former students, I guess, tweeted that this had happened and that it was a hoax. And then I went back and looked at the original tweet, and then it just went viral, and everybody was tweeting about it, so I decided I should actually assert that I was still alive. So it got a lot of attention.

Demsas: What was your reaction when you saw it?

Fukuyama: I couldn’t figure out what the motive was, and I also couldn’t figure out why anyone would take the time to produce a tweet like that. It was a pointless exercise. I guess the other reaction is that X, or Twitter, has become a cesspool of misinformation, and so it seemed it was a perfect thing to happen on X that might not happen on other platforms.

Demsas: Do you know who Tommaso Debenedetti is?

Fukuyama: No.

Demsas: He is an Italian who has claimed responsibility for a series of hoaxes, including the fake announced death of Amartya Sen. He told The Guardian years ago that the Italian press never checks anything. This seems like a part of his broader strategy to, I guess, reveal the problems with fact-checking in the media. What do you make of this strategy?

Fukuyama: Well, first of all, it wasn’t very successful. The fact that you can propagate something like this on Twitter doesn’t necessarily tell you much about the media. People debunked it within, I would say, seconds of this having been posted, so I’m not quite sure what kind of a weak link this exposes.

Demsas: This sort of informational ecosystem seriously weakens liberal democracy, right? If there cease to be shared facts, if it becomes difficult for voters to transmit their feelings about the world, culture, the economy to elected officials, it weakens the legitimacy of democratic signals.

Fukuyama: When I wrote my book Trust back in the mid-1990s, I described the United States as a high-trust society. That’s just completely wrong right now. And a lot of that really is due to the internet or to social media. This is a symptom of a much broader crisis, and it’s really hard to know how we’re going to ever get back to where we were 30 years ago.

Demsas: Does it say anything about the strength of liberal democracy that the democratization of media erodes trust?

Fukuyama: The classic theorists of democracy said that just formal institutions and popular participation weren’t enough, and that you had to have a certain amount of virtue among citizens for the system to work. And that continues to be true. One of the virtues that is not being cultivated right now is a willingness to check sources and not pass on rumors. I’ve caught myself doing that—where you see something that, if it fits your prior desires, then you’re very likely to just send it on and not worry about the consequences.

Demsas: Next week we have the election between Trump and Kamala Harris, and there are a great deal of normal policy distinctions between the two candidates. And when you look at why people are making their decisions, they often will point to things like inflation or immigration or abortion. But there’s also a distinction on this question of democracy too, right? Why does it feel like there’s this yearning for a more authoritarian leader within a democracy like the United States?

Fukuyama: What’s really infuriating about the current election is that so many Americans think this is a normal election over policy issues, and they don’t pay attention to underlying institutions, because that really is what’s at stake. It’s this erosion of those institutions that is really the most damaging thing. In a way, it doesn’t matter who wins the election, because the damage has already been done. You had a spontaneous degree of trust among Americans in earlier decades, and that has been steadily eroded. Even if Harris wins the election, that’s still going to be a burden on society. And so the stakes in this thing are much, much higher than just the question of partisan policies. And I guess the most disappointing thing is that 50 percent of Americans don’t see it that way. We just don’t see the deeper institutional issues at stake.

Demsas: We’re in a time of great affluence—tons of consumer choice, access to goods and services, bigger houses, bigger cars. George Orwell once wrote, in his 1940 review of Mein Kampf, that people have a desire to struggle over something greater than just these small policy details. [“Whereas Socialism, and even capitalism in a more grudging way, have said to people ‘I offer you a good time,’ Hitler has said to them ‘I offer you struggle, danger and death,’ and as a result a whole nation flings itself at his feet,” Orwell observed.] Does that desire create a problem for democracies?

Fukuyama: There’s actually a line in one of the last chapters of The End of History where I said almost exactly something like if people can’t struggle on behalf of peace and democracy, then they’re going to want to struggle against peace and democracy, because what they want to do is struggle and they can’t recognize themselves as full human beings, unless they’re engaged in the struggle.

Demsas: In The End of History, you wrote that “men have proven themselves able to endure the most extreme material hardships in the name of ideas that exist in the realm of the spirit alone, be it the divinity of cows or the nature of the Holy Trinity.” And I worry that liberal democracy is unable to provide the sorts of ideas that make people want to struggle or fight for it. Does it feel to you like it’s doomed?

Fukuyama: Well, I don’t think anything is doomed. This is the problem with peace and prosperity. It just makes people take [things] for granted. We’ve gone through periods of complacency, punctuated by big crises. And then in some of these prior cases, those crises were severe enough to actually remind people about why a liberal order is a good thing, and then they go back to that. But then time goes on so you repeat the cycle, with people forgetting and then remembering why liberal institutions are good.

Demsas: After Trump beat Hillary Clinton in 2016, I had friends say, do you think your entire view of the American public would change if 120,000 people in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania had voted differently? And I wonder if that’s a question to ask ourselves now, if Trump wins again. Does it really say that much about people’s views on democracy?

Fukuyama: It has much deeper implications. The first time he won, he didn’t get a popular-vote majority. You could write it off as a blip. But everybody in the country has lots of information now about who he is and what he represents. So the second time around, it’s going to be a much more serious indictment of the American electorate.

The Most Opinionated Man in America

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › ideas › archive › 2024 › 10 › mike-solana-pirate-wires › 680355

This story seems to be about:

Mike Solana has opinions. Here are a few of them: Building stuff is good. The media are unduly harsh on tech companies. Labeling things as “misinformation” is just an excuse to stifle speech. Donald Trump is “the greatest clown in human history” (though not entirely in a bad way), the court cases against him are “fake show trials,” and J. D. Vance would be “a great guy in the White House.” The siege of the Capitol on January 6 was a “riot” like many others the previous year. Also, the Capitol rioters should have been shot. (He later retracted this one.) Kamala Harris is a joke of a presidential candidate, but it’d be fun to get a drink with her and gossip about members of Congress. The Democrats are “no longer a free-speech party.” Fewer people should vote. Germany is “a very stupid nation,” but France is cool. Marvel movies are good. Cats are bad. The moon should be a state.

Solana has shared these views—and many more—on Pirate Wires, the newsletter turned website that he started in 2020, as well as on his podcast of the same name. He’s also prolific on X, where he lobs takes to his quarter-million followers and trolls his haters—mostly on the left—from behind his distinctive avatar, a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant, and where Elon Musk regularly replies to his posts.

I was curious to see if the corporeal Solana matched the online version. When we met up at his favorite dive bar in Miami, where he lives, he did not disappoint, riffing on topics as varied as immigration (we need to slow it down to allow for assimilation), gay identity (it doesn’t make sense as a category), and his theory that the Marvel villain Thanos is a typical “environmentalist” because he wants to eliminate half the human population. Solana delivers his spiels with a sunny, earnest energy; with his large eyes and lively brows, he looks like a friendly Pixar dog. So it’s a bit jarring to hear him hold forth on, say, why liberals hate themselves.

For years, Solana played a supporting role in the tech world, serving as the chief marketing officer for Founders Fund, Peter Thiel’s venture-capital firm. Solana calls Thiel his mentor, and says he owes his career to him.

Solana started Pirate Wires during the pandemic and has built it into a small media company covering tech, politics, and culture. After raising money from Thiel and Founders Fund, among others, in 2023, he hired a handful of staff. The Pirate Wires free daily newsletter now has 100,000 subscribers, mostly young men, according to Solana. (He would not disclose how many readers have signed up for paid subscriptions, which provide expanded access to the site.) It has become a must-read among Silicon Valley’s anti-woke crowd, including some of tech’s most influential figures, and a grudging should-read for journalists and some on the left trying to glimpse the thinking of the masters of the Thiel-verse.

Solana’s rise corresponds with the ascent of a new political ideology in Silicon Valley, one that mixes pro-tech, anti-media, and Trump-curious sentiments. To the extent that Pirate Wires has a thesis statement, it might be Solana’s pinned post on X: “I just want us to be fucking amazing.” From his perspective, the good guys are the ones trying to build stuff, while the bad guys are the ones getting in the way. These bad guys take many forms: regulators, censors, scolds, environmentalists, and “decels.” Solana doesn’t think the stuff the good guys build is always good. They can create phones that addict people, apps that spy on them, or—perhaps worst of all—generative-AI tools that refuse to show white people. But Solana trusts their motivations, and he thinks we should hear them out.  

“Technology is neither good nor bad,” he told me. “I think that it just changes the world, and there’s always a trade-off. And the question is, is it worth the trade-off? And I think most of it is.”

Solana rejects efforts to categorize his political views. He used to be a libertarian, then he was a Marxist, then he became libertarian again, only more so. Now he says he’s open to government taking a role in problem-solving—“I’m fine with taxes,” he said—and considers himself a pragmatist: “I just want things to work. I just want a new rail system. If I have to be left-wing, sure, I’ll be left-wing until the rail is finished. And then what else do I want? I want crime to be illegal. Is that right-wing? Okay, I’ll be right-wing then.” In practice, Solana articulates a politics that could be described as less pro-Trump than anti-anti-Trump. It’s often a matter of emphasis: Whatever the right might be doing wrong, the left’s reaction is worse.

Pirate Wires itself is a mix of opinion essays by Solana and others, interviews with major tech figures such as Jack Dorsey and Palmer Luckey, and reporting on tech and San Francisco politics largely from a left-critical perspective. Solana said his target reader is “a smart guy in tech or business, in his 20s or 30s, who feels a little disaffected by the conversations around him and craves community with like-minded people.” The message seems to be: We’re having more fun than you. Join us.

For now, Solana is juggling Pirate Wires with his day job at Founders Fund. To his detractors, this fact suggests that Pirate Wires is simply the house organ for Silicon Valley billionaires. But Solana stresses that the site is separate from the investment firm—Thiel has no editorial control—and says he wants it to be more than just an “anti-woke New York Times op-ed page.” “I want to be generating real news about the industry,” he said. Whether that’s possible while conducting friendly interviews with allies and taking orders from Thiel by day is an open question.

Solana’s favorite movie is The Matrix. He was 13 when it came out, in 1999, and what resonated most, besides its philosophy, was its portrayal of camaraderie. “I think everybody wants to feel like they’re in this secret crew with special knowledge about the world, right?” he said. “You’re looking at this dystopian environment and you’re thinking, Wouldn’t it be cool if I was there?

Solana grew up in a cramped house on the Jersey Shore, the son of a teacher and an on-and-off construction worker. He got mediocre grades until senior year of high school, when, he said, he decided to pay attention in class and became an A student. “This feeling of being the smart one in class became super addicting,” he said. “I loved being better than everybody else.”

At Boston University, Solana grew irritated watching other kids coast. “I used to wreck people in class,” he said. This was his Marxist phase. Solana explains himself during that period as “a boy who realized he wanted to date other boys in the Bush years and needed a place to go where people said, There’s nothing wrong with you.” But then one day in class, he was arguing against property rights when he realized that he didn’t believe what he was saying. He turned back to libertarianism.

After college, Solana took an internship at Farrar, Straus and Giroux and then a job as an editorial assistant at Penguin Books in New York City. The imprint where he worked, TarcherPenguin, specialized in titles on metaphysics, the occult, and other offbeat topics. Mitch Horowitz, who was then Tarcher’s editor in chief and has written several books on the occult as well as hosting the Discovery series Alien Encounters: Fact or Fiction, told me he felt an affinity with Solana. “I knew the experience of feeling like an outsider,” Horowitz said.

In 2009, Solana read an essay by Thiel called “The Education of a Libertarian,” in which Thiel lays out a vision for how to “escape” politics by means of the internet, outer space, and living at sea. (It’s the essay in which Thiel famously wrote, “I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible.”) Solana reached out to the Thiel-backed Seasteading Institute—an organization dedicated to establishing semiautonomous ocean-based communities—and offered to work for free. He began organizing meetups in New York, and Thiel came to the first one. “He said he had a book he was working on but didn’t know anything about publishing,” Solana said. “I was like, ‘Great—I know everything about publishing.’”

[Barton Gellman: Peter Thiel is taking a break from democracy]

Solana moved to San Francisco to work for Thiel, who needed help preparing to teach a Stanford class on start-ups. Solana and another young colleague would stay up late creating slides, download them onto two thumb drives, and commute separately from San Francisco to Palo Alto in case one of them hit traffic. The class was a digest of Thiel’s business philosophy—including the idea that monopolies can be good and “competition is for losers”—and became the basis for his best-selling book, Zero to One.

Solana wasn’t an obvious fit for Founders Fund. He felt intimidated being surrounded by experts in investing and engineering. But the company didn’t have a PR department, so Solana took up the task, in addition to organizing events and running the firm’s branding. He was also doing his own writing. In 2014, he published a sci-fi novel, Citizen Sim, and got a starred review in Kirkus Reviews. But he largely avoided writing about politics. “It felt much bigger than me,” Solana said of his fiction. “I didn’t want to poison that with my own opinions.”

That gradually changed after the 2016 election. “I was like, I’d follow this man to hell,” Solana said, of Thiel. “And then he endorsed Trump, and I did.” Solana was never exactly a Trump fan, but he found the left’s reaction to Trump’s presidency hysterical. “Trump’s purpose was the same as a court jester,” he told me. “He existed to throw the curtain back and point at the reality of what our government is and how it functions and what we’re capable of and what America is right now.” Solana started tweeting more, and his tweets were sharp and unvarnished. (“Imagine being as good at anything as germany is at fascism”; “journalists don’t miss gawker, they miss power.”) His follower count grew.

In March 2020, he created a podcast called Problematic and soon started writing a newsletter. Solana says the name Pirate Wires came to him as if it were a memory. (The protagonist in his sci-fi novel has a similar experience when discovering his powers.) It evokes various antecedents: pirate radio, digital piracy, piracy on the high seas—romantic rule-breaking for fun and profit. He stopped worrying about his political opinions hurting his career as a fiction writer: “I realized that this was my work.”

Illustration by Adam Maida

In June of this year, Solana published a manifesto titled “We Are the Media Now.” In it, he tells the familiar story of how, over the past two decades, news organizations went from comfortable businesses subsidized by classifieds to click-hungry digital-content machines reliant on display advertising. Their mistake, he writes, was a failure to control their distribution, which led to a collapse when Facebook and other social-media companies turned down the traffic spigot.

Solana says he’s designed Pirate Wires around the inbox. “That’s all that matters now,” he said. “If you don’t have distribution, you’re not a media company.” There’s an intimacy to being in a reader’s digital space, he says, which lends itself to a more personal form of writing. The challenge of the inbox is creating enough content without overwhelming the reader. For Solana, that means keeping it brief. The daily newsletter is three quick takes with no outbound links, so a reader can digest it and move on with their day. “You wake up; you read it; you’re like, Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, fuck yeah,” Solana said. Paid subscriptions are $20 a month or $120 annually—fairly steep for the amount of material you get.

The problem with most establishment media, Solana said, is they’re all doing the same thing. “The New York Times has a very distinct style that happens to be very popular,” he said. “The Washington Post, the L.A. Times—they’re just doing New York Times drag worse, much worse.” What makes Pirate Wires distinctive, he says, is its point of view, which leads it to report stories that liberal-leaning outlets might not.

Media coverage of technology goes through cycles. In the 1980s and ’90s, it was largely booster-ish. Steven Levy’s book Hackers valorized the “heroes of the computer revolution,” and Tracy Kidder’s The Soul of a New Machine portrayed engineers as romantic obsessives. Wired magazine charted the rise of the personal computer and commercial internet with nerdy glee. The dot-com crash induced a brief bout of skepticism, but the following decade and a half saw a return to form as Google, Amazon, and Facebook ascended.

After Trump was elected, journalists turned a critical eye on the industry, and a thousand scandals bloomed: Cambridge Analytica, Uber’s efforts to evade law enforcement, alleged sexual misconduct at Google, the Facebook Papers. Theranos was exposed as a fraud and WeWork as a folly. “Move fast and break things” went from promise to threat, while start-ups pledging to “make the world a better place” became a punch line on HBO’s Silicon Valley. Also, Juicero.

But to many in Silicon Valley, the “techlash” felt like an overcorrection. The solution, according to some tech leaders: “going direct.” That is, bypassing news outlets and communicating directly with one’s audience, be it on X or one’s own website or podcast. Jason Calacanis, an investor and a co-host of the popular All-In podcast, told me in an email that he advises founders not to talk with journalists at “left-leaning publications”: “You’ll get slaughtered if you speak to The Atlantic, The New York Times, or NPR. Going direct allows you to reach more folks and avoid having your message distorted by an angry journalist looking to score points with their paid subscribers.” Calacanis added that he planned to post his responses to my questions on X, lest I misquote him.

Tech-insider media such as Pirate Wires might be considered a half step between the traditional route and going direct. Garry Tan, the CEO of the start-up incubator Y Combinator, says Pirate Wires is taking advantage of the “atomization” of media, in which readers have relationships with specific people rather than institutions. “Solana is a hybrid creature—he’s got one foot in the tech world, but he’s also just an actually good writer with a lot of access,” says Liz Wolfe, an assistant editor at Reason magazine who writes about tech. “A layperson could feasibly read Pirate Wires and understand what a whole bunch of people in Silicon Valley are talking about behind closed doors that I think frankly a lot of the tech press isn’t aware of.”

In “We Are the Media Now,” Solana implores tech workers to “give us information. Why are you sharing scoops with journalists who hate you?”

Mat Honan, the editor in chief of MIT Technology Review, told me he started following Solana for his media criticism. “Even when he was totally wrong or being an asshole, I thought he was funny,” Honan said. Ben Smith, the editor in chief and a co-founder of Semafor, told me he’s “basically a fan” of Pirate Wires. “It’s a valuable articulation of how a slice of powerful people in Silicon Valley see the world,” Smith said.

Solana does have blind spots, Smith added. “When Mike writes about the media, it reminds me of the way the media writes about Silicon Valley: These are plausible theories if you haven’t had much contact with the workings of an industry you’re writing about.”

As for Solana urging tech-industry readers to share information with him instead of with journalists who “hate you,” Smith said there’s a word for this: access journalism. “That’s a very classic pitch you hear every day in Washington,” Smith said. “I guess he’s really learning.”

“He’s a little bit of a bitch,” Solana told me, claiming that Smith had made condescending comments about him and Pirate Wires online. Smith said he didn’t know what Solana was talking about. “He should report that out,” Smith said.

In January 2022, Solana organized a summit called Hereticon. Billed as a conference for “thoughtcrime,” the event—held at the Faena Hotel in Miami Beach—featured speakers on topics including UFOs, cyborgs, sex work, hypnosis, polyamory, and eugenics. Mitch Horowitz, Solana’s former boss, gave a talk on why ESP is real. Grimes DJed, while Elon Musk bobbed his head in the background. According to attendees, there was an unofficial rooftop party with Jeffrey Epstein–themed decor. (Solana said he wasn’t aware of this party.)

“Heresy” is a recurring theme in Solana’s work. It’s likely what endeared him to Thiel, whose whole thing, according to Solana and others, is contrarianism. (Thiel did not respond to interview requests.) It also informs Solana’s views on tech. “Technology itself is a little bit heretical,” he said. “It’s fundamentally destabilizing of power.” Even if one form of technology becomes dominant, another will eventually come along to subvert it. And anyway, he thinks the media’s portrayal of Silicon Valley is largely a caricature. “I’ve never met a ‘tech bro,’” he said on his podcast.

Lately, however, the mainstream media has published plenty of positive tech coverage, including a string of sympathetic profiles of Nvidia CEO Jensen Huang and Anduril founder Palmer Luckey. In this environment, Solana’s plea for scoops from tech workers because the mainstream press “hates” them might not land in quite the same way. Which raises questions about what will make Pirate Wires distinctive going forward.

Solana told me he wants to do more original reporting. He has scored interviews with some of the biggest names in tech, including Jack Dorsey after his exit from Bluesky. Earlier this year, after Solana wrote an acid critique of Google’s Gemini AI image generator, a number of Google employees contacted him, yielding a follow-up article arguing that the company’s DEI-driven “culture of fear” makes it hard to ship good products. The two articles became the site’s most popular ever.

But unlike tech, reporting doesn’t scale—as media outlets have been learning the hard way for decades. It’s expensive and time-consuming. Another possible obstacle: Solana’s boss at Founders Fund. “I hate talking about Peter,” he said once when I mentioned Thiel. (We were sitting in the blindingly sunlit office of Founders Fund in Miami, and one of his Pirate Wires employees was working in a conference room down the hall.) In another conversation, Solana said his affiliation with Founders Fund has upsides and downsides. It opens doors and gives him insight into the worlds of tech and finance that other writers might not have. At the same time, if there were a scandal involving a start-up in the fund’s portfolio, he might not be the one to break the news. He also said he sometimes misses scoops because he agrees not to report on a portfolio company’s new feature. And although Thiel doesn’t have any control over what Pirate Wires publishes, Solana said, he’s not likely to commission a story that reflects negatively on his mentor: “There are a thousand places you can go to write a Peter Thiel takedown,” he said. “Should you expect that from Pirate Wires? No, of course not. He’s a friend of mine.”

Solana points out that he criticizes tech companies plenty. And this is true. But it’s almost always through a cultural or political lens. He mocked Google’s AI for its inability to generate images of white people. He derides attempts to moderate social media as “censorship.” A recent Pirate Wires series highlighted how political disputes among Wikipedia editors sometimes shape the site’s content. Solana seems less bothered by tech companies’ economic power. He has criticized Lina Khan’s crackdown on tech companies for alleged monopolistic behavior—“She really has a problem with people making lots of money,” he said on his podcast—and called VCs’ support for Khan a “self-own.” He dismissed congressional grilling of tech executives as punishment for “winning.”

[Kaitlyn Tiffany: What’s with all the Trumpy VCs?]

He saves his harshest words for the people trying to curb what they describe as “hate speech,” “misinformation,” and “disinformation,” but which, Solana argues, is really just speech they don’t like. When Trump was kicked off Twitter and Facebook after January 6, Solana equated it to the president being “erased from the internet.” The 2022 suspension of the “manosphere” influencer (and now alleged human-trafficker) Andrew Tate from social-media platforms for misogynistic comments amounted to “Stasi shit.”

Part of the challenge for Solana is that journalism and free-speech crusading, although often aligned, are not the same thing. In June, Solana got a scoop when someone told him that a Trump-themed crypto token called $DJT had the backing of Donald Trump’s son Barron. If a traditional news outlet had been covering this story, it probably would have added some important context—particularly the fact that no one in the Trump family had confirmed on the record that the coin was in fact “official.”

Instead, Solana posted to the Pirate Wires X account: “Per conversations, Trump is launching an official token—$DJT on Solana. Barron spearheading.” (Solana is the name of a crypto blockchain; no relation to the man.) He also posted a link to the token’s location on the blockchain so readers could see that it indeed existed—and, if they wanted, buy it.

After the Pirate Wires post, the coin’s value skyrocketed. A frenzy ensued, as crypto enthusiasts tried to confirm Solana’s claim that Barron Trump was involved; many assumed that Pirate Wires had been hacked. Martin Shkreli, the infamous businessman who was convicted of securities fraud in 2017, came forward, announcing that he had helped create the coin along with Barron and a third person, and that the project had Donald Trump’s blessing. But Barron never confirmed his involvement, and the coin quickly tanked.

The whole affair had the trappings of a classic pump and dump. According to analyses of blockchain transactions, insiders—including one wallet that was also invested in another Shkreli crypto project—made millions off the announcement. (Shkreli declined to be interviewed for this article except on the condition that his criminal record not be mentioned.)

Did Solana’s anonymous source use Pirate Wires to profit from the announcement? I asked Solana if he’d considered the motives of the person who’d leaked him the Trump-coin information. “I don’t really care what their motivation was,” he said. To him, it was news because it said something about Donald Trump’s interest in cryptocurrency.

Solana told me that starting a media company has given him a greater understanding of the challenges facing traditional news organizations. “What I try and do is give people their flowers when they deserve them more,” he said. For example, he admired The New York Times’ early reporting on the second assassination attempt on Trump. In response, he started writing a post praising the newspaper for its coverage. “Then they published this piece calling out Trump’s ‘history of violent rhetoric,’ which to my ear implicitly blamed him for the assassination attempt, and I thought, Fuck! Goddamn it, I was wrong.

The Rise of the MAGA VC

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › technology › archive › 2024 › 10 › silicon-valley-venture-capitalists-trump › 680225

This story seems to be about:

The venture capitalist Shaun Maguire is a particularly prolific poster. And lately, his takes have become almost unavoidable.

Maguire manages Sequoia Capital’s stake in Elon Musk’s various companies, including the social network formerly known as Twitter, and he regularly amplifies and excuses Musk’s extreme political opinions. He’s also fond of sharing his own. Over the weekend, he posted a theory that “antifa” is committing mass voter fraud by having ballots sent by the hundreds to vacant houses; Musk signal-boosted Maguire’s concern with the message “Anyone else seeing this sort of thing?” Last week, Maguire advanced the perspective that “DEI was the most effective KGB opp of all time.” To his more than 150,000 followers, the VC has made it clear that he is “prepared to lose friends” over his choice to spit out the metaphorical Kool-Aid that caused him to vote for Hillary Clinton in 2016.

On X, Maguire shows up in the feed alongside other prominent VCs who support Donald Trump—among them, David Sacks of Craft Ventures and Keith Rabois of Khosla Ventures. They all express similar opinions in similar ways, and they do so more or less constantly. (Maguire, who did not respond to a request for an interview, posted to X dozens of times this past Saturday alone.) This is an example of, as Paul Krugman recently noted, the “tech bro style in American politics.” It is largely defined by a flat, good-versus-evil worldview. The good? Free speech, which Democrats want to eradicate. The evil? Immigration, which is a plot by Democrats to allow violent criminals into the country and steal the election. San Francisco? A once-great American city purposefully ruined by Democrats. Kamala Harris? Sleepwalking into World War III. Trump? According to Musk, he is “far from being a threat to democracy”—actually, voting for him is “the only way to save it!”

A “vibe shift” is under way in Silicon Valley, Michael Gibson, a VC and former vice president of grants at the Thiel Foundation, told me. Eight years ago, the notorious entrepreneur Peter Thiel was the odd man out when he announced his support for Trump. The rest of the Valley appeared to have been horrified by the candidate—particularly by his draconian and racist views on immigration, on which the tech industry relies. This year, J. D. Vance, a Thiel acolyte and former VC himself, is Trump’s running mate. Marc Andreessen and Ben Horowitz, co-founders of the legendary VC firm Andreessen Horowitz, came out in full support of Trump in a podcast episode released just before Joe Biden dropped out of the election. (Last Friday, Axios reported that Horowitz informed Andreessen Horowitz staff members that he and his wife, Felicia, will donate to support Harris “as a result of our friendship” with the candidate. “The Biden Administration,” his note continues, “has been exceptionally destructive on tech policy across the industry, but especially as it relates to Crypto/Blockchain and AI,” mirroring language from the podcast during which he and Andreessen endorsed Trump.)

[Read: Silicon Valley got their guy]

It’s doubtful that the thoughts of these prominent VCs reflect a broader change in the electorate—tech workers generally support Harris, and barring an unbelievable upset, California will go blue on November 5, as it has for decades. (Though as my colleague Adrienne LaFrance has pointed out, Trump’s vote share in Silicon Valley was 23 percent in 2020—small, but higher than the 20 percent he received in 2016.) And many well-known VCs back Harris, including Rabois’ colleague and Khosla Ventures’ namesake, Vinod Khosla, along with Mark Cuban and the LinkedIn co-founder Reid Hoffman. This time around, Thiel has not thrown his weight behind Trump but has instead indicated that he would choose him over Harris if there were a gun to his head.

But it is nonetheless significant that a number of influential—and very rich—men are eager to go against the grain. Silicon Valley has historically prided itself on technological supremacy and a belief in social progress: Now many of its loudest and most well-resourced personalities support a candidate who espouses retrograde views across practically every measure of societal progress imaginable. “We are talking about a few people, but I think this also reflects the political economy of the Valley right now,” Margaret O’Mara, an American-history professor at the University of Washington and the author of The Code: Silicon Valley and the Remaking of America, told me. “There’s a great deal of money and power and influence concentrated in the hands of a very few people, including these people who are extremely online and have become extremely vocal in support of Trump.” (Sequoia Capital and Andreessen Horowitz did not respond to requests for comment for this article.)

If Trump wins, there is a nonzero chance that he would give some of these people major roles in his second administration—Musk is already lobbying for one, with apparent success. If Trump loses, the Harris administration will have highly visible and vehement critics to whom a lot of people listen. Silicon Valley’s main characters are entering the culture war and bringing their enormous fan bases with them.

To some extent, this is just business as usual. O’Mara noted that although the tech industry used to claim to be apolitical, it has always had its fair share of lobbyists in Washington, D.C., like every other industry. More than anything else, the industry’s interests have simply followed the money. In the 1980s, President Ronald Reagan supported defense spending and big contracts with the California tech companies. The result was that “Silicon Valley leaned Republican,” she said. “Silicon Valley started leaning Democratic in the Clinton years, when Clinton and Gore were big proponents of the internet and the growth of the internet industries.”

Now many of these venture capitalists are holding on to huge bets on cryptocurrency. They fear—or enjoy suggesting—that Harris is plotting to destroy the industry entirely, a perception she’s trying to combat. Some of them have circulated an unsourced rumor that she would appoint to her Cabinet Gary Gensler, who has pursued strict regulations against the crypto industry as chair of the Securities and Exchange Commission. (Meanwhile, Trump has promised to save the crypto industry from “living in hell.”) Many in the tech industry worry about Harris’s plans to raise the top capital-gains tax rate. And her support for taxing centimillionaires’ unrealized investment gains has been particularly unpopular. Gibson argued that it would destroy the VC industry completely: “We would see the innovation economy come to a halt.” Even Harris’s supporters in the tech world have pressured the campaign not to pursue the tax; “There’s optimism that this can’t possibly be real,” Aaron Levie, the CEO of Box, told The New York Times in August.  

Also at issue is the labor movement. The tech industry came up during an era of lower regulation and declining union power, O’Mara pointed out. Nonunionized workforces have been essential to many of these companies’ business models, and collective action used to be more rare in their perk-filled offices. Yet during and after the pandemic, contractors and employees of major tech companies expressed dissatisfaction en masse: They wanted more diversity in the workforce, fairer treatment, and protection from the layoffs sweeping the industry. Some of them unionized. The companies faced, as O’Mara put it, “discontent among a group of people who had never been discontented.” The new labor movement has clearly rankled prominent tech figures, Musk among them. He is challenging the nearly century-old legislation behind the National Labor Relations Board, with the goal of having it declared unconstitutional.  

[Read: Palo Alto’s first tech giant was a horse farm]

But business doesn’t explain everything. The American public’s attitude toward the tech industry has curdled since 2016, in large part because of critical reporting—about labor abuses, privacy problems, manipulative algorithms, and the bizarre and upsetting experiences one might have on social platforms at any given time. When I spoke with Gibson, he suggested that declining revenue in the digital-media business may have created some “rivalrous envy” on the part of journalists. (And it’s true that the media industry can and does cite the whims of tech platforms as a source of its financial problems.) “We are being lied to,” Andreessen wrote in his widely read and rueful Techno-Optimist Manifesto last year. “We are told to be angry, bitter, and resentful about technology.” This, he suggested, was not just wrongheaded but harmful. Andreessen Horowitz, at one point, launched a media publication with the stated mission of publishing writing that was “unapologetically pro-tech.”

Meanwhile, the federal government has pursued antitrust action and bipartisan efforts to regulate social media, while state governments have won huge settlements for workers. This has been a major shock: Silicon Valley was celebrated by previous Democratic administrations and was particularly welcome in both the Obama campaign and White House. Now some tech leaders are being treated like villains—which seems to have led some of them to embrace the label. “These are some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the country, and they are presenting themselves, in a way, like Trump is,” O’Mara observed. They’re positioning themselves in public based on their grievances and their feeling that they’ve been unjustly targeted and maybe even embarrassingly spurned.

Venture capitalists are public figures in a way they didn’t used to be. Many of them were famous founders first, and they have their own brands to maintain. “It’s part of the job to promote yourself,” Lee Edwards, a general partner at Root Ventures, told me. “I think you get in the habit of just tweeting your thoughts.”

That might have hurt business not too long ago. In 2016, when Thiel endorsed Trump, Gibson had to worry about losing seats at dinners or speaking slots at events. That’s not the case now, he told me. He pointed to Mark Zuckerberg’s recent efforts to distance himself from Democrats. Although he has had a terrible relationship with Trump in the past—one that reached its nadir when the former president was temporarily banned from Facebook over the inflammatory comments he made during the riot at the Capitol on January 6, 2021—he has made tentative overtures to the candidate recently. The two have reportedly spoken one-on-one a couple of times this year, and Zuckerberg complimented Trump on his “bad ass” reaction (a fist pump) after the assassination attempt in Butler, Pennsylvania. Zuckerberg hasn’t said how he’ll vote, but it’s a sign of change that he would talk about Trump in these terms at all. “The chill in the air has warmed up,” Gibson said.

When I spoke with Kathryn Olmsted, a historian at UC Davis and the author of Right Out of California: The 1930s and the Big Business Roots of Modern Conservatism, she said she’d be interested to hear whether this turned out to be a California story or “a very rich-person” story that happened to be taking place in California. Maybe it wasn’t so much about Silicon Valley or the tech industry as it was about billionaires. From another perspective, it could be a really rich-person story taking place on a social-media platform owned by one of those really rich people. And those people, despite their increasing public vociferousness, might actually be cloistered in their own world—isolated and deluded enough to believe that migrants are somehow a threat to their livelihood and that radical leftists are really going to steal the election.  

“What I’m seeing from VCs around the country is different from what I’m seeing amongst the Twitter VCs,” Candice Matthews Brackeen, of Lightship Capital, told me. “Some of us live … off of there.” Others I spoke with pointed to an effort called VCs for Kamala, a loose organization with hundreds of signatories on a letter supporting Harris’s candidacy. That group was organized by Leslie Feinzaig, a venture capitalist and registered independent who says she has never before made a political donation.

The recent media coverage of Silicon Valley “was creating the impression that the entire industry, that all of venture capital, was going MAGA,” Feinzaig told me. “In my conversations, that was just not the case.” She wanted someone to step up and say that a lot of VCs were supporting Harris and that it wasn’t because they were on the far left. Many of them were registered Republicans, even. They simply had different priorities from the rich, angry guys posting on X. “I’m at the beginning of my career,” she said. “A lot of these guys are at the pinnacle of theirs.” She couldn’t say exactly what had happened to them. “There’s a cynicism at that point that I just don’t share.”

Rumors on X Are Becoming the Right’s New Reality

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › ideas › archive › 2024 › 10 › rumors-x-twitter-musk › 680219

A curious set of claims has recently emerged from the right-wing corners of the social-media platform X: FEMA is systematically abandoning Trump-supporting Hurricane Helene victims; Democrats (and perhaps Jewish people) are manipulating the weather; Haitian immigrants are eating pet cats in Springfield, Ohio. These stories seem absurd to most people. But to a growing number of Americans living in bespoke realities, wild rumors on X carry weight. Political influencers, elites, and prominent politicians on the right are embracing even pathologically outlandish claims made by their base. They know that amplifying online rumors carries little cost—and offers considerable political gain.

Unverified claims that spread from person to person, filling the voids where uncertainty reigns, are as old as human communication itself. Some of the juiciest rumors inspire outrage and contradict official accounts—and from time to time, such a claim turns out to be true. Sharing a rumor is a form of community participation, a way of signaling solidarity with friends, ostracizing some out-group, or both. Political rumors are particularly well suited to the current incarnation of X, a platform that evolved from a place for real-time news and conversations into a gladiatorial arena for partisan fights, owned by a reflexive contrarian with a distaste for media, institutions, and most authority figures.

[Read: November will be worse]

When Elon Musk bought the platform, then known as Twitter, in 2022, he argued that it had become too quick to censor heterodox and conservative ideas. “For Twitter to deserve public trust, it must be politically neutral,” he said in April 2022, shortly after initiating his purchase, “which effectively means upsetting the far right and the far left equally.” But Musk quickly broomed out most of the Trust and Safety team that addressed false and misleading content, along with spam, foreign bots, and other problems. As Musk has drifted to the right—his profile picture now features him in a MAGA hat—the platform he rebranded as X has become the center of a right-wing political culture built upon a fantastical rumor mill. Although false and misleading ideas also spread on Facebook, Telegram, and Trump’s own platform, Truth Social, they move faster and get more views on X—and are likelier to find their way into mainstream political discussion.

Many political rumors on social media begin when people share something they supposedly heard from an indirect acquaintance: The false narrative about pet-eating Haitian immigrants in Springfield started when one woman posted to a Facebook group that her neighbor’s daughter’s friend had lost their cat and had seen Haitians in a house nearby carving it up to eat. Others picked up the story and started posting about it. Another woman shared a screenshot of the Springfield post on X, to bolster her own previous claim that ducks were disappearing from local parks.

Unbound by geography, online rumors can spread very far, very fast; if they gain enough traction, they may trend, drawing still more participants into the discussion. The X post received more than 900,000 views within a few days. Others amplified the story, expressing alarm about Haitian immigrants. No substantive evidence of the wild claims ever emerged.

[Juliette Kayyem: The fog of disaster is getting worse]

Rumors alleging that FEMA was abandoning Trump voters after Helene followed the same pattern: Friend-of-a-friend posts claimed that FEMA was treating Trump supporters unfairly. These claims became entangled in misinformation about what kinds of financial recovery resources the government would provide, and to whom. Claims about abandonment or incompetence were sometimes enhanced by AI-generated images of purported victims designed to tug on the heartstrings, such as a viral picture of a nonexistent child and puppy supposedly adrift in floodwaters. The image spread rapidly on X because it resonated with people who are suspicious of the government—and people who share misleading content rather than question it.

The amplification of emotionally manipulative chatter is a familiar issue on social media. What’s more disconcerting is that Republican political elites—with Musk now among them—are openly legitimizing what the X rumor mill churns out when it serves their objectives. X’s owner has claimed that FEMA is “actively blocking citizens” who are trying to help flood victims in North Carolina, and that it “used up its budget ferrying illegals into the country instead of saving American lives.” J. D. Vance, the Republican vice-presidential candidate, elevated rumors of pet-eating Haitians to national attention on social media for days; Donald Trump did the same in a presidential debate. Influential public figures and political elites—people who, especially in times of crisis, should be acting as voices of reason—are using baseless, often paranoid allegations for partisan advantage.

History shows that the weaponization of rumors can lead to devastating consequences—scapegoating individuals, inciting violence, deepening societal divisions, sparking moral panics, and even justifying atrocities. Yet online rumormongering has immense value to right-wing propagandists. In the 2020 election, Trump and his political allies set the narrative frame from the top: Massive fraud was occurring, Trump claimed, and the election would be stolen from him. The supposed proof came later, in the form of countless online rumors. I and other researchers who watched election-related narratives unfold observed the same pattern again and again: Trump’s true believers offered up evidence to support what they’d been told was true. They’d heard that impersonators were using other people’s maiden names to vote. A friend of a friend’s ballot wasn’t read because they’d used a Sharpie marker. These unfounded claims were amplified by influencers and went viral, even as Twitter tried to moderate them—primarily by labeling and sometimes downranking them. None of them turned out to be true. Even so, today, 30 percent of the public and 70 percent of Republicans still believe the Big Lie that Democrats stole the 2020 election from Trump. This simmering sense of injustice is powerful—it spurred violence on January 6, 2021—and continues to foster unrest.

In Ohio recently, claims about supposed Haitian pet-eaters led to dozens of bomb threats, according to state’s Republican governor, Mike DeWine, who has attempted to correct the record. Local Republican business leaders who praised their Haitian workers received death threats for their troubles. Similarly, fire chiefs and local Republican elected officials pushed back on Helene rumors after FEMA workers were threatened.  

What of left-wing rumors? They exist, of course. After the assassination attempts on Trump, some commentators insinuated that they were “false flag” attacks—in other words, that his camp had staged the incidents to gain public sympathy for him. But mainstream media called out left-wing conspiracism and fact-checked the rumors. The people expressing them were overwhelmingly censured, not encouraged, by fellow influencers and elites on their side of the political spectrum.

In contrast, when social-media companies stepped in to address false claims of voter fraud in 2020, the political influencers who most frequently spread them clamored for retribution, and their allies delivered. Representative Jim Jordan, one of the House’s most powerful Republicans, convened a congressional subcommittee that cast efforts to fact-check and label misleading posts as “censorship.” (Full disclosure: I was one of the panel’s targets.)

Conservatives have reframed fact-checking as a censorship technique by “woke” tech companies and biased journalists. Musk abandoned the practice in favor of Community Notes—which, in theory, allow fellow users to add their own fact-checks and context to any post on the platform. Musk once described Community Notes as a “game changer for combating wrong information”—he understood, correctly, that opening up the fact-checking process to many different voices could better enable consensus about what the truth is. But Community Notes cannot keep up with the rumors roiling X. Notes are absent from some of the most outrageous claims about pet-eating migrants or FEMA malfeasance, which have millions of views. Even as Musk himself has become one of the most prominent boosters of political rumors, Community Notes on Musk’s own tweets have a way of disappearing.

[Listen: Autocrats win by capturing the courts]

Musk’s original vision for Twitter may have been just to nudge the platform a bit to the right—toward a more libertarian approach that would bolster it as a free-speech platform while preserving it as the best place to go for breaking news. Instead, figuring out what’s really happening is harder and harder, while X is becoming ever more useful as a place for powerful people to source outrageous material for political propaganda.

Many people across the political spectrum are still on X, of course. The platform has a reported 570 million monthly users, on average. However much Musk’s changes annoyed people on the center and the left, network effects have kept many of them on the platform; those who don’t want to lose friends or followers are likely to keep posting. Yet the market is providing alternative options. Bluesky and Mastodon absorbed some of the extremely online left-leaning users who got fed up first. Threads, an offshoot of Instagram, quickly followed; although the others are still small, Threads has more than 200 million monthly active users. People have other places to go. So do advertisers.

Still, today’s emerging alternative platforms are not a replacement for the Twitter of the late 2010s; real-time news is harder to find, and communities on each of the new entrants have gripes about curation and moderation.

Users who miss the golden age of Twitter still have the option of counterspeech—trying to push back against rumors with good information, and hoping that X’s algorithm will lift it. The question is whether doing so is worth the potential personal cost: Why spend time refuting rumors if your efforts are likely to go largely unseen or bring the wrath of an (unmoderated) mob?

Without a concerted push to defend truth—by leaders, institutions, and the public—the rumor mill will continue to churn, and its distortions will become the foundation of an irreparably divided political landscape. As Hurricane Milton roared across Florida, social-media users were fantasizing, absurdly, about government control of tropical cyclones and making death threats against weather forecasters. Whether Milton-related conspiracy theories will enter the national political discussion isn’t yet clear. But the broad cycle of rumors and threats is becoming depressingly familiar.

Rumors have always circulated, but the decision by Republican politicians and Musk to exploit them has created a problem that’s genuinely new. In the modern right-wing propaganda landscape, where facts are recast as subjective and any authority outside MAGA is deemed illegitimate, eroding trust in institutions is not an unfortunate side effect—it is the goal. And for now, the result is a niche political reality wherein elites on the right, including the world’s richest man, amplify baseless claims without legitimate pushback.

Melania Really Doesn’t Care

The Atlantic

www.theatlantic.com › books › archive › 2024 › 10 › melania-trump-memoir-review › 680209

A little over 12 years ago, Melania Trump logged on to Twitter, uploaded a picture of a cheery-looking beluga whale, and added the caption, “What is she thinking?” The tweet was classic Melania, which is to say that it was cryptic, minimalist, and only lightly in focus. Unlike her husband, Melania Trump undershares on social media—if she isn’t there to hawk baffling NFT collectibles or patriotic Christmas ornaments, she doesn’t typically have much to say. But over the past few weeks, as she’s soft-launched her new memoir, Melania has been posting a series of short videos, each one its own inscrutable puzzle. Mistily obscured through what seems to be a Vaseline-smeared camera lens, she gives brief statements on subjects including cancel culture, her immediate attraction to “Donald,” and her apparent belief in a woman’s right to choose. Her head is stiffly tilted, her gaze steadfast. As she talks, a string section in the background pulses with momentum, as though these clips are actually trailers for the climactic final season of a show called America!

What is she thinking? First ladies, by the cursed nature of the role, are supposed to humanize and soften the jagged, ugly edge of power. The job is to be maternal, quietly decorative, fascinating but not frivolous, busy but not bold. In some ways, Melania Trump—elegant, enigmatic, and apparently unambitious—arrived in Washington better suited to the office than any other presidential spouse in recent memory. In reality, she ended up feeling like a void—a literal absence from the White House for the first months of Donald Trump’s presidency—that left so much room for projection. When she seemed to glower at her husband’s back on Inauguration Day, some decided that she was desperate for an exit, prompting the #FreeMelania hashtag. When she wore a vibrant-pink pussy-bow blouse to a presidential debate mere days after the Access Hollywood tape leaked, the garment was interpreted by some as a statement of solidarity with women, and by others as a defiant middle finger to his critics. Most notoriously, during the months in 2018 when the Trump administration removed more than 5,000 babies and children from their parents at the U.S. border, Melania wore a jacket emblazoned with the words I really don’t care, do u? on the plane to visit some of those children, the discourse over which rivaled the scrutiny of one of the cruelest American policies of the modern era.

[Read: On pitying Melania]

Would-be Melaniaologists have had mere scraps to work with over the years, which is why the announcement of her memoir in July was a surprise. Like the British Royal Family, the former first lady prefers to never complain, never explain, and instead glide imposingly through crisis, a swan in a swamp. Does she care? Having read the roughly 200 pages of Melania that aren’t given over to photos, I think I can say that she does not. In fact, she appears to have turned not caring into its own superpower, focusing rigidly on who or what pleases her (beauty; her son, Barron; blockchain ventures) and filtering out virtually everything else. The book contains no mention of Stormy Daniels, Karen McDougal, the Access Hollywood tape, E. Jean Carroll, the felony conviction of her husband for falsifying business records. Trump’s first impeachment gets about one page, compared with about four devoted to Melania’s failed caviar-based skin-care brand from 2013. Her stepchildren merit just one direct mention. If the book contains any insight into Melania, it’s in how meticulously she seems to have curated a reality for herself that’s free from trouble, anxiety, or introspection. She’s untouchable, insulated from care and responsibility by her extremely selective focus and distractingly ornamental prose.

So why write a book at all? My guess would be: As someone who seems to so dislike other people profiting from her name that—according to the former CNN journalist Kate Bennett’s book, Free, Melania—souvenirs sold in her hometown are reportedly branded only with M or first lady to deter lawsuits, she wanted her own monetized effort on shelves next to the unauthorized biographies and torrid tell-alls. “As a private person who has often been the subject of public scrutiny and misrepresentation,” she writes in the brief introduction, “I feel a responsibility to set the record straight and to provide the actual account of my experiences.” What follows is—with the exception of her writing on abortion rights—highly predictable, and as airbrushed as a Vogue cover. Her memories of Election Night 2016 are of her husband emerging as “a unifying leader … [who] recognized the need for healing and unity in America.” Her childhood in Slovenia is idyllic, with two loving parents, a private nanny who bakes cakes frosted with “handmade sugar flowers,” and “cherished” family holidays on the Dalmatian coast. The prose is lavish by way of LinkedIn: Melania’s grandfather, a shoemaker and an onion farmer, “wasted no time in pursuing his passion for agriculture”; her mother, a patternmaker in a children’s-clothing factory, “was the artisan behind the scenes … thriving in the world of fashion.”

The Trumpian embellishment of Melania’s life prior to her husband’s election can feel deadening to read; if everything is unique and remarkable and thrilling, nothing is. Her time as a model, a fairly uneventful career whose highlight before she met Trump was a single Camel ad, is reinvented as a plucky girl’s triumph, a “testament to my firm determination, courage, and resilience.” In her first meeting with Trump, she’s struck by his “polished business look, witty banter, and obvious determination.” She feels immediately “as if our souls had known each other for a very long time”; pragmatically, she ignores the reality of his messy second divorce, “choosing instead to enjoy his company.” Their early commitment to each other is based on their shared preference for “a healthy life, evident in our abstinence from alcohol and tobacco.” (Big Macs and Coca-Cola would like a word.) When the tabloids label her a “gold digger,” she insists that she’d already “earned my fortune” but decides that “to engage in such matters—to dignify each and every untruth—would be squandering my time and energy.”

What is fascinating about the book—if you can bear being beaten over the head with adjectives—is how early on Melania learns that the art of selective attention will set her free. She opts to not concern herself with Trump’s chaotic romantic history, to not trouble herself with what people say about her. “While I may not agree with every decision or choice expressed by Donald’s grown children, nor do I align with all of Donald’s decisions, I acknowledge that differing viewpoints are a natural aspect of human relationships,” she writes. “Rather than imposing my views or critiquing others, I have aimed to be a steady presence—someone they can rely on.” Over time, as the stakes rise, this aversion to conflict starts to feel pathological. When the crisis at the border becomes global news, with shocking reports of hysterical children being snatched from their families, Melania describes being “blindsided” and “completely unaware of the policy.” On January 6, 2021, as protestors storm the Capitol, Melania is busy “taking archival photographs” for a record of White House renovations. She’s perplexed, then, when her press secretary at the time, Stephanie Grisham, asks her by text message if she wants to “denounce the violence.” (As Grisham reminded us at the Democratic National Convention this year, Melania’s reply was just one word: “No.”) When, Melania thinks, “had I ever condoned violence?”

The only thing that really seems to aggravate Melania is when her willful ignorance is disrupted in ways she can’t dismiss—which is perhaps why almost all of her enmity here is directed at the media. When it’s revealed that sections of her speech supporting her husband at the 2016 Republican National Convention were near-identical to sections from a speech by Michelle Obama, she’s furious that “my words, which articulated a hopeful vision for the nation, were overshadowed by a barrage of personal attacks.” As her I really don’t care jacket—a dig at the media, she writes—becomes a scandal, she’s enraged at how “the media’s distorted reporting on the jacket overshadowed the importance of the children,” as though the jacket had simply fallen on her shoulders by accident, its message inscribed by invisible fairies.

This adamant refusal to engage with anything she doesn’t want to think about does become harder and harder to maintain. When Melania writes of her steadfast, lifelong belief that women should “have autonomy in deciding their preference of having children, based on their own convictions, free from any intervention or pressure from the government,” the flashing neon elephant in the room is her own husband, his three Supreme Court appointments, and his successful pitch to evangelicals that he would be America’s most pro-life president. After Melania’s home at Mar-a-Lago is raided during the FBI’s investigation over Trump’s alleged misuse of classified documents, she’s appalled that the FBI goes through her and Barron’s bedrooms, even though, she insists, “I had no confidential documents in my possession, no involvement with the West Wing.” Americans, she emphasizes, “need to understand the dangers posed by a federal government that feels entitled to invade our homes and our lives.” What’s missing is any acknowledgement of the approximately 13,000 documents the government found at Mar-a-Lago, more than 100 of which were classified and some of which related to information about national defense. (It’s much easier to call something a “witch hunt” if you mulishly ignore the cauldron, spellbook, and broomstick in your own basement.)

But fact-checking her memoir is, in some ways, beside the point, given how impervious Melania and her husband seem to be to the concept of “truth.” Both understand how crucial attention can be, whether you’re drawing it to yourself or focusing so intently on some things that you can’t be criticized for all the other things you’ve missed. As I read other books about Melania Trump over the past week, I thought it seems likely that she is, in private, a gracious and fun woman who genuinely loves children, finds great pleasure in her own self-presentation, and cares not one single degree about what people think of her. In that sense, she is truly free, liberated from the pains of empathy and anxiety that plague the rest of us. She really doesn’t care, and if we do, that’s our problem.

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.

The Phony Populism of Trump and Musk

The Atlantic

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A Donald Trump rally is always a strange spectacle, and not only because of the candidate’s incoherence and bizarre detours into mental cul-de-sacs. (Journalists have faced some criticism for ignoring or recasting these moments, but The New York Times, for one, has finally said that the candidate’s mental state is a legitimate concern.) Trump’s rally on Saturday in Butler, Pennsylvania, was a hall-of-fame entry in political weirdness: Few survivors of an attempted assassination hold a giant lawn party on the spot where they were wounded and someone in the crowd was killed.

The candidate’s tirades are the most obviously bizarre part of his performances, but the nature of the gathering itself is a fascinating paradox. Thousands of people, mostly from the working and middle class, line up to spend time with a very rich man, a lifelong New Yorker who privately detests the heartland Americans in his audience—and applaud as he excoriates the “elites.”

This is a political charade: Trump and his running mate, the hillbilly turned multimillionaire J. D. Vance, have little in common with most of the people in the audience, no matter how much they claim to be one of them. The mask slips often: Even as he courts the union vote, Trump revels in saying how much he hated having to pay overtime to his workers. In another telling moment, Trump beamed while talking about how Vance and his wife both have Yale degrees, despite his usual excoriations of top universities. (He always carves out a glittering exception for his own days at the University of Pennsylvania, of course.)

Trump then welcomed the world’s richest man, Elon Musk, to the stage. Things got weirder from there, as Musk—who, it should be noted, is 53 years old—jumped around the stage like a concertgoing teenager who got picked out of the audience to meet the band. Musk then proceeded to explain how democracy is in danger—this, from a man who has turned the platform once known as Twitter into an open zone for foreign propaganda and has amplified various hoaxes. Musk has presented himself on his own platform as a champion of the voiceless and the oppressed, but his behavior reveals him as an enemy of speech that isn’t in his own interest.

What happened in Butler over the weekend, however, was not some unique American moment. Around the world, fantastically wealthy people are hoodwinking ordinary voters, warning that dark forces—always an indistinct “they” and “them”—are conspiring to take away their rights and turn their nation into an immense ghetto full of undesirables (who are almost always racial minorities or immigrants or, in the ideal narrative, both).

The British writer Martin Wolf calls this “pluto-populism,” a brash attempt by people at the top of the financial and social pyramid to stay afloat by capering as ostensibly anti-establishment, pro-worker candidates. In Britain, former Prime Minister Boris Johnson dismissed the whole notion of Brexit behind closed doors, and then supported the movement as his ticket into 10 Downing Street anyway. In Italy, a wealthy entrepreneur helped start the “Five-Star Movement,” recruiting the comedian Beppe Grillo to hold supposedly anti-elitist events such as Fuck-Off Day; they briefly joined a coalition government with a far-right populist party, Lega, some years ago. Similar movements have arisen around the world, in Turkey, Brazil, Hungary, and other nations.

These movements are all remarkably alike: They claim to represent the common voter, especially the “forgotten people” and the dispossessed, but in reality, the base voters for these groups are not the poorest or most disadvantaged in their society. Rather, they tend to be relatively affluent. (Think of the January 6 rioters, and how many of them were able to afford flights, hotels, and expensive gear. It’s not cheap to be an insurrectionist.) As Simon Kuper noted in 2020, the “comfortably off populist voter is the main force behind Trump, Brexit and Italy’s Lega,” a fact ignored by opportunistic politicians who instead claim to be acting on behalf of stereotypes of impoverished former factory workers, even if there are few such people left to represent.

One of the pioneers of pluto-populism, of course, is the late Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, a rake and a grifter who stayed in office as part of staying out of jail. That strategy should sound familiar to Americans, but even more familiar is the way the Italian scholar Maurizio Viroli, in a book about Italian politics, notes how Berlusconi deformed Italian democracy by seducing its elites into joining the big con against the ordinary voter: Italy, he wrote, is a free country, but Viroli calls such freedom the “liberty of servants,” a sop offered to people who are subjects in a new kind of democracy that is really just the “court at the center of which sits a signore surrounded by a plethora of courtiers, who are in turn admired and envied by a multitude of individuals with servile souls.”

The appeals of the pluto-populists work because they target people who care little about policy but a great deal about social revenge. These citizens feel like others whom they dislike are living good lives, which to them seems an injustice. Worse, this itching sense of resentment is the result not of unrequited love but of unrequited hate: Much like the townies who feel looked down upon by the local college kids, or the Red Sox fans who are infuriated that Yankees fans couldn’t care less about their tribal animus, these voters feel ignored and disrespected.

Who better to be the agent of their revenge than a crude and boorish magnate who commands attention, angers and frightens the people they hate, and intends to control the political system so that he cannot be touched by it?

Musk, for his part, is the perfect addition to this crew. Rich beyond imagination, he still has the wheedling affect of a needy youngster who requires (and demands) attention. Like Trump, he seems unable to believe that although money can buy many things—luxury digs, expensive lawyers, obsequious staff—it cannot buy respect. For people such as Musk and Trump, this popular rejection is baffling and enraging.

Trump and those like him thus make a deal with the most resentful citizens in society: Keep us up in the penthouses, and we’ll harass your enemies on your behalf. We’ll punish the people you want punished. In the end, however, the joke is always on the voters: The pluto-populists don’t care about the people cheering them on. Few scores will truly be settled, and life will only become harder for everyone who isn’t wealthy or powerful enough to resist the autocratic policies that such people will impose on everyone, regardless of their previous support.

When the dust settles, Trump and Vance will still be rich and powerful (as will Musk, whose fortune and power transcends borders in a way that right-wing populists usually claim to hate). For the many Americans who admire them, little will change; their lives will not improve, just as they did not during Trump’s first term. Millions of us, regardless of whom we voted for, will have to fend off interference in our lives from an authoritarian government—especially if we are, for example, a targeted minority, a woman in need of health care, or a member of a disfavored immigrant community.

This is not freedom: As Viroli warned his fellow citizens, “If we are subjected to the arbitrary or enormous power of a man, we may well be free to do more or less what we want, but we are still servants.”

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What going on Call Her Daddy did for Kamala Harris How Jack Smith outsmarted the Supreme Court Third-trimester abortions are rare—but they are happening in America. October 7 created a permission structure for anti-Semitism, Dara Horn argues.

Today’s News

Hurricane Milton has strengthened into a Category 5 storm. It is expected to make landfall on Wednesday near the Tampa Bay, Florida, region. The Supreme Court allowed a lower court’s decision on Texas’s abortion case to stand; the decision ruled that Texas hospitals do not have to perform emergency abortions if they would violate the state’s law. Philip B. Banks III, the deputy mayor for public safety in New York City and one of Mayor Eric Adams’s top aides, has resigned. His phones were seized by federal investigators last month as part of a probe into bribery and corruption allegations.

Dispatches

The Books Briefing: In a new short story, Lauren Groff captures the precise moment when a friendship changes forever, Walt Hunter writes. The Wonder Reader: Henry David Thoreau once argued in The Atlantic that autumn doesn’t get enough attention. “This season, I’m wondering whether Thoreau had a point,” Isabel Fattal writes.

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Evening Read

Illustration by Karlotta Freier

Couples Therapy, but for Siblings

By Faith Hill

Cam and Dan Beaudoin’s three-decade-old problem began when they were kids. Dan would follow his big brother around. Cam, who’s about three years older, would distance himself. Dan would get mad; Cam would get mad back. Although their mom assured them that they’d be “best friends” some day, nothing much changed—until about three years ago, when a fight got so bad that the brothers stopped talking to each other completely. Dan left all of their shared group chats and unfriended Cam on LinkedIn.

But the brothers, who didn’t speak for about a year and a half, started to understand the gravity of this separation.

Read the full article.

Reflections on October 7

Today marks one year since Hamas’s attack on Israel and the start of the subsequent Israel-Hamas war in Gaza. Below, we’ve compiled some of our writers’ recent reporting, analysis, and reflection:

The war that would not end: In the year since October 7, the Biden administration has focused on preventing the escalation of a regional war in the Middle East, Franklin Foer reports. But it has failed to secure the release of Israeli hostages or end the fighting in Gaza. Gaza’s suffering is unprecedented: “In my brother’s story, you can get a small glimpse of what the most destructive war in Palestinian history has meant in human terms,” Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib writes. “How my family survived the October 7 massacre”: “We heard shouting in Arabic outside our house—a commander telling one of his men to try to break in. We had woken up to a nightmare: The border had been breached. Hamas was here,” Amir Tibon writes in an article adapted from his new book, The Gates of Gaza. A naked desperation to be seen: In books about the aftermath of October 7, Israelis and Palestinians seek recognition for their humanity, Gal Beckerman writes. The Israeli artist who offends everyone: Long a fearless critic of Israel, Zoya Cherkassky-Nnadi has made wrenching portraits of her nation’s suffering since October 7, Judith Shulevitz writes.

Culture Break

NBC

Watch. The return of Nate Bargatze and his now-classic George Washington sketch points to what really works about Saturday Night Live, Amanda Wicks writes.

Grow up. Rather than sneak your greens into a smoothie, it’s time to eat your vegetables like an adult, Yasmin Tayag writes.

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Stephanie Bai contributed to this newsletter.

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